donât you come along into the Lucky Seven here with me and cool off. You look toâve had a fair ride. Donât play cards, do you?â
âNot with nobody calls himself Kansas Jack,â Pinto said, flashing a smile at little Johnny Cole. âWould like to ged thad boy somethinâ do eat, though.â
âRamon, is it too late to buy a platter of tamales?â Dotham asked a pleasant-looking young Mexican.
âNo, I fix âem,â Ramon answered. âJohnny Cole, you come on to the kitchen. Mama will feed you.â
âThanks,â Pinto said, tossing Ramon a silver dollar. Ramon waved to the boy, and the two of them trotted around the bar and found the kitchen. Pinto, meanwhile, sat at a table alongside J.B. Dotham. The rancher poured out two glasses of smoky-looking liquid and passed one to Pinto.
âIt passes for whiskey,â Dotham explained. âDoes settle the dust.â
âI thank you, sir,â Pinto replied as he raised his glass and drank to the health of his new acquaintance.
âItâs meâs been done the service,â Dotham countered. âIâll at least have four men well-mounted on the trail.â
Before Pinto could reply, a young cowboy rose from the gaming table and slammed a pistol barrel across the forehead of the dandy to his right.
âWonât Kansas Jack cheat another cowboy this day!â the young drover announced as he held up a handful of banknotes.
Two other players carried the Kansan over to a bench and set him there to recover. The game then resumed.
âBunch oâ fools,â Dotham grumbled. âCowboys! Children! Drink too much and talk too much and ainât worth half the wages I pay âem. Still, they get my cows to the railhead.â
âYeah, and if dey lissen some, dey live to learn better,â Pinto declared. The two went on talking another hour. Pinto tried to bring the conversation around to the upcoming trail drive, but Dotham had his mind on horses and wouldnât be distracted.
That was when Ramon swept Johnny Cole out of the kitchen. The ragged youngster hopped out past the bar and fell against the gaming table, upsetting a near-empty whiskey bottle and bringing the cowboys to their feet.
âFool boy,â the nearest one shouted, lifting young Cole off the ground by the chin and flinging him hard against the wall. The little boy bounded off the hard oak planks and fell in a whimpering heap. As if that wasnât enough, the cowboy drove the toe of his boot into the small of the youngsterâs back.
âThatâs about enough oâ that!â Pinto exclaimed as he rose to his feet and slid over to block the next kick.
âI donât see thisâs any oâ yer business, pop!â the cowboy said, backing a step and throwing open his jacket. A polished leather holster holding a Colt revolver hugged his right hip.
âI didnât come here do shoot anybody,â Pinto said as he helped a shaken Johnny Cole off the floor. âBoy, besâ run along and find a place to hide a time.â
âYessir,â Johnny said, darting out the door.
âNow, itâs settled, eh?â Pinto asked.
âNot by half,â the cowboy answered. âYou done butted into my business. You got to pay for that.â
âHow much?â Pinto asked, souring. âFifty cends cover it?â
That made the red-faced cowboy madder. He tapped fingers on his hip and stared coldly at Pintoâs face.
âYou ever shot anybody, Danny?â Dotham suddenly asked.
âAbout to,â the cowboy answered.
âWell this fellowâs kilt a dozen Yankees in his time up in Virginia. Look to that left hand there. See where the bulletâs sawed a finger down to size. Now look him in the eye. No sweat on his forehead. Heâll shoot back, boy.â
âIâm fast, Mr. Dotham.â
âHeâll kill you just the same,â Dotham
John O'Riley
Jill Gregory
Celya Bowers
Aria Cunningham
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Christopher George
Learning to Kill: Stories
Brenda Sinclair
Karl Iagnemma
C. J. Cherryh