Chapter 47
“Idon’t kill easy,” Conn said, hand hovering beside the Remington. “You’re Jesse Turpin.”
Normally, he would use the shotgun. But the place was crowded, and buckshot wasn’t discerning, especially out of a short barrel.
So he stood ready to draw against this man who’d made a name for himself as a gunfighter.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Turpin admitted, his shock rapidly giving way to sneering confidence. “But you’re about to wish it wasn’t. You might not kill easy, Sullivan, but you’ve never faced the likes of me.”
He had squared himself with Conn.
Both men stood staring at each other, ready to draw.
But Conn still wanted to know something. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my brother?”
“I didn’t,” Turpin said. “That was Toole and Duncan. Toole gave the order. Duncan hung him. He likes doing that. Hanging people, hurting them. Me, I was just along for the fun. And that pretty blonde.”
Turpin grinned and gave a wink then went for it.
He was fast just like folks said. He cleared leather, leaning back and twisting his body as he shot from the hip.
But Conn was more than fast.
While his brother had been reading the Bible and working hard and saving his pennies, courting Mary and making plans and bringing those plans to fruition, starting a life together on a breathtaking patch of ground that promised years of hard work with hope of prosperity, Conn had been riding the hard trail, drinking and fighting and facing the Turpins of the world.
As the would-be gunslinger rushed his shot and sent a wild bullet past Conn’s ear, Conn drew just as quickly, extended his arm, and fired, putting one through the quickdraw’s guts.
Turpin winced and hunched with the blow but kept fighting. He was bringing the gun back around when Conn fired again.
With time to aim more precisely, Conn considered putting one between his eyes and snuffing his lights forever. But he shot him in the shoulder instead, putting him out of the fight, and leaving enough of him to question.
Turpin staggered into a barstool.
Conn closed the distance and lashed out with the Remington, smashing the barrel into Turpin’s temple, laying him open and dropping him to the floor.
For a second, Conn was afraid he’d hit him too hard and killed him.
But Turpin was young and strong, and a second later, he was sputtering and trying to lift the revolver again.
Conn stomped down and smashed his bootheel into the wounded man’s wrist, pinning it to the ground as the hand released the weapon.
“Where’s Toole?” Conn demanded.
“West of here a couple miles,” Turpin groaned. “Hiding out in Mercy Ridge.” He cursed Toole’s name. “Kill him. He’s the one who started everything. He got me into this mess.” His face twisted with surprise. “Sullivan, I reckon maybe you done killed me.”
“Yeah,” Conn said, “I did.”
And just like that, as if Conn had granted him permission, Turpin died.
Six down, five to go.
Conn faced the silent saloon.
People looked at him with awe and terror.
“You men heard everything,” Conn said, opening the cylinder of his Remington, dropping empty casings onto the corpse, and thumbing new cartridges into the empty chambers. “He murdered my brother. So I killed him. Now, I’m gonna kill these other men. Where’s Mercy Ridge?”
“Like he said, a couple miles west,” a frightened-looking, bearded man said.
“Take the old wagon road into the mountains,” another man said.
“It’s a ghost town on Coldwater Creek,” another volunteered. “You can’t miss it. There’s a sign and everything. At least there used to be.”
Others nodded.
“Who will ride with me?” Conn asked.
His question hung in the air. He scanned the saloon and was met only by silence and faces slack with fear.
He would find no help here.
Not bothering to ask again, he marched out of the saloon and into the street, where he intended to question folks and learn which horse Turpin had ridden.
But when he got out there, he didn’t need to ask any questions.
“Hello, old friend,” Conn said, running a hand over the smooth jaw of his gelding.