Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986) by Louis L'amour Read Free Book Online Page A

Gentry thoughtfully. "You know, you'll be next. They won't stand for you messing around. I think you already have them worried."
    Tack explained about the man following him, and then handed the note to Childe. The lawyer's eyes narrowed. "Hmm, sounds like they had some reason to soft-pedal the whole thing for a while. Maybe it's an idea for us. Maybe somebody is coming down here to look around, or maybe somebody has grown suspicious."
    Tack looked at Childe thoughtfully. "What's your position in all this?"
    The tall man shrugged, and then laughed lightly. "I've no stake in it, Gentry. I didn't know London or your Uncle John, either. But I heard rumors, and I didn't like the attitude of the local bosses, Hardin and Olney. I'm just a burr under the saddle with which they ride this community, no more. It amuses me to needle them, and they are afraid of me."
    "Got any clients?"
    "Clients?" Anson Childe chuckled. "Not a one! Not likely to have any, either! In a country so throttled by one man as this is, there isn't any litigation. Nobody can win against him, and they are too busy hating Hardin to want to have trouble with each other."
    "Well, then," Tack said, "yuh've got a client now. Go down to Austin. Demand an investigation.
    Lay the facts on the table for them. Maybe yuh can't do any good, but at least yuh can stir up a lot of trouble. The main thing will be to get people talking. They evidently want quiet, so we'll give them noise.
    "Find out all you can. Get some detectives started on Hardin's trail. Find out who they are, who they were, and where they came from."
    Childe sat up. "I'd like it," he said ruefully, "but I don't have that kind of money."
    He gestured at the room. "I'm behind on my rent here. Red owns the building, so he lets me stay."
    Tack grinned and unbuttoned his shirt, drawing out a money belt. "I sold some cattle up north." He counted out one thou sand dollars. "Take that. Spend all or any part of it, but create a smell down there. Tell everybody about the situation here."
    Childe got up, his face flushed with enthusiasm. "Man! Nothing could please me more!
    I'll make it hot for them!
    I'll- He went into a fit of coughing, and Tack watched him gravely.
    Finally Childe straightened. "You're putting your trust in a sick man, Gentry!"
    "I'm putting my trust in a fighter," Tack said drily. "Yuh'll do!" He hesitated briefly.
    "Also, check the title on this land."
    They shook hands silently, and Tack went to the door. Softly, he opened it and stepped out into the cool night. Well, for better or worse the battle was opened. Now for the next step. He came down off the wooden stair and then walked to the street. There was no one in sight. Tack Gentry crossed the street and pushed through the swinging doors of the Longhorn.
    The saloon and dance hall was crowded. A few familiar faces, but they were sullen faces, lined and hard. The faces of bitter men, defeated, but not whipped. The others were new faces, the hard, tough faces of gunhands, the weather-beaten punchers who had come in to take the new jobs. He pushed his way to the bar.
    There were three bartenders now, and it wasn't until he ordered that the squat, fat man glanced down the bar and saw him. His jaw hardened and he spoke to the bartender who was getting a bottle to pour Gentry's rye.
    The bartender, a lean, sallow-faced man, strolled back to him. "We're not servin' you," he said. "I got my orders!"
    Tack reached across the bar, his hand shooting out so fast the bartender had no chance to withdraw. Catching the man by his stiff collar, two fingers inside the collar and their knuckles jammed hard into the man's Adam's apple, he jerked him to the bar.
    "Pour!" he said.
    The man tried to speak, but Tack gripped harder and shoved back on the knuckles.
    Weakly, desperately, his face turning blue, the man poured. He slopped out twice what he got in the glass, but he poured. Then Tack shoved hard and the man was brought up violently against the backbar.
    Tack