Read Online Pinto Lowery by G. Clifton Wisler - Free Book Online

don’t you come along into the Lucky Seven here with me and cool off. You look to’ve had a fair ride. Don’t play cards, do you?”
    â€œNot with nobody calls himself Kansas Jack,” Pinto said, flashing a smile at little Johnny Cole. “Would like to ged thad boy somethin’ do eat, though.”
    â€œRamon, is it too late to buy a platter of tamales?” Dotham asked a pleasant-looking young Mexican.
    â€œNo, I fix ’em,” Ramon answered. “Johnny Cole, you come on to the kitchen. Mama will feed you.”
    â€œThanks,” 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.
    â€œIt passes for whiskey,” Dotham explained. “Does settle the dust.”
    â€œI thank you, sir,” Pinto replied as he raised his glass and drank to the health of his new acquaintance.
    â€œIt’s me’s been done the service,” Dotham countered. “I’ll at least have four men well-mounted on the trail.”
    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.
    â€œWon’t Kansas Jack cheat another cowboy this day!” 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.
    â€œBunch o’ fools,” Dotham grumbled. “Cowboys! Children! Drink too much and talk too much and ain’t worth half the wages I pay ’em. Still, they get my cows to the railhead.”
    â€œYeah, and if dey lissen some, dey live to learn better,” 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 wouldn’t 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.
    â€œFool boy,” 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 wasn’t enough, the cowboy drove the toe of his boot into the small of the youngster’s back.
    â€œThat’s about enough o’ that!” Pinto exclaimed as he rose to his feet and slid over to block the next kick.
    â€œI don’t see this’s any o’ yer business, pop!” the cowboy said, backing a step and throwing open his jacket. A polished leather holster holding a Colt revolver hugged his right hip.
    â€œI didn’t come here do shoot anybody,” Pinto said as he helped a shaken Johnny Cole off the floor. “Boy, bes’ run along and find a place to hide a time.”
    â€œYessir,” Johnny said, darting out the door.
    â€œNow, it’s settled, eh?” Pinto asked.
    â€œNot by half,” the cowboy answered. “You done butted into my business. You got to pay for that.”
    â€œHow much?” Pinto asked, souring. “Fifty cends cover it?”
    That made the red-faced cowboy madder. He tapped fingers on his hip and stared coldly at Pinto’s face.
    â€œYou ever shot anybody, Danny?” Dotham suddenly asked.
    â€œAbout to,” the cowboy answered.
    â€œWell this fellow’s kilt a dozen Yankees in his time up in Virginia. Look to that left hand there. See where the bullet’s sawed a finger down to size. Now look him in the eye. No sweat on his forehead. He’ll shoot back, boy.”
    â€œI’m fast, Mr. Dotham.”
    â€œHe’ll kill you just the same,” Dotham