Savage 05 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay [Clay, E. Jefferson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: action, hero, Colt, .45, Elmore, Leonard, gunslingers, Louis, L'Amour, Piccadilly, publishing, Pulp, fiction, writing, the, wild, west, western, frontier, series
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 2023-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

The plump girl with the braided hair brought another beer to Savage’s room in back of Hashknife’s tumbledown saloon. He spun a coin across the table, and she picked it up and tested it with her teeth. He stared boldly up at her. She was pretty enough in a slightly overblown way. Her blouse was cut low to show off her best features, and Savage could appreciate such things even at a time like this.

“Any sign of Frost yet?” Savage asked.

“No.”

“So, is there anythin’ else?”

She rolled her eyes towards the barroom door, toying nervously with the ties of her apron.

“Trouble’s brewin’,” she blurted out finally. “Judas Priest, there ain’t goin’ to be more shootin’, is there, mister? I was here last month when Clanton Gant and Fast Johnny Marsh shot it out at the bar. I damn near stopped lead. Then, just a week or two before that, I was—”

“I reckon I get the picture, blue-eyes. You don’t like gunplay. Well, there won’t be any if everybody’s sensible. You might pass that message on to the people out there.”

She went to the door and paused. “Are you a bounty hunter?”

“Is that what they’re sayin’?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

She left with a swirl of brightly-patterned skirt, leaving him hunched over his beer. He sat with his head cocked to catch the sounds from the barroom. The girl didn’t have to warn him something was brewing. He’d known it for some time. Horse sense and instinct told him that beyond that flimsy wall, barmen were talking together in low tones, glancing at the door, fingering their guns and making plans.

He sipped his beer and glanced at the clock on the wall. Either Kit Frost and his top men were absent or they were lying low. Whichever it was, Savage reckoned maybe he had spent enough time in one spot. The natives were getting restless.

Leaving the beer, he crossed the small room to stand listening by the door. He heard the crash of a chair falling over, a drunk’s curse. “Shut up!” somebody snapped. “I wanna hear what Garcia’s got to say.”

Garcia. The fat greaser was nowhere to be seen when Savage rode through the scatter of ugly little buildings that was Hashknife. He couldn’t tell what the man was saying. It was safe to wager it was nothing good about him.

He decided to camp outside of town. He’d come here to talk with Frost first and think about taking action afterwards, if necessary. There was no point in getting into a tangle with the tenth-raters between times; that wouldn’t achieve anything.

He entered the barroom and halted. The drunks who were there when he came in had been joined by several hard-bitten, gun-hung hombres he remembered from Delta.

And standing by the bar was Garcia.

Nobody spoke as he started for the batwings although there was an uneasy stirring of movement along the bar. Savage glanced sharply at Garcia as the fat man scratched his belly just above his gunbelt. Garcia stopped scratching, but his black scowl deepened.

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