Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone Page B

tired of corn.
    O’Hara sat a McClellan saddle that was designed to favor the horse, not the rider, and by the time Flintlock reached Budville he was glad to dismount and let blood rush back to his aching rear. He stepped into the saloon and ordered a whiskey, steeling himself for what was to come. It was still early in the day and when Flintlock glanced around him he saw only a few patrons, none of whom looked the type to be on the prod, eager to cut another man down to size.
    â€œQuiet,” Flintlock said to the bartender.
    â€œEarly yet,” the man said. He looked over the tattoo on Flintlock’s throat, the buckskin shirt turned almost black by sweat and hard use, the expensive, fancy Colt in his waistband and summed him up as some kind of a hard case. “You should have been here yesterday, stranger. One of Brewster Ritter’s guns—you heard of Brewster Ritter?” At Flintlock’s nod he said, “Well, he had it out with a kid by the name of Randy Collis.”
    â€œShooting scrape?” Flintlock said.
    â€œNah. That’s what the kid wanted, but the Ritter man went after him with this”—he held up the billy club—“and damn near killed him. Now the Collis kid is over to Doc Lighter’s office and ain’t likely to survive. If he does live, he’ll sure regret it. Ain’t much of his brains left.”
    â€œWhat name does the Ritter gun go by? Sounds like a good man to avoid,” Flintlock said.
    â€œI don’t rightly know,” the bartender said. “John or Bon, something like that. Wears a bowler hat with a big pair of spectacle things on the brim, kinda unusual around these parts. Another whiskey?”
    â€œNo. I got to be moving on, open an account at the bank.”
    The bartender grinned. “If Mathias Cobb shakes hands with you, count your fingers afterward. He’s a money shark is ol’ Mathias. Got an eye for the ladies, too.”
    Flintlock drained his glass, touched his hat to the bartender and said, “Obliged.” He stepped out of the cool darkness of the saloon into the bright sunlight of noon.

    Flintlock gathered up the reins of the paint then stood for a few moments looking around him. As he’d hoped, the noon hour heat had driven people inside and the street was empty. One hardy old lady, a shopping basket over her arm, stepped into the general store and a little calico cat lazed in the sun on her back, her tiny white paws in the air.
    It was time.
    Flintlock led his horse to the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust and left it at the hitching rail. He stood for a spell to let his hammering heart slow and then stepped inside. There was only one teller, a young man wearing a blue eyeshade. “Can I help you, sir?” he said. There was a noticeable hesitation between you and sir. Flintlock’s appearance did little to instill confidence in bank tellers.
    â€œYeah, I’d like to open an account, but since my deposit is quite large I’d like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYou have dealt with the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust before?”
    â€œYeah, a couple of years back.”
    The teller brightened. “I’ll ask Mr. Cobb if he can see you now. Your name, sir?” There was no hesitation this time.
    â€œMy name is Gunwood H. Hempel. Mr. Cobb will remember me.”
    The clerk returned with a beaming Cobb in tow. The banker was resplendent in gray broadcloth, a pink cravat bunched at his throat, held in place by a pearl the size of a robin’s egg. He held out a pudgy hand. “Of course I remember you, dear sir,” Cobb said. “How could I ever forget such a large depositor? You’ve returned to the right place for honesty and integrity, Mr. Hempel. As my lady wife always says, Mathias Cobb by name, Mathias Cobb by nature. Now, what can I do for you?”
    Flintlock pulled his gun and stuck it into Cobb’s face. “You can tell