Read Online Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy - Free Book Online Page A

critical.
    â€œDon’t worry, love,” I said. “Another tight spot, I know. But we’ll get ourselves out of this one, and then—”
    â€œâ€˜Nevermore!’” quoth Eddie.
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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 other’s right ear off with a Bowie knife, but the cowboy was jerking his head so vigorously, the teamster couldn’t 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.
    â€œYou cheated me out of ten dollars gold and I aim to have my satisfaction!” the teamster bellowed, the knife flashing overhead. “Now hold still, so I don’t take more than’s fair.”
    I shrank back and pressed myself flat against the wall of the Saratoga.
    â€œYou’re crazy, Gary,” the cowboy protested, showing far more pluck than his position would suggest. “It’s not my fault if your luck is as rotten as your teeth.”
    Gary held the cowboy’s 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 knife—and it was a wicked knife, with a brass guard and a blade that must have been ten inches long—and took a sweeping stab at the cowboy’s ear. Just as I thought I was about to see the blade pierce the cowboy’s skull, the teamster was jerked explosively backward by somebody who had grabbed a fistful of his long hair.
    The blade sliced empty air.
    â€œDrop it,” 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 teamster’s 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.
    â€œIs this how you want to finish your hand?” The Texas drawl became more pronounced. “Down 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.” The man drew out the name, getting almost four syllables out of it.
    â€œDon’t call me ‘Garuth,’” the teamster roared. “Nobody calls me that!”
    â€œIf you don’t drop that knife, everybody’ll be calling you ‘the dearly departed.’”
    â€œYou think you’re something just because they let you carry your iron north of the deadline,” 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. “If you didn’t have that horse pistol strapped to your leg, you wouldn’t be so brave.”
    The man in the blue shirt sighed and nodded for the cowboy to come over.
    The cowboy, who had the blood from Garuth’s fingers smudged across his lips, edged over and carefully drew the gun from the holster. I don’t know guns—I hate guns—so I can’t tell you what kind of firearm it was, except to say it was shiny and one of the biggest revolvers I have ever seen.
    â€œAll right, Garuth. Now we’re even.”
    â€œGet off’n me!”
    â€œYou’re between hay and grass now.”
    â€œYou can suck eggs, Jack Calder!”
    â€œDrop the knife before somebody gets hurt.”
    â€œJust try and make me.”
    Calder sighed.
    â€œHit him on the