Vengeance Mountain by John Cutter

Author:John Cutter [Cutter, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2015-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

13. Mexican Standoff

As soon as Sullivan’s feet hit the dirt outside the cantina, the rigid steel muzzle of another Beretta 92SB gouged his kidney from behind. He turned his head and out of the corner of his eye saw a mean-faced federal — broken nose and blueberry lips topped by a crumpled peaked hat. Sullivan raised his hands and put on an amiable smile.

“Que pasa, amigo?”

The question was answered with an incomprehensible bark and a hot cloud of chili breath. Sullivan turned away from the man’s rancid smell as he considered his position. If this guy had heard the gunshot that killed his captain, he was probably checking out a suspicious character as any good lawman would. But it was clear to Sullivan that Santa Celesta had no good lawmen. So the question was, did he actually see Sullivan off Capitan Torres or not? If he did, Sullivan knew the man was certainly contemplating a swift execution.

“Now, listen, amigo —” Sullivan began.

“Shut up,” the federal shouted. Sullivan could understand that much of his Spanish. “I am in control here!”

“Not exactly.” Another voice in Spanish somewhere behind Sullivan’s back.

The federal cursed someone’s mother, and Sullivan turned around to see what was going on. There was a revolver poised eight inches from the federal's ear. The gun was practically an antique, a Smith and Wesson .32 Hand Ejector, the first side-swing cylinder revolver ever made.

Sullivan arched his head back to see who was holding the old gun.

“Buenas tardes, señor.” It was little Ramon, the beer vendor. “This, señor, is what is called a Mexican standoff.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” Sullivan said, his hands still poised in the air.

“Do not worry, señor,” Ramon assured him. “This amigo may be a dumb ox, but he is not stupid. He would like to live, I think.”

“Same here,” Sullivan said wryly. “I take it the ‘dumb ox’ doesn’t understand English.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that’s one thing in our favor.”

“Please, Señor,” Ramon said confidently. “You can trust me. When I tell you it’s okay, you may turn around, take this fool’s gun, and give it to me.”

“Why should I give it to you?”

“Because mine is an old piece of shit that hasn’t fired a bullet in thirty years. I want a new one.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Sullivan muttered.

The federal yelled for them to speak Spanish and explain what they were saying. Ramon yelled back harshly, ordering him to shut up and give up his gun if he ever wanted to see his children again. Ramon punctuated his statement by jabbing the muzzle of his revolver into the man’s scalp.

“Okay, Señor, you may turn around and take my new gun.” Ramon grinned.

But just as Sullivan was about to grab the federal's Beretta, a second federal jumped out from around the corner of the building. His Beretta 92SB was leveled at Ramon.

“What do you call this?” Sullivan asked.

“A big problem,” Ramon replied evenly.

The second federal yelled for Ramon to drop his gun, and Ramon yelled back that he’d kill his pal if he tried to shoot.

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