Bull Mountain(43)

“I said put the goddamn guns down,” Hal said, holding his face. He got to his feet and spit some blood into the dirt and gravel. “The first one to fire on this man dies next.” Hal brushed the dirt from the front of his shirt and trousers and fixed his eyes on Clayton. “You sure this is the kind of fight you want to have?”

Clayton lowered his hands, but only enough to form fists and block his face. “Is there any other kind?”

Hal charged across the lot like a wild boar, slamming into Clayton and lifting him completely off the ground. The two men barreled into the side of one of the hunting trucks, with Clayton taking the brunt of it to his head and shoulder. Before Clayton could gain his breath, Halford pummeled him with punches to the face and gut. Clayton tried to counter and block, but Hal slapped his hands away like they were flies buzzing around his head. When Clayton finally went down, Halford straddled him, pinning his arms under his knees. He crouched down on top of Clayton and buried a massive forearm into his throat, crushing his windpipe. The sheriff scratched and clawed at the ground but barely had any strength left to make a difference. Blood from Hal’s busted lip dripped down on Clayton’s face as it started to take on the color of an eggplant. The more Clayton squirmed, the more Hal crushed down. No tap-outs. No mercy.

A single gunshot rang out. Hal spun his head, still in a feral state, fully expecting to see one of his men had disobeyed him. Instead he saw Deputy Darby Ellis pointing a shaky service revolver at him. He’d managed to sneak past the redneck hordes who were all engrossed in the fight and got himself close enough to actually become a threat. He’d fired the first shot in the air to get Hal’s attention, like a bell signifying the end of the round. He hoped that was all he’d have to do. “Let him up,” Darby said, then added, “Mr. Burroughs,” then added, “Please.”

Hal turned to face the deputy but didn’t take his arm off Clayton’s throat.

“Or what, Deputy? You gonna shoot me?”

“I don’t want to . . . sir.”

“Look around you, boy. You see all those itchy trigger fingers waiting for me to tell them to blow your head off?”

Darby nervously scanned the line of barrels that were now pointed at his head. “Yessir, I do.”

“Then drop that gun on the ground.”

“I can’t do that, sir.” Darby’s knees were shaking so bad he could barely stand. “Mr. Burroughs, I can’t let you kill him. It wouldn’t be right.”

Hal didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.

“He said drop the gun,” a voice behind the deputy said, and when Scabby Mike pressed the barrel of a pistol into the back of Darby’s head, the deputy’s gun fell to the dirt.

“I think he’s gonna cry, Mike,” Hal said.

“Yup, I think he might.”

“Please don’t kill me,” Darby said. “I didn’t even want to come up here. I begged him to turn around. I told him this was crazy.”

Hal took his arm off Clayton’s windpipe and the sheriff rolled over, clutching his throat, gulping at the fresh air. Hal was barely breathing heavy. “Okay, kid. Come get your boss here, and take him back down to Waymore. He, or you, ever comes here again, I promise you it’s gonna end different.”

“Yessir,” Darby said, and rushed over to help Clayton to his feet. “We’re gone.”

Hal picked up Darby’s revolver and stuck it in his waistband. He looked at Darby for an argument. “You got a problem with that, Deputy?”

“No, sir. It’s yours.”

Scabby Mike walked over to Hal, with Clayton’s gun belt over his shoulder. He must have taken it out of the truck when Darby decided to play hero. Hal took the gun, dumped the contents of the cylinder on the ground, and tossed the whole rig next to Clayton. Mike also tried to hand Hal the badge Clayton had left on the hood, but Hal didn’t want that, either.

“Nah,” Hal said, “he can keep it. I think it might have peppered his grits a little.”

Mike walked back and tucked the tin star into Darby’s shirt pocket.

“You be sure he gets it, when he feels better,” Mike said.

“Yessir, I will.”





5.


Clayton’s lip was cut down the middle and a dark yellow swell was forming under his left eye, but nothing was broken, and with a little help, he could walk. Darby practically threw him into the truck and slid behind the wheel. Three seconds later the young deputy had their asses in the wind. He watched through the dust cloud in the rearview as the crowd of hillbilly gunmen laughed and waved.

“Well, boss, that didn’t go too well.”

“No, Darby, I would say it did not.” Clayton pulled a bandana out of the glove box and dabbed at his lip. It hurt to talk. His whole body throbbed. He’d toted an ass-whuppin’ before, but his ego had never taken one this bad. Every man on this mountain who believed the sheriff was a joke just had his sentiments reinforced. Maybe even including Clayton’s own deputy.

“Darby . . .”

“You ain’t got to say it, boss. It’s in the rearview and we’re both breathing. That’s good enough for me. I can’t believe you went at him like that, sir. I know he’s your brother and all, but he could’ve killed you.”