White Devil Mountain Read Free Page A

front of the bat-wing doors. As Lilia furrowed her brow, another one tottered through the doors and took his place at the top of the pile before her very eyes.
    “What is this?”
    She was sure something was wrong. Swiftly dismounting, she went over to the man who’d just collapsed, and then she heard laughter from inside the saloon. It was hoarse.
    “It’s him!” she said.
    Spinning on her toe, Lilia pushed her way through the swinging doors. Though she’d smelled it from outside the saloon, the fierce stink of alcohol now assailed her nose. That alone would’ve been enough to leave a child with alcohol poisoning. The saloon could hold perhaps thirty people total. But it looked as if twice that number were crowded in front of the tiny counter.
    Nudging some of the farmers who lay strewn across the floor with the tip of her boot, she said, “What’s with these guys?” Kicking one of them in the side to roll him over, Lilia grabbed four of the villagers who were crowded around the counter by the scruff of the neck, jerking them out of the way before pressing forward.
    “Okay, pretty boy, now it’s time for you to throw down with yours truly!” said a giant of a man seated on one of the center stools, his right hand lifting a whiskey glass.
    The figure to his left said, “You country bumpkins and your big talk!” The caustic remark came from a hoarse-voiced D. “You think because you’re one of the hardest-drinking fellas in the godforsaken sticks of the Frontier you can beat me? Dream on!”
    His left hand indicated the men on the floor. The motion was jerky, as if somewhat forced.
    The giant was easily angered. “Now you’ve gone and said it! Hey, Bob! This glass takes too damned long. Bring us some beer mugs!”
    A cheer went up. The villagers must’ve been expecting big things from their local hero.
    The mugs were set up in front of them. They were filled to the brim with salsa booze—a kind of alcohol that was said to be ten times as potent as absinthe. Both raised their mugs. The rule was that they’d drain them simultaneously.
    “Well, prost!”
    The man’s mug tilted, and its contents swiftly began to disappear. The giant’s Adam’s apple bobbed frantically. “Whew!” he roared, and he was just about to set his mug down when a din erupted, more gasps than cheers. D had already set his empty mug down.
    “Pretty boy here—” The giant stopped, somewhat tongue-tied. “Hey, let’s have another round, Bob!”
    “Sorry, Baska, we’re all out.”
    “Whaaaat?”
    “Think about it: We’ve emptied five kegs in twenty minutes’ time. But what worries me more than how I’m gonna open for business tomorrow is these guys lying all over the place.”
    “Okay,” the giant said, clambering off the stool. Raising both hands and taking a boxing stance, he said, “We’ll settle it with these, pretty boy. A man’s gotta prove himself with his fists, not his cups.”

    III

    “Sure,” the hoarse voice replied magnanimously. And then it hiccupped.
    “Are you drunk? Your face is paler than a damned moon gourd. The god of alcohol can’t help you now. I’ll send you to the ground with just one shot to the gut. Anyway, your voice don’t match your face at all, mister.”
    “True enough.”
    “Oh, he speaks!”
    The giant’s eyes went wide, but he rolled up his sleeves. The pose he took looked like something he’d taught himself.
    “What’s with that goofy fighting stance? You really are a bumpkin, aren’t you—ouuuuf!”
    D’s left hand squeezed into a fist, crushing out the insult, but that didn’t stem the giant’s anger. Hauling back with his right hand, he bellowed, “You son of a bitch!”
    His fist arced out, plowing through the air.
    “Huh?” he cried in astonishment after the punch that should’ve caught D right in the ear met only empty space. He was about to spin completely around, but he stopped himself halfway and returned to his stance. That was actually rather