The man in the boots was lean, clean-shaven, with a tattersall shirt and no hat. He glanced over his shoulder at me as he passed. I held the stare without giving him an opening; if he opted to make a move later, I’d decide then whether or not I was interested.
The cowboy squeezed into the rear booth with the three guys. Jerking a thumb in my direction, he said something that caused them all to snigger like third-graders. Comedy with a capital K.
“No point staring after that one.”
The waitress warmed my coffee. She wasn’t as old as she sounded, maybe late twenties, hefty with short blond hair scrunched in back, her wicked grin a cherry scimitar slash. The nametag said “Marta.”
“That’s Jack Youngblood, foreman out at the Jenkins Ranch. The old man he’s sitting with is Jenkins himself.”
Upon closer inspection of the corner booth, one man was definitely older than the other three, his posture square, full crown of slick powder-white hair and a string tie. No doubt he could still hold his own in a bar fight, if he were ever to be seen in such a joint.
Marta continued, “Word is, Jack’s been diddling Jenkins's young wife whenever the old man is out of town on business. She used to be a ‘dancer’ over in Salem.”
Marta even did the finger quotes when she said “dancer,” no small feat still holding the pot of joe.
“That tidbit’s even chewier than this ham,” I said.
“Honey, the gossip in this place is the only thing keeping me alive.”
“What about the others?” I meant the extra deuce in the booth. The short one was hunched over his food, arms gorilla-hugging the plate as he shoveled his lunch in like a backhoe.
“That’s Caulder McHenry, a wrangler out at the ranch. His brother used to work there too, but I haven’t seen him in a while. The big one with the beard is Coop Williams, and you keep clear of him; he’s the one I’m angling after.”
“You can have him. He’s too much man for me.” And he was; couldn’t be a kilo under three big ones.
The baby at the center table started bawling and the father waved to get Marta’s attention. She gave my coffee a fill-up before shuffling over.
“You need anything else, you let me know,” she said, not expecting an answer.
I surprised her. “Put a slice of Marionberry pie on deck.”
“You put all that food away and still look like that?” She pinched her face and shook her head. “I hate you.”
She moved off to help the family.
I opened my book.
That’s when two guys came through the door with machetes.
“Get the money out of the till. Now!” one of them shouted at the manager behind the register, waving his blade at Marta. “You! Get back there with him!”
She obeyed quietly, still holding the coffeepot.
The second guy slammed his blade on my table, rattling the ketchup and making my spoon hop. I stayed calm.
“Put your book down!”
Put my book down? What the hell, he was the boss. For now.
I laid the book down and put my hands palm-flat on the table. Didn’t want to give him a clue what I had under my coat, glad I’d opted not to leave it in the car.
He stared at me as if uncertain what to do, sweating and licking his lips nervously.
Both guys looked to be Hispanic or maybe Paiute, scared or hopped-up or both.
He darted off to join his partner, ordering the old couple at the counter to hand over their money, then turned to the family at the center table. The father complied, pulling out his wallet, and the mother cradled her screaming child protectively. The first guy moved to the rear booth, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“All your money, now!” Hacking a nearby chair for punctuation.
The short one, Caulder, was the first to protest. Then Youngblood joined in, whether by nature or just puffing up for my benefit, I couldn’t tell. Coop and the old man were calm in the face of the storm. In fact, Jenkins was already extracting a billfold from his breast pocket.
“It’s okay, boys. Let’s just give these fellas what they want and send them on their way.”
“But it’s not right, Mr. Jenkins!”
“Calm down, Caulder. We’ll leave these two to the police.”
“But it’s not right, I tell ya!” Caulder suddenly launched out of the booth at the heister.
The guy lifted his machete and brought the wooden handle down on the crown of Caulder’s head. I heard the thwok all the way up at my booth. It staggered Caulder but didn’t knock him out. He extended an arm to steady himself, spilling a napkin dispenser.
That’s when Coop rose, a grizzly protecting its cub, teeth bared behind his beard.
The robber held his ground, machete ready with the blade end this time.
I slowly slid a hand across my table toward my coat...
At the back booth, Youngblood took control, calming Coop and setting him down.
The robber boiled. “You four! In the back, move!” He shoved the dizzy Caulder to get him stepping and ushered the other three from the booth, prodding with machete tip.
This was taking an ugly turn.
As he herded them toward the men’s room, the robber glanced back to his partner.. “Keep an eye on them!”
The other one did as he was told, scanning us with peeled-egg eyes, waving his blade around like Attila the Hun at a piñata party.
“Hurry with the money!” he screamed, reaching an arm over the counter to assist the reluctant manager with the till stash. I’d be next.
I reached inside my coat as if for my money, quietly popping the Velcro retention strap and pulling steel free; keeping it hidden under my coat.
The nervous guy shoved the till bills in his pants, a few of them fluttering to the floor unnoticed.
He shouted toward the back, “Hurry up! Let’s go!”
He came toward my booth.
I started to draw my hand out of my coat.
Then the restroom door banged open and the first robber barreled out with a banshee wail, shouting something in English, Spanish, or Martian, I couldn’t tell.
Next to my booth, his partner spun to see what was up.
I stood and swung my gun, catching him square in the face, pulverizing his nose like a sack of dry noodles.
He fell back, blood streaming down his face. His machete went skidding across the floor, the blade wedging under a gumball stand.
The other guy kept coming, weapon raised, hollering his fool head off.
I fired once, nailing him in the fleshy part of the arm.
He sat down hard, a stunned look on his face, still clutching the machete.
I took it out of his hand as I stepped past. These two would be okay.
The mother at the center table wailed as loud as her baby. I gave her husband an irritated glance and he took over, cooing, “It’s okay, honey. It’s all done now.”
I hoped he was right.
I turned to tell Marta to call 911, but she was already on top of it, phone in mid dial.
The elderly couple was as placid as if they’d just sat through a tepid rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger.
“Nice shooting,” said the old guy.
I nodded and raced to the back.
Swinging open the restroom door, I found Coop and Caulder unconscious on the floor. Youngblood, the cowboy, was on his butt leaning against a closed stall, rubbing the back of his sore head.
On the floor next to him, Jenkins was flat on his back, peaceful in repose but for his staring marble eyes and the dark stain like a maroon bib spreading across his chest.
His throat had been slashed ear to ear.
Ten minutes later the front door was locked and the rundown in the diner was something like this:
The two bandits were in a booth, one holding an ice-packed washcloth to his busted nose, the other sitting still as Marta wrapped his arm in a towel while we waited for paramedics.