Outlaw Lawman (Leisure Historical Fiction) by Bagdon Paul

Author:Bagdon, Paul [Bagdon, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction, Western
Publisher: Leisure Books
Published: 2009-05-25T16:00:00+00:00

Pound Taylor needs help retaking the town of Gila Bend. Will pay. Come now. Need is desperate. Outgunned and outmanned.

It wasn’t much on aesthetics, but it said what needed to be said. Payment, by the way, was optional. It wasn’t necessarily expected, but it didn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.

I put my horse in the enclosure behind the jail, rubbed him down good with an empty grain sack, and gave him a flake of hay. Then I went to the tiny telegraph office and sent my wire. The clerk looked at me as if I were a little strange, but said nothing.

I’d been thinking of a cold beer since I sent the wire, which was only a few minutes ago, but still, I wanted that beer. I went into a saloon, bellied up to the bar, and watched the bartender draw a couple of brews. He did a fine job of it, handling his foam-dashing stick with the skill and dexterity of a surgeon. I motioned him over to me. “A cold one,” I said, “and let’s keep them coming.”

He avoided my eyes as he spoke. “I got no cold beer.”

“Sure you have,” I said. “Those two barrels are packed in ice.”

“Don’t matter. I still ain’t got no cold beer.”

A hand fell on my shoulder. “Maybe you don’t hear good, but the ‘tender says he don’t have no cold beer.”

I turned to face the speaker. He was a kid, for crissake—maybe twenty-five at the outside. He wore a pair of .45s butt out, in a fancy, nicely tooled gunbelt. His boots looked new—as did his shirt and his denim pants. He wore one of those ridiculous string ties. His face was large and round and looked like it’d be better at laughing than it would be at threatening.

I chose my words carefully. “This isn’t going to end up well at all for you, boy. I’ll most likely kill you, and I don’t want to do that.”

“My name’s the Yuma Kid,” he said, as if that explained something.

“And mine’s the Persimmon Porkchop,” I said. “And you’re pissing me off.”

The kid picked up a full shot of whiskey the bartender had set in front of him and dashed the contents in my face.

“OK,” I said. “Out in the street and we’ll have at it.”

“You betcha,” the Yuma Kid said.

There’s a feeling that comes to a man when he knows he’s in a situation where he can’t possibly lose, and this was just such a time. For one thing, this boy would no doubt cross-draw, and by the time he had a good grip on his pistols, he’d be dead. It was possible that he could shoot well, but he wouldn’t get an opportunity to do that.

I knew I’d kill this silly pretender, and that made me sad.

I followed him through the batwings. “Lookit, boy,” I said quietly, “I’ll go my way and you go yours, and no one has to die here, OK?”

“Chickenshit,” he snarled.

I took some steps back but let the boy choose his distance.

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