Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone

drink, more likely,” Kern said.
    â€œIf he did, I’ll peel the hide off him,” Moran said feelingly.
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    The stall was starting to get on the Randle brothers’ nerves.
    â€œSomething’s going on,” Cort Randle said, standing at the window of the café.
    â€œWhat?” Devon demanded, more short-tempered than his brother.
    â€œI don’t know. Terry and the other two are standing around jawing,” Cort said.
    â€œNever mind that, what’s Cross doing?” Devon asked.
    â€œHe’s not showing,” Cort said definitely.
    â€œSmart,” Devon said. “Maybe he means to have Terry go in after him. Being the defender would give Cross the advantage.”
    â€œReckon he tumbled that you and me are laying for him?”
    â€œHe’s not that smart, Cort.”
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    Moran wasn’t handling the frustration well, not one for taking in stride being balked. His face swelled, darkening to a deeper shade of red. His pop eyes seemed on the verge of starting from their sockets. Still standing in the middle of the street, he yelled, “Cross! Come out, ya yellow bastid!”
    â€œHowdy, gents,” a voice called to Moran, Kern, and Haycox. The speaker was a young stranger wearing twin belted .45s. He stepped into view from the mouth of the northbound cross street west of the one Haycox had explored, taking Moran and his two sidemen by surprise.
    From inside the café, Luke had been surreptitiously monitoring the doings on Trail Street. That give ’em a jolt . Derned near jumped out of their skins . He could have laughed out loud but didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
    In the street, the three gunmen spun around to confront the newcomer. Moran started to go for his gun but thought better of it and held his hand. Totally flummoxed, Haycox and Kern made no move to reach at all.
    The easy-walking stranger came to a halt a stone’s throw away from them. His arms were at his sides, hands hanging easily over his guns. “I’m Cross.” He smiled. “Looking for me?”

S EVEN
    Marshal Mack Barton stood around jawing with smithy Hobson at the Hangtree livery stable passing the time. They were sharing a big jug of corn liquor, too.
    Hobson cooked the home brew himself and it wasn’t called White Lightning for nothing. He and the marshal were looking a bit thunderstruck.
    Livery stable owner Hobson was a blacksmith, too, and looked the part. He stood six feet plus and 250 pounds of gnarly bone and muscle. He was bareheaded with tight-cropped brick-red hair and beard.
    Marshal Barton was about the same size, maybe thirty pounds less, but was not in the same rock-hard physical condition. He had a spade-shaped face, long narrow eyes, and an iron-gray paintbrush mustache. A tin star was pinned to his vest over his left breast.
    His face looked like it was cut into a permanent scowl, tight lips with the corners turned down, deep vertical lines bracketing his mouth. Dour, but not without a gleam in his eyes, put there perhaps by Hobson’s home brew.
    Nothing illegal about it because there was no law against making it. There might have been some law on the books about taxing it, but that was the kind of law Barton ignored.
    He and Hobson stood inside the front of the stable barn to one side of the open double doors. A four-sided wedge of warm afternoon sunlight shone into the structure, though they stood in the shade. An open window let in light and air. Against the wall stood a wooden plank table where Hobson did what little paperwork his business required.
    â€œGood brew,” Barton said, smacking wet lips.
    â€œMebbe you think I don’t know it,” Hobson said, chuckling. He reached for the jug, hooking a meaty sausage-link finger through the bottle neck loop. Expertly balancing the jug in the crook of a brawny upraised arm, he raised it to his mouth, uptilted it, and drank deep.
    His face was red, flushed,