Twisted Hills by Ralph Cotton Page B

watched, eager to see what the newcomer had going for him.
    â€œThe man asked what you do, stranger,” Galla demanded, advancing on Sam like a stalking bull. “He won’t ask again—”
    His words were cut short as Sam’s right hand clasped around the small of the rifle stock and jammed it butt first into the big gunman’s face. Nose cartilage crunched; blood flew. Galla’s upper half jolted to a halt; his lower half skidded forward on his bootheels. Before he hit the tile floor, Sam’s Winchester swung around in a wide arc and slammed sidelong into the big gunman’s head.
    At the far end of the bar, Udall and the other Segert men made a move for their guns. But Sam snapped the rifle to his shoulder. Cocking it, he aimed it straight at Udall.
    Dolan’s men had turned from the bar, their hands grasping their own guns and stopping there, waiting, watching. Behind the bar Graft froze, his eyes widened. He wore the same shaky grin, as if he would be stuck with it for life.
    â€œLike he told you, hombre,” Sam said quietly to Max Udall, “I do gun work. Any more questions?”
    The cantina stood tense, silent. After a moment, Udall raised a hand slowly and gestured for his men to ease down. They did, a little.
    â€œNo, Jones,” Udall said in a calm tone. “I think you’ve answered clear enough.” He sat staring for a moment longer, then gave a chuff, glancing at Mickey Galla on the tile floor. Then he gave a chuckle and shook his head. Along the bar, his men settled and laughed themselves. “Somebody go throw water on Mickey,” he said quietly. “See if we need to stand him up or tie him out on a board.”
    His men laughed at his dark humor. Two of them walked to where Galla lay stretched out, nose crushed and already swelling beneath a mask of blood. At the other end of the bar, Daryl Dolan turned a sidelong glance to his men and eased them down as well.
    â€œGun work, huh?” Udall said to Sam.
    â€œGun work,” Sam reaffirmed, lowering his Winchester back onto the bar but keeping his hand on the stock.
    â€œNow that we know
clearly
what you do,” said Udall, his eyes moving over Dolan and the rest of Madson’s men as he spoke, “the question is, who do you do it for?”
    â€œWe were just discussing that when you came in, Udall,” Dolan said. “I already told him he’s got a job with Madson.”
    â€œYeah, but did you say for how much?” said Udall.
    â€œWe were just getting there,” said Dolan. “So go on back to your rye, let us talk business over here.”
    â€œYou should have got there sooner,” said Udall. He turned his gaze to Sam. “If you’re looking for the best pay with the best outfit, that would be us, Jones,” he said. “Our men all live longer than Madson’s for some reason—healthier, I guess.”
    â€œDon’t push your luck, Udall,” Dolan cautioned. “That’s something that can change any minute.”
    Graft looked back and forth between Dolan and Udall.
    Jesus . . . ! Here they go again!
he told himself. He gave Sam a pleading look, as if asking him to do something before they started all over.
    â€œI just got here today,” Sam said. “I didn’t know work was so plentiful.” He let his hand move away from his rifle. On the floor, Mickey Galla groaned as one of the two men took a pitcher of water from Rolo, who had hurried out from behind the bar and handed it to them.
    â€œLike I was telling you, Jones,” said Dolan, “there’s us, and there’s them. Madson and Segert used to be pards. But not anymore. Now they’d like each other dead. So you best pick a side and stand there.”
    â€œI hate to agree with Daryl Dolan on anything,” said Udall, “but he’s telling you right. Stick around here doing gun work, you’ll have to work for either Segert