This Violent Land by William W. Johnstone Page B

didn’t say. But I know Frank. He’s a good man, and he wouldn’t ask for help unless he really needed it. How soon can you be ready to go?”
    â€œAbout as long as it takes me to walk from here to my horse,” Smoke replied.
    Marshal Holloway laughed. “Then apparently I’m keeping you from your work by standing here talking to you. Go, go. Don’t let me detain you.”

C HAPTER 12
    Running Creek, Colorado Territory
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    W hen bounty hunter Crack Kingsley walked into the Black Jack Saloon it was busy, but he found a place by the end of the bar nearest the door. He ordered a beer, then took out a flyer and examined it. The name on the flyer was Val Holder, and the reward was $2,500.
    The line drawing of Holder wasn’t as effective as a photo, but it was close enough that Kingsley was certain the man standing at the other end of the bar was the one he was looking for. He was helped along in the belief by having heard that Holder had taken up residence in Running Creek.
    Having developed sort of a sixth sense about men like Kingsley, Holder had noticed him the moment he walked in. The dark-haired, dark-eyed man tossed his whiskey down, then ran his finger across the full mustache that curved around his mouth like the horns on a Texas steer and called out, “Mister bounty hunter.”
    Kingsley was shocked to hear himself addressed that way. His effectiveness as a bounty hunter depended upon an element of surprise. If he had been recognized, that element was gone.
    â€œMister bounty hunter!” Holder called again, loud and authoritatively. “What’s the matter? Have you gone deaf? Answer me.”
    Everyone in the saloon recognized the challenge implied in its timbre. All other conversations ceased, and the drinkers at the bar backed away so nothing but clear space was between Holder and Kingsley. Even the bartender left his position behind the hardwood.
    Kingsley looked up from his beer. “I’m sorry, mister. Do I know you?”
    â€œYou should. Isn’t it your job to know me?” Holder asked. “You are a bounty hunter, aren’t you?”
    It hadn’t started out so well, but Kingsley had to keep his nerve. “What makes you think that?”
    â€œI know a bounty hunter when I see one. No, I know a bounty hunter when I smell one. And mister, I see and smell a bounty hunter.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so,” Holder said confidently. “My name is Val Holder. I expect I’m the one you’re looking for.”
    â€œThat name don’t mean nothin’ to me.” Kingsley lifted his mug to take a drink, hoping Holder didn’t see that his hand was shaking.
    â€œWell, let me tell you what it means. It means I am the law in this town.”
    â€œYou’re the law? I don’t see a badge.”
    â€œI don’t need a badge. I’m the law, simply because I say I’m the law. And I’m tellin’ you now to ride on out.”
    â€œWhy should I?”
    â€œLet’s just say I don’t like bounty hunters.”
    â€œAnd if I choose to stay?”
    Holder smirked. “You’d be makin’ a big mistake.”
    Kingsley had lost the advantage of surprise, but he had been in the business too long to be buffaloed out of a prize so big. No way was he going to turn away from $2,500. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “All right, Holder. You’re right. I am a bounty hunter. My name is Crack Kingsley.”
    A few sharp intakes of breath came from the saloon patrons. Kingsley’s name was well-known. It was also known that he specialized in going after “Dead or Alive” outlaws, and took none of them in alive.
    â€œThe thing is, Holder, you’ve got a pretty fair amount of money posted on you right now,” Kingsley went on. “And I don’t intend to