“I got a shotgun. If that ain’t enough, then I got more problems than I can handle anyways.”
“You’re sure?”
“Lord almighty, Josiah Wolfe, consider it a loan, too, if you have to. Either bring it back when you can, or I’ll have Roy pick it off your dead body and return it to me. He’ll know where it came from once he sees it.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re the fool that’s walkin’ into a hornet’s nest in broad daylight. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with confidence.”
“All right.” Josiah walked over and took the gun belt. It only took a second to realize that the gun was a Colt Frontier.
Colt had introduced the Frontier not long after Winchester came out with the new Model 1873. It was chambered to handle the same .44-40 cartridge. That way a man only had to buy one kind of shell for the rifle and gun he carried. “Frontier” was acid-etched on the barrel or Josiah wouldn’t have recognized it so readily. The interchangeable cartridges wouldn’t do him any good since he was carrying a Spencer—but the thought made him wonder if Charlie had a Winchester, too. Billie had just said she only had a shotgun to protect herself.
Josiah pushed the thought out of his mind; questioning Billie was of no use to him. In reality, Charlie Webb had himself set up with a good horse, a good gun, and most of all, a good woman.
Life had obviously been pretty good for Charlie—at least until he had the misfortune of recognizing John Wesley Hardin. There was no need to question anything beyond that tragedy now—Billie had shown him a kindness that was too deep to ever be repaid in full. Taking out Liam O’Reilly was the only thing he knew to do that would help Billie see a future void of any kind of trouble.
“Charlie liked that gun a lot,” Billie said.
Josiah strapped on the gun belt but resisted the temptation to pull the gun out of the holster and feel its weight, see how it handled. He’d wait until he was out of sight before he did that.
“Thank you,” he said.
“This is it, then?” Billie said.
They were about a foot apart. Josiah could smell fresh soap on her skin. He looked down to the ground, away from her deep blue eyes. “I have to go, Billie.”
“I know you do.” There were tears welling up in her eyes.
Behind her, from inside the house, the baby whimpered in two short bursts, growing louder, until the whimpers erupted into a full cry.
Billie turned to go inside, and Josiah walked away, his back to her, without saying another word.
By the time she came back to the door, Josiah was nearly past the barn. He looked over his shoulder, waved, then urged Lady Mead on to a full-out run.
If Billie said, or shouted, anything after him, he didn’t hear it.
Josiah stopped just over a slight ridge. Billie Webb’s house had disappeared from sight behind him, and the town of Comanche lay fully in front of him on the horizon. Coming in from the north, the town looked bigger, more sprawled out than it had coming in from the south. Still it was a decent size for a supply town.
Lady Mead had proven to be a comfortable ride right out of the gate. The mare was no replacement for Clipper, but she would do—at least for getting him down the muddy road to meet his fate, and hopefully beyond.
The Spencer was tucked lightly into the scabbard, and Josiah took this as the first opportunity to handle Charlie Webb’s Colt Frontier.
The six-shooter handled fine and felt comfortable in his hand. Still, there was a hesitation in Josiah’s grip. The fact that he was wearing a set of dead man’s clothes, riding his horse, and holding his gun did not fail to escape his attention. He figured that, from a distance, he just might look like Charlie Webb’s ghost, come back from the great beyond to claim his revenge.
It was not a thought he relished, being mistaken for a ghost. But it just might help throw O’Reilly, or his thugs, off Josiah’s trail long enough for him to get to the sheriff’s office—which was his plan. The other side of things was a bit uglier. It wouldn’t take much for anybody to figure out where Josiah had re-outfitted himself. Somehow, he had to manage to keep Billie Webb safe.
The only way he knew to do that was to stay alive. Which was the other part of his plan. He wasn’t sure how that was going to happen. Just that it had to.
A mangy black-and-white dog ran from behind the first house Josiah passed and started barking its fool head off. The door to the house was open, and so were the windows. Pale blue curtains flipped in the breeze, and other than the dog, the house was silent.
The sun beamed down from overhead, the cold thrust of yesterday’s rain a thing of the past. The day was warm, especially by November standards. Sweat beaded under the brim of Josiah’s felt Stetson—his own—and the clothes he was wearing felt itchy against his skin. They still held a hint of lye in them, and mixed with the heat and the task he was riding into, the smell made him more nervous and uncomfortable than he already was.
The Colt Frontier was loaded and ready. Josiah usually wore a swivel rig, but Charlie preferred a Mexican loop holster. Another odd choice, akin to the lack of a Winchester, but the Mexican holster was functional, though it told nothing of Charlie’s past or the reasoning for his choices. Not that it mattered.
What was really important was that Josiah remember the limitations of the simple holster when the time came to use the gun. It really wasn’t much more than a piece of tanned cowhide with a couple of nails holding it together.
Josiah shooed away the dog, annoyed at the alarm it was raising on the outskirts of town, but oddly, as he looked ahead, down the wide and muddy main street, the town seemed nearly vacant.
There were a couple of horses tied up in front of the saloon, and one in front of the Darcy Hotel, but no traffic coming and going. The Butterfield had probably come and gone, since it was past mid-morning, but it was unsettling not to see one soul, man or woman, making their way to and fro on the boardwalk.
Josiah kneed Lady Mead a bit, bringing her up to a trot to get past the dog. He scanned the tops of the buildings for lookouts and saw nothing, all the while easing the Spencer out of the scabbard and chambering a round.
He passed by a few more empty houses, and a chill ran down his spine. It felt like he had just ridden into a town besieged by some quick-acting sickness. Like it was a ghost town, even though Josiah knew better.
The heart of Comanche came up pretty quickly, and Josiah slowed the palomino to an easy gait. He headed straight for the sheriff’s office, which was easy enough to find, since it was two doors down from the saloon.
He eased off the horse, all of his senses fully engaged. It felt like he was walking right into the heart of the land of Yankees without one soldier backing him up. The grip he held on the rifle was tight, but not so tight that it would hinder his aim or reaction if need be. The Spencer was an unknown and untrusted friend going into certain battle.
Just then, a man with a shaggy beard stumbled out of the bar. He stopped and stared at Josiah. “Hey stranger, you’re late.”
“Late for what, friend?” Josiah said.
“Bill Clarmont’s funeral,” the man said with a slur.
Josiah felt his heart skip a beat—or, at least, it felt like it. He’d killed Bill Clarmont. He was holding the dead man’s rifle. The whole town was probably at the man’s funeral, which explained the silence and the absence of commerce.
The shaggy man stroked his beard and steadied himself on one of the batwing doors to the saloon. “You look familiar.”
Josiah stiffened. “I’m just passing through. Thought I’d stop in and speak with the sheriff.”