Bullets Don't Die by J. A. Johnstone

Author:J. A. Johnstone [Johnstone, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780786028535
Publisher: Pinnacle
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Cowboys hated to walk. To a cowboy’s way of thinking, any chore that couldn’t be done from horseback was a chore not worth doing.

Selmon, on the other hand, had never been a cowboy. The work struck him as being way too hard for the amount of money a fella could earn.

Even so, he didn’t care much for walking, either, and he liked it less by the time Rutherford’s Store came into view. Blisters had sprung up on his feet, and every step sent pain jabbing into them.

He’d hoped somebody would come along with a buggy or a wagon and give him a ride. Even somebody on horseback who’d let him ride double would have been welcome. But Selmon seemed to be the only one who was headed for Rutherford’s place.

When he spotted the lights up ahead he felt the impulse to run. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could get off his feet.

He couldn’t stand the extra punishment running caused, so he kept moving at the same slow, steady pace, gradually drawing closer to the store. The moon had risen, and along with the stars it provided enough light for him to see the low, rambling sod structure and a number of horses in the corral off to the side. Selmon hoped he could take some of those horses back to the wagon, as well as somebody who’d help him fix the busted wheel.

He stepped through the open doorway into the large, smoky barroom. In a slight nod to the name of the place, a few shelves of supplies and other goods occupied the right end of the room, but nearly all the space was given over to tables and a long, plank bar supported by barrels of whiskey and beer. The left end of the room sported a row of curtained-off cubicles where three or four soiled doves plied their trade.

At the moment, only a couple tables had customers seated at them. A desultory poker game was going on at one of them, while at the other several men were drinking in morose silence. Nearly a dozen men were crowded up to the bar, where Rutherford and his fat Indian wife served them.

Rutherford spotted Selmon, and his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I was expectin’ you earlier today, Selmon.” He waved over the newcomer. “What happened?”

Selmon limped up to the bar, grimacing with every step as he had been for the past five miles. “Benny and me ran into some trouble. Our wagon lost a wheel, then some fellas came along, tried to kill us, and stole our mules.”

“Good Lord,” Rutherford muttered. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Yeah, and a place to sit. I walked the whole way up here, a good twelve miles.” More like a bad twelve miles, he thought.

“Sit down there at that table. I’ll bring you a glass.”

“Much obliged,” Selmon said with a nod.

It was a great relief to get the weight off his feet. He looked down at his boots and frowned.

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