Savage Range Read Free Page A

man whose back had been pinned on the table top rolled off and stumbled to his feet. A smear of red crossed his mouth, and he was breathing deeply.
    â€œKeep out of this, Cope!” the puncher against the wall said mildly.
    The heavy man swung ponderously on his crutch. “You take that row outside,” he replied just as mildly.
    The kid, hardly more than eighteen, scoured his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand and glared beyond Cope at the puncher. It was this man the room watched, as if expecting him to give the cue. He was almost middle-aged, heavy in a way that was overmuscled, brutal. There was a kind of cheerful cruelty in his face that played in his eyes, his twisted, amused mouth behind his beard, and in his manner which held an exuberant arrogance. He rubbed the flat of his square palm across his beard and laughed. Then he hit Cope on the side of the head. It made a dull, solid, smacking noise. Cope’s head did not move. He shook it a little, then lifted his crutch and brought it down at the stocky man, who dodged and missed it. Cope put the crutch under his arm again.
    â€œDon’t get me mad, Will-John,” Cope said gently. “Take it outside like I said.”
    Will-John smiled lazily and looked over at the kid. “Sure,” he murmured. “That kid had snaked six sleepers off me tonight. I’ll put up with five. Not more, though.”
    He walked over to the kid and grabbed his shirt in his fist. The kid bit him in the face, and he laughed. The kid tried to stand his ground, but he couldn’t. He was pushed down the barway by Will-John’s lazy strength and then out the door into the rain. The curious crowd followed. Cope loafed down the room behind them and took his low seat behind the bar.
    Jim murmured, “This Cope isn’t a man to ask for help, is he?”
    Bonsell smiled faintly and rose. “Come and meet him. If he likes a man, he’s a friend.”
    Cope, still seated behind the bar, looked up at their approach and Bonsell said, “Cope, this is Jim Wade, the new boss at the Excelsior.”
    Cope’s veiled eyes regarded Jim closely, and he put out a big hand which was not flabby. “Howdy,” he said. He nodded toward the door. “Don’t let that bother you, Wade. My tables are square, and I serve all comers. But I won’t allow a fight here and I won’t take a side.” He pulled up a bottle. “Have a drink.”
    Jim and Bonsell accepted the drink. It was strangely silent here in the saloon now, so that the silence outside was even more pronounced. Threading through it, barely audible, was the sound of muffled sobbing, nothing more.
    Jim, curious, looked at Cope, a question in his eyes.
    Cope said, “This Will-John can be pretty rough sometimes.”
    Jim set down his glass and strolled to the door. He shouldered through it and paused on the single step. The crowd, unmindful of the rain, lined the walk of the street that led to the plaza. The lamp in the lobby of the hotel across the street laid a dim light out on the shining mud of the street.
    The kid was down in that mud, crawling. When he would fight to his knees, Will-John would stomp him down again. It was patient bullying; Will-John was absorbed by it.
    He would stomp the kid into the mud and then he would raise his head to look across the street at someone in the shadow of the hotel.
    â€œHere he is,” Will-John called, his voice almost quiet in the silent rain. “I’ll help him over. But he’s got to crawl.”
    There was no answer from across the street, and Jim watched the kid drag himself to his knees, only to be stomped down by Will-John.
    â€œHe’s a tinhorn, but he don’t ring,” Will-John observed, looking across the street again.
    Jim felt that old feeling gathering inside him that might have been a warning if it didn’t always come too late. He shouldered through the crowd, ducked under the tie rail,