Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do Read Online Free Page B

think the boy was the least bit funny.
    â€œTry to keep up.” Instead of going in, Tyree ran to the corner and on around the side.
    â€œI should have been a store clerk,” Fred grumbled. He’d considered that in his younger days. But the notion of toting tin held more appeal. He used to daydream about epic shooting affrays with hordes of outlaws. But that was then, and this was now. The young often held foolish notions. The old knew better.
    Fred hastened after him. He remembered the corral out back. It would be easy for McCarthy to go into the tack room and help himself to a saddle blanket, saddle, and bridle.
    Tyree sprinted to the far end. He looked out, glanced over his shoulder at Fred, and grinned.
    Struggling to breathe, Fred came to a halt and placed his hands on his knees.
    â€œIf you weren’t carryin’ so big a belly, you’d get around a lot better,” Tyree whispered.
    â€œGo to hell,” Fred said.
    â€œShhh.” Tyree looked out again. “He’s tightenin’ the cinch. We caught him just in time.”
    â€œYou’re not going to shoot him, are you?”
    â€œOnly if he makes me. He’s worth more alive than dead.” Tyree cocked both Colts. “Quietlike, now, and we can take him by surprise.”
    Fred was tired of that “we” business. But he stepped out when the kid did, and they quickly climbed the rails. McCarthy had his back to them and didn’t see them. Taking deep breaths, Fred pointed his Smith & Wesson.
    Tom McCarthy was just letting down the stirrup on achestnut. Turning, he reached for the reins. Tucked under his belt was a revolver. There was a red stain on his shirt, high on his right shoulder. The boy had winged him.
    â€œHold it right there,” Tyree bellowed.
    Fred was going to add his own command, but he wasn’t given the chance.
    Unlimbering his six-shooter, McCarthy barely had it out when Tyree Johnson fired.
    And hit the horse.
    The chestnut whinnied and reared, tearing the reins out of McCarthy’s hand. It sent McCarthy stumbling, but he recovered and sprinted into the stable just as Tyree fired both Colts.
    â€œYou missed him,” Fred said. He’d assumed that anyone who went around with as much armament as the kid wore would know how to shoot.
    â€œI’m not Wild Bill Hickok,” Tyree said.
    â€œGood thing,” Fred said. “He’s dead.”
    â€œYou stay here. I’ll make sure he doesn’t escape.” Tyree ran into the stable.
    Annoyed at the turn of events, Fred jogged after him.
    The poor chestnut was whinnying and running in circles and tossing its head back and forth. As near as Fred could tell from some scarlet drops, the slug had nicked it on the chest.
    There was a commotion in the stable, and a shot.
    Just what Fred needed. A gun war in the middle of town. A lot of folks were bound to be upset. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if some of them complained to the mayor, who never had liked him. He could see the mayor using it as an excuse to claim it was time for a change in lawmen.
    Fred couldn’t have that. He needed to stop this before it went any further.
    The center aisle was littered with straw, and a pitchfork had been propped against a stall. Only two of the stalls were occupied, the horses wide-eyed with fright.
    McCarthy wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
    Tyree, though, was at the double doors, peering out the front. He looked back at Fred and gestured as if to say, “Where is he?”
    Fred shook his head. How would he know? He went to call out but changed his mind. If McCarthy hadn’t gone out the front, it must mean he was hiding in one of the stalls and the kid had run right past him. Ducking, Fred slipped into the first. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out.
    Up at the front, Tyree shouted, “McCarthy! Quit bein’ pigheaded. Give yourself up and you won’t be hurt.”
    â€œDrop dead,