direction. Matter of fact, he’d been drifting for a long time, ever since he’d first left home when he was seventeen. At that age he’d fancied himself a hand with a gun and had left home to prove it. Well, he’d proved it, all right. Inthose days he was fast with a gun, and just mean enough to use it when the whim struck him. He didn’t learn the right of it until he was in his late twenties. That was when he truly grew up, but by that time it was too late, he was already “Sam McCall.”
For the past fifteen years or so he’d been trying to live down the sins of the first ten years. Unfortunately, even during that time he’d managed to find his share of trouble and add to the early reputation. He tried things like riding shotgun, and even wearing a badge for a while, to try and change his image, but all that did was add to the image. Dime novels were written about him, mentioning his days as a gunman, his days riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, his experiences as a lawman and a bounty hunter. It all mixed together to make him a real romantic figure in the eyes of some, and simply something deadly, someone to be avoided, in the eyes of others—like the people of Corozon.
The waitress who served him was as nervous as the liveryman and the clerk had been. When he left the cafe to find the saloon, men and women avoided him, and children pointed at him until their parents pulled them away.
When he reached the saloon and entered he didn’t pause to acknowledge the stares of the other patrons. He simply walked to the bar and ordered a cold beer.
As he’d entered he had seen sitting at a back table the two men he’d previously seen standing outside his hotel. He was now in a position to watch them in the mirror behind the bar while he quenched his thirst with the first beer and ordered a second.
His original intention had been as he had told the deputy, to avoid trouble. His feeling now, however, was that if these two yahoos wanted trouble, all they had to do was ask.
He reckoned maybe hearing about the death of his parents had affected him to some degree after all.
He was angry and looking to take it out on someone.
“Now what do we do?” Butler asked Weeks as McCall walked in.
“Get up real slow-like and move to the other side of the room,” Weeks said. “We’ll catch him in a crossfire.”
“Right.”
Weeks put his hand on Butler’s arm.
“Do it slow. Find a table and sit down and don’t move until I do.”
“Right.”
McCall saw one of the men stand up and walk slowly across the room, then sit down at another table. He realized that from this position they would have him in a crossfire.
He called the bartender over.
“Yes, sir,” the man said, eyeing McCall’s half-finished beer. “Is something wrong?”
“You got a shotgun behind the bar?”
The man sized McCall up for a moment and then decided to answer.
“Sure.”
“What kind?”
“Greener?”
“Side by side?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s under the bar, over—”
“Don’t point.”
The man held his hand down by his side.
“Can I reach it from here?”
“Yes.”
“Walk over and stand in front of it for a moment, then move away.”
“Is—is something gonna happen?”
“I’d bet on it,” McCall answered. He saw the look on the man’s face and said, “Don’t worry. Just stand where the shotgun is and then get ready to duck.”
“O-okay.”
Slowly, the bartender moved about four feet to McCall’s left, stood there a moment, then walked all the way to McCall’s right.
McCall slid his beer down along the bar until he reached the point where the shotgun was and waited, watching the two men in the mirror.
At one point he thought about making for the door, wondering how far he’d get, but in the end he stayed put.
The other people in the saloon slowly came to the realization that something was in the air. Some of them got up and left, others moved to tables at one side of the room or the other, until the center of the room was virtually empty. Now there would be no innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.
McCall alternately watched the man to his right and left until finally the one on the right moved. His move was the signal to the man on the left, who was a split second behind’there was just enough time.
McCall turned to his right, and as he drew his gun with his right hand he reached over and behind the bar with his left, hoping that the bartender had been telling the truth.
He had.
McCall fired as the man on the right did. The man hurried his shot and missed, and McCall’s shot traveled straight and true, ventilating the man through the heart. With the shotgun in his left hand he pointed toward the second man, who was just drawing his gun, and fired bothbarrels. The impact of the blast picked the man up and tossed him against the wall. As he fell he left a red smear behind him.
The bartender, who had ducked behind the bar, stood up, staring at McCall.
McCall laid the shotgun on top of the bar and said, “Thanks.”
“S-sure.”
He walked over to the first man to check him. That the second man was dead was obvious, but he didn’t know for sure that the first man was dead until he leaned over him, his gun still in his hand. Satisfied, he stood up and looked around the room.
The attention of the onlookers was split among the three men, two dead and one standing. McCall was waiting to see if the dead men had any friends before he holstered his gun. He was still standing over the dead man when the batwing doors swung inward and Sheriff Keller walked in, trailed by Deputy Bob Collins.
“What the hell happened here?” Keller blustered, and then he saw McCall and seemed to withdraw a bit.
“Bartender,” McCall said, holstering his gun, “tell the sheriff what happened.”
McCall started for the door and stopped when he was alongside Keller.
“I’ll be in my hotel room, Sheriff.”
Keller stared at McCall, and then looked at the two dead men.
“I told you I wasn’t lookin’ for trouble,” McCall said.
“Unfortunately, these two were.”
In his hotel room McCall ejected the spent shell from his .44 and loaded in a live one. That done, he removed the holster and hung the gun on the bedpost. He took the pitcher and bowl from the dresser and balanced it onthe windowsill. If someone tried to enter that way, the pitcher and bowl would fall, warning him.
He removed his boots and stretched out on the bed, then removed the telegram from his pocket and read it again. No date, no details, just the briefest of messages:
SAM MCCALL,
MOTHER AND FATHER DEAD. ADVISE YOU COME TO VENGEANCE CREEK.
DUDE MILLER
Obviously, Dude Miller wanted Sam McCall to come to Vengeance Creek. That could only mean that Joshua and Mary McCall had not died of natural causes.
In the morning he’d start looking for his brother Evan. Evan was a gambler, and Sam knew of just so many
