Half a second later, a big, bearded man in a long coat spat a mouthful of beer onto the poker table and jumped to his feet with a terrified expression. He pointed at Conn and shouted, “Arthur! Look who it is!”
Beside him, the skinny man stood, revealing the two guns riding on his hips. His eyes were wary.
Conn raised the shotgun.
“This ain’t possible,” Bo said, shaking his head, his voice warbling with fear. “You’re dead! We killed you!”
Other poker players fled the table, which was a wise decision because buckshot isn’t too discerning, especially when a short barrel’s involved.
“You didn’t kill me,” Conn said. “You killed my twin brother, Cole Sullivan. You murdered him in cold blood and?—”
Arthur grabbed both revolvers and was just clearing leather when Conn pulled a trigger.
The coach gun bellowed.
He twisted slightly, pulled the second trigger, and dropped the bearded killer beside his murderous buddy.
Three down,Conn thought.Eight to go.
Men gaped and blinked.
Conn cracked the H&R open, cleared the barrels, and was loading two fresh shells when the bartender said, “You just hold it right there, mister.”
Glancing in the bartender’s direction, Conn saw something akin to what Bo and Arthur must have seen in their last moments. They’d been fools to try him.
Because looking at the scattergun aimed at him from behind the bar, Conn knew he didn’t have a chance if the bartender decided to pull those triggers.
Once again, there was a scrambling of feet as people fled the path of impending destruction.
Careful to keep his own weapon pointed at the floor, Conn said, “These men killed my brother tonight.”
“They did,” Darlene said. “They confessed when Conn came in here.”
The bartender looked from the girl back to Conn and seemed to relax a little, but he kept the twin barrels trained on him just the same. “You were in here earlier, talking with Darlene.”
Conn nodded.
“He said he was going to visit his brother,” Darlene said. “His twin brother, Cole.”
“That’s just what I did,” Conn said, “but these men and eight others killed him and burned his house.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear this,” a man said from a corner table. “I talked to your brother and his wife just this morning. Sold them lumber. Is she all right?”
Conn nodded. “No thanks to these men. They meant to ravage her. Probably meant to kill her, too. But she escaped.”
“Where are the others?” a lean, bony-faced man with a prominent nose and a drooping, black mustache demanded. He was around forty years old and had hard eyes and big hands and wore a gunbelt.
“One of them’s dead across the street,” Conn said. “The other eight rode west.”
“Well, let’s go get them,” the black-haired man said.
Men cheered and nodded in response.
“Hold on now,” the bartender said, still aiming his shotgun at Conn. “Somebody go fetch Marshal Andrews and let him sort this out. We don’t know this man, and he just killed these other two. We need the law.”
“Forget the law,” the black-haired man said. “We gotta get on the trail before these others ride clear out of the country.”
“I’d be obliged for the help,” Conn said, meeting the man’s eyes.
