Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Hey, back so soon?” Hobie asked. “Guess that gal you got ain’t much, huh?”

“Hey, they probably just finished eatin’, Hob,” his friend said. “Now he’s gonna go back and see how good she is.”

“Here’s your bucket,” Roper said to the bartender, ignoring the two men. “Thanks a lot.”

“Another while you’re here?” the bartender asked.

He would have liked one, but that would have been tempting fate. He could feel that Hobie and Jake behind him were aching for trouble.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ve got to get back—”

“Won’t take the time for a free beer!” Hobie called out, standing up. “In a hurry to get back to your room?”

“You got law here?” Roper asked the bartender.

“Yeah, we got a sheriff. Are we gonna need him?”

“I don’t know,” Roper said. “Suppose you tell me.”

“Them two are troublemakers, all right,” the bartender said.

“How far are they going to push it?”

“As far as you’ll let them, I guess.”

“Great. I’ll have that beer. No, just give me a beer mug.”

“A mug?”

“Right.”

“An empty mug?”

“Right.”

“Okay.”

The bartender put an empty mug on the bar.

“I tol’ you ya shoulda let us come to your room and help you with that gal,” Hobie said. “Now yer insultin’ us by not taking a free beer with us. Whataya think of that, Jake?”

“I think it’s—” Jake started, but he stopped short when Roper turned, took two steps, and hit Hobie on the head with the empty mug. The man went down like a sack of shit.

The mug didn’t break, so Roper brandished it in Jake’s face and asked, “What do you think of that, Jake?”

“Oh…” Jake said, staring at the detective with wide eyes.

“Tell your buddy when he wakes up that if he sees me again, he’s to keep his mouth shut. Understand?”

“I—uh—I understand.”

“Good.” Roper took the mug and set it back on the bar, said to the bartender, “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Roper walked out and headed for the café.

While Roper was returning the tray, plates, and utensils to the café, Jake poured some cold beer on Hobie’s face to wake him up.

“What the hell happened?” Hobie demanded.

“That fella hit you with a mug,” Jake said.

“What?” Hobie got to his feet, looked around. “Where’d he go?”

“Guess he went to the café to bring back their stuff,” the bartender said.

“That sonofabitch!” Hobie said. “I’ll kill him.”

“Hobie, he says if you see him again, you better keep yer mouth shut,” Jake said.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Hobie said, “while I’m killin’ him!”

“You’re gonna need help,” the bartender said. He took a pistol out from beneath the bar.

“You!” Hobie said. “You gave him the empty mug to hit me with.”

“I didn’t know what he was gonna do with it,” the bartender said. “Hell, he was askin’ about the sheriff.”

“Well, goddamnit, let’s go outside and get him, then,” Hobie said. “Are ya with me?”

“I am,” Jake said.

“Me, too,” the bartender said. “Can’t let a stranger get away with that.”

“No, we sure as hell can’t,” Hobie said. He looked at the rest of the men in the saloon. “Anybody else comin’ with us?”

Nobody moved.

“Fine!” Hobie said. “Don’t nobody come outside until it’s all over.”

Roper was walking back from the café, and as he came within sight of the saloon, he thought he better cross the street. As he started to do that, the batwing doors opened and three men came out. He recognized them as Hobie, Jake, and the bartender. It looked like the bartender was taking their side.

“Hey, stranger!” Hobie shouted.

Roper stopped in the middle of the street and turned.

Wilkins watched from the window as three men came out of the saloon and braced Roper. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, practically over Roper’s shoulder. The detective was doing everything he could to keep him alive. It was time for Wilkins to return the favor.

“What do you fellas want now?” Roper asked.

“You can’t get away with cold-cocking me with a beer mug,” Hobie said.

“You wouldn’t shut up any other way,” Roper told him.

“You wanna shut me up, do it like a man, with your gun,” Hobie said.

“You want to die that bad?”

“That’s big talk from one man facing three,” Hobie said.

“Two cowhands and a bartender,” Roper said.

“You got a big mouth, you know, mister?” the bartender said.

“Your friends are the ones who started this with their mouths,” Roper said. “I’m willing to let it drop and go to my room. I’m tired.”

“’Fraid we can’t do that, mister,” Hobie said. “We can’t let strangers come into our town and treat our folks this way.”

“I didn’t treat your folks in any way,” Roper said. “I treated you that way. Why don’t you tell your friends to go back into the saloon and you and me will settle this man-to-man.”

“Hell,” Hobie said, “he’s scared!”

Roper wondered how, with all the towns he could have chosen, he’d actually picked Gilette, which seemed to be populated by morons. It never occurred to him that these were part of the whole Howard Westover affair. They were obviously just locals who liked to hoorah strangers.

Damn it, he was either going to end up dead or involved with the local law. And he didn’t particularly look forward to either outcome.

45

Talbot Roper was not a gunfighter. He was not a fast gun. He was able to hit what he shot at, and he reacted during this kind of situation calmly. It was not the fastest gun who survived, but the most accurate. But facing these three men, he knew that one of them was bound to get a true shot off. They were not the Castle brothers in Los Lunas. These were men who were more used to using their guns.

This would be a lot more difficult.

Wilkins decided to key on the man in the center. Flanked as he was by the other two men, it pointed him out as the leader. The minute he touched his gun, Wilkins would kill him.

Hobie Patton fancied himself a fast gun. He was the fastest draw and the best shot on his ranch, and he’d won the turkey shoot every year for the past five years.

He was ready to put this stranger in the ground.

His friend, Jake Weaver, wished he were back in the saloon with a beer in his hand.

The bartender, Lou McCarver, had his gun tucked into his belt. He’d been in plenty of brawls in his saloon, and plenty of shootouts there, but he’d never been involved in a shootout on the street. He wanted to get this over with because he had a lot of dirty glasses behind the bar.

Roper kept his eyes on Hobie, standing in the center. Jake looked scared. And the bartender looked distracted. He had to take Hobie first. On the other hand, the light was on in his room and he saw Wilkins in the window. From up there, he figured Wilkins would pick Hobie out as his target. He was better off concentrating on the other two. He was going to be real angry if he got killed by a distracted bartender.

“Go ahead, Hobie,” he called out. “It’s your play to call.”

“Don’t rush me, friend,” Hobie said. “Don’t be in such a hurry to die—”

Hobie went for his gun, surprising even his two partners. He’d hoped that talking to Roper would distract him.

Roper heard the rifle shot from behind him, just a split second before he fired his own gun twice. The air filled with the sound and smell of gunfire and then suddenly it was quiet.

Roper saw that all three men were down. His gun was still in his hand. He looked down at himself, didn’t see any blood. He used his left hand to check himself out, but there were no holes. Apparently, he had come out of the situation unscathed. He didn’t know how many times Wilkins had fired from the window, but at least that first shot was true.