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

want his gun? Well, let’s see him try and get it! Hey, Sid, catch!” He glanced over to the table and tossed the pistol in the general direction.
    One of the cowpunchers scrambled out of his chair and caught the pistol on the fly.
    â€œHow you like it, Sid?” Vance yelled over, still laughing.
    Sid examined the gun with a big grin on his hollow-cheeked face. “This here’s a big gun for such a little man. Hey, lookie here, Vance! There’s three, no four notches on the butt! How you suppose they got there?”
    â€œProbably slipped out of his hand while he was rabbit huntin’ and got scratched on a rock,” Vance yelled back.
    â€œAll right, that’s enough,” Charlie said quietly. He pushed Vance aside and walked over toward Sid, slowly.
    â€œYou’re gettin’ kind of uppity, ain’t you, Sid, for a green kid who ain’t even shaved his whiskers yet? Give it here.”
    Sid held the gun away from the sheriff, ready to throw it back to Vance.
    â€œCome on, son. Hand it over.” Charlie spoke very softly.
    â€œDon’t let the old coot buffalo you, Sid. Heave it back,” Vance said excitedly.
    And that was the timely encouragement that Sid needed. He grinned again. “Here you go, Vance!” He feinted a toss over Charlie’s head, bent quickly and scooted the gun between the sheriff’s legs across the board floor to Vance.
    Charlie Martz’s thin shoulders sagged to match the tired look on his face as he turned to face the cowboy bully. His mustache seemed to droop even lower.
    â€œLook here, Vance. I ain’t playing with you. Hand over that iron or you’ll find out fast how I get notches on the butt. The fifth one’s liable to have your name on it.”
    Vance just grinned. “You threatenin’ me, Charlie. Why I thought—”
    â€œShut your mouth, Vance!” Charlie’s face was full of fire. He’d never been madder in his life. “Looks like I’m going to have to paint you a little picture, Vance. Though it’s something I’ve never enjoyed talking about a whole lot.” He pointed to the gun in the cowboy’s hand.
    â€œSee that first notch? Well, that represents Wyn Scallon. He held up the Butterfield Stage Line seventeen times. Seventeen times successfully. Then I caught up with him in the Blue Bell in Prescott. I only shot once, Vance, and Wyn Scallon never robbed another stage. The second one’s Billy Bushway. He went loco from too much bad whisky in a saloon down in Wittenburg. I forget which one it was. Anyway, he shot five unsuspecting customers dead before the rest could get out into the street to safety. He turned around from shooting bottles off the bar when I walked in. He turned around, Vance, so I could plug him between the eyes. The third one belongs to Kurt Masselon. I know you heard of him. He was the fastest gun in West Texas . . . only he came too far west and he wasn’t the fastest no more. At least he wasn’t the day outside of Red Healy’s livery stable in Tombstone. I shot three times before old Kurt dropped. He was tough.” Charlie lowered his voice slightly. “Course, toughness don’t mean a damn thing on Boot Hill.”
    â€œThat fourth one belongs to Reb Spadea—”
    A shrill peal of laughter broke from the front of the bar. Charlie wheeled around with the rest of the Four Aces’ customers to see the tall, dust-caked rider standing in the doorway. His thumbs were hooked behind two, low-slung gun belts that crossed below his waist and tapered around thin, straight hips. Two revolvers, butts forward, rested loosely in holsters attached to his thighs at the lower ends with rawhide ties. His knee-high boots were almost white from alkali dust.
    He wore a sweat-stained sombrero that had a silver concha band, and his lips formed a smile that turned them down at one corner.
    â€œCharlie, you trying to sell these boys