The Stranger by Herschel Cozine Page B

as he squared his shoulders and turned back to Luke.
    “Well, Clayton? What’s it gonna be?”
    Luke turned to the bartender. “Get him out of here before he gets hurt,” he said.
    Jake hesitated, uncertain. He started around the bar, but Frank waved him away. “You stay out of this, Jake. It ain’t your fight.”
    “It ain’t anybody’s fight, kid,” Luke said. “Go home to your momma.”
    Frank snorted. “What’s the matter, Clayton? You afraid of me?” He turned to the men at the table behind him. “The great Luke Clayton. Afraid to fight. Ain’t that a kick?”
    One of the men stood up, put his hat on and left the saloon. The others sat there, afraid to move. Frank turned back to Luke. “Come on, Clayton. Are you afraid I can outdraw you?”
    Luke dropped his hand to the holster on his hip. “For the last time, kid. Git! If you know what’s good for you you’ll get the hell out of here pronto.”
    Frank laughed. “I ain’t leavin’ until you and me have settled this,” he said. “Frank Warner don’t run from nobody.” His right hand went toward the gun on his hip.
    A shot rang out. The pistol in Frank’s hand spun crazily through the air, landing a few feet away. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest at the foot of the bar. Frank grabbed his hand and grimaced. Blood dripped from the young man’s hand, forming a small red pool at his feet. The men at the bar retreated to the back of the room, watching nervously. The men at the table dove for cover. Frank’s eyes widened in panic.
    Sheriff Trenton burst through the door, gun drawn. He looked at Luke, seated calmly at the table, a gun in his hand with smoke rising from the barrel.
    Frank stood frozen in the middle of the room, his small body trembling. When he saw Trenton his shoulders slumped and the fear retreated from his eyes. Rubbing his hand, he glared at Luke.
    “What’s going on?” the sheriff asked.
    “Nothin’ much, Sheriff,” Luke said. “The kid, here, wanted a fight, so I gave him one. It’s over. Nobody got hurt, leastwise not bad.”
    Trenton looked to Frank. “Are you all right?”
    Frank snarled. “Clayton drew on me ’fore I had a chance. It’s like shootin’ a man in the back, Sheriff.” He looked to the group of men huddled across the room. “You guys saw what happened. He gulled me. He shot me while I wasn’t lookin’.” He whirled back to face Luke. “Why didn’t you kill me while you were at it, you weasel-faced coward.”
    Luke laughed. “Like I told the sheriff, I only kill men in self-defense. This woulda been cold-blooded murder.” He spat. “You was beat before you drew your gun. Hell, I coulda wrote a letter while you were gettin’ your gun out of your holster.” He spat again. “Fastest gun in town,” he said disdainfully. “Son, you ain’t even the fastest gun in this room, even if I wasn’t here.” He laid his gun on the table. “I have a one-armed granddaddy who could outdraw you.”
    Frank kicked at the sawdust on the floor. “Lucky. That’s you, Clayton. Lucky I wasn’t ready or you’d be on your way to Boot Hill. You shoulda killed me when you had the chance.”
    “You got it wrong, kid,” Luke said. “I’d say you was the lucky one. If you hadda killed me your life wouldn’t be worth a buffalo chip. You’d be dead before the week was out. Why, there’d be hundreds of big shot kids just like you—and a lot faster—wantin’ to kill the guy who shot Luke Clayton.”
    “I can take care of myself,” Frank said.
    Luke shrugged. “Sure you can. They’ll put those words on your tombstone.”
    Frank stared at the floor.
    Luke shook his head. “And if you was lucky enough to live past the week you’d be sittin’ at a table, back to the wall, afraid somebody would sneak up behind you and put a bullet in you. You’d keep movin’ from town to town.” He picked up the glass of whiskey. “You’d be afraid to take a drink because it slows your reflexes. You’d