Robert J. Randisi
Texas Iron
To WWA
DEADLY CROSSFIRE
Sam McCall watched the men to his right and left, until finally the one on the right moved. That move was the signal to his compadre, who was just a split second behind. Just enough time.
McCall fired as the man on his right drew. The gunsel hurried his shot and missed, but McCall’s shot traveled straight and true, ventilating the man through the heart. With the side-by-side Greener in his left hand, he pointed toward the second man and let loose with both barrels. The impact of the blast picked the man up and tossed him against the saloon wall. As he fell, he left a red smear on the wall behind him.
Prologue
Clyde Wexler was stunned.
Wexler had been the telegraph key operator in Corozon, Montana, for four years. He’d never before received a message that so much as made him raise his eyebrows. At twenty-five he’d become pretty complacent about his job. He finished transposing the last clicks of the key onto paper and then stared at what he had written, his mouth agape. He was so stunned he almost forgot to acknowledge receipt of the message. He pounded the key as quickly as he could, then switched it off and ran from the office, holding the message in his hand like a banner.
Walt Keller was the sheriff of Corozon and had been for almost nine years. During that time he hadn’t had to draw his gun except to ventilate the ceiling of the White Horse Saloon a time or two when the hands got rowdy. When he took office he was thirty-eight and weighed a svelte 170. Now he was forty-seven and after nine years of an easy job, with free meals and drinks, he weighed close to 250.
He was shifting his bulk in his chair, trying to fit his lard-ass more comfortably, when his office door burst open and young Clyde Wexler rushed in.
“Sheriff’” Wexler blurted, breathless.
“Take it easy, Clyde,” Keller said, still shifting, “the town council ain’t gonna buy me a new door if ya bust it, ya know.”
“Sheriff, I gotta show you somethin’!”
“Where the hell is that deputy?” Keller complained.
“I’m ready for lunch.”
“Sheriff, I got a telegram today.”
“That ain’t so unusual, is it?” Keller asked, wondering if he should have the beef stew over at the cafe, or the meat loaf at Dillon’s Restaurant. “You get ’em sometimes, don’t ya?”
“This one is real important.”
Keller stopped fidgeting and looked up at the young man.
“Is it for me?”
“Uh, no—”
“For you?”
“No—”
“Then what in the blue blazes are you talkin’ about, boy?”
Wexler, in a gesture of exasperation, held the telegram out to Keller. “It’s for Sam McCall.”
Keller, who was reaching for the slip of paper, stopped short and stared at it, as if it had suddenly burst into flames.
“McCall?”
“Sam McCall.”
“B—but McCall isn’t in Corozon.”
Wexler opened his fingers, allowing the telegram to fall, and as it fluttered to the top of the sheriff’s desk he said, “You mean he ain’t yet!”
Part One
Family Reunion
Chapter One
McCall was feeling old.
And unwanted.
The cause of these feelings, however, was not one and the same.
He was feeling old because his keester was forty-three, and had just spent three days in the saddle. He wanted nothing more than a drink, a meal, and a soft bed, and possibly an even softer woman.
He was feeling unwanted because as he rode down the main street of Corozon, Montana, everyone was staring at him, as if they knew who he was. Now, he wouldn’t have been surprised if some of them knew who he was, but all of them? That was too much coincidence for any man, let alone a man who didn’t believe in coincidence.
He had the uncomfortable feeling that Corozon knew he was coming.
Deputy Sheriff Bob Collins entered his office and said to Walt Keller, “He’s here, Sheriff.”
Keller, seated behind his desk, looked up at Collins and wet his lips with his tongue.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t hungry.
The first person McCall stopped to ask directions shied away from him, as if he expected McCall to strike him. All McCall wanted was to know where the livery stable was.
He rode further down the street and tried to ask a woman this time, but she almost ran from him.
Yep, the little town of Corozon knew he was coming, all right.
But how?
He decided to try one more time before looking for it himself. He spotted a lad of about ten standing in front of the general store, eyeing some licorice candy in the window. He reined in, dismounted, and walked over to the window.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Sure does,” the boy said, not bothering to look up.
“I reckon you would need about a nickel to get enough, huh?”
“Yeah,” the boy said, “I guess so.”
“Well, it just so happens,” McCall said, digging into his pocket, “that I have a nickel here.”
The boy looked up this time and stared at the nickel.
“If you can tell me where the livery stable is,” McCall said, “this shiny nickel is yours.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh boy!” the boy exclaimed. “Mister, the stable is down the end of the street and to the right. Ya can’t miss it!”
“I can’t, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, here’s your nickel.” McCall handed the coin to the boy. “Don’t eat all that candy at one time, you’ll end up with a bellyache.”
“No, sir!”
The boy snatched the nickel and ran into the store.
McCall laughed, mounted up, and rode down toward the end of the street.
Sheriff Keller walked over to the telegraph office and found Wexler sitting at his key.
“Clyde.”
Wexler looked up at Keller and read the look on the lawman’s face.
“No.”
“Yes,” Keller said, “he’s here.”
“Jesus,” Wexler said, “I can’t, Sheriff.”
“It’s your job, Clyde.”
“You give it to him,” Wexler said, “you’re the sheriff.”
“You’re the telegraph operator.”
“I don’t know where he’s stayin’.”
“He’s not stayin’ anywhere, yet.”
“Then how am I supposed to know where to take the telegram?”
Keller glared at Wexler.
“I have Bob Collins watching him,” Keller said. “He’ll tell me where McCall is stayin’, and I’ll tell you, and then you deliver the telegram.”
“If I give him that telegram,” Wexler said, “he’ll kill me.”
“You give him that telegram and he’ll leave Corozon,”
Keller said.
“And then you won’t have to deal with him.” Wexler’s tone was accusing.
“And then none of us will have to deal with him, Clyde.”
“Except me.”
“Well,” Keller said, “that’ll make you a goddamned hero, won’t it.”
Wexler opened his mouth to respond, then stopped short as Keller’s words hit him.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess it would.”
McCall found the livery with no trouble. He lifted his saddlebags, bedroll, and rifle from the saddle and handed the animal over to the liveryman.