Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) Read Free Page A

turned back to Sam as the bartender gave him a bewildered look.
    â€œI know who you are, Henri ‘ Three-Hand ’ Defoe,” Sam said. The hammer of his Colt cocked at his side. The barrel tipped up toward the big Frenchman. “Now, how do you want to do this?”
    Defoe studied the intent eyes staring into his. Finally he let out a tight breath.
    â€œYou appear to have me at a disadvantage, monsieur ,” he said. With his left hand poised at his cigar and his right hand hanging down his side, he extended a third hand from beneath the right side of his swallow-tailed coat. He spread his fingers wide, showing Sam that his real right hand was empty. “There, now, are you satisfied?” he asked in a chilled tone.
    Sam gave a short nod, stepping forward, and reached behind Defoe’s coat to pull a small ornate Lefaucheux pistol from a slim-jim side holster. He laid the pistol on the bar top.
    â€œWho the hell are you, mister?” the bartender blurted out.
    â€œI’m Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack,” Sam replied, again cutting a glance around at the faces in the cantina. “I’m after the Torres brothers and their gang.”
    A sly grin came to Henri Defoe’s rough, pitted face.
    â€œMy, my, Ranger, you’ve overshot the border by a long ways,” he said, looking relieved that the Ranger had not mentioned any charges against him. “Out of curiosity,” he continued, “have you any authorization from the Mexican government?”
    â€œYes, I do.” Sam uncoiled a little himself. He lowered the hammer on his Colt and eased the gun back down to his side. “I would not be here otherwise.”
    â€œWhere is your badge?” Fred the bartender asked.
    Both Sam and Defoe gave him a look, and Fred looked embarrassed by his own question.
    â€œJust curious,” Fred said.
    The Ranger had taken off his badge his first day out of Nogales. He carried it in his shirt pocket.
    Sam turned his eyes back to Defoe.
    â€œHave the Gun Killers been through here?” he asked, knowing the answer to his question before he’d asked, but wanting to see if he could get any cooperation out of Three-Hand Defoe.
    â€œHmmm, let me think . . . ,” Defoe said. He raised a hand from behind his coat and scratched his chin, feigning serious contemplation. “No, Ranger, I’m certain they have not.”
    Lying, just as I thought , Sam thought, staring at Defoe—a man whose reputation was so bad he had to keep an arm hidden behind his coat in case his past ever caught up to him.
    â€œI’m afraid you made a mistake coming to Wild Roses,” Defoe said. He grinned slyly, sucked on his thick cigar and blew a pointed stream of smoke upward. “Too bad,” he lamented. “What a terrible waste of your time.”
    â€œI’ll find a way to make up for it,” Sam said, keeping his flat stare at Defoe. Ignoring the Frenchman’s goading sarcasm and a chuff of laughter from the bartender, he backed away toward the front doors, his Colt still in hand.
    On the boardwalk, Glory Embers stood to one side and gave him a smile, as if he were still welcome in spite of the tension he’d left hanging in the air.
    â€œYou come back and see me. I promise I won’t be a waste of time,” she said.
    Sam only touched the brim of his sombrero respectfully, stepped down from the boardwalk and walked across the dusty street.
    Sam was well aware that riding to Wild Roses and approaching the Frenchman about the gang was not a waste of time. He picked up the dun’s reins, leading the thirsty animal toward the large, stone-encircled village well.
    He’d learned from experience. In hunting a gang as large and powerful as the Gun Killers, the next best thing to knowing where they are is knowing where they would run to when hard pressed by the law.
    Oh yes, the Gun Killers had been here; he was certain of it. He’d come upon the tracks