Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone Page B

redhead’s name was Archie Keller or Kenner and by the time he clashed with Wes, he’d killed seven men. They say he was mean enough to pour water over a widow woman’s kindling, and so profane, he used the Holy Bible for cigarette papers.
    Maybe these things are true enough, but what isn’t true is that he saw his own death in Wes’s eyes and backed down real quick. Hell, he wasn’t scared of Wes any more than he was scared of me. I’m convinced he knew that killing what he thought to be an unarmed, beardless boy would do little to enhance his gun reputation.
    As it was, let’s call him Archie Keller. He just grinned, willing to let it go “Yeah, you go eat your breakfast like a good boy.”
    And there it might have ended.
    But it sure didn’t.
    One of the others at the table, a young towhead with the eyes of a carrion eater, said, “Aw hell. I’ll take down the pup’s britches an’ whup him good, Arch.”
    The towhead got up in a hurry and advanced on Wes. But I had my good foot resting in a chair and I pushed it into him.
    The man got all tangle-footed with the chair and fell.
    Keller turned his head to see what had happened.
    And that was all the break John Wesley needed. In an instant, his guns were in his hands.
    The big Colts bucked as he slammed two shots into Keller and then another hit the towhead in the throat as he struggled to free himself from the chair and get to his feet.
    Keller, hit twice in the chest, lay dying on the floor as Wes covered the other two men at the table with his revolvers.
    â€œYou brought it,” he said. “You want I should finish it?”
    But the two survivors wanted no part of Wes on that day, and by the horrified look on their faces, on any other.
    â€œWe’re leavin’,” the older of the two said, so fast there was no space between his words.
    â€œThen leave,” Wes said.
    Death rattled in Keller’s throat and all the life that was in him left.
    The towhead lay gagging on his own blood for a spell, then, after making a horrible, gurgling sound, he too gave up the ghost.
    Wes glanced at the two bodies. He stood slender and significant like some kind of avenging angel. “Take these two and bury them across the border. I will not have Texans lie in foreign soil.”
    The older man got up to do as he was told, but the younger man, hard-faced and defiant, his eyes reckless, said to Wes, ”I’ll remember you. There will be another place and another time.”
    That was not a wise thing to say to John Wesley Hardin when his blood was up and his eyes were cold as a killing frost.
    Wes raised his Colt and shot the man just where his hat met his forehead. His suspenders cut, the youngster hit the floor with a thud and lay still.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Wes!” I yelled. “For God’s sake!”
    â€œThis was not my fault.” Wes’s eyes flicked from me to the older man, who was ashen and looked like he might puke at any second. “He threatened me and I will not leave a sworn enemy on my back trail.” He glared at the fellow Texan. “Now you have three men to bury.”
    The man had bark on. He dug deep and rediscovered his courage. “I hope I’m around when they bury you.”
    Wes smiled. “You figure on living another fifty years, huh?”
    â€œYou won’t live that long,” the man said. “One day you’ll run into a man who’s just as hard as you, and he’ll kill you. You’ll get it in the back and die on a saloon floor with your face in a spittoon.”
    Wes shook with anger, or maybe a goose flew over his grave. “All right, I’ll turn my back on you right now. Then shuck the iron, old man, and we’ll see who bites the ground.”
    â€œKid, you go to hell.” The man turned away, his talking done.
    Then, with the help of the Mexican, he dragged the dead men out of the saloon and into