Bullets Don't Die (23 page)
Authors: J. A. Johnstone
“Then I’ll go,” Falcon insisted.
“It’s this way,” Marty said.
Falcon tossed his boots to Tim. “I need new heels,” he said.
“Falcon, you don’t need to do this,” Tim said again.
“And don’t make them too high,” Falcon called back over his shoulder as he followed Marty toward the saloon.
“Is Drew still there?” Falcon asked.
“As far as I know he is. He went upstairs with Belle.”
When Falcon stepped into the saloon a minute later, he saw everyone else, the men patrons, as well as the piano player and the bargirls, standing in a semicircle, looking down at the body. The cowboy was still in the upright position, leaning against the bar. Both hands were down by his side; one of his hands was bloody, as was the front of his shirt. His eyes were open and glazed, and his mouth was half open.
“Is the man that did this still here?” Falcon asked.
“Who are you?” the bartender replied.
“Percy, this here is Falcon MacCallister. I reckon you’ve heard of him,” Marty said.
“Yeah, you’re damn right I’ve heard of him. And if anyone can handle Drew, why I reckon it would be him. Drew’s still here. He’s upstairs,” the bartender said, glancing toward the head of the stairs.
From upstairs, Falcon could hear the sound of a woman’s voice.
“No,” she said. “Please, for God’s sake, no!”
“What room?”
“Belle’s room is the first one on the right at the head of the stairs, Mr. MacCallister,” one of the other girls said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Falcon replied.
Falcon went up the stairs quietly, his pistol in his hand. When he reached the room he tried the door, but it was locked. He knocked on the door.
“Go away!” a man’s voiced called from inside.
“I have clean towels,” Falcon announced.
“We don’ need no damn towels!” the same voice answered.
“It’s the law. You have to have clean towels.”
Falcon heard someone walking across the floor toward the door, and he stepped back with his pistol ready. When the door was open, Drew was holding a gun in his hand.
“I told you I don’t want any . . .”
Falcon, who was standing to one side, reached out to grab Drew’s hand. He jerked forward, toward the banister. Drew spun around to bring his pistol to bear on his attacker, but instead he lost his balance, then blundered through the banister and fell, head down, onto the piano below. The piano made a large discordant sound as Drew crashed into it. He slid from the piano on down to the floor and lay there with one leg still on the piano bench. His neck was twisted crazily to one side; his eyes were open but already growing opaque.
Falcon holstered his pistol and hurried down the stairs. Amos Drew had not moved since he fell. The bartender examined him.
“It’s all right, folks,” the bartender said. “ The son of a bitch is dead.”
The others in the saloon cheered and applauded.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3242-6
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