Blood, Guts, and Glory by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2021-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOUR

The Silver Spur Saloon in Laredo, Texas, was over half full even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. Since the outbreak of Mexican Fever in local cattle herds two months before, a great many area cowhands had been out of work. Those who hadn’t left town were spending what little money they had getting and staying drunk.

The border punchers, rowdy and wild to begin with, were now surly, quarrelsome, and downright mean. Fights were a daily occurrence in town, and the doctor was kept busy sewing up knife wounds and trying to plug bullet holes as best he could.

In a dim corner of the Silver Spur, a poker game was in progress that had been going on for three days straight. One man, sitting with his back to the wall, had a bandanna over his head, draping down to cover his ears and tied in the back, over which he wore his hat. If any of the other players thought this strange attire for a cowhand, they took one look at his eyes and didn’t mention it.

The man was lean to the point of emaciation, with a scraggly moustache, yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth, and haunted eyes that continually swept the room as if for danger. Every time the batwings would swing open, his hand would slip under the table to wrap around the handle of a belly-gun he kept in his waistband.

The man won a hand with two pair, beating a pair of aces and a king-high hand. As he raked in his winnings, one of the two Mexican vaqueros sitting at the table said, “Tha’s pretty good playin’, Mr. Morgan. You winnin’ most of our moneys.”

Lester Morgan’s eyes flicked from his winnings to the man across the table who spoke. He growled, “I win because you don’t play poker any better than you speak English.”

When the Mexican’s eyes narrowed, his friend put a hand on his shoulder, “Easy, amigo, we got plenty of time to win it back.”

As Morgan leaned back and put a cigar in his mouth, the batwings swung open and a dust-covered cowboy ambled in. He stood just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the light, sleeving sweat off his forehead with his arm. When Morgan lit his cigar, the flaming of the match illuminated his face, drawing the man’s attention to it.

The stranger took off his hat and dusted some of the trail dirt off his clothes with it, and set it back on his head. He slipped the hammer thong off his pistol, worn low and tied down, then walked over to stand in front of the table in the corner.

At his approach, Morgan’s hand slipped out of sight. The newcomer nodded at him, “How’r ya doin’, Sundance?”

Morgan’s eyes slitted and shifted quickly around the room to see if anyone else was listening. He took the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand and blew smoke at the ceiling. “You must be mistaken, mister. My name’s Lester Morgan.

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