Kill Crazy by William W. Johnstone Page B

silver-coated pistol with mother-of-pearl handles. “This is what you want,” he said.
    â€œYeah,” Kitteridge agreed, taking the gun in hand. “Yeah, this looks good.”
    Kitteridge stood beside the body, but Dysart, ever the director of his little drama tableau, posed him so that his left hand was held across his heart, while his right hand was crooked at the elbow, pistol pointing up.
    â€œDon’t be smiling,” Dysart said. “This is no joke, you have just killed, in a deadly shoot-out, one of the most desperate criminals in the West. Give me a grimace.”
    Kitteridge reacted as told, and when Dysart thought the pose was just right, he took the picture.
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    As the commotion continued around Julius Jackson’s body, Dr. Urban was down at the jail treating the flesh wound Emile Taylor had received.
    â€œUnfortunately, he’ll live,” Dr. Urban said when he finished examining Emile Taylor.
    â€œUnfortunately?” Emile said. “I’ll live and you say unfortunately? What kind of doctor are you?”
    â€œThe kind of doctor who just lost his life savings in the bank holdup you pulled,” Dr. Urban said.
    â€œYeah, he’ll live. But only until we hang him,” Marshal Ferrell said. “Thanks, Doc, for comin’ to see him.”
    â€œI’d rather see him the way I saw the other man,” Dr. Urban said. “Dead.”
    â€œI expect you’ll see him that way soon enough,” Marshal Ferrell said. “According to Duff and Mr. Caldwell, Emile here is the one who killed Mr. Welch. Which means that once we have this fella’s trial, I don’t reckon it’ll be too long before we hang him.”
    â€œYou’ll need someone to sign the death certificate,” Dr. Urban said. He looked over toward Emile. “And, Mr. Taylor, that is a task I am looking forward to.”
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    Six miles out of town, at the farm of Clyde Barnes, twelve-year-old Jimmy Barnes was out at the pump, drawing a bucket of water, when he saw a horse come trotting in. With a broad smile and a shout, he dropped the bucket and ran into the house.
    â€œPa! Ma! Harry has come back!”
    â€œWhat?” Mr. Barnes said.
    â€œIt’s Harry. He’s come back. Come look!”
    Clyde and Ruby Barnes and their daughter, Helen, followed Jimmy back outside. They saw their horse, Harry, drinking thirstily from the water trough.
    â€œIt is Harry,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Where in the world do you think he’s been?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Mr. Barnes said. He walked up to Harry and began rubbing the animal behind the ear. The horse nodded his head in appreciation.
    â€œI thought you said he was stole,” Jimmy said.
    â€œI thought he was. I can’t imagine him just running off. But here he is, come back home. I’d better get him in the barn. Jimmy, get him a bag of oats. There’s no tellin’ where he’s been, but like as not he’s hungry.”
    Half an hour later, Jimmy and his father were in the barn. Harry was back in his stall, and Mr. Barnes was looking him over to make certain he hadn’t been injured in anyway during his absence.
    Suddenly the barn door was kicked open and three armed men came running in.
    â€œGet your hands up!” one of the men shouted.
    â€œWhat is this? Are you robbing me? I don’t have any cash money,” Mr. Barnes said.
    â€œOh? What did you do with the money you stole from the bank this mornin’?” the leader of the three armed men said.
    â€œWhat are you talking about? I didn’t steal any money from the bank. I ain’t left the house this livelong day!”
    â€œDon’t lie to us, mister. We tracked your horse here from the bank.”
    Barnes and his son looked at each other for a moment; then the confused expression left Barnes’s face.
    â€œI’ll be damn,” he said. “That’s where Harry