Twisted Hills by Ralph Cotton Page A

appraised Sam over the edge of his raised shot glass of rye. But beside him, Dusty Phelps only half raised his shot glass and stared coldly at Sam as he spoke to Udall and Graft.
    â€œHe must be
real
tough,” he said sarcastically. To his pals along the bar he said, “What about it, hombres? Should I be
frightened
here?”
    A young, heavily muscled Kansas gunman named Mickey Galla downed his shot of rye and spoke in a whiskey-strained voice.
    â€œOnly if you was faint of heart to begin with,” he said. “He ain’t much or he wouldn’t be drinking with Madson’s crow bait.”
    Dolan and the other Madson men bristled at Galla’s words, even though the young gunman’s attention and stare was centered steadily on Sam.
    â€œEasy, Mick,” said Udall. “You’re hurting everybody’s feelings. I’d like to drink here without having to get blood all over me for a change.”
    â€œPlease, fellows, no gunplay today,” Graft pleaded, seeing the atmosphere turn volatile all over again.
    â€œI see no need for gunplay,” said Mickey Galla, swelling out his chest and his thick upper arms. “I’ll walk down and give him a hard smack if you want me to—see if anything rattles inside his noggin.” As he spoke, he lifted his rifle and laid it up on the bar top. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves.
    Sam watched coolly.
    â€œHold up, Mick,” said Udall to the burly gunman, still eyeing Sam. He could tell that the stranger at the far end of the bar didn’t scare easily.
    â€œWhat’s your new customer’s name, Graft?” he asked the cantina owner, even though his eyes and Sam’s were fixed on each other’s.
    â€œ
Jones
is what he goes by,” said Graft in a shaky voice, a shaky grin to match. “I told him, ‘My my, Mr. Jones, I sure have met lots of your kinfolk in old Mexico.’” His grin widened and twitched. “It was just a little joke on my part,” he concluded. “Get it? There’s so many Joneses—”
    â€œShut up, Graft,” said Udall, still staring at Sam. He turned his gaze slowly to Graft. “Why don’t you go find yourself a deep dirty hole and stick your fingers down in it?”
    â€œYeah, real deep,” Galla added.
    Graft slinked back a step.
    Sam continued to stare coolly, unshaken. His hand rested on the bar near his Winchester.
    â€œJones, this is Mickey Galla,” Udall said, gesturing toward the huge muscle-bound gunman.
    â€œMr. Galla to you,” Galla said to Sam.
    â€œMick likes picking heavy stuff up over his head. Does it for hours,” Udall said proudly. “What do you do,
Jones
?” he asked, for the first time speaking directly to Sam.
    â€œSays he’s looking for gun work,” Graft cut in before Sam could offer a reply. “I told him, as good as he is, he won’t—”
    â€œGraft, shut the living hell up!”
said Udall, slamming his shot glass onto the bar top so hard it splintered and exploded in every direction. Turning to Mickey Galla, Udall said, “Mick, if he opens his mouth again, grab his throat and jerk him up out of his boots.”
    â€œWill do,” said Galla. He gave Graft a hard, hateful stare. Graft hurried away, back to the other end of the bar to refill Dolan and his pals’ glasses.
    â€œI asked you
what you do, Jones
,” said Udall again to Sam.
    â€œI heard you,” Sam replied.
    Udall and his men stared in anticipation. So did Dolan and his pals.
    After a tight silence, Udall cocked his head slightly at Sam.
    â€œWell?” he asked Sam.
    â€œWell, what?” Sam said.
    â€œHe’s messing with you, Max,” Galla growled. He shoved himself back from the bar and walked quick-step toward Sam, his sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. “I bet I have to smack him one.” As he drew closer, Dolan’s men parted, letting him through. They