Longhorn Empire Read Online Free
Author: Bradford Scott
and headed for the bar. Instantly a man standing nearby slid into the vacant chair. The other players glanced
at him questioningly, but the dealer muttered something and they settled back into their seats.
Austin Brant left the bar and strode across the room. He tapped the man on the shoulder.
“I don’t care to have my hands play with strangers when they’re on a drive,” he said.
The man, a big, beefy individual, snarled up at him like a rat.
“You keep your nose out of my business, high-pockets, if you know what’s good for you,” he spat.
“You heard what I said,” Brant replied. “Get out of that chair.”
The man got out, his eyes glaring, his fists doubled. Brant hit him, left and right, hard. He shot through the air and landed
on the floor with acrash. He rolled over and scrambled to his feet, blood and curses pouring from his mouth. His hand shot down. Then he froze
in a grotesquely strained position. He was looking into the muzzle of two long black guns.
“Don’t—try—it,” Brant advised, spacing the words.
Doran came rushing across the room. The muzzle of Brant’s gun shifted the merest trifle.
“Goes for you, too, Doran,” he said quietly.
Doran, who never forgot a face, recognized the Running W foreman from his previous
visit to the Deadfall.
“Why, hello, Brant,” he called jovially. “Just wanted to see what was goin’ on. It’s my business to keep order, you know.”
He turned to the other man.
“You get up to the end of the bar and stay there, Porter,” he directed. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your insides blowed out.
This feller is as pizen with a gun as he is with his fists. Get goin’!”
The other started to bawl a protest, but something he saw in Doran’s eyes evidently changed his mind for him. He clamped his
bloody lips shut, turned and slouched away. Doran nodded affably to Brant and resumed his place at the lower end of the bar.
Brant holstered his guns, smiled at his grinning hands, and returned to his unfinished drink. As he passed the table occupied
by the girl and the old man he glanced in their direction. The girl’s eyes were wider than before, and there was a hint of
something like terror in them as they rested upon the Running W foreman. Brant flushed slightly, and turned his back.
“Reckon she’s got me down for one of the killer pack she’s been told about,” he growled under his breath. “Well, what the
hell difference does it make to me!”
Chapter Three
The incident between Brant and the ambitious tinhorn seemed to have an exhilarating effect on the gathering in the Deadfall.
Voices grew louder and more raucous. The fiddlers back of the dance floor sawed more vigorously. The dancers whirled with a
wilder abandon. Even the roulette wheels developed a sharper clirk and whir. Somebody started bawling what was intended for
song. Others took it up and the hanging lamps flickered to the din. Brant shook his head as the hectic hours passed.
“Trouble in the making,” he declared to himself. “It’ll bust loose any minute.”
Trouble did bust loose, and Cole Dawson started it. The Running W poker game had fizzled out from lack of competition. The
losers borrowed back from the winners and the players joined their companions at the bar. They mingled with the punchers of
a returning outfit, the Tree L. Dawson and a lanky Tree L hand got to discussing brands and their altering. The argument grew
heated. Suddenly, with a bellow of anger, Dawson knocked the other down. One of the cowboy’s companions hurled Dawson sidewaysagainst the bar with a swinging blow. A Running W hand sent Dawson’s attacker off his feet with a hard punch to the mouth.
Another Tree L waddie returned the compliment, and there were three men on the floor. Instantly the whole section of the bar
was a hitting, wrestling, cursing tangle. The barkeeps howled to stop it. Doran and Pink Hanson uttered soothing yells and
at him questioningly, but the dealer muttered something and they settled back into their seats.
Austin Brant left the bar and strode across the room. He tapped the man on the shoulder.
“I don’t care to have my hands play with strangers when they’re on a drive,” he said.
The man, a big, beefy individual, snarled up at him like a rat.
“You keep your nose out of my business, high-pockets, if you know what’s good for you,” he spat.
“You heard what I said,” Brant replied. “Get out of that chair.”
The man got out, his eyes glaring, his fists doubled. Brant hit him, left and right, hard. He shot through the air and landed
on the floor with acrash. He rolled over and scrambled to his feet, blood and curses pouring from his mouth. His hand shot down. Then he froze
in a grotesquely strained position. He was looking into the muzzle of two long black guns.
“Don’t—try—it,” Brant advised, spacing the words.
Doran came rushing across the room. The muzzle of Brant’s gun shifted the merest trifle.
“Goes for you, too, Doran,” he said quietly.
Doran, who never forgot a face, recognized the Running W foreman from his previous
visit to the Deadfall.
“Why, hello, Brant,” he called jovially. “Just wanted to see what was goin’ on. It’s my business to keep order, you know.”
He turned to the other man.
“You get up to the end of the bar and stay there, Porter,” he directed. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your insides blowed out.
This feller is as pizen with a gun as he is with his fists. Get goin’!”
The other started to bawl a protest, but something he saw in Doran’s eyes evidently changed his mind for him. He clamped his
bloody lips shut, turned and slouched away. Doran nodded affably to Brant and resumed his place at the lower end of the bar.
Brant holstered his guns, smiled at his grinning hands, and returned to his unfinished drink. As he passed the table occupied
by the girl and the old man he glanced in their direction. The girl’s eyes were wider than before, and there was a hint of
something like terror in them as they rested upon the Running W foreman. Brant flushed slightly, and turned his back.
“Reckon she’s got me down for one of the killer pack she’s been told about,” he growled under his breath. “Well, what the
hell difference does it make to me!”
Chapter Three
The incident between Brant and the ambitious tinhorn seemed to have an exhilarating effect on the gathering in the Deadfall.
Voices grew louder and more raucous. The fiddlers back of the dance floor sawed more vigorously. The dancers whirled with a
wilder abandon. Even the roulette wheels developed a sharper clirk and whir. Somebody started bawling what was intended for
song. Others took it up and the hanging lamps flickered to the din. Brant shook his head as the hectic hours passed.
“Trouble in the making,” he declared to himself. “It’ll bust loose any minute.”
Trouble did bust loose, and Cole Dawson started it. The Running W poker game had fizzled out from lack of competition. The
losers borrowed back from the winners and the players joined their companions at the bar. They mingled with the punchers of
a returning outfit, the Tree L. Dawson and a lanky Tree L hand got to discussing brands and their altering. The argument grew
heated. Suddenly, with a bellow of anger, Dawson knocked the other down. One of the cowboy’s companions hurled Dawson sidewaysagainst the bar with a swinging blow. A Running W hand sent Dawson’s attacker off his feet with a hard punch to the mouth.
Another Tree L waddie returned the compliment, and there were three men on the floor. Instantly the whole section of the bar
was a hitting, wrestling, cursing tangle. The barkeeps howled to stop it. Doran and Pink Hanson uttered soothing yells and