Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page A

a permanent condition brought on by countless hours spent basking in the heat of a smith’s forge. When he lowered the jug, a fresh new red tinge blossomed out on his weathered face, that part of it not masked by his scraggly brick-red beard.
    His hair and beard were kept close-cropped by necessity to keep from setting them afire as he hammered white-hot iron and steel into shape at the anvil. Even so, parts of his eyebrows had been singed away, and his beard was mottled with scorch marks where red-hot embers had landed.
    Forge fires were banked down low. It was lunchtime. Barton and Hobson were enjoying their midday break. If they wanted to spend their lunch hour drinking instead of eating, it was their business, and who to say them nay?
    It was a warm midday. The stable barn was thick with the smell of horseflesh, manure, hay, and oats. They didn’t even notice it. Horses were omnipresent in Hangtree and everywhere else, town and country. No one gave it a second thought.
    The wide-open center space was bordered on both sides by a rows of stable stalls that stretched the length of the building. Most of the horses were outside in the corral, Hobson preferring to let then run free under the sun.
    A mood of easiness generated a laid-back aura. Even the horses seemed to partake of it.
    The only discordant note came from somewhere on Trail Street a few blocks north and out of sight. From that direction emanated a kind of braying or yammering that could have come from an ornery jackass.
    They paid the noise no never mind. It was something to be ignored, like the buzzing of flies around a manure pile. No matter how clean a stable was kept—and Hobson kept his clean—there was no shortage of manure and flies.
    It was the same way with a town, Marshal Barton thought when he put his mind to it. But at the moment, he had better things to occupy his attentions, like the jug of wicked sharp corn liquor.
    Hobson’s Livery barn fronted north, occupying the south edge of a five-sided dirt—well, square wasn’t the word, not when the intersection had five sides. Call it a pentangle if you must, but to Barton it was just a tricky five-sided intersection.
    The easygoing mood was disturbed by the sight of a figure who came running into view south along the street connecting with Trail Street. The blurred antlike figure made its way toward the stable barn at the far end of the street.
    Marshal Barton sighed. This can’t be good .
    Hobson finished his turn and reached to hand off the jug to Barton.
    â€œYou better hold on to it,” the marshal said.
    Hobson’s eyebrows—what was left of them—lifted in surprise. “Something wrong with it, Mack?”
    â€œHell no, Hob. It’s good as ever. You cook an almighty fine batch of home brew.”
    â€œWhat then? You off your feed or something?”
    â€œDuty calls.” Barton indicated the fast approaching figure.
    Hobson squinted, eyeing the runner. “Why, I do believe that’s Junior Lau.”
    â€œSo it is,” Barton said.
    â€œWonder what that punk kid’s in such an all-fired hurry about?”
    â€œLooking for me, probably,” Barton said, sighing.
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œExperience. When folks hereabouts get stirred up enough to get off their lazy asses and get to hustling double quick, they’re usually looking for the law.”
    The figure neared, making a beeline for the livery stable.
    â€œThat’s Junior Lau, all right,” Hobson confirmed.
    Junior Lau was a freckle-faced teen who clerked at the feed store. He slowed as he neared the livery stable, looking all around as though in search of someone.
    Barton stepped to the open entrance where the youngster could see him.
    Junior did a take, starting forward. He had a bowl-shaped haircut, bulging eyes, jug-handle ears, and an oversized Adam’s apple that looked like a walnut stuck in his throat.
    Hobson set the jug down