face.
“Serena?” he said.
All she could do was cover her open mouth with both hands and stare at him.
Sam looked around and said, “Where’s Evan?”
“Sam—” Dude Miller said, but he stopped short.
“Dude, Serena?” Sam said. “Where is Evan?”
Finally, Serena lowered her hands from her mouth and stood up.
“Oh, Sam…” she said.
“Serena?”
“Sam, oh Sam,” she said, moving toward him slowly, “he’s dead.”
“What?” Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard right—he
“H-he’s dead,” Serena said again, “I still can’t believe it h-happened, but h-he’s dead, Evan’s dead…”
“What happened, Serena?” Jubal demanded.
“Tell us what happened,” Sam said, his face a mask of stone.
Dude Miller rose and stood behind his daughter, his hands on her shoulders.
“It was Coffin, Sam,” Miller said. “Coffin called him out into the street.”
“And Evan went?” Sam said, in disbelief.
“He’s dead?” Jubal asked.
“He’s dead, boys,” Dude Miller said. “Coffin cut him down before Evan could even touch his gun.”
“Evan was no gunman,” Sam said coldly, “he had no business facing Coffin.”
“Sam…” Serena said.
Jubal turned to bolt from the room and Sam grabbed him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going after Coffin!”
“No you’re not.”
“Then we’re going after him—”
“You’re stayin’ right here, Jube,” Sam said.
“Sam, he killed Evan!”
“I know,” Sam said. “I know he did, and he’s gonna pay, but you’re stayin’ here.”
“Like hell I am—” Jubal said, pulling free of Sam’s grasp. He touched his gun and said, “I’m gonna kill the son-of-a-bitch.”
He started past Sam and Sam grabbed his arm, spun him around, and hit him. Serena gasped. As Jubal started to fall Sam caught him, lifted him up and laid him on the sofa. Then he took Jubal’s gun from his holster and gave it to Dude Miller.
“Don’t give it to him when he wakes up.”
“Where are you going?” Miller asked.
“I’m gonna give Coffin and Burkett what they want,”
Sam said.
“You’re going to let them kill you, too?”
“I’m not Evan, Serena,” Sam said. “He didn’t belong out there. I do.”
“Sam—” she said, reaching for his arm, but he was already on his way to the door.
“Papa—” Her eyes and her voice beseeched her father to do something.
“Honey,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s got to be this way.”
She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the unconscious Jubal. Lying there quietly like that, he looked like a little boy. She leaned over and touched his cheek tenderly.
“And what if Coffin kills Sam?” she asked. “Does Jubal go after him next?”
“I don’t know, honey,” Miller said, “I just don’t know.”
True to his word, Coffin was not hard for Sam McCall to find. He was sitting in a wooden chair in front of the saloon. Standing alongside him was John Burkett and two or three Burkett men.
Sam walked briskly toward the saloon, and Burkett and his men straightened up. Coffin continued to lounge in his chair, sitting with it tilted back against the wall.
“Sam—” he said as Sam mounted the boardwalk, but he got no further. Sam hooked the front of the chair with his foot and pulled. Coffin went down on his back, the chair splintering beneath him. Sam quickly bent and removed Coffin’s gun from his holster, tucking it into his own belt.
When he straightened Sam looked at John Burkett and his men and said, “Stand still and don’t interfere!”
“You took his gun,” John Burkett said. “You can’t kill him in cold blood.”
“I’ll kill the first man who touches a gun,” Sam said to them, and they all leaned away from him, holding their hands as far from their guns as possible.
Coffin had struck his head when he’d fallen and had not yet fully regained his senses. Sam leaned over, grabbed him by the shirt front and hauled him to his feet. Holding him with one hand he began to strike him with the other, vicious forehand and backhand blows that jerked the man’s head right and left. Blood began to trickle from smashed lips, and then it flowed down over the man’s chin. Still Sam McCall held him by the shirt and struck him, back and forth, until finally he was too tired to continue. He turned Coffin around and shoved him out into the street, where he fell onto his back. He was conscious, but his eyes were glazed and the lower portion of his face was a mask of crimson.
Sam went into the street after Coffin and hauled him to his feet again. Instinctively, Coffin covered up, fearful of more blows, but Sam was finished with him—for now.
“Walk!” he said, pushing the man.
“Where are you taking him?” John Burkett demanded.
“To jail.”
“For what?”
“For killin’ my brother.”
“It was a fair fight!” John Burkett called after them.
“That the way you saw it, Coffin?” Sam asked as he continued to push the man toward the jail. People who were watching sidestepped to get out of their way.
Coffin wiped his mouth on his sleeve and frowned down at the blood. He was only now beginning to understand what had happened.
“Was it a fair fight, Coffin?” Sam demanded again.
“He had a gun.”
“Sure he had a gun, but he was no gunman and you knew it. Why’d you do it, Coffin?” He slammed his palm viciously into the man’s back, staggering him. “Why’d you do it? Did you get tired of waitin’ on me? Or did Burkett tell you to do it?”
“The kid—” Coffin said through mashed lips.
“What?”
Coffin tried to speak more clearly, but his tongue had been cut against his teeth and was swelling up some.
“The kid, he paid me.”
“The kid? John Burkett?”
“That’s right—”
Sam turned quickly, just in time to see John Burkett aiming his gun at his back. He drew and fired, in fear for his life. In fear of dying the way Hickok had died. He fired by pure instinct, and the bullet sped straight and true across the street, striking John Burkett in the heart.
Sam turned back to Coffin then, who was watchinghim. The man was grinning, and Sam could see the film of blood on the man’s teeth.
“Oh, the old man’s not going to like that, Sam.” Coffin said. “You better give me my gun and let me kill you right now.”
“Keep walkin’,” Sam said. “You’re gonna hang for killin’ my brother.”
