Charlie Martz and Other Stories by Elmore Leonard Read Free Book Online

And as Charlie Martz, sheriff of Doña Ana County, seldom had any enforcing to do, it didn’t matter if he did like an occasional beer at Mickey Tigh’s. The only trouble was, Charlie knew he’d always be in for an argument if there were any Spanish Hat riders about, which was practically every time he came in.
    The Count and Mickey Tigh were two of the few men in town who didn’t underrate Charlie Martz. And that was because they were old-timers and knew him when. They allowed that a man was entitled to take it easy after working hard as a civil servant for more than thirty years.
    The Spanish Hat boys saw only a tired old man with a droopy mustache, who wore his gun far too high to be any good with it, and who had been sheriff of Doña Ana County for going on ten years without making more than a dozen arrests a year. And those were mostly picking up drunks. The Count and Mickey tried to tell them about Charlie’s younger days in Tucson and Prescott, but the Spanish Hat boys mostly believed what they saw. If he was so all-fired good, how come he never threw-down on any wanted outlaws? These same boys had never in their lives seen an outlaw in Paloverde, but that didn’t stop them from asking the same question over and over. Charlie was just right to poke fun at . . . and there he was again!
    Vance Roman usually started the Charlie-baiting. Hell, he was twenty-seven! Been punching cows for a dozen years. Had to lead off because the other boys were just stretching out of their teens. Cocky, but still a little wobbly when it came to razzing an old-timer. But that Vance knew how to start things off!
    â€œHey, Charlie,” Vance yelled across the room. “Round up any bandidos on your ride down?” That really brought a laugh from the boys.
    Charlie usually ignored the cowhands the first couple of rounds. He’d wait until he felt the relaxing effects of a few schooners of beer, then he’d let go. This day, he looked a little more tired than usual when he propped his elbows on the bar next to the Count’s.
    From the Spanish Hat table a few more remarks floated over. Vance was getting wound up. But they passed right by Charlie’s head. It was still too early.
    â€œCharlie, don’t pay no attention to those kiddies,” the Count consoled.
    â€œHell, I don’t really mind those youngsters, but one of these days I’m going to surprise ’em and run the whole bunch in, just on general principles,” he grumbled. He had thought of it before, but with no jail in Paloverde, it would be a helluva lot of work to drag those waddies up to the calaboose in Cruces just for a general principle.
    â€œMaybe they’ll grow up someday and I won’t have to bother,” he thought aloud. “Boy, this is good beer!” he said, smacking his lips. Charlie forgot things very quickly.
    The Spanish Hat representatives went back to their seven-card game, not being able to get a rise out of Charlie.
    The Count was toying with his schooner halfway up to his face, sloshing the half glass of beer around, trying to develop a head. Suddenly he banged the schooner down on the bar, some of the beer slopping over the rim of the glass.
    â€œHell, Charlie, I almost forgot the reason I came here! Sort of a secondary reason though, to be honest. I got your gun.” He stretched his body over the bar to look at Mickey Tigh down by the front window. “Hey, Mickey! Where’s the gun?”
    The fat man waddled up slowly on the squeaky duckboards, and stooped with a grunt a few feet from the two men. “Got it right here, genius. You did a nice job on it.” He held the pistol with a light, awkward grip, eyeing it suspiciously as if it were alive.
    â€œGive it here, Fatso, before you faint dead away,” the Count saidwith a very straight face. That meant he was being funny. “You see that, Charlie? Mickey still ain’t sure which end the lead comes