gunfire was as natural a sound as barking dogs. A couple of miles further south and the citizens act like they never heard a gun.
The swinging doors opened with a bang and three burly, hard-faced men came through single file, stopped when they were inside and stood shoulder to shoulder, thumbs hooked into their belts. Each pair of eyes looked around the room but it was as though it were one man.
"Any law on the premises?" the hardcase in the middle asked and Buchanan, as he always did, tried to place the speaker's region. A twangy-sounding voice that bit the words off sharp. Missouri, he guessed. Or maybe Kansas. "Sheriff Rivercomb is laid up," someone at the bar an swered meekly, and that made the Missourian, or Kan san, laugh.
"Wynt," he said too loudly to the man on his right, "did you go and send word we was comin'?"
"Christ, no, I didn't!" Wynt answered. "You know, Prado, how I like to make these Texas sheriffs jig!"
Missouri, definitely, Buchanan decided, and made him self a little bet on the side that they hadn't come through Shelby with big talk like that.
Now they were walking toward the bar, single file again like ex-soldiers, Buchanan noted, and half a dozen men quickly gave away their places to them.
"Put the bottle on the bar and take your ugly face away," Prado told the bartender. Buchanan straightened up in his chair, his broad face expectant, pantherish. He liked this bartender, felt indebted to him for the extra measure of bourbon. Now he waited for the fellow to give these loudmouths the word —and take his own hand in the fun that would follow.
Instead, the bottle was produced and his new friend faded to the other end of the bar. Buchanan sat back, frowning. At the next table an old man was speaking to his companion, his voice a low, protesting undertone.
"What in the tarnation's goin' on around here, any how?" he demanded.
"Shh, Charlie! Keep your voice down!" the other one cautioned in a whisper.
"That's what I mean, dagnabit! For the last two weeks now a person can't hardly draw a free breath in this town! A regular damn parade of these hardcase bullies . . ."
"Shh, Charlie! You want them to come back here?"
"But where they comin' from? Where they goin'? Why do they have to stop in Aura? Look at them standin' there, starin' around like they was the three cocks-of-the-walk and us decent folks was dirt. Just look at their mean faces, Rob..."
"Charlie, you're gonna get us gunwhipped just like poor old John Rivercomb."
"Well, at least John stood up to them two Perrotts, or whatever their names was."
"John is paid to stand up to troublemakers," Rob whis pered back. "He asked to get elected and that's part of the job."
The man named Charlie had chanced to look over his shoulder and spot the huge, somehow formidable figure looming in the semi-darkness above the other table. He turned his head quickly, mumbled something behind his hand to Rob. Rob stiffened in fear, and it was Buchanan's impulse to get up and join them, reassure them about his own peaceful intentions. He pushed his chair back, started to rise, when the voice of the one called Prado took his and everyone else's attention.
"Well, will you looka there, boys!" he shouted nasally, his voice breaking over the other strained, hesitant sounds in the room, his beady-eyed glance directed toward the girl dealing blackjack. Now the silence was complete and every head swung to that table. Including Buchanan, who marked that she blinked her eyes once, then regained her cool composure in the next moment. She looked over the cards of the four players betting against her, made her decision and turned up the hole card.
"King, six," she announced in a clear, professional tone. "Pay seventeen!" Two of her opponents collected, two lost.
She knows the odds, Buchanan thought, and then that annoying voice sounded off from the bar again.
"Pay seventeen!" Prado called over to her in a kind of churlish mockery. "Girlie, I pay eighteen. Whatta you
The swinging doors opened with a bang and three burly, hard-faced men came through single file, stopped when they were inside and stood shoulder to shoulder, thumbs hooked into their belts. Each pair of eyes looked around the room but it was as though it were one man.
"Any law on the premises?" the hardcase in the middle asked and Buchanan, as he always did, tried to place the speaker's region. A twangy-sounding voice that bit the words off sharp. Missouri, he guessed. Or maybe Kansas. "Sheriff Rivercomb is laid up," someone at the bar an swered meekly, and that made the Missourian, or Kan san, laugh.
"Wynt," he said too loudly to the man on his right, "did you go and send word we was comin'?"
"Christ, no, I didn't!" Wynt answered. "You know, Prado, how I like to make these Texas sheriffs jig!"
Missouri, definitely, Buchanan decided, and made him self a little bet on the side that they hadn't come through Shelby with big talk like that.
Now they were walking toward the bar, single file again like ex-soldiers, Buchanan noted, and half a dozen men quickly gave away their places to them.
"Put the bottle on the bar and take your ugly face away," Prado told the bartender. Buchanan straightened up in his chair, his broad face expectant, pantherish. He liked this bartender, felt indebted to him for the extra measure of bourbon. Now he waited for the fellow to give these loudmouths the word —and take his own hand in the fun that would follow.
Instead, the bottle was produced and his new friend faded to the other end of the bar. Buchanan sat back, frowning. At the next table an old man was speaking to his companion, his voice a low, protesting undertone.
"What in the tarnation's goin' on around here, any how?" he demanded.
"Shh, Charlie! Keep your voice down!" the other one cautioned in a whisper.
"That's what I mean, dagnabit! For the last two weeks now a person can't hardly draw a free breath in this town! A regular damn parade of these hardcase bullies . . ."
"Shh, Charlie! You want them to come back here?"
"But where they comin' from? Where they goin'? Why do they have to stop in Aura? Look at them standin' there, starin' around like they was the three cocks-of-the-walk and us decent folks was dirt. Just look at their mean faces, Rob..."
"Charlie, you're gonna get us gunwhipped just like poor old John Rivercomb."
"Well, at least John stood up to them two Perrotts, or whatever their names was."
"John is paid to stand up to troublemakers," Rob whis pered back. "He asked to get elected and that's part of the job."
The man named Charlie had chanced to look over his shoulder and spot the huge, somehow formidable figure looming in the semi-darkness above the other table. He turned his head quickly, mumbled something behind his hand to Rob. Rob stiffened in fear, and it was Buchanan's impulse to get up and join them, reassure them about his own peaceful intentions. He pushed his chair back, started to rise, when the voice of the one called Prado took his and everyone else's attention.
"Well, will you looka there, boys!" he shouted nasally, his voice breaking over the other strained, hesitant sounds in the room, his beady-eyed glance directed toward the girl dealing blackjack. Now the silence was complete and every head swung to that table. Including Buchanan, who marked that she blinked her eyes once, then regained her cool composure in the next moment. She looked over the cards of the four players betting against her, made her decision and turned up the hole card.
"King, six," she announced in a clear, professional tone. "Pay seventeen!" Two of her opponents collected, two lost.
She knows the odds, Buchanan thought, and then that annoying voice sounded off from the bar again.
"Pay seventeen!" Prado called over to her in a kind of churlish mockery. "Girlie, I pay eighteen. Whatta you
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