matter. They will kill me anyway, the way they killed my father."
"Your father was caught cheatin'," Vincent reminded him.
"He cheated no one," Paco said. "That is another lie. But they killed him anyway, the same way they will kill me. You did nothing for him, and you will do nothing for me."
Vincent sighed. He hated himself for thinking it, but he was afraid that Paco was probably right.
Vincent went back to the office. Jack had gone off to make the rounds of the town, and Vincent had just settled back into the chair and thrown his legs up on the desk when the shooting started.
12.
Charley Davis was standing in the middle of the street looking up at one of the hotel's second floor windows, the one where the shots were coming from. He was yelling up at the blonde woman who leaned out the window, holding a .44 caliber Colt's in both of her small hands and trying squinting one eye as she sighted down the barrel.
"Damnit, Lucille!" the man yelled. "You gotta listen to me. There's no reason for you to --"
He was interrupted by the crack of a shot. Smoke seemed to puff from the pistol's cylinder and there was a short spout of flame from its barrel. The bullet whacked out a hunk of the dry street, and Davis hopped backward.
Davis was a tall, sandy-haired cowboy, not that you could see much of his hair under the large, tall crowned hat he wore. He had thin legs encased in tight Levi's, and he was wearing a faded red shirt and a black vest. He felt silly, standing in the street and getting shot at, and he knew that he was making a fool of himself in front of the whole town.
"Lucille, you got to listen to me!" he yelled. There were two more shots from the second floor window, and one of them almost clipped the front toe off Davis' left working boot. He tried to jump back, got his legs tangled, and fell on his butt in the street.
He looked around to see if there was anyone laughing at him. By God, there better not be. If there was, whoever did it was going to be sorry if Charley got his hands on them.
There was no one laughing. Most of the people on the street had taken cover when the shooting started, either in Danton's saloon, which was right across the street from the hotel, or in one of the nearby stores. There were a couple of kids behind a water trough, and Davis could hear them giggling, but that was all right. They were just kids.
Lucille Benteen looked down at Charley, sitting there with his knees in the air, twisting his head around to look to see who was watching him; it was almost all she could do not to laugh herself. But she didn't; she wasn't going to laugh at Charley ever again, any more than she would ever believe a word that worthless wrangler said.
While he was sitting there, trying to decide whether to get up or not, she had a chance to reload, and she thumbed the thick cartridges into the chambers of the .44 with a practiced hand. She wasn't going to kill Charley, but she could if she wanted to, and he damn well ought to know it. Before she was finished with him, he might wish she had killed him. She was going to embarrass the fire out of him, that was for sure.
Lucille Benteen was young, beautiful, and rich. Her father owned most of the land around Dry Springs, and what he didn't own he could afford to buy if he wanted it. She did not have to put up with the likes of Charley Davis trifling with her. She couldn't believe that she had ever listened to him in the first place. Maybe it was those pale blue eyes, or the way he put his head over to the side and looked at her when he talked to her. He had a smooth way with words, she had to give him that.
She slapped the cylinder back into place and leaned out the window. Charley was up again, and now he had his hat off, holding it in his hands
"Lucille," he called. "I wish you'd just give me a chance to talk to you about this. Your daddy --"
A bullet
"Your father was caught cheatin'," Vincent reminded him.
"He cheated no one," Paco said. "That is another lie. But they killed him anyway, the same way they will kill me. You did nothing for him, and you will do nothing for me."
Vincent sighed. He hated himself for thinking it, but he was afraid that Paco was probably right.
Vincent went back to the office. Jack had gone off to make the rounds of the town, and Vincent had just settled back into the chair and thrown his legs up on the desk when the shooting started.
12.
Charley Davis was standing in the middle of the street looking up at one of the hotel's second floor windows, the one where the shots were coming from. He was yelling up at the blonde woman who leaned out the window, holding a .44 caliber Colt's in both of her small hands and trying squinting one eye as she sighted down the barrel.
"Damnit, Lucille!" the man yelled. "You gotta listen to me. There's no reason for you to --"
He was interrupted by the crack of a shot. Smoke seemed to puff from the pistol's cylinder and there was a short spout of flame from its barrel. The bullet whacked out a hunk of the dry street, and Davis hopped backward.
Davis was a tall, sandy-haired cowboy, not that you could see much of his hair under the large, tall crowned hat he wore. He had thin legs encased in tight Levi's, and he was wearing a faded red shirt and a black vest. He felt silly, standing in the street and getting shot at, and he knew that he was making a fool of himself in front of the whole town.
"Lucille, you got to listen to me!" he yelled. There were two more shots from the second floor window, and one of them almost clipped the front toe off Davis' left working boot. He tried to jump back, got his legs tangled, and fell on his butt in the street.
He looked around to see if there was anyone laughing at him. By God, there better not be. If there was, whoever did it was going to be sorry if Charley got his hands on them.
There was no one laughing. Most of the people on the street had taken cover when the shooting started, either in Danton's saloon, which was right across the street from the hotel, or in one of the nearby stores. There were a couple of kids behind a water trough, and Davis could hear them giggling, but that was all right. They were just kids.
Lucille Benteen looked down at Charley, sitting there with his knees in the air, twisting his head around to look to see who was watching him; it was almost all she could do not to laugh herself. But she didn't; she wasn't going to laugh at Charley ever again, any more than she would ever believe a word that worthless wrangler said.
While he was sitting there, trying to decide whether to get up or not, she had a chance to reload, and she thumbed the thick cartridges into the chambers of the .44 with a practiced hand. She wasn't going to kill Charley, but she could if she wanted to, and he damn well ought to know it. Before she was finished with him, he might wish she had killed him. She was going to embarrass the fire out of him, that was for sure.
Lucille Benteen was young, beautiful, and rich. Her father owned most of the land around Dry Springs, and what he didn't own he could afford to buy if he wanted it. She did not have to put up with the likes of Charley Davis trifling with her. She couldn't believe that she had ever listened to him in the first place. Maybe it was those pale blue eyes, or the way he put his head over to the side and looked at her when he talked to her. He had a smooth way with words, she had to give him that.
She slapped the cylinder back into place and leaned out the window. Charley was up again, and now he had his hat off, holding it in his hands
"Lucille," he called. "I wish you'd just give me a chance to talk to you about this. Your daddy --"
A bullet
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