Travis Read Free Page A

make that run himself? With two fast horses, Travis had a big advantage over the others. He could start his own ranch on that free land. It would be better than going back to Texas with all his pride crushed and letting everyone pity him because he was now crippled and useless. He was much too proud for that.
    The thought of his own ranch cheered him a little. He should go eat something, but what he wanted first was a drink. He turned and strode slowly toward the Diamond Horseshoe, wondering at the same time about that high-pitched scream he had heard during the gunfight.
    He walked unsteadily through the swinging doors, the loud piano blaring at him as he stumbled up to the bar. Around him, men backed away and he heard the whispering: “. . . Texas Ranger . . . yeah, that’s the one. . . . Heard he killed the Grande Kid . . . Jesus! He must be really fast with that Colt. . . . Not so fast the Kid didn’t manage to get a slug in his arm. . . .”
    “Whiskey!” Travis ordered, slamming his left fist on the bar.
    The fat barkeeper looked him over with a slight curl of derision to his lip. “We don’t serve Injuns or half-breeds. There’s a bar for your kind on the outskirts of town.”
    And here it was again. The shame and scorn he’d dealt with all his life. He reached his left hand across the bar as fast as a rattlesnake strikes and grabbed the fat man by the collar, lifting him off the floor. “I said, give me a drink or I’ll wipe up the place with you!”
    He saw the sweat break out on the man’s pale face as the barkeeper looked past him, gesturing helplessly.
    Behind him, a cold voice said, “Frenchie, give the gentleman a drink. After all, he’s a hero.”
    Travis let go of the barkeep, who hurried to get him a glass and bottle. Travis turned slowly to look behind him. The man standing there had a face chiseled from stone and his gun belt hung low. A gunfighter, Travis thought. “Mucho gracias.” He nodded. “You join me?”
    “I’m Slade.” His smile was like a slash in his ugly face as he shook his head. “I never drink with customers.”
    Or maybe not with half-breeds , Travis thought. He shrugged and turned back to the bar as the fat man slid the glass and bottle in front of him. Behind him, he heard the sound of boots echoing over the music as the gunman walked away. “Who is that?”
    Frenchie wiped his hands on his soiled white apron. “Slade? He’s Duke Roberts’s hired gun.”
    “Who’s Duke Roberts?”
    “He owns the place.”
    Travis drained his glass, feeling the bitter whiskey wash down his throat, wondering if he should be mixing alcohol with laudanum. At least it was numbing the pounding pain in his swollen wrist. He poured himself another as the other cowboys and settlers elbowed back up to the bar now that the threat of trouble had vanished.
    Maybe it was the mixture, but now he was feeling pretty good. He leaned against the bar with a sigh and looked around.
    In the distance, he heard the wail of a train whistle. He turned in time to see a man and a girl coming down the stairs. The man wore a fine broadcloth coat and carried a satchel. The brown-haired girl wore gaudy scarlet. Travis only got a quick glance before the couple was lost in the crowd, headed for the swinging doors where the stone-faced gunfighter stood. The three went outside.
    Travis was getting a bit bleary-eyed and swayed on his feet. Take it easy , he warned himself. A drunk can’t defend himself if he has to.
    Not as if he could right now, even if he was sober, he thought bitterly, not with his right wrist in the shape it was in. Travis turned with a questioning look to the barkeep. “Who’s the fancy dude?”
    Frenchie wiped beer mugs with a dirty rag. “Duke, the boss. He’s going to St. Louie to get some new roulette wheels. Business is really booming with this land run.”
    Travis merely grunted. The whiskey was beginning to slow his pain and he decided he’d better leave before he fell facedown on