Bullets Don't Argue by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2019-08-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Holding Buck to a slow walk, so as not to inspire the pig to slide off Rooster’s packhorse, Perley led them down the street and crossed the little bridge built over Oak Creek in front of The Buffalo Hump Saloon. There were three horses tied at the hitching post in front of the saloon that Rooster recognized as those belonging to the three men they sought. “I ain’t so sure this is a smart thing to do,” Rooster said. “Maybe I’d best go get the sheriff.”

“He’ll most likely tell you the same thing you said he always does, that nobody saw these fellows at your hog lot.” He stepped down from the saddle. “Do you know which one’s Coy’s?” he asked, nodding toward the horses.

“That gray on the end,” Rooster answered nervously.

“Gimme a hand,” Perley said and took hold of the dead hog’s front feet. With Perley’s direction, they laid the pig across Coy’s saddle. When he was sure it would stay put, Perley stepped back and commented, “It’s pretty near the same color as the horse, ain’t it?”

“I reckon,” Rooster answered quickly. “Let’s get outta here before somebody sees us.”

“Whoa!” Perley stopped him. “We’ve just delivered the pig. We ain’t collected payment for it yet.”

“You tryin’ to get me kilt?” Rooster exclaimed. “Coy’s gonna raise enough hell when he finds that pig on his saddle. We’d best get the hell away from here before he comes out and sees it!”

“Maybe not,” Perley said, trying to calm him. “He might not realize how much trouble he’s causing you by shootin’ that pig. This’ll give him the chance to do the right thing by you—might make him feel better when he thinks about it.” Rooster couldn’t think of anything to reply to that, so he reluctantly followed Perley inside.

Perley paused just inside the door of the expansive barroom, unnoticed by the three men standing at the bar, who were absorbed in a contest involving a dartboard on the wall. Instead of throwing darts, however, they were competing with their skinning knives. One of the three, Shorty Thompson, turned to look toward the door when Rooster walked in behind Perley. He grinned and nudged Coy Dawkins, who turned to see what he wanted. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Coy started. “Rooster Crabb, I ain’t seen you in a couple of days. I thought you’d crawled back in that hole in the ground you came out of.” Jimmy McGee, on his knees, his back to the door, scrubbing up a puddle of blood recently left by Fred Brooks, could only groan in dismay upon hearing the remarks.

Taking an easy guess, Perley said, “I reckon you’d be Coy Dawkins.” He could see why Rooster was intimidated by the burly dark-featured brute who was standing with his feet spread apart and a wide grin beneath a heavy mustache.

“That’s right,” Dawkins sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Perley Gates. I’m a friend of Rooster’s.”

“Perley Gates!” Whit Berry exclaimed. “Did he say his name’s Perley Gates?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Coy said.

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