Sidewinders by William W. Johnstone Page B

sweeten this coffee a mite.”
    Bo and Scratch held out their cups and let John add a dollop of whiskey to each of them, including his own. After he had replaced the jug in the desk, he took a sip of the spiked coffee, licked his lips in appreciation, and said, “There’s nothin’ wrong with Idabelle’s coffee, but there ain’t many things in life that a little corn liquor won’t improve.”
    â€œYou know she probably knows you’ve got that jug hidden in the desk,” Bo said.
    â€œOh sure, but she don’t say anything about it and neither do I. As long as I don’t flaunt it in front of her, she lets it slide. If she ever let on that she knew about it, then her bein’ a good Christian woman, she’d have to do something about it.” John sat down in his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, looked at Bo and Scratch over his coffee cup, and went on, “All right, you two. Tell me all about your adventures since the last time you came home to Bear Creek.”
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    If not for the worry lingering in the back of his mind, Bo would have thoroughly enjoyed the rest of that day. He and Scratch spent a couple of hours spinning yarns for John Creel. There were plenty of them to choose from, because trouble had never been shy about roping in the two drifters from Texas.
    At one point, John commented, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been makin’ up stories like old Avery Hollins. You’ve been in so many fights you ought to be dead a hundred times over.”
    â€œWe’ve been lucky,” Bo acknowledged.
    â€œLuck’s got nothin’ to do with it,” Scratch insisted. “It just stands to reason that a couple of Texans are tougher than any of the varmints they might run into somewheres else.”
    â€œDamn straight,” John agreed with an emphatic nod.
    Idabelle brought in food from the kitchen and called them over to the big dining table on one side of the room.
    â€œDo the boys and their families eat with you?” Bo asked.
    John shook his head.
    â€œThey’ve got their own houses and take their meals there.”
    â€œExcept on holidays and other special occasions,” Idabelle said. “Then the house is full of children and laughter.”
    â€œI’d like to see that,” Bo said. “Maybe we’ll make a point of drifting this direction some Christmas.”
    â€œDon’t wait too long,” John said. “I ain’t gettin’ any younger, you know.”
    Scratch said, “Shoot, Mr. Creel, you’ll outlive us all. Everybody knows that.”
    John grunted as if to say that he wasn’t so sure of that.
    It was hard to imagine a world without his pa in it, mused Bo. But that day was coming. John Creel was already older than most men ever lived to be, and while he seemed hale and hearty, that could change with little warning.
    Bo told himself not to think about that. Instead he just enjoyed the meal and the evening that followed. When it came time to turn in, in one of the guest rooms upstairs, he slept well, although his dreams were haunted at times by gruesome images of dead women and blood dripping from a butcher knife.
    He woke early the next morning, as was his habit, but not as early as Idabelle Fisher, who had breakfast ready for the men when they came downstairs. Ham and eggs, biscuits and gravy, mountains of flapjacks, plenty of steaming hot coffee . . .
    Bo had never minded the rough meals that he and Scratch prepared on the trail, but this home cooking was a world of difference. It was almost enough to make a man think about settling down and staying put.
    Almost.
    After Scratch had heaped effusive but well-deserved praise on the meal, he said, “I reckon I’ll saddle up and head on across the creek this mornin’.”
    â€œKeep your eyes open,” Bo warned. “Folks around here know that you were with me