Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden by J. Lee Butts Read Free Book Online

bustlin’ enterprise located on the corner of Towson and Rogers. Brick front. Substantial-looking. Feller might mistake it for a bank, he ain’t paying strict attention.”
    â€œAh. Yes. Elizabeth’s largest and, perhaps, best-stocked emporium. Inherited it from her father when he passed on. Well, and you claim to have fried the aforementioned coconuts. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
    Fleeting bit of playful confusion crinkled around the corner’s of Nate’s slate-gray eyes. Looked right thoughtful when he leaned an elbow onto his knee, then hooked a thumb over the grip of one of the Colt pistols he carried strapped high on his hip in the old-fashioned, butts forward, Wild Bill Hickok manner.
    â€œYou bet. Fried them little boogers to mouthwaterin’ crispiness,” he said, after less than five seconds of thought.
    â€œNow, I want to get this straight. No confusion. You’re telling me that you fried a coconut?”
    â€œBet your boots, Deputy Marshal Tilden. You ain’t never had a fried coconut, don’t know what you’re missin’.”
    In a move to keep from laughing out loud, maybe even gasping for breath to the point of falling off Gunpowder’s broad, muscular back and perhaps breaking my neck in the tumble, pulled my long glass, then snapped it out to the third segment. Scanned everything I could lay an eye on in the disreputable burg not five hundred yards away. In spite of myself, though, let a snicker slip out while eyeballing the place.
    Under my breath, said, “Fried coconuts. Sweet merciful Jesus, save me.”
    â€œWell, I did, by God,” Nate chirped.
    Squinted into the end of the glass, said, “That before or after you removed the hairy, outer shell?”
    â€œUh, after, a course. Cain’t go fryin’ no coconut with the hairy shell still on it. Any cook worth spit knows that. Leastways, that’s what my sainted, white-haired ole mama and grandma taught me.”
    â€œWhat kind of grease you use?”
    â€œBacon grease, of course. Best kind. Gotta be fresh though. Nothing rancid. ’S why I always brown up a big ole slab a maple-flavored goodness ’fore I start in on fryin’ my coconuts.”
    â€œAh, of course. And what other dishes did you have with your fried coconuts, might I be so bold as to inquire?” Let the glass down and laid it across my thigh. Turned to watch Nate in the hope I could get his story to show some cracks.
    Self-satisfied smile creased his handsome face. Then, like a man reciting the constituents of a complex chemical experiment, he said, “Cornbread, black-eyed peas, and collard greens.”
    â€œCornbread, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and a fried coconut? That’s one hell of a meal. And that’s your story, is it?”
    Swords swelled up in his saddle. His back stiffened and he got right regal when he said, “Damned right, and I’m stickin’ to it. ’Course, I forgot to mention the smashed taters.”
    â€œSmashed taters?”
    â€œYep. Mama always said as how you don’t never serve fried coconuts ’thout some smashed taters to kinda take some of the tart of’n ’em.”
    â€œTart? Coconuts?”
    â€œAbsolutely. ’S why I stopped boilin’ ’em. Couldn’t get the tart out of ’em.”
    Had to strain quite a bit to keep from busting a gut. Didn’t want to offend Nate. Snapped the glass down to its shortest length. Shoved it back into the battered, army-surplus, leather carrying case, and dropped it into my saddlebag. Gritted my teeth and went to checking the loads in my pistols.
    Nate took the hint and set to scrutinizing his weapons, too.
    Flipped the loading gate open on my belly gun, rolled the cylinder around. Stared at each shell as it passed, then said, “Don’t care for boiled coconuts with your collard greens, huh?”
    â€œHate ’em. Damned things