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

know they’re about to take a fall. Desperate as these boys are, we call ’em out, announce our presence, bet they’ll hide next to the doorway and go to blastin’ at us right where we stand.” He glanced around, then added, “And there sure as hell ain’t no place to hide out here in the street. ’Cept maybe behind the horses.”
    Said, “Sounds good to me. Get up close to them, maybe they’ll think twice about being foolish enough to draw down on us.”
    Then, we headed for the bloodred batwing doors of Black’s.
    Bit to my left and half a step behind me, Nate said, “Get a chance, Tilden, I’m gonna cook you up some of my world-famous snappin’ turtle stew. Throw in a couple a catfish heads, few raw turnips, some alligator meat, and, boy howdee, you got a real lip smacker goin’.”
    Couldn’t do much but shake my head and grin.
    No boardwalk in Lone Pine. Set of rickety-looking steps, made from rough-cut, unplaned boards, led into Black’s front entrance. We stood on the top tread, gazed over the café doors, and scanned the pitiful interior of the place.
    Under his breath Nate hissed, “Wish Carlton J. Cecil coulda come with us. Always like havin’ that redheaded devil with a pistol along anytime we have to put lead in the air.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said. “Always feel a bunch safer when Carl’s around. Man can thumb a pistol faster than a chicken can peck seed from a metal pie plate.”
    My partner grunted, as though someone had pulled all the hair out of his nose at the same time, then said, “Guess by now he’s probably already got that carbuncle on his rump lanced. Sweet mama. Heard tell as how that thing was the size of a grown man’s fist. Makes me cringe just thinkin’ ’bout it.”
    Whispering, I said, “It’s a big one all right. Maybe the biggest I’ve ever seen. Went by to check on him day we rode out. Man was having trouble standing. Barely able to walk out onto the porch and wave good-bye. Hobbled around like a one-legged cripple.”
    Interior of Black’s joint amounted to little more than a single, oblong wooden-and-canvas box, of about twenty by thirty feet. Rough-cut pine boards came up about three feet off the floor, like wainscoting in a house. Shabby, patched, canvas roof and half walls let in sunlight like a worn-out flour sifter. Three poles in the middle of the room held up the roof. Five tables scattered around the room. Only two were occupied. Three fellers sitting at the one closest to the door. Men we wanted took up space in the far corner. Bar, comprised of a single plank board atop two barrels, stood on the left, just inside the door.
    Pushed the batwings aside with the barrels of our weapons and stepped inside. Heard the hammers of Nate’s shotgun snap back, as we stepped over the roadhouse’s threshold.
    Nate headed left and attempted to wave the bartender into silence. Man, who bore a striking resemblance to a rake handle sporting a moustache the size of a wharf rat, snapped to attention behind one of the barrels. Went to waving his bar rag at us, then called out, “Wait just a damned minute, now. Just, by God, wait a minute.”
    Sounded like spit on a hot stove lid when Nate said, “Shut the hell up, you ignert son of a bitch.”
    Fellers at the table by the door hopped up and disappeared through the batwings like windblown steam.
    Eyeballed our prey at the ramshackle table near an idle potbellied stove in the hangout’s far corner. None of them appeared to have taken notice of our arrival. Given the number of empty bottles atop their table and on the floor, would have surprised me if any of the drunken trio would have noticed Gabriel blowing his horn for the Second Coming.
    Flicked a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance over at Nate. He had a finger pressed against his lips and was shaking his head at the bug-eyed