lie. Beckwith was still in Omaha and would be needed there for some weeks more. Billy Vail had agreed with Longarm, though, that Harry Bolt—or Dennis O’Dell—should be taken quickly, before something might spook him and make him turn rabbit on them. They hadn’t wanted to risk him getting away yet another time.
“Harry?” Clete Terry whined. “What the hell is he talking about, Harry?”
“Shut up, Clete.”
“Haven’t you been listening, Cletus? Your pal here isn’t Harry after all. He’s Dennis. And he’s still wanted on charges of mail theft, robbery, murder—there’s probably more paper still outstanding on him. But that’s all right. We got plenty of time to look it all up an’ find out just how many different jurisdictions want to file charges against him.”
“Harry? Is he telling me the truth, Harry?”
“He’s lying, Clete. He’s always wanted a chance to get back at me. Ever since I took his woman away from him years and years ago. He’s jealous of me, Clete. And I think it’s time to put a stop to this. Are you with me, Clete? Will you back me here?”
“Anything you say, Harry. You know that.”
“Kill him, Clete! Kill him now.”
Harry Bolt—Dennis O’Dell—was already moving, rolling out of his chair and placing Clete Terry’s bulk between him and Longarm.
Terry was moving too. But unlike Bolt or Longarm, Cletus Terry thought in terms of muscle and steel. He reached not for a gun but for a knife.
Longarm ignored Terry. The threat came from Bolt after all. O’Dell, dammit. Dennis O’Dell.
He pulled back the hammer of the Winchester and sent a slug into Harry Bolt’s stomach. Unfortunately for Clete Terry, the bullet had to pass through his thigh in order to reach Bolt.
Longarm didn’t stop to worry about that. He levered the Winchester and fired again. If he gave Harry Bolt time to get that shit-eating little Smith into action, Longarm was a dead man, and he knew it. Harry—Dennis— wasn’t fast, but he was hell for accurate.
Longarm quit fooling with the slow-to-load Winchester and spun out of his chair, palming his revolver as he moved.
Harry was down but he was still game. He slid underneath Clete Terry’s chair, using Terry’s body for cover.
Longarm saw the nickel flash of Harry’s gun. Longarm’s Colt roared first. A .44 slug grazed Terry, causing the big man to scream in pain, and ripped through Harry Bolt’s gun arm.
“You’re done, Harry. Give it up now.”
“Screw you, Long.”
“Leave be, Harry. There’s nothing left to fight for.”
The Smith & Wesson lay on the saloon floor, its nickel plating dulled by blood and clinging sawdust. Bolt—O’Dell—gritted his teeth and shifted his weight onto the right arm that Longarm’s bullet had shattered.
“Leave be, Harry. I’m asking you nice. Leave be.”
“The hell with you, asshole.”
He picked up the .32 in his left hand.
Longarm took careful aim. And shot him high in the forehead, his bullet neatly centered between Harry Bolt’s eyes and slightly above them.
“My God,” Cletus Terry said, turning away and vomiting in the blood and brains already on the floor there.
“Yeah,” Longarm mumbled. “There ain’t no other chance for mercy, is there?”
He looked quickly toward the men at the bar. But no one there seemed interested in joining the fuss.
He drew smoke from his cheroot deep into his lungs and slowly exhaled, then pulled the railroad-quality Ingersoll out of his watch pocket and checked the time. There was no hurry. Not now. He had plenty of time to make the four-twelve northbound. He wouldn’t have to wait for the late train after all.
