Kill Them All

CHAPTER THREE

Dry Wells, Nevada

Friday, 10:59 a.m.

As the wickedly hot desert wind moaned and strained at the dusty bathroom window, Sally Morgan stared into the cracked mirror above the sink and ran a brush through her long blond hair. Sally was still on the right side of thirty, but her blue eyes were losing their twinkle, some fine lines had broken through, and her body was softening. She sighed. Life had taken a pretty girl born to conquer the world and stuffed her into a tight waitress outfit. It was like a bad practical joke. She sniffed her armpits, sprayed on a little more perfume, and returned to work.

The tiny saloon called Wally’s was dimly lit, festooned with neon beer signs and old cowboy memorabilia. A large antique wagon wheel hung over the polished wooden bar, and George Jones whined from an antique jukebox. The street entrance was a dented metal door, but the inner entry was all atmosphere-old style batwings with slats. Sawdust covered the floor. Sally often wondered what had prompted the owner to invest in a tourist saloon in old-town Dry Wells, much less name it after himself.

Wally’s was a dump.

The joint was never crowded, barely turned a profit. Then again, what the hell prompted her to continue to stay here? At least Wally got to live in the saloon and stay drunk all day, which he was right now, passed out facedown on the bar. All Sally got was spare change, smart-assed remarks about hooking, and tiny bruises on her ass cheeks from all the pinching.

Kyle Brody was still in his corner, nursing a beer. Sally knew he had a thing for her. Whenever he could get away from the garage, he’d hang around like some kind of bodyguard, trying to act charming, but Kyle was a big, clumsy boy with red hair and blotchy freckles. Still, maybe he was the best she’d be able to do. Sally hadn’t had sex since that charming traveling salesman had turned out to be a Mormon from Utah with three wives and thirteen kids. Kyle smiled. Sally smiled back.

Someone grabbed at her ass. Zeke and Hog were shitfaced again, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Sally wondered what their boss paid them for. The rancher was known to be a penny-pincher, so why did he allow his two hands to hang out in old town plastered all day? They were a real pair, chubby Hog with his huge biceps and skinny Zeke with his knives and his rattlesnake mean. They went back and forth between Molly’s Pussy Parlor and Wally’s Saloon like a pair of trained monkeys. Molly’s for sex, Wally’s for a break and couple of more drinks.

Another grab at her butt. Sally dodged the groping hand and forced a thin smile. “Want me to refill that pitcher, Hog?”

“I’d like to fill your pitcher, babe,” Zeke said. “You need to put some time in over to the Pussy Parlor. Hell, I’d pay double.”

Hog snorted, which was the second source of his unsubtle nickname.

“Maybe it’s time you boys switched to coffee.”

“Fuck that, babe. I’d pay triple!”

Sally slipped by their clutching fingers and walked sideways toward the stranger at the other corner table. Matt Cahill. The guy everyone was calling a hero. Up close, he was a big man, dark haired and muscular. His work shirt and jeans were dusty, and he carried a backpack with a lumberjack’s ax strapped to it along with a small sleeping bag. The stranger had a battered cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes. It looked like he was catching a nap before hitting the road.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Matt looked up. Sally was struck by how handsome he was, in a rough-hewn way. He had careful, intelligent eyes that didn’t undress her. He really focused on her face, as if searching for something. It made her skin ripple and her legs part just a tiny bit. Easy, girl, you’re not in high school anymore.

Cahill didn’t speak, just smiled and shook his head.

Sally turned, then jumped back. Now Hog and Zeke were bracing her, blocking her way.

Uh-oh.

Over at the bar, Wally raised his head drunkenly. He fumbled to support himself, bleary-eyed, but wasn’t sober enough to intervene.

“We’re making you an offer,” Zeke said pleasantly. His breath reeked. “A three-way for triple. You can’t refuse.”

Out of the corner of her eye Sally saw Kyle slowly get to his feet. She silently willed him to stay put. He was a good boy, one of the only decent males left in Dry Wells, and she didn’t want to see him get hurt. Kyle had tried to stand up to Zeke and Hog before. It hadn’t gone so well. Zeke carried a couple of small knives and moved like a cat. Hog had guns like other men’s thighs and could poleax a steer with one of those fists. They liked to hurt people.

“Easy, boys,” she said. “This may be Friday, and we’ve got cause to celebrate, but it’s way too early for me to have to be calling Sheriff Pickens on you. Hell, you still got the whole weekend ahead. The whorehouse is across the street. This here is just a bar.”

“For now,” Hog said.

“That old fart can’t do nothing and you know it, gal,” Zeke said. He moved a step closer, the better to stare down her top at her breasts. He seemed to like it that Sally was now breathing rapidly from fear. “You ever have two big men at once? Might like it.”

“Let her be,” Kyle said.

Zeke smiled at the sound of Kyle’s wavering tenor. Sally realized that this was what Zeke had really been after all along. The fight. He and Hog exchanged grins. Zeke nodded, and Hog turned, lumbered over to deal with young Kyle. He picked up a chair, raising it over his head, ready to smash it over the young man’s head. Kyle tried to duck but lost his balance and ended up on his ass on the sawdust floor. Meanwhile, skinny Zeke reached out for Sally with his right hand, intending to grope her breast. Sally took a deep breath to scream, knowing that there was likely nobody around outside, that it probably wouldn’t do her any good.

The handsome stranger came out of nowhere and grabbed Zeke by the wrist. In a voice low and urgent, he said, “Hey, pal. Take it easy, okay?”

Hog turned and saw that the stranger was now interfering. Pleased, Hog waddled back their way like a rhino crossing a mud paddy. His fat face was clenched into a huge red fist of excitement.

Meanwhile, the stranger let Zeke go. “Guys, I don’t want any trouble.”

Zeke laughed. “Mister, your ’tude just wrote a check your body can’t cash.”

Sally gasped with alarm. Zeke produced a switchblade with his free hand, popped the wicked blade out, and stabbed at the stranger’s thigh. But the man wasn’t there anymore. He had moved out of the way, back towards his pack and sleeping bag. Hog changed direction to cut him off but moved too slowly. Cahill grabbed his ax and used the handle to pop Zeke low in the groin.

Zeke gasped and dropped the knife. He sank to his knees, gripping his balls with both hands.

Pissed off, Hog charged.

Sally couldn’t believe her eyes. The handsome stranger stayed put. Hog was bigger, outweighed him by forty pounds, but Cahill didn’t move. His assailant launched a haymaker at his chin, but the stranger stood fast. At the very last second, when Hog was slightly off balance, Cahill knocked his arm up and out of the way. He punched Hog twice with the end of the ax handle, rapid-fire, right in the soft spot above the belly and between the ribs. Hog went white, sank to his knees gasping for air. He rolled over onto his side and drew up his knees like a baby trying to let loose a huge fart. The stranger tossed his ax onto his sleeping bag.

“Just breathe, man. The pain will go away.” Cahill went down on one knee. He lowered his voice, said something to Hog and then repeated it to Zeke. He was whispering, but Sally caught the gist of it. He actually apologized again for hurting them and told them both to go sober up. He said to lay off the girl from now on.

Like a pair of whipped puppies, Zeke and Hog helped each other limp out the batwing doors. They didn’t look back.

What amazed Sally was that Cahill didn’t seem to be an expert at martial arts. Maybe he was just a man used to fighting in bars. He looked a bit shaken but wasn’t even breathing hard.

The man looked over at Kyle, who had struggled back to his feet and was holding a candle as if wishing it would magically turn into a weapon.

“You okay, kid?”

Kyle’s cheeks went pink. He’d just lost a substantive dick-measuring contest. Sally stared at the stranger. She shook her head. “Mr. Cahill, you move like you’ve had a few fights in your day.”

The man shrugged. “A few.”

“We thank you.”

“No sweat.”

Sally watched as he turned to get his dusty pack, bedroll, and hat. He dug into his jeans to find a few dollar bills. He handed them to her, finished his beer, and turned to go. The harsh sunlight surrounded him, turning his features shadowy and mystical. Sally tucked the money into her bra and held out her hand.

“Sally Morgan, Mr. Cahill.”

“Mr. Cahill was my father.” The handsome stranger hesitated as if he’d grown tired of meeting people. He shook her hand. “Matt. Call me Matt.”