Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone

your delicate condition.”
    â€œI won’t feel better until I kill Flintlock, if that’s really his name,” Collins said.
    â€œYou would’ve hung that McPhee feller if it wasn’t for him,” Nancy said. She was a bottle blonde with brown eyes and a wide, expressive mouth.
    â€œIf McPhee don’t hang, another will in his place. Depend on it.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” the woman said.
    â€œIt means that around here you should keep your trap shut about Jamie McPhee,” Collins said. “It might play wrong with a certain person.”
    â€œThen I won’t mention his name.”
    â€œGood. Just remember that.”
    Collins winced as he shifted position in his straight-backed chair and water slopped over the side of the bowl. “There are them who are a mite uneasy about this man Flintlock,” he said. “When I kill him, I’ll be in good with some powerful folks.”
    â€œMoney?”
    â€œWhen I bring in Flintlock’s scalp I’ll have enough to keep me in whiskey and whores for a long time.”
    â€œThen throw some business my way, Hamp, huh? A working girl’s got to make a living you know and a man with busted balls ain’t the ideal customer.”
    â€œI will, if you treat me right and shut your trap about my balls.”
    â€œHow well did you know Polly Mallory?” Nancy said. “I thought she was nice.”
    â€œHell, everybody knew her. She was the town schoolteacher.”
    â€œShe was pretty.”
    â€œYeah, I’d say that. I tried to spark her once or twice but she turned me down flat.”
    â€œAh, that’s because she never saw you with your balls in a bowl,” Nancy said.
    â€œI’ll smack you across the mouth, you sass me like that,” Collins said.
    Nancy laughed.
    â€œHamp, you’d never catch me.”
    â€œI’m hurtin’ here,” Collins said, in a surge of self-pity.
    â€œI know you are, Hampy,” Nancy said, cooing. “When you’re all better again I’ll take good care of you.”
    â€œPour me another whiskey, will ya?” Collins said. “To ease the pain, like.”
    Nancy passed a filled glass to Collins, then said, “Who really killed Polly Mallory, Hamp?”
    â€œWhat is it to you?” Collins said.
    â€œJust interested in what goes on in Open Sky.”
    â€œJamie McPhee killed her. And don’t you say otherwise or that pretty head of yours could end up on a damned spike.”
    The door opened and Madame Josette fluttered inside, a concerned look on her face. Her hands were flapping like plump white doves.
    â€œLa, la, la,” she said. “Comment sont les testicules du monsieur?”
    â€œHow are your balls?” Nancy translated.
    â€œI caught her drift,” Collins said, irritated. He glared at the madam. “They hurt like hell.”
    Josette clapped and said, “Plus brandy dans le bol, Nancy.”
    Then she turned and swept through the door again, the smell of her French perfume lingering after she’d gone.
    â€œBy God, I’ll make Sam Flintlock pay for this,” Collins said, his face screwed into a mask of pain as he watched Nancy pour more brandy into the bowl. “I’ll shoot him in the belly and listen to him scream.”

CHAPTER NINE
    â€œBalls,” Sam Flintlock said. “All dogs love to play fetch with balls.”
    â€œYou have a dog?” Jamie McPhee said.
    â€œUsed to, a hound who could charm a coon out of a tree with her voice. She’s long gone now, chasing rabbits on the other side.”
    â€œI’m not catching your drift about the balls, Sam.”
    â€œWell, McPhee, you’re the ball and then fellers out there in the street want to play catch with you so badly they’ll never give up.”
    â€œI didn’t kill Polly,” McPhee said. “I loved her. You do believe that, don’t you?”
    â€œI