High Wild Desert by Ralph Cotton Page B

beside him. “I don’t like being put on a spot like this. Oldham’s the boss. We shouldn’t be asked to report his carrying-ons to his brother.”
    â€œThat’s so,” said Little Deak, “but we were asked. So let’s get it done.” He hopped down from the bar top and adjusted his Colt across his belly.
    â€œWhere we going?” Simon asked.
    â€œKarl and I are going to find Dave,” said Deak.
    â€œWhat about me?” Simon asked.
    â€œWait here and keep an eye on things,” Deak said.
    â€œYou’re being funny, huh?” said Simon, his face still turned as if observing the crowded saloon.
    â€œSorry, Simon,” said Deak. “Sometimes I forget.”
    â€œBe glad I don’t forget sometimes,” Simon said, “and wind up pissing in your ear.”
    â€œWe could be a while, Simon,” Deak said, letting the insult go. “But there’s still plenty of rye in the bottle and money on the bar if you need it for more. Are you good?”
    â€œGet out of here. I’m good,” Simon said, his face still turned to the swirl of shadows and light in front of him.
    Deak looked up at Sieg and nodded toward the door.
    At the bar, even amid the din of the crowd, Simon listened to the sound of Deak’s and Sieg’s footsteps walk away and out the front door. He stood with his glass of rye in hand, his tapping stick leaning against the bar beside him. Now that he was alone, his position staring at the crowd from behind his dark spectacles soon drew attention from some of the faces in the crowded saloon. After a few minutes, three miners half circled him, prowling back and forth across the floor like nosy wolves, held hesitant only by the big Dance Brothers pistol holstered on Simon’s hip.
    Finally one of the miners gathered the courage to move in closer in spite of Simon’s big gun. With his right hand rested on the handle of a large bowie knife standing in a fringed sheath on his belt, he stopped a few feet in front of the imposing blind man.
    â€œAre you looking at me, mister?” he asked.
    Blind Simon didn’t answer. He judged the closeness of the man by the volume of his voice, by the whiskey and beer on his breath, by the smell of his clothes, the lingering odor of lye soap, kerosene and unearthed sandstone.
    Three feet? Four . . . ?
Yes, four, he decided.
    â€œI said, are you looking at me, mister?” the miner repeated in a firmer tone.
    â€œI expect I am at that,” Simon said flatly.
    â€œWhat did I do that strikes your attention?” the man asked gruffly.
    â€œNothing,” Simon said. “Your face just offends me.”
    â€œOh?”
    The sound of steel drawn quickly from its rawhide leather sheath whispered in Simon’s ears. With it came the sound of a gasp from much of the crowd, even as the player-piano rattled on in its far corner. In reflex, Simon’s right hand snapped tight around the bone handle of his big Dance Brothers revolver.
    â€œLet’s do it,” Simon growled fearlessly.
    The young miner in front of him crouched. Simon saw the dim shadow lower in the backlight of the candle – and lantern-lit saloon.
A knifer?
He didn’t care; he’d just pull iron and start shooting. Odds were at this distance he’d hit something.
    â€œHold it, Hawk,” said a voice farther to Simon’s right. “This sumbitch can’t see a lick.”
    â€œWhat are you saying, fool?”
the knife wielder asked, tense, his brain and spleen a-boil on rye, anger and fear.
    â€œI’m saying, he’s blind, Hawk! Damn it, he can’t see you. He can’t see scat! Can you, mister?”
    â€œI can see just fine,” said Simon. Palm upturned, he flagged the knifer to him with his fingertips. “Are you coming on with that pigsticker, or you going to go whittle with it?”
    â€œHe sees me, Tinker,” the knife wielder, Dale