Twisted Hills, page 8
“It’s broke all to hell, Daryl,” Graft said, waving the matter aside. “It might have been cracked to begin with.”
“We heard gunplay over here,” Dolan said, looking all around.
“Oh, we had a scuffle for sure, but it’s all in the past now,” Graft added. Sam noted the cantina owner trying to play the shooting down all of a sudden. “Jones here and I were just talking about it.”
“What happened, Jones?” Dolan asked Sam, staring coldly at him.
Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead he reached around and lifted his beer mug, as if to first take a sip before answering.
Daryl’s face tightened. But before he could say anything to Sam, Graft cut in.
“Jones here didn’t start the trouble,” he said quickly, “but he took the scalp hunters’ guns for payment against my new mirror.”
“You mean Fain and them? Those scalp hunters?” said Dolan. He looked Sam up and down. “You took their guns—killed the one we saw being carried away?”
“I did,” Sam said flatly. “Hope they weren’t friends of yours.”
“Ha,” said Dolan, “that mangy bunch? They don’t have friends here. They just have some folks who don’t hate them as bad as others.”
The three men behind him gave a dark chuckle.
“I heard Petty was fast with a gun—talked to my boss some about riding with us.” Dolan gave a faint grin. “I expect he wouldn’t have lasted long, if he went down that easy.”
“Fast didn’t help him much,” said Graft. “Jones here didn’t let him get his gun skint before he nailed him.”
“Is that right, Jones?” said Dolan. “You didn’t let him get his gun drawn?”
“It didn’t seem like a good idea to,” said Sam.
Behind Dolan, the three gunmen gave a slight chuckle at Sam’s words. But a sharp glance from Dolan quieted them.
Dolan looked him up and down again. He rubbed his chin in contemplation.
“I’m just speculating, Jones,” he said, “wondering how fast you are.”
Sam replied coolly, “Never waste time wondering when you can find out in a second flat.” As he spoke he leaned back against the bar with his forearms up along the edge. His beer mug hung from his left hand; his right hand rested an inch from his Winchester.
All four of the gunmen fell silent.
Dolan gave a puzzled look while Sam’s words sank in. Then his face took on a confused smile.
“Fellows, I believe Jones just told me to arm up or shut up,” he said.
Sam just stared at him.
“New bottle here, fellows,” Graft said eagerly.
A bottle of rye appeared on the bar top and a string of glasses spread alongside it. The bottle cork made a soft pop in Rolo the bartender’s hands.
“What do you want us to do, Daryl, shoot holes in him?” a young gunman named Clyde Burke asked, stepping up beside the lead man.
Staring hard at Sam, Dolan gave a chuff. His smile turned less confused and more genuine.
“Naw, Burke. A man can get shot anytime,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m going to have a drink.” He said to Sam, “Jones, you always wear your bark so tight?”
When Sam didn’t answer, Graft cut in, seeing a chance to stop any further bloodshed or broken glass.
“He says he’s here because he’s tired of eating jackrabbit and rattlesnake,” he said.
“So, you come looking for gun work?” Dolan asked Sam.
“Is there any other kind?” Sam said.
“Is there any other kind?” Dolan repeated with a chuckle. “If there is, I never considered it.” He let out a breath and said, “Can you loosen your bark enough to have a drink?”
“I already have,” Sam said. He breathed easier. He set his beer mug down from his left hand and let his right hand fall away from his Winchester.
“That’s good,” said Dolan. “Because it happens that you’ve come to the right place. We are the only outfit around here who’s hiring for gun work.”
“I heard there’s another outfit,” Sam said, turning to the bar.
“Then you heard wrong,” said Dolan. He motioned for the other men to line along the bar. He stepped in beside Sam. “We’re with Bell Madson. Ever heard of him?”
Sam gave a shrug that said he hadn’t.
“He used go by the name Red Madson. Some called him Texas Red Madson, him being from Texas.” He looked at Sam.
Again Sam only shrugged.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Dolan. “You’re new around here. You’ll hear of him soon enough.”
The others all watched as Rolo filled shot glasses and slid one in front of each man, including Sam and Graft. The cantina owner smiled in relief and stepped back, shot glass in hand, as two workers came through shoveling broken mirror shards from the floor behind the bar. He tipped his shot glass toward Dolan in thanks.
Dolan nodded at Sam’s shot glass of whiskey.
“Drink up, Jones,” he said. “It’s always good to meet a man who knows his way around a shooting iron.” He gave a thin smile. “To be honest, you gave a hell of an account of yourself—three on one, you killed one, wounded one and put the hurt on a third. Those damn scalp hunters. Here’s to shooting the stinking sons a’ bitches.” He raised his shot glass as if in a toast of denouncement.
“My pleasure,” Sam said, lifting his shot glass.
“See?” Graft grinned. “There was really no trouble here.” But the gunmen appeared not to hear him.
As the empty shot glasses came back down onto the bar and Rolo started refilling them, the front curtain pulled to one side and harsh sunlight slanted in across the tile floor. On Dolan’s other side, Clyde Burke spoke under his breath.
“Look who just showed up, Daryl,” he said.
“I bet I already know,” Dolan said. He turned sidelong to the bar, as did the others. “Well, well, if it ain’t Ray Segert’s boys,” he said to the new arrivals. “You didn’t need to show up. We’ve got this covered.” Then he turned to the cantina owner. “Graft, set these boys up some sassafras tea, on me.”
“Dolan’s right, fellows,” Graft called out. “There’s no trouble here.”
The four men slowed on their way to the other end of the bar.
“I’ll sassafras his ass,” a gunman named Dusty Phelps growled under his breath to the man, Max Udall, standing beside him. He started to make a sudden turn toward Dolan. The men at the bar tensed, as did the four newly arrived gunmen.
“Hold your spit, Dusty,” the lead man, Max Udall, demanded, stepping almost in between Phelps and Dolan. He gave Daryl Dolan a sharp snarl of a grin. “It’s just Daryl’s inhospitable way of being hospitable.” He spoke directly to Daryl. “I see nobody’s yet carved out your tongue and used it for a door hinge.”
“You own a knife, Max. Come show us how it’s done,” Dolan returned, his hand poised deftly at his gun butt.
But Max Udall nodded his men on toward the far end of the bar, drinkers pushing aside, making room for them. Some drinkers had already slipped out of the cantina and gone on their way.
“Not today, Dolan,” Udall said, walking on. “We only come to see what the shooting’s about. Hope none of yas got rowdy and lost any toes.”
Dolan looked down at his boots. “Still got enough toes to stick a boot up your—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Welcome, one and all,” Graft cut in, hoping to stop any trouble before the men got past the stage of hurling insults from their lips and started blasting bullets from their guns.
“What was the shooting about, Graft?” Udall asked the nervous cantina owner as he and his men lined along the far end of the bar. Graft hurried down to them behind the bar, crunching glass underfoot on his way.
“Those stinking scalp hunters, Petty, Fain and the Mex, came in here goading my new customer down there,” said Graft, sweeping a hand toward Sam’s end of the bar. “He put the slam on them, sure enough,” he said, grinning.
“Is that a fact?” said Udall. He eyed Sam from the far end of the bar.
“It is a fact,” said Graft. “He killed one, wounded one and left the third one carrying a ten-pound knot on his jaw.”
Udall didn’t comment as he appraised Sam over the edge of his raised shot glass of rye. But beside him, Dusty Phelps only half raised his shot glass and stared coldly at Sam as he spoke to Udall and Graft.
“He must be real tough,” he said sarcastically. To his pals along the bar he said, “What about it, hombres? Should I be frightened here?”
A young, heavily muscled Kansas gunman named Mickey Galla downed his shot of rye and spoke in a whiskey-strained voice.
“Only if you was faint of heart to begin with,” he said. “He ain’t much or he wouldn’t be drinking with Madson’s crow bait.”
Dolan and the other Madson men bristled at Galla’s words, even though the young gunman’s attention and stare was centered steadily on Sam.
“Easy, Mick,” said Udall. “You’re hurting everybody’s feelings. I’d like to drink here without having to get blood all over me for a change.”
“Please, fellows, no gunplay today,” Graft pleaded, seeing the atmosphere turn volatile all over again.
“I see no need for gunplay,” said Mickey Galla, swelling out his chest and his thick upper arms. “I’ll walk down and give him a hard smack if you want me to—see if anything rattles inside his noggin.” As he spoke, he lifted his rifle and laid it up on the bar top. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Sam watched coolly.
“Hold up, Mick,” said Udall to the burly gunman, still eyeing Sam. He could tell that the stranger at the far end of the bar didn’t scare easily.
“What’s your new customer’s name, Graft?” he asked the cantina owner, even though his eyes and Sam’s were fixed on each other’s.
“Jones is what he goes by,” said Graft in a shaky voice, a shaky grin to match. “I told him, ‘My my, Mr. Jones, I sure have met lots of your kinfolk in old Mexico.’” His grin widened and twitched. “It was just a little joke on my part,” he concluded. “Get it? There’s so many Joneses—”
“Shut up, Graft,” said Udall, still staring at Sam. He turned his gaze slowly to Graft. “Why don’t you go find yourself a deep dirty hole and stick your fingers down in it?”
“Yeah, real deep,” Galla added.
Graft slinked back a step.
Sam continued to stare coolly, unshaken. His hand rested on the bar near his Winchester.
“Jones, this is Mickey Galla,” Udall said, gesturing toward the huge muscle-bound gunman.
“Mr. Galla to you,” Galla said to Sam.
“Mick likes picking heavy stuff up over his head. Does it for hours,” Udall said proudly. “What do you do, Jones?” he asked, for the first time speaking directly to Sam.
“Says he’s looking for gun work,” Graft cut in before Sam could offer a reply. “I told him, as good as he is, he won’t—”
“Graft, shut the living hell up!” said Udall, slamming his shot glass onto the bar top so hard it splintered and exploded in every direction. Turning to Mickey Galla, Udall said, “Mick, if he opens his mouth again, grab his throat and jerk him up out of his boots.”
“Will do,” said Galla. He gave Graft a hard, hateful stare. Graft hurried away, back to the other end of the bar to refill Dolan and his pals’ glasses.
“I asked you what you do, Jones,” said Udall again to Sam.
“I heard you,” Sam replied.
Udall and his men stared in anticipation. So did Dolan and his pals.
After a tight silence, Udall cocked his head slightly at Sam.
“Well?” he asked Sam.
“Well, what?” Sam said.
“He’s messing with you, Max,” Galla growled. He shoved himself back from the bar and walked quick-step toward Sam, his sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. “I bet I have to smack him one.” As he drew closer, Dolan’s men parted, letting him through. They watched, eager to see what the newcomer had going for him.
“The man asked what you do, stranger,” Galla demanded, advancing on Sam like a stalking bull. “He won’t ask again—”
His words were cut short as Sam’s right hand clasped around the small of the rifle stock and jammed it butt first into the big gunman’s face. Nose cartilage crunched; blood flew. Galla’s upper half jolted to a halt; his lower half skidded forward on his bootheels. Before he hit the tile floor, Sam’s Winchester swung around in a wide arc and slammed sidelong into the big gunman’s head.
At the far end of the bar, Udall and the other Segert men made a move for their guns. But Sam snapped the rifle to his shoulder. Cocking it, he aimed it straight at Udall.
Dolan’s men had turned from the bar, their hands grasping their own guns and stopping there, waiting, watching. Behind the bar Graft froze, his eyes widened. He wore the same shaky grin, as if he would be stuck with it for life.
“Like he told you, hombre,” Sam said quietly to Max Udall, “I do gun work. Any more questions?”
The cantina stood tense, silent. After a moment, Udall raised a hand slowly and gestured for his men to ease down. They did, a little.
“No, Jones,” Udall said in a calm tone. “I think you’ve answered clear enough.” He sat staring for a moment longer, then gave a chuff, glancing at Mickey Galla on the tile floor. Then he gave a chuckle and shook his head. Along the bar, his men settled and laughed themselves. “Somebody go throw water on Mickey,” he said quietly. “See if we need to stand him up or tie him out on a board.”
His men laughed at his dark humor. Two of them walked to where Galla lay stretched out, nose crushed and already swelling beneath a mask of blood. At the other end of the bar, Daryl Dolan turned a sidelong glance to his men and eased them down as well.
“Gun work, huh?” Udall said to Sam.
“Gun work,” Sam reaffirmed, lowering his Winchester back onto the bar but keeping his hand on the stock.
“Now that we know clearly what you do,” said Udall, his eyes moving over Dolan and the rest of Madson’s men as he spoke, “the question is, who do you do it for?”
“We were just discussing that when you came in, Udall,” Dolan said. “I already told him he’s got a job with Madson.”
“Yeah, but did you say for how much?” said Udall.
“We were just getting there,” said Dolan. “So go on back to your rye, let us talk business over here.”
“You should have got there sooner,” said Udall. He turned his gaze to Sam. “If you’re looking for the best pay with the best outfit, that would be us, Jones,” he said. “Our men all live longer than Madson’s for some reason—healthier, I guess.”
“Don’t push your luck, Udall,” Dolan cautioned. “That’s something that can change any minute.”
Graft looked back and forth between Dolan and Udall.
Jesus . . . ! Here they go again! he told himself. He gave Sam a pleading look, as if asking him to do something before they started all over.
“I just got here today,” Sam said. “I didn’t know work was so plentiful.” He let his hand move away from his rifle. On the floor, Mickey Galla groaned as one of the two men took a pitcher of water from Rolo, who had hurried out from behind the bar and handed it to them.
“Like I was telling you, Jones,” said Dolan, “there’s us, and there’s them. Madson and Segert used to be pards. But not anymore. Now they’d like each other dead. So you best pick a side and stand there.”
“I hate to agree with Daryl Dolan on anything,” said Udall, “but he’s telling you right. Stick around here doing gun work, you’ll have to work for either Segert or Madson.”
Sam watched the gunman throw the water onto Galla’s bloody face. Galla groaned more and rolled his big head from one side to the other. Sam looked back and forth between the two opposing factions at the bar. In the exchange of threats and arguing between the two groups, the rest of the day drinkers had vanished like ghosts. All except Sam.
All right, you’re here, on the job . . . , he reminded himself. He’d made a good start for himself.
“I see a third possibility,” he said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Udall asked, him and Dolan both watching Sam closely.
“I might decide to go into business for myself,” Sam said.
“You’d better think it over, Jones,” said Udall. “You don’t want to get off on the wrong side here. It’d be bad for your health.” He set his shot glass down on the bar, and he and his men backed away, ready to turn toward the door.
“Damn right, you’d best give it some serious thought,” Dolan said to Sam. He and his men set down their shot glasses as well. He gave Sam a dark stare.
“I already am,” Sam said, his hand resting near his Winchester.
Chapter 9
No sooner had both groups of gunmen left the Trato Justo Cantina than Graft let out a sigh of relief that left him slumped over the bar. Elbows on the bar top, he buried his face in both hands for a moment and shook his lowered head.
“For God sakes, Jones,” he said to Sam. “You don’t take on a trifling attitude with men like these—especially not in their own damn stomping grounds.” He raised his face from his hands and stared at Sam. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to be alive.”
Sam took his trail gloves from behind his belt, pulled them on and walked the few feet down-bar to where Graft stood on the other side. Graft watched him pick up an uncorked bottle of rye standing on the bar and fill a shot glass. Sam pushed the drink over in front of Graft with his gloved hand.
“Have one, barkeep, on me,” he said to Graft. “You earned it, juggling all those hardcases at once.”
“Hell, I don’t mind if I do,” said Graft, swiping up the shot glass. “Have one yourself, on you,” he said, nodding at the bottle in Sam’s gloved hand.
