Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone Page A

clustered around a central plaza. A fountain stood in the middle of the square, but it was dry as dust and didn’t look like it had run water since the time of the old Spaniards.
    But there was a cantina with a blue coyote painted on the outside wall. The smoke that rose from its chimney smelled of mesquite and the tang of fried beef.
    Until then, John Wesley had been silent since we crossed the border. “I could sure use some breakfast.”
    â€œI’m feeling sharp set my ownself,” I said.
    â€œThen let’s eat.”
    Four other horses already stood at the cantina’s hitching post when we dismounted. That surprised me because their saddles were double-rigged Mother Hubbards, popular in Texas at that time. Only white men sat such a rig.
    Hungry and cold as I was, I didn’t give the presence of white Texans another thought, but I should have, the way things turned out.
    The owner of the place was a small, plump man, with a round, pleasant face that bore a worried, almost fearful expression.
    The reason was not hard to find.
    Four white men sat at a table, sharing a bottle of what I later learned was mescal, the strong, smoky and potent liquor of Old Mexico. They were a wolfish, un-curried bunch, who looked like they’d just come in off the trail. All of them wore dusters, good boots, and fancy spurs, and each carried a brace of revolvers in tooled holsters.
    Such men bring trouble with them, and I sensed it, but Wes seemed totally indifferent.
    After the worried little Mexican sat us at a table and took our order for tortillas, beef and frijoles, Wes got up from his chair and stood with his back to the blazing log fire.
    He looked over at the four men and smiled. “Ahh, it does a man good to warm his butt at the fire after a long ride.”
    It was at this point that the proprietor put a bottle of mescal and two earthenware cups on the pine table in front of me. I draw this detail to your attention only because I have always believed that bottle of mescal was the first step on my long road to the hopeless drunk I later became.
    As I said, Wes stood in front of the fire and made a remark that the four men seemed to take with considerable good humor. But appearances can be deceptive when it comes to hard cases of that kind. Even rabid wolves can smile.
    One of the four, a redhead big in the chest and shoulders, sporting a magnificent, sweeping handlebar mustache I’d have given my eye teeth to own, grinned. “You quit blocking the fire, sonny, or I’ll warm your ass for you over my knee.”
    The others laughed and Wes laughed with them.
    â€œHey, that’s funny. A real thigh-slapper.” Then the laughter drained from Wes’s face, his eyes a bright, piercing blue. “Now come here and let me see you put me over your knee.” Suddenly he was on the prod.
    Wes was touchy, and I knew he felt that being called sonny was an insult to his manhood.
    The four men at the table wanted trouble and they were not shy about bringing it. The big redhead looked around at the others and grinned. Then he slowly rose to his feet, with a considerable, easy elegance I must add.
    â€œYou gonna lower your britches, youngster, or am I going to do it for you?”
    â€œStudying on it,” Wes said, “I reckon I’ll leave that up to you.”
    Lacking gun leather, John Wesley’s Colts were shoved into each side of his waistband, butt-forward, in what some now call the cavalry draw position. They were hidden by his coat.
    This mode of carry was much favored by another famous shootist, but more of him later. First things first, as I always say.
    The big man, his spurs ringing, stepped across the cantina floor. Then he stopped, his eyes locked on Wes’s face.
    The Mexican proprietor, steaming plates in hand, stepped between them and said to Wes, his voice tremoring, “Senor, your food is served.”
    In recent years I’ve heard men say that the