Twisted Hills (8 page)

“Ple-please, mister . . . ,” Fain groaned, his hand slumping, letting his gun fall from it. Sam cocked his smoking Colt an inch from his forehead.

“I shot your pals Roden and McCool for making threats they couldn't keep,” he said down to Fain. “Where does that put you?”

“We—we weren't all that good a friends,” Fain said in a shaky voice. “I didn't mean any threats, I swear I didn't.”

“That's what I figured,” Sam said. He let the hammer down on his Colt and took a step back. Montoya had struggled to his knees and begun pushing himself to his feet, gripping his shoulder wound.

“Get this one up and get out of my sight,” Sam said, letting his Colt hang loosely in his hand. He shoved the shiny Smith & Wesson back down in his waist and patted it and the black-handled Colt. “Come get these guns anytime you're feeling edgy.”

“What about our guns,
señor
?” said Montoya.

“Leave them,” Sam said. “The bartender will hold them for you until you pay for the mirror.” He reached down and slid Fain's gun from its holster and pitched it atop the bar with a loud thump.

Montoya looked at the bare wall behind the bar where the workers had returned and stood staring down at a pile of broken glass. Without another word, Montoya nodded and turned to Fain.

Sam stood at the bar watching the tall Mexican with two bullets in him help Fain up onto his feet. The two staggered toward the front curtain as a hand reached out and pulled the curtain aside for them.

Sam heard the crunching footsteps from the far end of the bar and turned and saw a raggedly-dressed American with a long beard and a sagging slouch hat standing with his arms spread looking down at the shards of mirror glass.

“Son of a bitch!” he said. “I didn't even get this one hung before they broke it.” Smoke curled from a short cigar in the corner of his mouth.

While Sam stood staring at him, a Mexican worker rose from clearing a path through the broken glass. He looked at Sam, then at the ragged American.

“Señor Graft,” he said. “This man has kept the scalp hunters' guns to pay for the mirror.” He turned to Sam and said, “This is Señor Graft, the owner of this, the Trato Justo Cantina.”

“Reuben Grafton,” said the owner. “I'm called
Graft
around here.” He looked Sam up and down from behind his smoky cigar.

“The Fair Deal . . . ,” Sam translated, instead of intro- ducing himself. He glanced around the dusty cantina, seeing a worn and battered faro table in a far corner. Two more game tables sat along the back wall.

Graft raised a bushy eyebrow toward him.

“Anything wrong with the name
Trato Justo
, pilgrim?” he asked, his eyes moving to Sam's Winchester lying on the bar top.

“Not that I know of,” Sam said. “I just got here.”

Graft relaxed a little, seeing one of his Mexican workers carrying the other two discarded guns to the bar. The worker laid Montoya's and Petty's guns down beside Fain's.

“I suppose I ought to say
obliged
,” he said, looking down at all three guns on the bar top. “This might be a first, somebody offering to pay for a mirror.” He appraised the guns. “These won't do it, but it's a start.”

Sam heard the crunch of glass as Graft stepped forward and leaned his palms on the bar top.

“What's your name, hombre?” he asked cordially enough. “What brings you to Agua Fría?”
He was eyeing the front door like a man expecting bad news any minute.

“I come here looking for work,” Sam said. “I got tired of eating jackrabbit and rattlesnake.” He deliberately didn't give a name.

Graft looked at the three guns on the bar and the blood on the tile floor. He stared at two men carrying the body of Petty out through the dusty front curtain.

“If this is the kind of work you do, I venture you'll never go hungry around here,” he said. “What do we call you?” he asked, already seeing this hard-eyed stranger wasn't giving his name up easily.

“Jones will do,” Sam said evenly, almost grudgingly.

“All right,
Jones
it is,” said Graft. He gave a slight grin around his short cigar. “I've met lots of your kinfolk since I've been in ol' Mex.”

“I bet you have,” Sam said. “Joneses are everywhere.”

As Sam and Reuben Grafton stood talking at the bar, a rough hand pulled the door curtain to one side. Four gunmen filed inside and looked all around at the blood on the floor. From behind the bar top, Graft waved them forward. Moments earlier the four had heard the shots and started walking to the cantina to investigate. Out front they had seen the body of Petty being carried along the street, a skinny pup running along, licking at dripping blood behind them. They'd seen the two wounded scalp hunters staggering away leaning against each other.

“No problem here, fellows.” Graft waved them forward. “But come on over anyway. Let Rolo get you all a bottle of whiskey—on the house, of course, my treat.”

The men walked toward the bar, eyeing Sam on their way.

“It sounded busy over here for this time of day, Graft,” said the leader, Daryl Dolan, a dusty-faced gunman wearing leather wrist cuffs heavily studded with silver conchos. Dirty yellow hair hung to his shoulders. His right hand rested on the butt of a Remington Army conversion. “How's that new mirror coming along?” He looked at the gray bare wall behind the bar. “Can't see who's coming in behind you without it,” he added.

“It's broke all to hell, Daryl,” Graft said, waving the matter aside. “It might have been cracked to begin with.”

“We heard gunplay over here,” Dolan said, looking all around.

“Oh, we had a scuffle for sure, but it's all in the past now,” Graft added. Sam noted the cantina owner trying to play the shooting down all of a sudden. “Jones here and I were just talking about it.”

“What happened,
Jones
?” Dolan asked Sam, staring coldly at him.

Sam didn't answer right away. Instead he reached around and lifted his beer mug, as if to first take a sip before answering.

Daryl's face tightened. But before he could say anything to Sam, Graft cut in.

“Jones here didn't start the trouble,” he said quickly, “but he took the scalp hunters' guns for payment against my new mirror.”

“You mean Fain and them? Those scalp hunters?” said Dolan. He looked Sam up and down. “You took their guns—killed the one we saw being carried away?”

“I did,” Sam said flatly. “Hope they weren't friends of yours.”

“Ha,” said Dolan, “that mangy bunch? They don't have
friends
here. They just have some folks who don't hate them as bad as others.”

The three men behind him gave a dark chuckle.

“I heard Petty was fast with a gun—talked to my boss some about riding with us.” Dolan gave a faint grin. “I expect he wouldn't have lasted long, if he went down that easy.”

“Fast didn't help him much,” said Graft. “Jones here didn't let him get his gun skint before he nailed him.”

“Is that right, Jones?” said Dolan. “You didn't let him get his gun drawn?”

“It didn't seem like a good idea to,” said Sam.

Behind Dolan, the three gunmen gave a slight chuckle at Sam's words. But a sharp glance from Dolan quieted them.

Dolan looked him up and down again. He rubbed his chin in contemplation.

“I'm just speculating, Jones,” he said, “wondering how fast you are.”

Sam replied coolly, “Never waste time
wondering
when you can find out in a second flat.” As he spoke he leaned back against the bar with his forearms up along the edge. His beer mug hung from his left hand; his right hand rested an inch from his Winchester.

All four of the gunmen fell silent.

Dolan gave a puzzled look while Sam's words sank in. Then his face took on a confused smile.

“Fellows, I believe
Jones
just told me to
arm up
or shut up,” he said.

Sam just stared at him.

“New bottle here, fellows,” Graft said eagerly.

A bottle of rye appeared on the bar top and a string of glasses spread alongside it. The bottle cork made a soft pop in Rolo the bartender's hands.

“What do you want us to do, Daryl, shoot holes in him?” a young gunman named Clyde Burke asked, stepping up beside the lead man.

Staring hard at Sam, Dolan gave a chuff. His smile turned less confused and more genuine.

“Naw, Burke. A man can get shot anytime,” he said over his shoulder. “I'm going to have a drink.” He said to Sam, “Jones, you always wear your bark so tight?”

When Sam didn't answer, Graft cut in, seeing a chance to stop any further bloodshed or broken glass.

“He says he's here because he's tired of eating jackrabbit and rattlesnake,” he said.

“So, you come looking for
gun
work?” Dolan asked Sam.

“Is there any other kind?” Sam said.

“Is there any other kind?”
Dolan repeated with a chuckle. “If there is, I never considered it.” He let out a breath and said, “Can you loosen your bark enough to have a drink?”

“I already have,” Sam said. He breathed easier. He set his beer mug down from his left hand and let his right hand fall away from his Winchester.

“That's good,” said Dolan. “Because it happens that you've come to the right place. We are the only outfit around here who's hiring for gun work.”

“I heard there's another outfit,” Sam said, turning to the bar.

“Then you heard wrong,” said Dolan. He motioned for the other men to line along the bar. He stepped in beside Sam. “We're with Bell Madson. Ever heard of him?”

Sam gave a shrug that said he hadn't.

“He used go by the name
Red
Madson. Some called him
Texas Red
Madson, him being from Texas.” He looked at Sam.

Again Sam only shrugged.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” said Dolan. “You're new around here. You'll hear of him soon enough.”

The others all watched as Rolo filled shot glasses and slid one in front of each man, including Sam and Graft. The cantina owner smiled in relief and stepped back, shot glass in hand, as two workers came through shoveling broken mirror shards from the floor behind the bar. He tipped his shot glass toward Dolan in thanks.

Dolan nodded at Sam's shot glass of whiskey.

“Drink up, Jones,” he said. “It's always good to meet a man who knows his way around a shooting iron.” He gave a thin smile. “To be honest, you gave a hell of an account of yourself—three on one, you killed one, wounded one and put the hurt on a third. Those damn scalp hunters. Here's to shooting the stinking sons a' bitches.” He raised his shot glass as if in a toast of denouncement.

“My pleasure,” Sam said, lifting his shot glass.

“See?” Graft grinned. “There was really no trouble here.” But the gunmen appeared not to hear him.

As the empty shot glasses came back down onto the bar and Rolo started refilling them, the front curtain pulled to one side and harsh sunlight slanted in across the tile floor. On Dolan's other side, Clyde Burke spoke under his breath.

“Look who just showed up, Daryl,” he said.

“I bet I already know,” Dolan said. He turned sidelong to the bar, as did the others. “Well, well, if it ain't Ray Segert's
boys
,” he said to the new arrivals. “You didn't need to show up. We've got this covered.” Then he turned to the cantina owner. “Graft, set these boys up some
sassafras
tea, on me.”

“Dolan's right, fellows,” Graft called out. “There's no trouble here.”

The four men slowed on their way to the other end of the bar.

“I'll sassafras his ass,” a gunman named Dusty Phelps growled under his breath to the man, Max Udall, standing beside him. He started to make a sudden turn toward Dolan. The men at the bar tensed, as did the four newly arrived gunmen.

“Hold your spit, Dusty,” the lead man, Max Udall, demanded, stepping almost in between Phelps and Dolan. He gave Daryl Dolan a sharp snarl of a grin. “It's just Daryl's inhospitable way of being hospitable.” He spoke directly to Daryl. “I see nobody's yet carved out your tongue and used it for a door hinge.”

“You own a knife, Max. Come show us how it's done,” Dolan returned, his hand poised deftly at his gun butt.

But Max Udall nodded his men on toward the far end of the bar, drinkers pushing aside, making room for them. Some drinkers had already slipped out of the cantina and gone on their way.

“Not today, Dolan,” Udall said, walking on. “We only come to see what the shooting's about. Hope none of yas got rowdy and lost any toes.”

Dolan looked down at his boots. “Still got enough toes to stick a boot up your—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Welcome, one and all,” Graft cut in, hoping to stop any trouble before the men got past the stage of hurling insults from their lips and started blasting bullets from their guns.

“What
was
the shooting about, Graft?” Udall asked the nervous cantina owner as he and his men lined along the far end of the bar. Graft hurried down to them behind the bar, crunching glass underfoot on his way.

“Those stinking scalp hunters, Petty, Fain and the Mex, came in here goading my new customer down there,” said Graft, sweeping a hand toward Sam's end of the bar. “He put the
slam
on them, sure enough,” he said, grinning.

“Is that a fact?” said Udall. He eyed Sam from the far end of the bar.

“It is a fact,” said Graft. “He killed one, wounded one and left the third one carrying a ten-pound knot on his jaw.”

Udall didn't comment as he appraised Sam over the edge of his raised shot glass of rye. But beside him, Dusty Phelps only half raised his shot glass and stared coldly at Sam as he spoke to Udall and Graft.

“He must be
real
tough,” he said sarcastically. To his pals along the bar he said, “What about it, hombres? Should I be
frightened
here?”

A young, heavily muscled Kansas gunman named Mickey Galla downed his shot of rye and spoke in a whiskey-strained voice.

“Only if you was faint of heart to begin with,” he said. “He ain't much or he wouldn't be drinking with Madson's crow bait.”

Dolan and the other Madson men bristled at Galla's words, even though the young gunman's attention and stare was centered steadily on Sam.

“Easy, Mick,” said Udall. “You're hurting everybody's feelings. I'd like to drink here without having to get blood all over me for a change.”

“Please, fellows, no gunplay today,” Graft pleaded, seeing the atmosphere turn volatile all over again.

“I see no need for gunplay,” said Mickey Galla, swelling out his chest and his thick upper arms. “I'll walk down and give him a hard smack if you want me to—see if anything rattles inside his noggin.” As he spoke, he lifted his rifle and laid it up on the bar top. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Sam watched coolly.

“Hold up, Mick,” said Udall to the burly gunman, still eyeing Sam. He could tell that the stranger at the far end of the bar didn't scare easily.

“What's your new customer's name, Graft?” he asked the cantina owner, even though his eyes and Sam's were fixed on each other's.

“
Jones
is what he goes by,” said Graft in a shaky voice, a shaky grin to match. “I told him, ‘My my, Mr. Jones, I sure have met lots of your kinfolk in old Mexico.'” His grin widened and twitched. “It was just a little joke on my part,” he concluded. “Get it? There's so many Joneses—”

“Shut up, Graft,” said Udall, still staring at Sam. He turned his gaze slowly to Graft. “Why don't you go find yourself a deep dirty hole and stick your fingers down in it?”

“Yeah, real deep,” Galla added.

Graft slinked back a step.

Sam continued to stare coolly, unshaken. His hand rested on the bar near his Winchester.

“Jones, this is Mickey Galla,” Udall said, gesturing toward the huge muscle-bound gunman.

“Mr. Galla to you,” Galla said to Sam.

“Mick likes picking heavy stuff up over his head. Does it for hours,” Udall said proudly. “What do you do,
Jones
?” he asked, for the first time speaking directly to Sam.

“Says he's looking for gun work,” Graft cut in before Sam could offer a reply. “I told him, as good as he is, he won't—”

“Graft, shut the living hell up!”
said Udall, slamming his shot glass onto the bar top so hard it splintered and exploded in every direction. Turning to Mickey Galla, Udall said, “Mick, if he opens his mouth again, grab his throat and jerk him up out of his boots.”

“Will do,” said Galla. He gave Graft a hard, hateful stare. Graft hurried away, back to the other end of the bar to refill Dolan and his pals' glasses.

“I asked you
what you do, Jones
,” said Udall again to Sam.

“I heard you,” Sam replied.

Udall and his men stared in anticipation. So did Dolan and his pals.

After a tight silence, Udall cocked his head slightly at Sam.

“Well?” he asked Sam.

“Well, what?” Sam said.

“He's messing with you, Max,” Galla growled. He shoved himself back from the bar and walked quick-step toward Sam, his sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. “I bet I have to smack him one.” As he drew closer, Dolan's men parted, letting him through. They watched, eager to see what the newcomer had going for him.

“The man asked what you do, stranger,” Galla demanded, advancing on Sam like a stalking bull. “He won't ask again—”

His words were cut short as Sam's right hand clasped around the small of the rifle stock and jammed it butt first into the big gunman's face. Nose cartilage crunched; blood flew. Galla's upper half jolted to a halt; his lower half skidded forward on his bootheels. Before he hit the tile floor, Sam's Winchester swung around in a wide arc and slammed sidelong into the big gunman's head.

At the far end of the bar, Udall and the other Segert men made a move for their guns. But Sam snapped the rifle to his shoulder. Cocking it, he aimed it straight at Udall.