Badlanders Read Free

be Mr. McCoy? Mr. Isaiah McCoy?”
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Lice demanded. He didn’t like visitors. He didn’t like people, period. Which was why he lived so far from everybody. He wanted to be alone and to be left alone. Unfortunately his constant craving for alcohol meant he had to go into town every couple of weeks for a bottle. But that was a small price to pay when the rest of the time he lived in cherished solitude.
    â€œFranklyn Wells, pleased to meet you,” the small man said cheerily.
    â€œWhat do you want?” Lice didn’t like having his dozing interrupted. “It’s damn late to be traipsin’ over the countryside.”
    â€œWe’re here specifically to see you, Mr. McCoy,” Wells replied. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but we’ve come a very long way and I wanted to conclude our business as soon as possible.”
    â€œWhat sort of business do you have with me that you show up now? It must be pushin’ ten o’clock.”
    â€œI’ll gladly tell you all about it if you’ll lower that cannon,” Wells said.
    â€œNot hardly,” Lice said. “How do I know you ain’t outlaws?”
    The other rider spoke in a deep, low voice. “Would outlaws ride right up like this? Use your head, old-timer.”
    â€œI am usin’ it,” Lice rejoined angrily. “Some outlaws are trickier than others. You might have rode up thinkin’ I’d think you must be honest folk, and then you gun me in the back.”
    â€œWe’re not here to harm you in any way,” Wells said. “I assure you.”
    Lice snorted. “You expect me to take the word of a gent I don’t know from Adam? You must reckon I’m stupid.”
    â€œPlease,” Wells said. “Lower that shotgun so we can talk.”
    â€œYou have one minute to tell me what you’re doin’ on my place and then I let fly with buckshot,” Lice said.
    The other rider raised his deep voice. “Enough of this. Jericho.”
    â€œJericho?” Lice repeated. “That’s a city, not a prophet, you lunkhead. Don’t you know your Bible any better than—” He suddenly stopped. A hard object had been pressed to the side of his head, and he heard a gun hammer click.
    â€œI’ll say this only once,” said someone in a manner that sent a shiver down Lice’s spine. “Hand the howitzer to me or I splatter your brains.”
    Lice believed him. “Sure, mister,” he said quickly. “Go easy with that hardware.” He held the shotgun to one side, careful to keep the barrels pointed at the ground. A hand reached out and took it, and the object gouging his head went away.
    â€œCome on in, Neal. The old tom cat has been declawed.”
    Lice looked at the man who had taken his shotgun, and swallowed. He flattered himself that he was good at reading folks, and this one was a curly wolf if ever he saw one. Raising his hands, he said, “Take whatever else you want. Just don’t kill me.”
    The man in the black hat and shirt was holding a pearl-handled Colt in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Unexpectedly, he twirled the Colt forward a few times and then backward and slid it into his holster with a flourish, all as naturally as breathing. “No one’s goin’ to kill you, you old goat.”
    Lice was terribly confused. He decided to keep quiet and await developments. The man at his side scared him. He knew a gun hand when he saw one.
    The other pair rode up and dismounted.
    â€œLet’s try this again,” Franklyn Wells said. “You can lower your arms. I was serious when I told you we’re here on business.”
    His confusion climbing, Lice shook. He also shook the hand of the man with the deep voice, a big cowboy with as strong a grip as Lice ever felt. “It sure is strange, you showin’ up out of the blue like this.”
    â€œHow