Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) Read Free

fingerless right leather glove, stuffed it down behind his gun belt, turned and walked across the empty street.
    Glory Embers stepped forward and gave him a welcoming smile, hoping to stall him long enough for Tereze to get to the Frenchman and warn him.
    â€œHello, stranger,” she called out from a few feet away. “Care to buy a thirsty gal a drink?”
    Sam realized what she was doing and didn’t slow his pace.
    â€œNot today, ma’am. I’m here on business,” he said, gazing straight ahead.
    Glory had started to move in closer, but gauging his demeanor, she decided it was best to keep her distance.
    All right. She shrugged as he walked past her toward the cantina’s open front doors. She had done what the Frenchman expected from any of his girls. She had sent Tereze to warn him. She drifted cautiously to the side as the Ranger walked into the cooler shade of the cantina.
    At the far end of the bar, Sam set eyes on the younger woman. Beside her stood Henri “Three-Hand” Defoe, who stuck a large, fresh cigar between his teeth and tried to look as if he hadn’t been caught by surprise. Behind the bar, a bald, thick-necked bartender hurriedly lowered a sawed-off shotgun down out of sight, thinking no one had witnessed the move.
    From the stony look on Sam’s face, Henri’s smile faded away. He decided quickly that there was no room for pretense.
    â€œWell, well, monsieur ,” Defoe said with a trace of a French accent. “The little lady here tells me you stood your cayuse all the way across the street. I’ve never known that to be a friendly gesture. . . .” He let his words trail. He held his hand to his cigar, keeping his other arm hanging loosely down the side of his long, tan swallow-tailed coat.
    â€œEspecially when we have so much room for your horse out front,” he said, giving a nod toward the half-empty cantina.
    Sam didn’t reply. Instead he stopped less than ten feet away and stared at the big, dapper Frenchman.
    â€œTell your bartender to take his hands up away from the hogleg,” he said bluntly. “I’m not here looking for either of you.”
    â€œOh?” The Frenchman eyed him up and down, noting the big Colt hanging in the Ranger’s right hand, beneath the edge of his dusty poncho. “And who might you be here looking for?”
    â€œWe’ll get to that,” said Sam. He cut a sharp sidelong glance at the bartender.
    â€œFreddie,” Defoe said without taking his eyes from the Ranger, “bring your hands into sight. You make the gentleman uncomfortable.”
    â€œWhatever you say, boss,” said the bartender, Fred Loopy. He let down the shotgun hammers, set the gun on a lower shelf and brought his thick hands up slowly, resting them along the bar’s edge. He stared at Sam with a sour expression.
    Defoe gave a shrug and a flat, mirthless grin. His curly black hair hung damp on his sweaty forehead.
    â€œThese are dangerous times in which we live, eh, monsieur ,” he said to Sam. “A man must always prepare to protect himself and his chattels—”
    â€œI’m looking for the Torres brothers and any of their Gun Killers,” Sam said, cutting him off. As he spoke, he let his gaze move about the cantina. Men were staring from the far end of the bar, from three tables along a wall and from a half-open side door where a man stood with an arm around a woman’s waist.
    â€œAs you see, monsieur, ” Defoe said with the same flat grin, “no one shoots you and no one runs for the door. The Perros Malos is a beacon of light in this harsh Mexican frontier.” He gestured toward the Colt hanging in Sam’s hand. “Anything else?” he asked.
    â€œYou can take your other hand from under your coat,” Sam said matter-of-factly.
    â€œMy other hand . . . ?” The Frenchman turned a puzzled look to his bartender, as if for clarification. Then he