stand in his way, however.
He thumbed back the hammer and pointed the gun at a spot midway between my eyes.
8
Fudgin’ Fudgers
Or, Ragsdale and Bock Take Suite Revenge for Our Meddling
“Don’t,” someone said.
To my great amazement, it wasn’t me. Had it been, I assume Stonewall wouldn’t have listened.
He didn’t just have a clear shot at my forehead. He looked eager to take it.
“Inside,” the voice said, and Stonewall stepped into the Bridal Suite, herding me back with his .45.
Round-bellied, blank-faced Gil Bock walked in after him. He was still wearing the top hat and oversized frock coat we’d seen him in earlier that day, and as before his dead eyes registered no emotion—not even satisfaction at seeing me and my brother cornered.
“Against the wall,” he said.
We obliged him, backing up till we were lined up three abreast: me, Old Red, Abraham Lincoln.
Remembering how things had turned out for Abe did not cheer me up.
“Ohhhhh, fudge fudge fudge fudge …”
Pete Ragsdale stumbled in rubbing his eyes. He closed the door behind him, then blinked at us blearily.
“Why the fudge are these fudgin’ fudgers still fudgin’ alive?”
“Questions first,” Bock said.
Ragsdale sighed like a farmboy who’s been told he has to slop the hogs before he can go fishing. He had a chore to do… then he could have his fun.
“Get back to work,” he said to Big Bess.
She fought to haul her flab up off the bed.
“Come on, come on,” Ragsdale said, clapping his hands. “Get a fudgin’ move on. You’re done here.”
Big Bess finally got her feet planted on the floor and headed for the door. Old Red stared at her hard as she waddled past.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she sneered. “After all these years you decide to stir up old shit, and you actually expect me to help?”
“Maybe not,” Gustav said, “but I wouldn’t expect you to sell me down the river to these—”
“Shut your fudgin’ mouth,” Ragsdale said to my brother.
“Hurry the fudge up,” Bock said to Big Bess.
Charming conversationalists, those two—and it would only get better.
“So long,” I said as Bess shuffled out. “Thanks for the royal screwin’.”
She slammed the door behind her.
“Well. Well well fudgin’ well…” Ragsdale sauntered over to the nightstand near the bed and leaned over the old, withered rose in the vase atop it. He lifted it to his beaklike nose, gave it a sniff, then began idly picking off the brittle black petals. “Where to begin?”
“How about with you goin’ to hell?” my brother snarled.
Ragsdale snickered.
“Bales,” Bock said.
“Right. Fudgin’ Bales.” Ragsdale plucked the flower down to nothing, then stuck the thorny stem through his lapel hole. “What did you two fudgeheads talk to the marshal about after you left our store this afternoon?”
Gustav said nothing.
I said nothing.
Stonewall said nothing—he just pushed the muzzle of his gun so close I had to go cross-eyed to look at it. Which said plenty, actually.
“Oh, we chatted about this and that,” I said. “The weather. Recipes. Neighborhood gossip.”
The gun whipped out of sight…but only because my head was jerking to the side, lights flashing in my eyes, cheek stinging, ears ringing.
“What did you talk about?” Ragsdale barked.
He’d swooped in and slapped me, pimp style.
“We didn’t talk about nothin’, alright?” I said. “It was Bales talkin’ and us just listenin’.”
Ragsdale brought up his hand again, palm flat.
Stonewall still had his gun on me.
I steeled myself for the blow.
It never came.
“Bales was warnin’ us off!” Old Red blurted out. “Said he didn’t want us stirrin’ up any trouble in town. You two didn’t even come up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Ragsdale glanced back at Bock, looking pleased.
“The timing,” Bock said.
Ragsdale nodded. “Why’d you fudgers show up now?” he asked us. “After all these
He thumbed back the hammer and pointed the gun at a spot midway between my eyes.
8
Fudgin’ Fudgers
Or, Ragsdale and Bock Take Suite Revenge for Our Meddling
“Don’t,” someone said.
To my great amazement, it wasn’t me. Had it been, I assume Stonewall wouldn’t have listened.
He didn’t just have a clear shot at my forehead. He looked eager to take it.
“Inside,” the voice said, and Stonewall stepped into the Bridal Suite, herding me back with his .45.
Round-bellied, blank-faced Gil Bock walked in after him. He was still wearing the top hat and oversized frock coat we’d seen him in earlier that day, and as before his dead eyes registered no emotion—not even satisfaction at seeing me and my brother cornered.
“Against the wall,” he said.
We obliged him, backing up till we were lined up three abreast: me, Old Red, Abraham Lincoln.
Remembering how things had turned out for Abe did not cheer me up.
“Ohhhhh, fudge fudge fudge fudge …”
Pete Ragsdale stumbled in rubbing his eyes. He closed the door behind him, then blinked at us blearily.
“Why the fudge are these fudgin’ fudgers still fudgin’ alive?”
“Questions first,” Bock said.
Ragsdale sighed like a farmboy who’s been told he has to slop the hogs before he can go fishing. He had a chore to do… then he could have his fun.
“Get back to work,” he said to Big Bess.
She fought to haul her flab up off the bed.
“Come on, come on,” Ragsdale said, clapping his hands. “Get a fudgin’ move on. You’re done here.”
Big Bess finally got her feet planted on the floor and headed for the door. Old Red stared at her hard as she waddled past.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she sneered. “After all these years you decide to stir up old shit, and you actually expect me to help?”
“Maybe not,” Gustav said, “but I wouldn’t expect you to sell me down the river to these—”
“Shut your fudgin’ mouth,” Ragsdale said to my brother.
“Hurry the fudge up,” Bock said to Big Bess.
Charming conversationalists, those two—and it would only get better.
“So long,” I said as Bess shuffled out. “Thanks for the royal screwin’.”
She slammed the door behind her.
“Well. Well well fudgin’ well…” Ragsdale sauntered over to the nightstand near the bed and leaned over the old, withered rose in the vase atop it. He lifted it to his beaklike nose, gave it a sniff, then began idly picking off the brittle black petals. “Where to begin?”
“How about with you goin’ to hell?” my brother snarled.
Ragsdale snickered.
“Bales,” Bock said.
“Right. Fudgin’ Bales.” Ragsdale plucked the flower down to nothing, then stuck the thorny stem through his lapel hole. “What did you two fudgeheads talk to the marshal about after you left our store this afternoon?”
Gustav said nothing.
I said nothing.
Stonewall said nothing—he just pushed the muzzle of his gun so close I had to go cross-eyed to look at it. Which said plenty, actually.
“Oh, we chatted about this and that,” I said. “The weather. Recipes. Neighborhood gossip.”
The gun whipped out of sight…but only because my head was jerking to the side, lights flashing in my eyes, cheek stinging, ears ringing.
“What did you talk about?” Ragsdale barked.
He’d swooped in and slapped me, pimp style.
“We didn’t talk about nothin’, alright?” I said. “It was Bales talkin’ and us just listenin’.”
Ragsdale brought up his hand again, palm flat.
Stonewall still had his gun on me.
I steeled myself for the blow.
It never came.
“Bales was warnin’ us off!” Old Red blurted out. “Said he didn’t want us stirrin’ up any trouble in town. You two didn’t even come up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Ragsdale glanced back at Bock, looking pleased.
“The timing,” Bock said.
Ragsdale nodded. “Why’d you fudgers show up now?” he asked us. “After all these
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