Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Read Free Page B

cap on his head, the earlaps turned up and tied on top. He glanced at Mabry, frankly curious.
    There was nobody in the room that Mabry knew until the bartender turned around.
    Mabry crossed to the bar and put his saddlebags on top, leaning the Winchester against the bar.
    The bartender’s face was flushed. He glanced quickly, guiltily around, then touched his lips with his tongue. He was obviously worried and nervous.
    â€œâ€™Lo, King. I—”
    Something that might have been amusement flickered briefly in the big man’s eyes. He stared gravely at the bartender. “Know your face, but…What was that name again?”
    â€œWilliams.” The man spoke hastily, his relief obvious. “Bill Williams.”
    â€œSure. Sorry I forgot.”
    The bartender ducked below bar level and came up with a square, dusty bottle. “Little o’ the Irish. On the house.”
    Mabry accepted the bottle without comment and filled a glass. He lifted it, sighting through the amber whisky to catch the light.
    â€œHas the smell o’ the peat, that Irish does.”
    Mabry glanced briefly at the man in the fur-collared coat, then pushed the bottle toward him.
    â€œThe name’s Healy. Tom Healy, of the Healy Traveling Shows.” He lifted the whisky, treasuring it in his hand. “The best they’d offer me was barrel whisky.”
    They drank, replacing their glasses on the bar. Mabry let his eyes canvass the room, probing for possible trouble. A man remained alive by knowing what to expect and what direction to expect it from. And there was a man near the card table with a long, narrow face filled with latent viciousness. He stood near a slack-jawed man with shifty eyes.
    The man in the fur-collared coat spun a gold coin on the bar and refilled their glasses.
    In the momentary stillness of the room the sound of the coin was distinct and clear. Heads turned and eyes held on the coin, then lifted to the face of the man in the fur collar. An Eastern face, an Eastern man, a tenderfoot. And then their eyes went naturally to Mabry, and seemed to pause.
    â€œEasy with that gold, mister.” Mabry lifted his glass. “Maybe half the men in this room would slit your throat for it.”
    Healy’s smile was friendly, yet faintly taunting. “I’m green, friend, but not that green. Even if I’m Irish.”
    Mabry tossed off the whisky. “You fork your own broncs in this country,” he said, and turned abruptly away.
    He took up his rifle and saddlebags and stepped out toward the adjoining room, and then he missed a stride and almost stopped, for a girl had just come into the room.
    She walked with quick, purposeful steps, but as their eyes met her step faltered, too. Then she caught herself and went on by, leaving him with a flashing memory of red-gold hair and a gray traveling dress whose like he had not seen since Richmond. He opened the inner door and entered the hallway beyond. Away from the fire, it was cold.
    Along the hall on one side were four doors. These he surmised led to separate rooms. On the left side was one door, which he opened. This led to a long room lined with tiers of bunks, three high. The room would sleep thirty. Choosing an empty bunk near the door, he dumped his gear.
    He shucked his sheepskin coat, then his belt and gun. The second gun stayed in his waistband.
    City girl…must be with the Healy show. Her eyes had looked into his, straight and clean. Not boldly, but with assurance and self-possession. She was all woman, that one. And a lady.
    None of his affair.
    His thoughts reverted to the men in the room. Dispassionately, yet with knowledge born of long experience, he could see what would happen. Within thirty minutes or less Griffin’s friends would know he had come in and under what circumstances. What happened then would depend on how far they would go for a friend.
    Not far…unless it would serve their own ends, or one of them was