Six Ways From Sunday. William W. Johnstone
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bound up, and my face still looked like an old T-bone steak.
“Game’s been postponed,” I said. That would let him know a thing or two. This wasn’t over.
“Youse is a thmart laddie.”
“Busted ribs,” I replied. “I’m Cotton.”
“Arnold,” he replied.
“That’s all?”
“Arnold is all thish man wants for a name.”
“That’s better than two of ’em,” I said, wanting to be reasonable. I’d want this brute on my side in a fight.
I looked the other one over, and damned if he wasn’t pretty near a dwarf. He wasn’t no dwarf, but he didn’t get much ahead of four feet. He was plumb delicate, but eyeing me with brown eyes that was neutral. He was decidin’ whether I’d do or not. He’d taken a bunk over near Glan, and the pair of them looked to be the real gunslicks in the outfit. That little feller had him a gunbelt of black leather with two little guns hung from it. They was little short-barreled items, maybe thirty-two caliber. You had to be pretty close to do any damage with a rig like that, but maybe that’s how this little feller liked it.
“We all have pseudonyms around here,” he said.
There was another of them words I’d never heard of. “Soodo what?” I asked.
“Noms de guerre,” he replied.
I sure didn’t know what he was yakkin’ about. “Cotton here,” I said.
“Front or rear,” he asked.
I wasn’t about to admit to nothin’. “Take your pick,” I said.
The little guy smiled. Nice even white teeth. He owned that fine horse out there.
“Call me The Apocalypse,” he said.
“Mind if I just call you Pock?”
“Of course I mind.”
This was getting plumb difficult. “That a nice Morgan horse you got out there?”
“How did you know it is my horse?”
“It sure don’t belong to him,” I said, jerking a thumb at Arnold.
“You’re smart,” The Apocalypse said.
I was damned if I would call him that, but I’d settle it later. It looked like old Scruples had a full house here now. I eyed the rest while I got myself settled in the bunk across the aisle. Not that I wanted that stinkin’ bunk, but I needed to heal up before makin’ an issue out of it. And it’d pay to watch Arnold in action before I settled his hash. They usually had some weakness or other.
It was some crew in there, thugs like them presidents; an all-around tough son of a bitch like Lugar, a brawler like Arnold, a sniper like Glan, and an in-close man like whatever the hell he called himself. And me, just a country boy good with guns, at least if I had any. They was all lookin’ at that old Baby Dragoon cap-and-ball revolver, and maybe smilin’ some. I was small potatoes, far as they was concerned. I didn’t mind. No one was payin’ me no never mind.
It looked to me like Scruples had himself a bunch of trespass enforcers that could deal with most any outfit, ’cept maybe the two big ones, the Big Mother Mine and Fat Tuesday. It sure stank in that bunkhouse, and I hoped to get ’er over with quick.
Long about after we licked up some sowbelly and beans for our supper, Lugar gave us our marchin’ orders. Scruples, he was still goin’ after the Hermit Mine; they must be blowing some good gold ore outta there because it was tops on Scruples’ list. Lugar, he never told us he was the straw boss, but he’s the one come to tell us what we’d be doing in the morning.
“We’re going to drive them trespassers out for good,” he said. “Live or in coffins, don’t matter any.”
The deal was that we’d go there at dawn, shoot any dogs, and move in close enough so Glan could put his marksmanship to work, and then simply shoot anyone in sight until they called it quits.
Scruples was gonna have the Hermit Mine all to himself and Amanda before sundown.
“Any questions?” Lugar asked.
“You gonna give them a chance to pull out?” I asked.
“They had their chance.”
“What if they raise their hands and quit?”
“They had their chance.”
That didn’t sit well with me, but it didn’t bother the rest none.
We’d leave at dawn and the sun would come up blood red.
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