The Adventures of Slim & Howdy by Bill Fitzhugh, Kix Brooks, Ronnie Dunn Read Free Book Online Page B

waited for Slim to respond, but he didn’t. He’d said all he was going to on the subject. Once Howdy figured that out, he said, “Does this mean you’re not going to drive any faster?”
    Over the next five hours, though Slim and Howdy were both sorely tempted on several occasions, neither one of them threw a punch at the other. Slim, because he preferred keeping two hands on the wheel at all times, and Howdy because he was smart enough to recognize that rendering unconscious the driver of the vehicle in which he was riding was the fabled cutting off of one’s nose to spite one’s face.
    And his mama had taught him better’n that.
    To Howdy’s dismay, however, Slim stuck to the farm roads and the state highways and the speed limit, passing through old east Texas sawmill towns and mining communities whose promises were broken long ago, settlements that were killed when railroads or highways bypassed them or when the iron foundry turned unprofitable for one reason or another. Most of the current economy was based on the regional state hospital, a little bit of agriculture, some tourism, and naturally, the occasional bar.
    Texas, of course, has a proud tradition of dance halls, roadhouses, and honky-tonks. And the one Howdy had in mind was called the Piggin’ String, a watering hole and dance hall about halfway between downtown Fort Worth and the Texas Motor Speedway. It had been around since the early fifties and its modest stage had featured everybody from Ernest Tubb and Willie Nelson to Jerry Jeff Walker and James Hand.
    The place was owned by a former champion steer roper by the name of Skeets Duvall who found he enjoyed cold beer and country music a lot more than wrestling with rampaging bovines in sawdust soaked with horse piss. Skeets also had the good sense to recognize that he could make more money and break fewer bones as a saloon owner than a rodeo rider. And get just as many girls. What he considered a win-win.
    The Piggin’ String was in the middle of nowhere when it first opened, but eventually the city sprawl had just about moved it smack into the middle of the suburbs. The wide red-plank building looked like an old seed-and-feed store with rusty Coca-Cola and Lone Star beer signs hanging onto the exterior walls for dear life. There was still a place to tie your horse out front.
    As Slim pulled into a parking spot, Howdy eyed the key in the ignition. During the long drive he had come up with a new plan. He was thinking it would be more equitable for them to alternate based on number of miles driven instead of just every other trip. That way Howdy would get the next 350 miles. He figured he’d float the notion next time he got behind the wheel.
    12
    THEY WALKED INTO THE BAR LIKE A DANGEROUS PAIR OF cowboy gangsters, guitar cases in hand. Howdy first, all serious with his bold mustache, black Resistol, and matching duster draped over blue jeans and a work shirt. Slim followed, tall and menacing behind the dark shades, wearing his short brown leather jacket over black jeans and T-shirt with that little silver cross at the neck.
    They paused for a moment as Howdy looked around the place. Then he nudged Slim and pointed toward the old guy sitting at the end of the bar, skin like beef jerky and scars you could match to hooves, horns, and a stirrup. “That’s him,” Howdy said. “Skeets Duvall.”
    Skeets had his head down, reading the paper. His right hand rested on the bar within easy reach of an ivory-handled Colt six-shooter, an old black rotary telephone, and a glass of sweet tea.
    Howdy came to a stop and thumped the heel of his boot when he did. He dropped his voice an octave and said, “FBI, Mr. Duvall.” He paused before saying, “I ’spect you’re aware it’s unlawful to display a firearm in a public place in a manner calculated to alarm.”
    Skeets didn’t even bother to look up, just licked the tip of his index finger, flipped to the next page of the paper, and gestured at the pistol