Archie poured himself another drink. “There’s no whores here. Not anymore. All the girls left after Mulcahy’s men tore up the place looking for that Sullivan. I don’t care if a gambler offers to give me half the pot, I’m not trusting anymore slick talking—” The bartender stopped in midsentence, then glanced across to Corey.
Braddock turned back to the bar. This was a bad time for Archie to sober up. “I need a drink.”
Archie’s attention returned to the bottle of whiskey. “Me too.” He filled both glasses to the rim. “Here’s to your health.” He gulped the whiskey without pause.
Braddock rolled his glass between his fingers as he turned back to Buster.
He had placed his booted foot in a chair and leaned over to leer at Lorelei. “I’ve got a room in the back. It’s on the shady side and catches a nice breeze. You’re welcome to put your feet up, if you’ve a mind to.”
Braddock slammed his glass down on the bar and reached for his guns before he could think clearly. “Over my dead body.”
“That can be—” The gunslinger swallowed his words and stopped himself in mid-reach when he turned to find Braddock already had both guns drawn.
He slowly raised his hands to his ears. “You don’t draw like no rancher.”
The back of Braddock’s neck itched. He had momentarily forgotten about the third man, the one at the table. The one who, judging by the sound of the click, was now pointing a Springfield rifle at his back.
“He ain’t no rancher,” said the third man.
Buster lowered his hands. “Good, then he won’t mind if I take his wife for a little ride.” He grabbed Lorelei’s wrist and hauled her to her feet.
Braddock squeezed out a single shot, striking Buster in the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch! The bastard shot me.” Buster clutched his shoulder with his opposite hand, momentarily forgetting about Lorelei.
She scooted back against the wall, blocking Corey with her body.
Boots alternately crunched then dragged in the dirt, marking the rifleman’s approach. The sound and the fact that Braddock hadn’t already been shot in the back confirmed his suspicions. Braddock knew the Springfield well. The old confederate weapon had only one shot and was cumbersome to reload. It was known for its accuracy, but only if the shooter had a steady hand. The man with the rifle didn’t. He was wounded. That was why he’d let his younger, more inexperienced friend confront the newcomers. When they’d walked in, the way that he had held his cards close to his body gave him away. The rifle’s weight would soon be unbearable to lift.
The closer the rifleman came, the better his chances. Braddock contemplated swinging around and firing before he got close.
“Shoot him,” cried Buster. “I’m bleeding bad.” He wilted into the chair Lorelei had abandoned.
“No more shooting, Larry. I mean it. Let these folks go on their way. Buster had no business messing with his woman. No business.” Archie sounded on the verge of tears.
“Have another drink, Archie,” said Larry, the third man. “’Cause there just might be some shooting. But that’s up to you, fast draw. You think you can swing around and pop one off before I can shoot you?”
Braddock let his center of balance sink to his knees. “I know I can.”
“I know you can, too.” The shuffle of his boots stopped and a chair scraped as Larry sank into it. “But can you get me before I get her?”
Braddock shifted his weight and swung his aim to Larry. The man had fallen into a barrel-backed chair. His rifle leaned on the armrest and the sight was centered on Lorelei. Braddock tensed short of pulling the trigger. His hand ached from the strain of stopping the motion.
Larry laughed, but it quickly turned into a racking cough. “Better get out of the way, Buster,” he said when he caught his breath.
“I’m hurt,” cried the younger man.
“Move!” yelled Larry.
Buster slipped to the floor like molasses oozing from a split tin.
“I can’t watch you shoot a woman. I’ve seen too much bloodshed. I can’t see this. Don’t shoot her.” Archie sounded desperate, but Braddock didn’t have the luxury of paying him any attention.
Neither did Larry. “Let’s see that son of yours. Get out from behind the woman’s skirt and take your hat off.”
“Don’t shoot the boy. That’s worse than the woman.” Archie had started to cry in earnest. “Don’t shoot the kid.”
“Shut up, Archie,” growled Larry. “If that boy’s thirteen then I’m twenty-five. Let’s see your face, son.”