The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page A

fingers. He didn’t notice. His eyes had a glazed look and there was a fatuous expression of satisfaction on his broad face as though he believed the words of the song to be directed solely to him.
    There was a burst of applause from the room as Rosa finished singing. The sheriff set down his drink and started forward. Pat caught his arm and said casually, “Ain’tcha forgettin’ yore drink, Sheriff?”
    The sheriff frowned as he recognized Pat.
    â€œNot,” Pat admitted judicially, “but what a gal like that is enough to make any man forget his drink. But yo’re sorta old to be makin’ them kind of eyes at her, ain’tcha?”
    The sheriff wet his lips. “Think I’m too old, eh?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t look at you twicet.”
    â€œWant to bet anything on that?” The sheriff’s florid face was a deep crimson.
    Pat Stevens shrugged his shoulders. “A gal like that needs a young man,” he observed unemotionally. “A feller like you or me is just ridin’ for a fall if he thinks different.”
    Rosa had stepped down from the table, and the quartet had swung into the lively strains of a dance tune. Over the sheriff’s head, Pat saw the girl go like a homing pigeon into the arms of Dusty Morgan and the two twirled onto the dance floor.
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” the sheriff snorted angrily. “Rosa won’t look twice at any of the young bucks. And,” he added belligerently, “they all know I’ll kill any man that comes between her an’ me.”
    Pat said, “That’s a plumb piece of foolishment. Drink up an’ I’ll buy one.”
    The sheriff picked up his drink and boasted, “Stick around and I’ll show you what I mean.” He lifted his glass and turned his gaze past the end of the bar again.
    Pat saw his bulky body stiffen. The edge of the glass rattled against his teeth and the liquor dribbled down is chin. He dropped his glass and started forward, brushing his coat back to get a grip on his holstered gun. Men saw him coming and got out of his way.
    Pat Stevens followed closely behind him.
    Dusty Morgan and Rosa went on dancing, oblivious of the sheriff’s approach. One of the girl’s bare arms was about Dusty’s neck and she was bent back with her face turned up toward his. Her eyes were closed and her red lips were parted. She danced with her pliant body molded against his, and Dusty’s arm was tight about her slim waist.
    The music stopped and Rosa was held for a moment in his embrace. Then her arm tightened about his neck and she pulled his head down to hers, seeking his mouth with her lips.
    An audible murmur swept over the crowded room. The sheriff stopped on widespread legs not more than ten feet from the couple. He drew his gun, and his angry voice rumbled out like the bellow of an infuriated bull, “Come outta that kiss a-shootin’.”
    Rosa relaxed away from Dusty with a little cry of fright. The youth turned slowly and the sheriff’s gun swept up in an arc to fire.
    Pat drove his shoulder into the sheriff’s right side. He grabbed his gun hand and they stumbled aside together. As he wrenched the weapon away from the infuriated lawman, Ezra stepped up nimbly and flung both arms about the sheriff’s bulky figure, pinioning his arms to is side.
    Pat calmly broke the six-shooter and emptied it. He told Ezra, “Turn him loose now,” and offered the sheriff his empty weapon, butt first.
    The sheriff was wheezing with rage and a red vein stood out along his forehead. Between clenched teeth, he promised, “You’ll regret this.” And to Dusty, he promised in the same labored voice, “I’ll kill you if you’re still in town by midnight.”
    Rosa sprang forward with a high-pitched squeal and threw her arms about the sheriff’s neck. She cuddled his head against her bare bosom and began crooning in his ear.
    Pat