“if you ever look at her that way again, I’ll kill you with or without my father’s orders. Understood?”
It was all that Longarm could do to nod his head and then stomp back down the stairs.
Chapter 11
Even a good player, such as Longarm considered himself to be, didn’t have much of a chance in a game of marked cards. He’d seen the marks, and they weren’t even all that professionally done. Just some filling in of the squiggles on the backs of the cards so that the Killions knew who held face cards and could bet accordingly. Longarm would have loved to just grab those marked cards and cram them down Clyde’s throat, but that would result in a bloody gunfight and he was determined to avoid that at all costs.
It galled Longarm terribly to be slapped and then cheated by a crowing, braying fool, but Longarm knew that he was playing for far bigger stakes than the measly dollars he was being cheated out of this night.
“Well, boys,” he said later that night. “I’ve just got about ten dollars left and I’m going to have to quit.”
“Who said?” a man named Dean wanted to know. “In Helldorado, you quit a card game when you’re told to and not before.”
Longarm glanced at Clyde, who took a sudden interest in his winnings. That told Longarm that Dean was acting on his own and that Longarm was probably being tested. If he backed down from Dean, he might as well tuck his tail between his legs and let them run him out of Helldorado tonight.
A fierce sense of joy filled Longarm as he realized that here, at last, was a challenge that he did not have to ignore. And so he stared at Dean with more anticipation than anger. The man was big, coarse, and itching for a fight that Longarm was more than happy to provide.
Longarm pushed to his feet. “I’m quitting now,” he said evenly.
All conversation in the saloon stopped. The men at the poker table who had smugly collected Longarm’s dollars with their poorly marked cards grinned, probably expecting Dean to dismantle the scruffy-looking mustanger who had ridden into their town. A good, brutal whipping was their idea of great fun.
“What did you say?” Dean asked, coming to his own feet with his hands balled into big fists.
“I said don’t push me, Horse Face.”
Dean’s jaw dropped. Up to this point, Longarm had been the model of servitude. This talk just didn’t fit the image he’d carefully crafted in order to lower their guard.
Dean brushed back the hem of his coat to expose a well-worn Colt. “You’re gonna get down on your knees and beg for your worthless life or I’m going to shoot you full of holes.”
Longarm pushed back his own coat. He had a feeling that Dean was as fast with his gun as he was good with his fists. Either way, he was not a man to be taken lightly, and Longarm was going to have to either kill or completely humble the arrogant outlaw.
“If you want to spend the rest of your life in a pine box, make your play,” Longarm said easily.
A flicker of doubt crossed Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t a coward and was confident of his ability, but Longarm knew the man would have preferred to have bluffed his way to victory rather than risk a bullet.
Clyde collected his own winnings and pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll get out of the way,” he said to no one in particular.
The others had the same idea, and their table emptied. Other tables emptied too as men quickly left the line of fire. Longarm could feel his blood starting to pound because nothing was certain in a gunfight other than that someone was probably going to die.
“Well?” Longarm asked.
When Dean gulped and then nervously glanced around as if seeking support, Longarm casually reached down with his left hand and brought his whiskey to his lips. He never took his eyes off those of the man he faced, and he barely sipped his drink before lowering it with a thin, half-smile.
“Well, Dean,” he asked again in an entirely pleasant tone of voice. “What the hell is holding you up? Got a streak of yellow running up and down your spine?”
Beads of sweat burst out across Dean’s forehead and his fingers waved over his gun butt. “I’m going to gut-shoot you, mister. I’m going to see you die slow!”
Longarm lowered his glass a little. “Go on,” he urged. “Make your play.”
Dean went for his gun. Longarm saw his eyes blink even as the man’s hand dropped to his Colt. Longarm flicked the whiskey into Dean’s eyes, then grabbed the edge of their poker table and pushed it hard into the outlaw. The edge of the table caught the hammer of Dean’s gun as he blindly struggled to bring it up to fire. The gun fired harmlessly into the sawdust-covered floor, and then Longarm was heaving the table through and over the falling outlaw.
The whiskey had blinded Dean, and he was trying to wipe his vision clear when Longarm lashed out with a boot that caught him under the chin and snapped his head back. Dean rolled and Longarm kicked his forearm, sending the man’s gun flying.
“Get up,” he calmly ordered, waiting for Dean to struggle to his feet.
Dean was smart enough to take his time. He blinked, and then dried his eyes with his sleeve. When his vision was clear enough to see that Longarm hadn’t even drawn his gun, Dean cursed and charged, arms reaching out to encircle Longarm and tackle him to the ground.
Instead, Longarm jumped aside and booted Dean in the ear. The man screamed in pain and furrowed through the dirty sawdust. Longarm walked over and grabbed his collar, dragging him to his feet.
“You were going to gut-shoot me, huh?” he asked, driving a powerful uppercut to Dean’s belly that lifted him completely off the ground.
Still clutching the man’s collar, Longarm pounded him again in the belly, and then grabbed Dean’s ears and jerked the man’s face down to connect with a wicked left uppercut. Everyone in the room heard Dean’s nose POP, and then heard the man scream in agony as he crashed over a chair.
Longarm was feeling good, and he wasn’t nearly ready to see this fight end. Not after all the sucking up he’d been forced to do to this gang. “Come on, Dean!” he urged. “Get up and let’s make a good fight of it!”
But Dean was finished. His face was a sheet of blood and he couldn’t seem to get enough breath in his lungs. Longarm went over to help him into a chair, but Randy Killion stepped between them. Longarm hadn’t a clue as to where he’d come from or how long he’d been in the saloon, but he was suddenly there and a gun was in his fist pointing at Longarm’s chest.
“Dean has had enough fighting,” Randy said, cocking his gun.
Longarm was brought up short. He forced a smile. “I was going to help him into a chair and maybe buy him a drink to show there were no hard feelings on my part.”
“He doesn’t need a drink,” Randy said. “And there will be hard feelings.”
Longarm raised his hands and unclenched his big fists. “It was a fair fight. He asked for it, not me.”
“The man didn’t have a chance,” Randy said, “and we both know it.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Clyde asked, coming to stand beside his younger brother.
Longarm looked around at the others, then turned back to face the Killion brothers. “I had a friend that shared a cell block with me at the Yuma Territorial Prison. He was a former bare-knuckles champion and he knew how to use his fists. He beat the hell out of me the first two years we were locked up together.”
“And then?” Randy asked.
“And then I learned the hard way and beat the hell out of him for a couple of years before we became friends.”
The brothers exchanged quick glances. Clyde studied Dean, and when he looked up at Longarm, there was respect in his deep-set eyes.
“Maybe I’d like a few lessons myself someday, Custis,” Randy said. “And maybe I can teach you a few things that fella didn’t know about fighting.”
“I’m always happy to learn,” Longarm said. “Shall we go to it right now?”