you a chance to win it back, ten times over."
Hunk had placed the board table in front of the dressing tent and was laying out packs of cards, dice and the walnut half-shells that were Dandy's stock in trad e. The hunter went on to the parked wagons. He had left his saddle under one of them, his bedroll still lashed across the cantle. He glanced down in passing and was brought up short.
A slip of white paper was sticking out of a fold of the bedroll. He squatted down and pulled it out. The slip was completely blank, but no message was really necessary. The paper's presence told him plainer than words that some time during his act, Shadrach had come and gone, leaving this unspoken taunt to mock him.
CHAPTER 8
He heard the outburst of angry voices a moment before Laura (or Cora) came running, crying, "Dandy's in trouble. Help him! Oh, please help him!"
The bounty hunter ran past her without waiting to ask questions. Knowing Dandy's penchant for rigged games, none were really necessary.
He ran around the dressing tent just as the crowd of men in front of the board table fell back, scrambling to open a broad clear space. In the middle of this space was a man the hunter had noticed earlier and scornfully labeled a gun-punk. He had been drunk at the beginning of the performance and time had produced no notable sobering effect.
He was just far enough beyond the "beardless" age to have a scattering of fine peach-fuzz on his face, but not far enough beyond to have acquired any degree of mature judgment. He wore a heavy .45 with the holster tied down to his leg in imitation of the genuine gun-hawks. As the ultimate in amateurishness, three pronounced notches had been hacked in the walnut grip. He stood a few feet back from the table, feet planted wide apart, clawed hand hovering above the butt of his gun. He was shaking with rage.
Dandy was behind the table, both hands flat on the rough, unfinished pine top, his face ashen. As the hunter charged around the corner of the tent he was saying in a placating voice, "Now, take it easy, friend. Just take it easy. There's no need to resort to violence. If you are under a delusion—and I assure you, friend, it is a delusion—that the game is dishonest, there is a simple solution. Your bet was, I believe, ten dollars. If you will permit me to put one hand in my pocket, I will be happy to give you your ten dollars back."
"I don't want my ten dollars back," the gun-punk squawled in a high, shrill voice. "You stinkin', cheatin' bastard of a crook! I want the hundred dollars I woulda won if the game'd been on the level. If I don't get it, I'm gonna put a slug right through your lyin' mouth and help myself to all the money you suckered out of these dumb pukes."
"I've got ten dollars that says you aren't," the hunter said softly.
The punk whirled around and his eyes went wide and wary. "Oh, it's you —the deadliest gun in the West, this other phony says. The big shot! Mr. Sure Death on ropes and bottles! How would you do against a real gunslinger?"
The hunter looked to either side. "If you gentlemen will step back a little further, I'll try to answer junior's silly question."
There was a wild scramble as the onlookers fell back. The would-be gun-hawk's eyes shifted nervously. His tongue slid out to moisten lips gone suddenly dry.
"I guess you don't know who you're facin', Mister Showoff," he blustered. "You've heard of Bat McCord."
"Nope. But then, the world's full of pimply-faced nobodies I never heard of. Who is he, your wet nurse?"
"You son of a bitch!" The kid's voice climbed to a screech. " I'm Bat McCord. I'm the man who gunned down Whip Purdy, goddam yuh!"
"So? It probably served him right for turning his back on you. Tell me something, sonny. I've heard that children who play with guns are bed-wetters. Is that true?"
The boy loosed a wordless shriek of rage and grabbed for his gun.
The hunter said, "Naughty, naughty!"
His hand flashed under the poncho and out, holding the
Hunk had placed the board table in front of the dressing tent and was laying out packs of cards, dice and the walnut half-shells that were Dandy's stock in trad e. The hunter went on to the parked wagons. He had left his saddle under one of them, his bedroll still lashed across the cantle. He glanced down in passing and was brought up short.
A slip of white paper was sticking out of a fold of the bedroll. He squatted down and pulled it out. The slip was completely blank, but no message was really necessary. The paper's presence told him plainer than words that some time during his act, Shadrach had come and gone, leaving this unspoken taunt to mock him.
CHAPTER 8
He heard the outburst of angry voices a moment before Laura (or Cora) came running, crying, "Dandy's in trouble. Help him! Oh, please help him!"
The bounty hunter ran past her without waiting to ask questions. Knowing Dandy's penchant for rigged games, none were really necessary.
He ran around the dressing tent just as the crowd of men in front of the board table fell back, scrambling to open a broad clear space. In the middle of this space was a man the hunter had noticed earlier and scornfully labeled a gun-punk. He had been drunk at the beginning of the performance and time had produced no notable sobering effect.
He was just far enough beyond the "beardless" age to have a scattering of fine peach-fuzz on his face, but not far enough beyond to have acquired any degree of mature judgment. He wore a heavy .45 with the holster tied down to his leg in imitation of the genuine gun-hawks. As the ultimate in amateurishness, three pronounced notches had been hacked in the walnut grip. He stood a few feet back from the table, feet planted wide apart, clawed hand hovering above the butt of his gun. He was shaking with rage.
Dandy was behind the table, both hands flat on the rough, unfinished pine top, his face ashen. As the hunter charged around the corner of the tent he was saying in a placating voice, "Now, take it easy, friend. Just take it easy. There's no need to resort to violence. If you are under a delusion—and I assure you, friend, it is a delusion—that the game is dishonest, there is a simple solution. Your bet was, I believe, ten dollars. If you will permit me to put one hand in my pocket, I will be happy to give you your ten dollars back."
"I don't want my ten dollars back," the gun-punk squawled in a high, shrill voice. "You stinkin', cheatin' bastard of a crook! I want the hundred dollars I woulda won if the game'd been on the level. If I don't get it, I'm gonna put a slug right through your lyin' mouth and help myself to all the money you suckered out of these dumb pukes."
"I've got ten dollars that says you aren't," the hunter said softly.
The punk whirled around and his eyes went wide and wary. "Oh, it's you —the deadliest gun in the West, this other phony says. The big shot! Mr. Sure Death on ropes and bottles! How would you do against a real gunslinger?"
The hunter looked to either side. "If you gentlemen will step back a little further, I'll try to answer junior's silly question."
There was a wild scramble as the onlookers fell back. The would-be gun-hawk's eyes shifted nervously. His tongue slid out to moisten lips gone suddenly dry.
"I guess you don't know who you're facin', Mister Showoff," he blustered. "You've heard of Bat McCord."
"Nope. But then, the world's full of pimply-faced nobodies I never heard of. Who is he, your wet nurse?"
"You son of a bitch!" The kid's voice climbed to a screech. " I'm Bat McCord. I'm the man who gunned down Whip Purdy, goddam yuh!"
"So? It probably served him right for turning his back on you. Tell me something, sonny. I've heard that children who play with guns are bed-wetters. Is that true?"
The boy loosed a wordless shriek of rage and grabbed for his gun.
The hunter said, "Naughty, naughty!"
His hand flashed under the poncho and out, holding the
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