Panhandle by Brett Cogburn

gun.
    â€œTom, I’m coming to believe you’ve got more than a little fight in you.” Billy’s smile was oblivious to the building passion in Freeman’s voice. “What about you, Nate? Have you got anything against this colored fellow?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œSee there, Nate is a good Tennessee boy, and you’ve already convinced him,” Billy said.
    â€œKentucky,” I muttered under my breath.
    â€œHumph,” Freeman grunted. He turned his back on us, and went to check his horse. Somehow I got the notion he was as stubborn as Billy was.
    Surprisingly enough, Andy followed Freeman, mocking a two-hand hold on a gigantic tool at his crotch. “I think I’ll call you Big’un.”
    â€œI’ve already gotta name,” Freeman said.
    They argued down to the horses and back. Billy settled the matter. “Long Tom Freeman.”
    â€œLong Tom!” Andy repeated.
    â€œLong Tom and General Custer riding to glory,” I said sarcastically.
    â€œAre you coming to Mobeetie with us, Long Tom?” Billy asked as he picked up his saddle.
    â€œIf I’s smart enough to foller ya, Mistuh Billy,” Freeman said.
    Just that easy, Billy adopted one Tom Freeman, despite the fact that he had been ready to shoot him the day before. And then again, maybe Freeman adopted Billy. I don’t know which was the case. Life has a funny way of throwing people together on a whim, and our fate often hangs in the balance.
    Once we had all saddled our horses, Billy stepped aboard his and tipped the last of the whiskey down his throat. He tossed the bottle high, and Andy jerked his pistol out and let it bang. The bottle bounced off a rock and busted when it hit the ground.
    â€œAre you ever gonna hit one?” Billy asked.
    Andy jammed his shooter back in his holster while his left arm fought to hold the rein on his frightened horse.
    â€œGet on, General Custer,” Freeman whooped.
    â€œAll right, Long Tom.” Andy swung into his saddle without touching his stirrup. That boy should have been a circus rider. He ended up sitting backwards.
    â€œTurn around, you drunken heathen,” Billy said in disgust.
    Andy studied his horse’s tail for a moment, and then turned to look at its head behind him, as if he had just realized what he had done. “Well, I’ll be damned. There for a moment I thought somebody had cut his head plumb off.”
    Billy spurred off in a shower of dust. Andy grabbed a handful of tail and belly-punched his horse with both feet. The frightened animal peeled off after Billy with Andy laughing and reeling in the saddle.
    We all hit a lope for Mobeetie like some mad parade, with Billy in the lead. Freeman bounced along beside me, hugging at a canvas sack which hung from his saddle horn in order to keep it from flopping. It must have held the last of his whiskey. He grinned foolishly.
    â€œCome on, Billy! Come on, Long Tom!” Andy had managed to right himself in the saddle.
    Freeman joined in, and his deep bass voice sounded across the prairie. “Come on, Tennessee.”
    â€œI’m from Kentucky,” I said, holding to a long lope behind them.
    I thought they were all drunken fools. Had I not also been drunk, I would have included myself in that category. But fools or not, they were my friends, and I would follow them through hell and high water.

C HAPTER F IVE
    M obeetie didn’t need us to look like the circus had come to town. It was Saturday night, and the town was burning wild. We just helped fan the flames.
    We came running three-abreast down the street, popping our pistols, and carrying on like the young devils we were. We pulled up in front of the first saloon, as wild-eyed as our horses. A small crowd stood under the awning in front, shadows in the lamplight there. Andy squalled and plunged his horse into their midst, attempting to make it into the saloon. The door wasn’t wide enough, and he