sharp face and the coldest eyes I had ever seen.
He came riding up to the saloon and dismounted, tying his horse to the hitch rail. He merely glanced at us, then went inside.
Meharry moved over beside me. "Conn, I had a talk with Flanagan," he said. "He's going to talk over the wire with a despatcher back up the line. Maybe he can learn something."
When I went back inside, Hoback was standing at the bar, and he carried his shotgun slung from his shoulder, the butt up and about level with the top of the shoulder, the barrel dangling near his right hand. It was the first time I'd seen a gun carried that way.
He was half turned, so that his back was not to the door, and I went up to the bar and stood close to him, so close he could not get the shotgun into action if he wanted to.
There was no sense in beating around the bush with a man like this, and I had always believed in direct methods.
"You just rode in, Hoback," I said. "Did you see a man of mine out there in the hills?"
His eyes flickered the merest bit when I called him by name, but he said, "I saw nobody."
"I hope you didn't," I said.
He let that ride for a minute or two, but it worried him, and finally he said, "Why?"
"Because if you killed him I'm going to kill you." Fear rode before this man wherever he went, like a ghost horseman, and he was not accustomed to such direct talk. He started to speak, but I gave him no chance.
"I know who you are, Hoback, and why you are here. I also know how you get paid. Now listen to this. If one of my men, any one of them, is killed by any means whatever, I shall hunt you down and kill you like you've killed others."
Down the bar Battery Mason was holding his breath, and the bartender had moved as far away as he could get, but Bill Hoback had been taken off balance and was speechless. I did not give him a chance to reply or to get set. My left side was almost against him, and he had no chance to lift the shotgun, or even to lift his right hand without brushing me. His left hand rested on the bar.
"You get paid no matter who kills the man you're after, so we'll use the same rule you like. If any one of my men is killed, in any way whatsoever, we kill you."
He was sweating, but I'd never seen a man's eyes so mean, so bitter with a fury he could not let out.
"You're Conn Dury," he said.
"That's right, Dutchman. I'm Conn Dury; and if you'll recall, I spent part of my years living with the Apaches. I could follow your sign across a flat rock ... I could follow it by the smell."
He pulled back, trying for distance, but I moved right with him.
"You got no call to jump me," he protested. "I done nothing."
"And you aren't going to." As I spoke, a plan came to me suddenly. "In about half an hour there's an east-bound train due in here. We're putting you aboard."
"Like hell!" he said. I'll -"
My back hand took him across the mouth, and he staggered. His right hand dropped to his shotgun and it swept up, faster than a man could draw a gun, his right hand going back to the action, the left catching the barrel - a movement so incredibly swift that I'd never have believed it possible.
Yet I had followed him up, and as his gun came up I slapped the barrel aside. Had I been two feet further away, he would have blown me apart. As it was, the shotgun went off harmlessly with a thunderous roar in the close confines of the room, and then I hit him.
My right fist caught him on the jaw and knocked him sprawling. Leaping after him, I kicked the gun from his hands. He lay there, staring up at me, blood trickling from a split lip from my backhand blow.
A gun butt was visible in his waistband and his hand hovered close to it. I stood waiting, my own gun in its holster.
"Go ahead," I said. "Just go ahead and try it." He was no gunfighter in the sense that I was, that some of the others I had with me were. It might have been that he was faster and more accurate than any of us, but it simply was not his way of fighting. There was an
He came riding up to the saloon and dismounted, tying his horse to the hitch rail. He merely glanced at us, then went inside.
Meharry moved over beside me. "Conn, I had a talk with Flanagan," he said. "He's going to talk over the wire with a despatcher back up the line. Maybe he can learn something."
When I went back inside, Hoback was standing at the bar, and he carried his shotgun slung from his shoulder, the butt up and about level with the top of the shoulder, the barrel dangling near his right hand. It was the first time I'd seen a gun carried that way.
He was half turned, so that his back was not to the door, and I went up to the bar and stood close to him, so close he could not get the shotgun into action if he wanted to.
There was no sense in beating around the bush with a man like this, and I had always believed in direct methods.
"You just rode in, Hoback," I said. "Did you see a man of mine out there in the hills?"
His eyes flickered the merest bit when I called him by name, but he said, "I saw nobody."
"I hope you didn't," I said.
He let that ride for a minute or two, but it worried him, and finally he said, "Why?"
"Because if you killed him I'm going to kill you." Fear rode before this man wherever he went, like a ghost horseman, and he was not accustomed to such direct talk. He started to speak, but I gave him no chance.
"I know who you are, Hoback, and why you are here. I also know how you get paid. Now listen to this. If one of my men, any one of them, is killed by any means whatever, I shall hunt you down and kill you like you've killed others."
Down the bar Battery Mason was holding his breath, and the bartender had moved as far away as he could get, but Bill Hoback had been taken off balance and was speechless. I did not give him a chance to reply or to get set. My left side was almost against him, and he had no chance to lift the shotgun, or even to lift his right hand without brushing me. His left hand rested on the bar.
"You get paid no matter who kills the man you're after, so we'll use the same rule you like. If any one of my men is killed, in any way whatsoever, we kill you."
He was sweating, but I'd never seen a man's eyes so mean, so bitter with a fury he could not let out.
"You're Conn Dury," he said.
"That's right, Dutchman. I'm Conn Dury; and if you'll recall, I spent part of my years living with the Apaches. I could follow your sign across a flat rock ... I could follow it by the smell."
He pulled back, trying for distance, but I moved right with him.
"You got no call to jump me," he protested. "I done nothing."
"And you aren't going to." As I spoke, a plan came to me suddenly. "In about half an hour there's an east-bound train due in here. We're putting you aboard."
"Like hell!" he said. I'll -"
My back hand took him across the mouth, and he staggered. His right hand dropped to his shotgun and it swept up, faster than a man could draw a gun, his right hand going back to the action, the left catching the barrel - a movement so incredibly swift that I'd never have believed it possible.
Yet I had followed him up, and as his gun came up I slapped the barrel aside. Had I been two feet further away, he would have blown me apart. As it was, the shotgun went off harmlessly with a thunderous roar in the close confines of the room, and then I hit him.
My right fist caught him on the jaw and knocked him sprawling. Leaping after him, I kicked the gun from his hands. He lay there, staring up at me, blood trickling from a split lip from my backhand blow.
A gun butt was visible in his waistband and his hand hovered close to it. I stood waiting, my own gun in its holster.
"Go ahead," I said. "Just go ahead and try it." He was no gunfighter in the sense that I was, that some of the others I had with me were. It might have been that he was faster and more accurate than any of us, but it simply was not his way of fighting. There was an
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