need anything,
anything at all
, she’ll be happy to take care of you.”
Rose gave him a licentious wink that turned his face a nice shade of pink.
Bart Havens slapped the worn deck of cards down on the table when he heard the door to the Las Vegas Saloon #1 open and a man saunter in. He looked up from his game of solitaire and grinned at the sight of the rider. Since he hadn’t heard from Whitey, he’d sent another of his longtimehenchmen to find him. His man was hopefully arriving with good news.
“Come on in and sit, friend. I’ll order you a whiskey.”
Sleeve Jackson, rangy and gaunt, with long, greasy black hair, was a cold-blooded killer. He carried two Smith & Wesson Schofield revolvers and a stiletto in a sheath tucked in his belt. He’d escaped being hanged on at least three occasions by virtue of a clever lawyer—courtesy of Bart Havens—and once by a daring jailbreak. He was no man to trifle with, although his reputation with a gun had been earned not with marksmanship but by his ability to back-shoot most of his victims.
“Thank you, Mr. Havens, think I will at that.”
Sleeve sat down, responding with a toothy grin as the bartender came to the table with a bottle and a glass. Bart poured the two glasses full, lifting his in a sign of a toast. He put the glass to his lips and drank it down with a single gulp.
“So, I hope you have good news for me. Did Whitey get the job done?”
“Nope. He just got hisself killed in the process. He’s lyin’ in a pine box leanin’ against the wall of the undertaker’s place. Had two holes in him no more’n six inches apart.”
Bart scowled at the loss of one of his best men. “Damn! How’d it happen?”
“Only know what I heard. He missed the sheriff, and the sheriff came after him, found him, and when Whitey went to cock the Sharps, that lawman plugged him twice before he could even get his shot off. That Cotton Burke must be as fast as they say.”
“Uh-huh. You may get a chance to find out.” Bart’s face was deeply lined as he fell silent, suddenly lost in thought. Clearly it was now imperative he adopt a different approach to ridding himself of his old nemesis. Havens scooted his chair back, got up, and walked outside. His face was as dark as the clouds gathering in the west.
A breeze had kicked up and was blowing dust and debrisdown the streets of Las Vegas, where Havens had set up an office in a back room of the saloon in order to escape the constant bleating of sheep. Sleeve’s horse whinnied and crow-footed around the post to which he had been tied. Nervous about the approaching storm, several of the horses in the corral in back also added their slobbery comments. Havens stuck his thumbs in his braces and stretched them in and out nervously. This latest news was more than mildly bothersome. He’d set up in this dusty, ramshackle excuse for a town in the middle of nowhere for a reason. And that reason was to make sure Cotton Burke was dead before Havens rode confidently into Apache Springs to make another killing, the financial kind. He also needed to keep moving around to avoid having people get too familiar with some of the lowlifes with whom he had recently been associating.
All he could think about was the hatred he had for this man Burke, this gunslinger-turned-lawman, out to set things right. Burke was the man who’d run him out of a town he’d been on the verge of taking over, lock, stock, and barrel. Cost him a fortune to have to run like that, and in addition, it had put other towns on notice that Bart Havens was a crooked skunk who’d not stop before he’d stolen every last dime in the treasury and walked off with half the outstanding, unpaid deeds to thousands of acres of some of the best grazing land around. Now he could never show his face in Texas again.
He had been so close. Well, it was time for payback. Havens had had his eye on Apache Springs ever since hearing that Burke was the sheriff there,
anything at all
, she’ll be happy to take care of you.”
Rose gave him a licentious wink that turned his face a nice shade of pink.
Bart Havens slapped the worn deck of cards down on the table when he heard the door to the Las Vegas Saloon #1 open and a man saunter in. He looked up from his game of solitaire and grinned at the sight of the rider. Since he hadn’t heard from Whitey, he’d sent another of his longtimehenchmen to find him. His man was hopefully arriving with good news.
“Come on in and sit, friend. I’ll order you a whiskey.”
Sleeve Jackson, rangy and gaunt, with long, greasy black hair, was a cold-blooded killer. He carried two Smith & Wesson Schofield revolvers and a stiletto in a sheath tucked in his belt. He’d escaped being hanged on at least three occasions by virtue of a clever lawyer—courtesy of Bart Havens—and once by a daring jailbreak. He was no man to trifle with, although his reputation with a gun had been earned not with marksmanship but by his ability to back-shoot most of his victims.
“Thank you, Mr. Havens, think I will at that.”
Sleeve sat down, responding with a toothy grin as the bartender came to the table with a bottle and a glass. Bart poured the two glasses full, lifting his in a sign of a toast. He put the glass to his lips and drank it down with a single gulp.
“So, I hope you have good news for me. Did Whitey get the job done?”
“Nope. He just got hisself killed in the process. He’s lyin’ in a pine box leanin’ against the wall of the undertaker’s place. Had two holes in him no more’n six inches apart.”
Bart scowled at the loss of one of his best men. “Damn! How’d it happen?”
“Only know what I heard. He missed the sheriff, and the sheriff came after him, found him, and when Whitey went to cock the Sharps, that lawman plugged him twice before he could even get his shot off. That Cotton Burke must be as fast as they say.”
“Uh-huh. You may get a chance to find out.” Bart’s face was deeply lined as he fell silent, suddenly lost in thought. Clearly it was now imperative he adopt a different approach to ridding himself of his old nemesis. Havens scooted his chair back, got up, and walked outside. His face was as dark as the clouds gathering in the west.
A breeze had kicked up and was blowing dust and debrisdown the streets of Las Vegas, where Havens had set up an office in a back room of the saloon in order to escape the constant bleating of sheep. Sleeve’s horse whinnied and crow-footed around the post to which he had been tied. Nervous about the approaching storm, several of the horses in the corral in back also added their slobbery comments. Havens stuck his thumbs in his braces and stretched them in and out nervously. This latest news was more than mildly bothersome. He’d set up in this dusty, ramshackle excuse for a town in the middle of nowhere for a reason. And that reason was to make sure Cotton Burke was dead before Havens rode confidently into Apache Springs to make another killing, the financial kind. He also needed to keep moving around to avoid having people get too familiar with some of the lowlifes with whom he had recently been associating.
All he could think about was the hatred he had for this man Burke, this gunslinger-turned-lawman, out to set things right. Burke was the man who’d run him out of a town he’d been on the verge of taking over, lock, stock, and barrel. Cost him a fortune to have to run like that, and in addition, it had put other towns on notice that Bart Havens was a crooked skunk who’d not stop before he’d stolen every last dime in the treasury and walked off with half the outstanding, unpaid deeds to thousands of acres of some of the best grazing land around. Now he could never show his face in Texas again.
He had been so close. Well, it was time for payback. Havens had had his eye on Apache Springs ever since hearing that Burke was the sheriff there,
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