Shotgun Johnny by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2023-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

The two newcomers stood at the bar, each with a filled shot glass before him. Both were dressed in the tony garb of the better card sharps. Both wore clawhammer coats, flowered waistcoats, and pinstriped trousers. They had long, brushed hair and thick mustaches and side whiskers.

One was tall and blond. The other was of medium height, dark, and stocky. The blond was the one who’d made the sheep-dip comment, which was not a new insult to Johnny’s ears. Having been raised in a sheepherding family, he’d heard the insult many times, usually when his family had stopped in towns for supplies.

He knew that particular insult as well as many more. The cattlemen had been very inventive in finding new and different ways of insulting the sheepherders, and of killing them, too.

In this neck of the woods—northern California and southwestern Nevada—most folks recognized the men and women of Basque blood. Such people were often, like Johnny, ruddy-skinned with high broad cheekbones, brooding eyes beneath sharply ridged brows, wide mouths, and aquiline noses. Most Basques whom the former Juan Beristain had known were short and stocky, with large hands and feet, suitable to hard labor and much walking.

The only difference in Johnny was that he was tall, with long legs and broad shoulders. Otherwise, he had Basque written all over him.

The blond, Louis Baumgartner, had recognized him. Johnny had known Baumgartner for some time, for the man was an infamous drunk and lout who haunted the trails between boomtowns the way bur-infested curs followed gut wagons. He plundered small gold fortunes via poker.

The darker man was Charles Bishop, milder than Baumgartner but only by a little. He was a gambler with small eyes and a quietly seedy manner.

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Bear said, “but we wasn’t talkin’ to you.” Bear knew the men, as well. Most around the area did.

Baumgartner manufactured a mock expression of surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you two fellas there. Like I was just sayin’ to my friend Charlie here, I smelled sheep dip.” He glowered at Johnny. “Now I see why.”

Johnny stared back at the man but he didn’t say anything. Annoyance touched him, but nothing stronger than that. He knew the man was just bored as he waited for the more moneyed prospectors to roll in from their diggings clutching pokes of gold dust in need of lightening. Continuing to hold the gambler’s insulting gaze, Johnny quirked his mouth corners in a faint grin then reached inside his coat for his leather makings sack.

Baumgartner turned toward his friend Charlie Bishop, who grinned back at him in boyish delight at the ribbing. Baumgartner snorted dryly, shook his head with disdain, then turned around to face his drink on the bar.

Bear turned to Johnny and rolled his eyes. Johnny shrugged as he dribbled Kansas City tobacco onto his El Oso wheat paper. “Now as I was sayin’,” Bear said. “You know that Basques are known for their hot-blooded ways. Passions run strong in you folks. You can’t blame yourself, Johnny.

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