• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Chink shrugged. “I would’ve, sooner or later.”

“Why?”

“That’s the way it is.”

The man with the beard had not moved. He said now, quietly, “Chink, you shut your mouth.” Then he glanced at the man with the shotgun and said, in the same tone, “Billy-Jack, get them out of there,” and nodded toward the coach.

Chapter Two

KNEELING NEXT to Rintoon, Brennan studied them. He watched Billy- Jack open the coach door, saw his mouth soften to a grin as Doretta Mims came out first. Her eyes went to Rintoon, but shifted away quickly. Willard Mims hesitated, then stepped down, stumbling in his haste as Billy-Jack pointed the shotgun at him. He stood next to his wife and stared unblinkingly at Rintoon’s body.

That one, Brennan was thinking, looking at the man with the beard—that’s the one to watch. He’s calling it, and he doesn’t look as though he gets excited…. And the one called Chink….

Brennan’s eyes went to him. He was standing hip-cocked, his hat on the back of his head and the drawstring from it pulled tight beneath his lower lip, his free hand fingering the string idly, the other hand holding the long-barreled .44 Colt, pointed down but cocked.

He wants somebody to try something, Brennan thought. He’s itching for it. He wears two guns and he thinks he’s good. Well, maybe he is. But he’s young, the youngest of the three, and he’s anxious. His gaze stayed on Chink and it went through his mind: Don’t even reach for a cigarette when he’s around.

The one with the beard said, “Billy-Jack, get up on top of the coach.”

Brennan’s eyes raised, watching the man step from the wheel hub to the boot and then kneel on the driver’s seat. He’s number-three man, Brennan thought. He keeps looking at the woman. But don’t bet him short. He carries a big-gauge gun.

“Frank, there ain’t nothing up here but an old saddle.”

The one with the beard—Frank Usher—raised his eyes. “Look under it.”

“Ain’t nothing there either.”

Usher’s eyes went to Willard Mims, then swung slowly to Brennan. “Where’s the mail?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Brennan said.

Frank Usher looked at Willard Mims again. “You tell me.”

“This isn’t the stage,” Willard Mims said hesitantly. His face relaxed then, almost to the point of smiling. “You made a mistake. The regular stage isn’t due for almost an hour.” He went on, excitement rising in his voice, “That’s what you want, the stage that’s due here at five. This is one I chartered.” He smiled now. “See, me and my wife are just coming back from a honeymoon and, you know—”

Frank Usher looked at Brennan. “Is that right?”

“Of course it is!” Mims’s voice rose. “Go in and check the schedule.”

“I’m asking this man.”

Brennan shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“He don’t know anything,” Chink said.

Billy-Jack came down off the coach and Usher said to him, “Go in and look for a schedule.” He nodded toward Doretta Mims. “Take that woman with you. Have her put some coffee on, and something to eat.”

Brennan said, “What did you do with Hank?”

Frank Usher’s dull eyes moved to Brennan. “Who’s he?”

“The station man here.”

Chink grinned and waved his revolver, pointing it off beyond the main adobe. “He’s over yonder in the well.”

Usher said, “Does that answer it?”

“What about his boy?”

“He’s with him,” Usher said. “Anything else?”

Brennan shook his head slowly. “That’s enough.” He knew they were both dead and suddenly he was very much afraid of this dull-eyed, soft-voiced man with the beard; it took an effort to keep himself calm. He watched Billy-Jack take Doretta by the arm. She looked imploringly at her husband, holding back, but he made no move to help her. Billy- Jack jerked her arm roughly and she went with him.

Willard Mims said, “He’ll find the schedule. Like I said, it’s due at five o’clock. I can see how you made the mistake”—Willard was smiling—“thinking we were the regular stage. Hell, we were just going home… down to Bisbee. You’ll see, five o’clock sharp that regular passenger-mail run’ll pull in.”

“He’s a talker,” Chink said.

Billy-Jack appeared in the doorway of the adobe. “Frank, five o’clock, sure