Warlock

“Curley?” Ga

“Well, there is a lot that thinks high of Curley. Will Hart is one. Said he didn’t think Curley ever robbed a coach in his life. We had some words on that, too.” Carl scrubbed his hands up over his face. “I don’t know — I am pretty down on Curley, Joh

Speaking very carefully again, Ga

Carl nodded jerkily. “Part of it, too. For he is what the rest is and can fool folks to think he is not. And so he is worse.” He glanced at Ga

He nodded noncommittally.

Carl sighed and said, careful-voiced now in his turn, “Well, it was sure a surprise to me when it was you come in here with me, Joh

“Surely,” he said, and he felt the questions Carl wanted to ask, but hadn’t yet.

“Well, you come in and that’s the main thing,” Carl said. “But I guess you don’t really hate San Pablo the way I do, do you?”

“I guess not, Carl.”

“Don’t mean anything by mentioning it,” Carl said apologetically. “But I remember there was some talk at the time — I guess it was Burbage. How what happened to that bunch of greasers down in Rattlesnake Canyon that time wasn’t Apaches’ doing.”

Ga

“This one is getting a little bit quarrelsome,” Blaisedell said, putting Pony’s Colt down on the table before Carl. “Maybe he’d better cool off overnight, Deputy.”

Carl got to his feet. The Colt rattled as he slid it into the table drawer and closed the drawer with a slap. Pony looked past Carl to meet Ga

Blaisedell said, “If the judge comes in tell him this one was picking away at Chick Hasty in the Lucky Dollar. It looked like trouble so I took him out of circulation.”

“Surely, Marshal,” Carl said. Blaisedell nodded to Ga

“Well, Mister run-chicken, pee-on-your-own, Deputy Bud Ga

Carl straightened his shoulders, hitched at his shell belt, and, with a swift motion, picked up the shotgun and slammed the muzzle against Pony’s belly. Pony yelped and jumped back. Carl said, “G-get in there before I blow you in!”

Pony retreated into the cell before the shotgun, and Carl slammed the door. His face, when he turned to take the key Ga

In the cell Pony was cursing.

“Hear anything?” Carl said, winking at Ga

“All right!” Pony cried. “All right, Carl, you have chose the way you are going to choke yourself. All right, Bud Ga

“Damned if that one rat don’t squeak just like old Pony Be

“You will chew dust, you stringy, washed-up old bastard!” Pony yelled. His face disappeared. Immediately it returned. “And that gold-handled, muckering, God-damned long-haired son too!” Pony shouted. “He has threw his weight around for the last time, the last God-damned rotten time. We give him his chance and now he’ll eat dust, too. You hear I said it, you kiss-boot sons of bitches!”

He retreated into the cell, and the cot creaked.

“Quieted down,” Carl commented. “Sounds like somebody set a cat after those rats.” There was a triumphant flush to his face, but Ga

“No reason to bother the judge, I guess,” Carl said, behind him. “Judge was taking on freight heavy this afternoon, and he would need a lot of sobering up by now. We’ll just leave this one wait the night, and sweep him out with the cockroaches in the morning.”

Ga

“Bud,” Billy said, casually. Ga

“Some day you will get just too feisty,” Billy said to Pony. He would not look at Ga

“Judge hasn’t been in,” Carl said. “I’m holding him for disturbing the peace till he comes, or morning, one.”

“He wasn’t disturbing it that much,” Billy said. “Let him out and we’ll settle when the judge shows.”

“I guess not, son.”

“Kiss-boot bastards!” Pony cried, and kicked the door. Ga

“Let him out,” Billy said to Carl. He dropped his hands to his shell belt, as though to hitch at it; in an instant his Colt was in his hand, and trained on Carl behind the table.

Ga

But it was a copy of Abe McQuown’s shy grin that twisted the corners of Billy’s mouth, and a copy of Curley Burne’s bantering tone in which he said, “Por favor, Carl. Por favor.”

“Go to hell,” Carl whispered.

“Listen to the rats squeaking now!” Pony crowed. “Squeaking awful quiet, seems like.”

Billy said, “Get the keys, Bud.”

Ga

Ga

“Buckshot,” Carl said.

“Birdshot,” Billy said, and again there was a reflection of Curley Burne in his tone. He gri

“Buckshot,” Carl said. “On Saturday nights.” His voice was stronger. “Son,” he said. “Buckshot beats a Colt’s just like a full house does a pair.”

Billy slipped his Colt back into its scabbard. He gave Ga

“You threw me, Bud,” he said. “And took kind of a chance too.”

“You wasn’t going to go to shooting. Whoever it was.”

“Maybe I wasn’t, but it wasn’t a bluff you had to call. I had you and Carl covered fair enough.”

“Get out of here,” Carl said. “Before I decide to chuck you in there with Mister Squeaky.”

Billy said, “The marshal doesn’t run this town.”

“Looks like he does tonight,” Carl said.

“Nah, he doesn’t. Just some cowardy-cats in it.” Billy inclined his head almost imperceptibly at Ga

Pony yelled, “You, Mister throw-your-brother! I guess maybe next time he won’t be so quick to take big Jack off you!”

Carl slammed the barrel of the shotgun against the wooden bars, just as Pony leaped back away from the door.

Ga

“Feel easy,” Carl said, gri

Ga