Nemesis by Martin L. J

Author:Martin, L. J. [Martin, L. J.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Westerns, Fiction
ISBN: 1885339283
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 2011-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I placed both my hands flat on the table, and stood slowly. “Look friend, I’m a little into my cups.” I spread my hands to the side. “And my gun is holstered, and yours is in hand. You shoot me and it’ll be murder.”

Slowly, I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, and opened it wide. “See, the gun’s holstered.”

He stared at the cut down saber hanging from my belt, then looked even harder at me.

“Tough shit,” he said, but he cut his eyes toward where his boss, Colonel Dillon, had risen, and as he did so, shifted the muzzle of the nickel platted pistol just enough that it cleared my right side.

The shot from the belly gun in my pocket took him dead center in the chest, and his pistol discharged as he reeled back, but holed the plank wall an inch from my side.

The drummer who was seated across the table between Pointer and Tate Jorgenson, bolted for the front door. I spun to face Willy Stark, who looked as if he was considering drawing his weapon. I smiled stupidly at both he and Jorgenson, waggling the barrel of the belly gun, still in my now holed and slightly smoldering coat pocket, at them, having to cut my own eyes away for a split second due to the sound of footfalls. But it was only some wise pilgrims making for the bat wing doors.

“One left in this nasty little belly gun,” I said, “should either of you care to taste it,” and Stark looked as if he might doubt it. And I hoped he would. But Stark, who seemed the most agitated and consequently had most my attention, moved carefully and buttoned his coat, a clear indication that he was not about to defend Toole’s honor, as the herringbone wool shielded his weapon from a draw.

Jorgenson gathered up his mug of beer in both hands, and kept his eyes off me. He would be no trouble, at least not this day.

Quickly, I scanned the rest of the saloon, looking for where another shooter might be. All looked innocent, quiet, and harmless as church mice, except for Sheriff Wentworth and Colonel Dillon. Both of them were on their feet, snarling, but had not palmed a weapon.

Toole, having dropped the nickel plated pistol, was flat on his back, no threat, clutching his chest with both hands, his weapon at his side, pink lung blood now oozing between his fingers and trickling from the side of his mouth, while his eyes slowly glazed.

It was dead silent in the place, dust motes floating down from the canvas covered rafters with the reverberation of the two echoing gun blasts. Even the banjo had stopped its plinking, and I noticed the banjo man slipping out the back.

Still surveying the room, I pulled the belly gun free of my coat pocket, changed it to my left hand, and slipped my Army Colt’s out and let it hang in my right. I had

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