Shoot-Out! by William S. Brady

Author:William S. Brady
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: elmore leonard, peter brandvold, louis lamour, western series, piccadilly publishing, piccadilly cowboys, westerns ebook, colt peacemaker, johnny legg, johnny d boggs
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Seven

MCLAIN SWUNG THE door shut and settled his tall frame on the padded seat as his fellow travelers eyed him curiously. Removing his hat, he ducked his head politely as he smiled.

‘Ma’am. Gents.’

The woman facing him smiled back without speaking. She seemed nervous, as though wary of the journey or regretful at leaving San Antonio. She looked to be in her late thirties, with dark hair tugged back in a severe bun beneath a dark blue bonnet. She was not quite pretty, a natural severity of feature made prominent by the lines etched between her eyes and from the corners of her nose to the edges of her unpainted lips. The color of her traveling dress matched that of her headgear and the poke bag she clutched in her gloved hands. Beside her sat a short, fat man wearing a brown suit and curly-brimmed derby. There were shiny patches on the elbows of his jacket that matched the sheen on his flushed, fresh-shaved face. His eyes were small and blue, studying McLain speculatively as he replied, ‘How do, Marshal.’

The fourth passenger was around McLain’s height and weight, with the tanned, slit-eyed features of a man accustomed to spending most of his time in the open. He wore a dark gray suit that had seen better days but was still well-tended: like a Sunday Meeting outfit brought out only on special occasions. His boots were polished, but the heels were worn and the application of polish failed to hide the scuff marks on the toes. McLain saw that he wore a brace of Colt’s Army models holstered butts forward on either hip, and the way his jacket bulged on the left side, it looked as though he carried a hideaway pistol in a shoulder holster. A graying beard, trimmed short, covered the lower part of his face, and his hair was the same pepper-and-salt mixture, cropped to little more than a stubble over a bullet-shaped head. When he smiled back, gaps showed in his teeth.

He said, ‘Name’s Bascombe. Charley Bascombe.’

‘McLain,’ the Missouri man volunteered. ‘John T. McLain.’

‘I heard o’ you.’ Bascombe grinned. ‘You’re the peace office over to Garrison.’

‘That’s right.’ McLain’s voice framed a question. Bascombe chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about it, Marshal. We’re on the same side … I’m with the Rangers. Goin’ back to Laredo.’

He was about to add more, but Stacy Chase hollered from up on the drive seat, shouting for the shotgun guard to quit pawing his sweetheart and haul his ass up where it belonged. McLain turned to watch a thin-faced young man wearing an ankle-length linen duster grin embarrassedly as he clambered on board. Then Stacy whooped and the Concord heaved forwards, threatening to spill the woman and the drummer from their seats. The abrupt motion flattened almost immediately as the six-horse team hit stride and the coach roiled smoothly down the street, rocking gently on the thoroughbraces.

‘You’re from Garrison?’ The drummer regained his balance, studying McLain with fresh interest. ‘There many people there?’

‘Enough,’ McLain shrugged.

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