Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page B

on the table and moved alongside Barton so he could follow the byplay. Junior rushed up, stopping short a few paces away, breathing hard.
    â€œLooking for me, Junior?” Barton asked.
    â€œYes, sir !”
    Barton glanced quickly at Hobson as if to say told you so . “How’d you know where to find me?”
    â€œI went to the jailhouse first but it was locked up, nobody there,” Junior Lau said. “Fenton from the feed store said he saw you going this way and figgered that’s where you might be headed. Better come quick, Marshal—there’s trouble!”
    â€œThere always is,” Barton said more to himself than to the youngster. “What kind of trouble?”
    â€œBad trouble, Marshal Mack! Shooting trouble, looks like,” Junior rushed on excitedly. “There’s some strangers in town kicking up a fuss outside the Golden Spur! Ornery looking fellows, too, real mean ones—hardcases!”
    â€œNothing new there. Only they’re starting earlier than usual,” Barton said in an aside to Hobson.
    â€œThe leader calls himself Moran,” Junior Lau went on.
    â€œMoran?” Barton said, his interest piqued. “Terry Moran?”
    â€œThat’s the one!”
    â€œKnow him, Mack?” Hobson asked.
    â€œI know of him. Him and his bunch have been cutting up a swath in Parker County.”
    â€œThat Moran fellow’s calling out Johnny Cross!” Junior Lau blurted out.
    â€œHe better be careful. He just might find Cross.” Hobson chuckled.
    â€œThat’s a break.” Barton relaxed. “Cross is out at his ranch.”
    â€œNo, sir, he’s not,” Junior Lau said. “Him and Luke Pettigrew rode into town this morning.”
    â€œJohnny Cross can take care of himself,” Hobson declared.
    Barton frowned. “It ain’t him I’m worried about. I don’t want any of the townsfolk to get hurt. You say Moran’s got some fellows stringing with him, Junior?”
    â€œYes sir. Looked like five of them in all. Mean-looking hombres, too.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it, Junior. Thanks for letting me know.”
    â€œOh, pshaw! Nothing to it. Glad to help out, Marshal.” Junior didn’t leave but stood around waiting.
    â€œGot a shotgun I can borrow, Hob?” Barton asked.
    â€œSure do,” the smith said. A big-bore double-barreled shotgun stood leaning against the front wall. He broke it to make sure it was loaded. It was. He handed it to the marshal.
    â€œThanks. That’ll save me the time of fetching mine from the jailhouse,” Barton said.
    Hobson handed him an open box of cartridges. Barton grabbed a handful, stuffing them into a vest pocket while Junior Lau watched goggle-eyed.
    Hobson reached into a table desk drawer, pulling out a six-gun and sticking it into the top of his belt.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” Barton asked. “As if I didn’t know.”
    â€œI don’t want to miss the fun,” Hobson said.
    Barton shook his head. “I get paid for keeping the peace. You don’t.”
    â€œI ain’t gonna horn in. I just aim to tag along,” Hobson said. “Can’t go to a gunfight without packing one myself. I’d feel undressed . . . nekkid.”
    â€œI reckon so,” the marshal allowed.
    â€œGonna send for Smalls?” Hobson asked. Smalls was Barton’s deputy.
    â€œHe’s out of town serving writs for nonpayment of taxes. Reckon I’ll just have to handle this myself.”
    â€œI got your back.” Hobson stuck a cork in the mouth of the jug, palm-heeling it into place. He stowed the jug out of sight under the table behind some boxes. “Now we can go.” Mock-serious, he looked at the teenager. “That jug better be there untouched when I get back, Junior.”
    â€œAw, Mr. Hobson! You know I wouldn’t steal nothing or sneak a taste—”
    â€œWhy not?