Bone's Country 6 (Patreon)

Speak of the Devil: Bone fired a blast from his Peacemaker, the sound loud enough to nearly flatten the building. The bullet flew up and buried itself into a thick ceiling beam to hold it safely until the end of time.

With the building’s attention thrown to him, Bone lowered the Peacemaker to his side. Smoke clung to the air beside him, the trail left from where he’d held the pistol when he’d shot it to where it was now pointed at the ground, clutched like an angry dog held on a straining leash. The tension in his gunhand was obvious to all in the room, even if Bone himself appeared calm and collected.

“Next one lands somewhere red,” he told the room, his booming voice reaching Hank and every onlooker that spied the scene—eavesdropped hunched low over their table or pressed tight to a wall to avoid any stray shots from the altercation that was entertaining them.

“You’re awful fast,” Hank growled out, voice terse with pain. “When no one’s lookin’!”

“You don’t wanna see me draw,” Bone told him. “And I’ve wasted one bullet tonight already.”

Then he took his Peacemaker off-cock. The click of the hammer being released pierced the stillness as deeply as the violent outbursts that had preceded it.

“Barkeep!” Bone roared, though his raised voice was companionable, not assaultive. “Get this man a drink. Put it on my tab.”

The bartender moved to obey, shaking hands pouring a messy drink, while Bone’s eyes went to Sophia. She caught his gaze and acquiesced when his eyes flicked away. Slowly she backed away from Hank, as one would a froth-mouthed animal; with a bellyful of rotgut and a gun close at hand, that was what Hank was.

Then Hank threw up his shoulders in a shrug, eloquently dismissing what had happened. Bone nodded, mutually accepting the truce. He returned the Peacemaker to its holster.

There were three types of people when it came to violence. Most were sickened by it. Some got a taste for it. But a few, like Bone, developed a refined palate. He knew there were times when the air needed gunsmoke in it. But he also knew that the ornery cusses of the world, so quick to work their trigger finger over a spilt drink or an ugly look, rarely attained the respect or power they hoped to cultivate.

No, they ended up provoking one fight too many, finding themselves in a foolhardy situation where they got backshot or tracked down. Even with a loudmouth like Hank, you never knew what trailmates or kin he had. It was a risk worth taking if there were money to be made. But simply for the pleasure of killing…

Well, Bone tried not to enjoy it that much. Being a bounty hunter had taught him what mad-dog killers looked like. He didn’t want to see one in the mirror.

It was an ugly enough sight already.

So it was that Bone split his attention. None for Sophia; she could mostly take care of herself, with just enough sense to keep out of the way of a bullet in flight. Half for Hank, every last detail of him held in Bone’s mind’s eye even as he turned away. And the other half for the crowd, any one of whom could be a friend of Hank’s, or perhaps just an owl hoot waiting for a chance to strike.

There was still tension held in the mob—with his back to Hank, Bone felt that tension electrify, a collective intake of breath that he knew was not in response to him. Instantly he threw himself to the size, rolling over a table as he unleathered his Peacemaker. He heard Hank’s fire come his way: fast, loud, but inaccurate, not even touching the table he was crossing.

Bone came down on the other side, braced on both knees and one outstretched hand. His other hand held out the Peacemaker, lancing into where he last knew Hank to be standing. Bone fired, minutely adjusted his aim, then snapped off another shot. The first bullet winged Hank, while the second plowed into his trunk. Pained, stung with his mortality, the man froze for the heartbeats necessary for Bone to correct his aim and fire a third time. This bullet took Hank between the eyes. A hole like a dab of dark paint in the front of his head, then an explosion behind like the paint-can had been turned over. Hank went from wounded to dead in an instant; he collapsed, his hurt expression fleeing his vacant face. The gun he’d drawn struck the floorboards with a heavier sound than his boneless body made.

Bone’s eyes washed over his surroundings like a forest fire reducing all it touched to ash. He saw no vengeful friends in the crowd, no one eager to have his notch beside Hank’s on Bone’s Peacemaker. Sophia stood a few steps from Hank, where her retreat had placed her. Now she was paralyzed, staring not at the heaped body, but at the corona of bone chips and brain matter Hank had left against the wall. Glazed with blood that led from the resting place of Bone’s .44 Winchester round down to the man it had killed.

“Barkeep,” Bone called, “you can cancel that drink. My friend isn’t thirsty anymore.”

***

It didn’t take long for the morbid thrill of seeing Hank’s cooling body to fade; revulsion took over in all but the strongest stomachs and the saloon emptied out. Soon, the only real activity was that of the undertaker—a coat thrown on over his pajamas—and the stockboy with a wheelbarrow who would be taking Hank to the next waystation on his way to eternal rest. That was when Sheriff Lydecker arrived.

Bone suspected that the brusqueness of Frenly’s capture had taken up all the slack there was in the rope. Dealing with peace officers was an unfortunate necessity of being a bounty hunter. Any killer could shoot a gun or sit a horse. But managing a sheriff, a deputy, a marshal—that took tact.

And grit. In these hole-in-the-wall towns, a lawman could easily fleece a man out of the worth of a gold nugget to make a problem go away. Bone wouldn’t stand for that. He had his pride. He thought he could intimidate Lydecker into backing down, but if he came on too strong, the Sheriff might dig his heels in and put some real trouble on Bone.

He would have to walk the line. Not vulnerable enough to invite liberties taken, but not so stand-offish as to inspire being taken down a peg.

“I spoke to those who saw the shooting,” Lydecker said, his voice rolling dryly about like a tumbleweed. “Wasn’t one that didn’t tell you gave the man a talking-to and he drew on you all the same.”

“What happened,” Bone replied. It wasn’t a question.

Lydecker gave him a smile that seemed to have more in its depths than Bone could see. “Seems a clear-cut instance of self-defense. We’re not altogether civilized here, Mr. Bone. This is Texas. I’d have a time finding a judge and a jury twelve-strong that wouldn’t see that man didn’t get exactly what was headed his way.”

Lydecker seemed to be choosing his words slow, feeling them out as Bone was his—and Bone didn’t have deputies or possemen to call upon. It gratified the bounty hunter; he didn’t like how much it gratified him.

“But I don’t want any more cases of self-defense, whether the court sees ‘em that way or not. I don’t want your woman starting fights and I don’t want you finishing them.”

“I’ll mind her,” Bone told him.

“As you minded her back when that poor fool had breath going to and from himself?” Lydecker asked, a glance to the body coming to a slow shake of his head. “I’ll have you out of town, Mr. Bone. And if not, I’ll have you in handcuffs. Maybe it won’t hold up in court, but a few days of prison walls and prison food can make the meanest man reconsider himself.”

“It’s late,” Bone retorted, brandishing his eyes on Lydecker as he would a pair of shooting irons. “I’m tired and my horses are tired. You hold that mad of yours til the morning; we’ll be on our way. Out of your jurisdiction by high noon. Just as the dime novels have it.”

Lydecker nodded slowly. “Can’t say that you’ve earned the rest, but I imagine a man travels as you is hardship enough on the beast you ride. I won’t make his lot in life none tougher.”

“Much obliged,” Bone said, and turned to the stairs, steeling himself for the rigors of facing Sophia.

Lydecker wasn’t done with him yet. “One thing more, son, and speaking as a man to another man, not a sheriff to a gunhawk.”

Bone shifted his shoulders, but didn’t turn back around. “You have me listening.”

“There’s naught sweeter to a man than a woman, but nothing that can make trouble for him as she can. The sweeter the gal, the harder the trouble. She’s a fine-looking woman, and there’s no speaking otherwise, but’ll she be worth the next trouble she brings?”

Bone clenched his teeth a moment before answering. “I’ll have words with her.”

“As I’ve had words with you? You’re sure she’ll mark your speech the same as you’ve marked mine? Not less?”

Bone’s voice crackled. “It’s not your problem.”

“Not after high noon,” Lydecker reminded him. “But fix what I’ve said behind your eyelids for a good few blinks. Think on her being as defiant towards you as you are now t’me. Sometimes a man can’t have no greater curse than being two of a kind.”

“Sure he can,” Bone replied. “Being one of a kind.”