The Gunman and the Greenhorn by Jake Logan

Author:Jake Logan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Latham Siler and Jack Mitcham were waiting out on the porch of Thane’s ranch house when Blackfoot rode up. In fact, he was practically sitting in their laps before they realized he was there.

“Well?” asked Mitcham.

Right to the goddamn point, Siler thought. Don’t nobody ever say hello no more?

“Howdy, Blackfoot,” he muttered, after the fact. Better late than never, he figured.

Blackfoot studied them. “After I put the horse away,” he said at last, then reined away from them and jogged toward the barn.

Siler shrugged. “Musta been a big nothin’,” he said.

“Nope,” said Mitcham. This time, instead of wandering back down to his perch at the opposite end of the porch, he pulled out one of Siler’s chairs and sat down at the table. Siler was beginning to think of them as his chairs now, anyhow.

“If it had been nothin’,” Mitcham continued, “he woulda just rode to the bunkhouse and gone to sleep.”

“And left us sittin’ here?” Siler asked.

“Yup.”

Siler didn’t say anything about Blackfoot being one rude son of a bitch, but he would have liked to. At this point, he figured it wasn’t any too smart to press his luck. Not with these two yahoos, anyway. He had the distinct feeling they’d just as soon shoot him as say hello.

What the hell ever happened to honor among thieves, anyhow?

Well, maybe he wasn’t a thief, and maybe they weren’t either, but there ought to be some saying about honor among outlaws. Or at least some kind of politeness.

They waited in silence then, Siler not wanting to rile Mitcham. And Mitcham, well, just not talking. That was, until Blackfoot wandered back up and pulled out a third chair.

Siler was torn between irritation that they’d invaded his space, and pride.

Mostly, he felt stupid.

But he listened anyhow.

“Watched the house,” Blackfoot began. “Big house, only one man in it. He has a woman that comes in to cook or clean, maybe both. Don’t know how often.”

“What about hands?” Siler asked, suddenly eager for the game to start.

Mitcham threw him an irritated glance, but Blackfoot said, “Only two. Now one. The rest were out with the sheep.”

This time, Mitcham beat Siler to it. “What d’you mean, now one?”

“Shot him.” Blackfoot leaned back. “Any coffee?”

“No,” said Siler. “Everybody’s gone to bed.”

“What d’you mean, you shot him?” Mitcham insisted.

“I was hid out. One of those damn dogs of his sensed me.”

“Whose dog?” Siler asked.

“O’Brien’s,” Blackfoot snapped.

“Just askin’,” said Siler apologetically.

“Mexican came riding up the hill to find out what was bothering the dog. I shot him.” Suddenly, Blackfoot swept an arm out over the table, brushing to the side all of Siler’s playing cards. He picked up Siler’s long-empty glass and placed in on the edge of the table. “This is where we are,” he said.

His pocketknife came out, and he put it at the center of the table. “This is O’Brien’s place.”

“How far?” Mitcham asked.

“Maybe four, four and a half miles,” Blackfoot replied. “Shorter by road than the way I went.”

He proceeded to lay out landmarks, sometimes

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