critical.
âDonât worry, love,â I said. âAnother tight spot, I know. But weâll get ourselves out of this one, and thenââ
ââNevermore!ââ quoth Eddie.
Â
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The sun was red in the west and the town was beginning to stir in anticipation of the night to come. More cowboys were about, and music was drifting from some of the saloons. Already I could hear an argument over a card game had spilled out the front door of the Saratoga Saloon into the muddy street.
A teamster straddled a cowboy and was attempting to cut the otherâs right ear off with a Bowie knife, but the cowboy was jerking his head so vigorously, the teamster couldnât get a good angle on the fleshy prize.
The teamster was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and little of it was fat. He wore buckskin and denim, and his long brown hair flowed over his shoulders like water.
âYou cheated me out of ten dollars gold and I aim to have my satisfaction!â the teamster bellowed, the knife flashing overhead. âNow hold still, so I donât take more thanâs fair.â
I shrank back and pressed myself flat against the wall of the Saratoga.
âYouâre crazy, Gary,â the cowboy protested, showing far more pluck than his position would suggest. âItâs not my fault if your luck is as rotten as your teeth.â
Gary held the cowboyâs head down with one meaty hand while the cowboy fought and kicked and chewed on the fingers caging his jaw. The teamster drew back the knifeâand it was a wicked knife, with a brass guard and a blade that must have been ten inches longâand took a sweeping stab at the cowboyâs ear. Just as I thought I was about to see the blade pierce the cowboyâs skull, the teamster was jerked explosively backward by somebody who had grabbed a fistful of his long hair.
The blade sliced empty air.
âDrop it,â the man holding the hair said, and I thought I could hear a bit of Texas in his voice. He was tall and lean, wore a blue shirt under a black vest, and on his right hip was strapped an absurdly large handgun. He knelt and drove one knee into the small of the teamsterâs back.
The teamster bellowed in rage. A string of expletives flew from his mouth that threatened to peel the green paint from the bat-winged doors of the Saratoga.
âIs this how you want to finish your hand?â The Texas drawl became more pronounced. âDown in the mud, with me on top of you like you was a steer? Or do you want to get up and walk away from here like a human being? Your choice, Garuth.â The man drew out the name, getting almost four syllables out of it.
âDonât call me âGaruth,ââ the teamster roared. âNobody calls me that!â
âIf you donât drop that knife, everybodyâll be calling you âthe dearly departed.ââ
âYou think youâre something just because they let you carry your iron north of the deadline,â Garuth said, his eyes narrowed to hateful slits because the man in the blue shirt was pulling the skin of his face toward the back of his head. âIf you didnât have that horse pistol strapped to your leg, you wouldnât be so brave.â
The man in the blue shirt sighed and nodded for the cowboy to come over.
The cowboy, who had the blood from Garuthâs fingers smudged across his lips, edged over and carefully drew the gun from the holster. I donât know gunsâI hate gunsâso I canât tell you what kind of firearm it was, except to say it was shiny and one of the biggest revolvers I have ever seen.
âAll right, Garuth. Now weâre even.â
âGet offân me!â
âYouâre between hay and grass now.â
âYou can suck eggs, Jack Calder!â
âDrop the knife before somebody gets hurt.â
âJust try and make me.â
Calder sighed.
âHit him on the
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