The Drop Edge of Yonder Read Online Free Page A
Author: Rudolph Wurlitzer
cloudy eyes reminded Zebulon of the goat.
"I'll take your horse," Zebulon said, "for settlement. And maybe I'll blow off your trigger finger for tryin' to take me out."
The bandy-legged man looked back at the saloon where the two whores were laughing at him through a broken window There was no help from either of them.
His hand shook as he raised his pistol. "No one takes a horse from me, or even thinks about it. And I never jacked it. It was that ferriner or one of them vaqueros or ranch hands at the billiard table. Or that breed. Hatchet Jack. Ask him. He's in there now. I can take a loss. Hell, that's my middle name. Lost and never found. If you don't believe me, we might as well slap to it here and now"
"It's your call," Zebulon said. "But if you dry-shoot me, do it with your whizzle in your pants."
He dismounted and pushed past him into the cantina, not giving a damn one way or the other.
"No sense to it," the bandy-legged man said to the two whores. "The man come back from the dead. What do you want me to do, send him straight to hell again?"
Inside the cantina, the only signs of a shoot-out were dark stains on the floor, a few smashed chairs, and a blown-out window.
Hatchet Jack was sitting at the bar, a bandage wrapped around his head.
Zebulon shoved Hatchet Jack's money towards the bartender, motioning for a bottle of Taos White Lightning.
"No hat size to this town," Hatchet Jack said. "Only thing left is to get shut of it."
"Who shot me?" Zebulon asked.
"You don't recall?" Hatchet Jack rolled a shot glass between his palms. "When I went over to the bar I heard someone, I don't recall who, sayin' the woman was dealin' off the bottom - snakin' a queen of hearts straight flush to your full house. Or maybe it was the other way around. A bunch come in the door and I was too pissed and likkered to notice. Next thing, I'm cold-cocked. When I come to, you was gone and I went upstairs and slept it off. I don't recall the rest. Who gives a damn. We're still on the dance floor, ain't we? More than some."
"You see anything?" Zebulon asked the bartender, a squat man with a bushy mustache and wide red suspenders.
"Not a thing," he replied. "I was out back haulin' likker stock. When I come in, it was all over and everyone had cleared out. I don't remember. Hell, that was two nights ago."
"Anything can happen in two nights," Hatchet Jack said. "Or one, for that matter. Or none."
"You been here two nights?" Zebulon asked.
Hatchet Jack poured himself another shot. "Like I said, I was upstairs. Now everyone's zippered up or rode off. You might have noticed I ain't in the best of shape myself. If someone don't try to plug you, he might settle for me. And that ain't why I rode down here. How about it? You want to ride up to see your Ma and Pa? It ain't like you got anything better to do."
"Tell me one last thing," Zebulon asked. "Did you throw your loop over that bay horse in Galisteo?"
"Hell no," Hatchet Jack replied. "I snagged a zebra dun. The bay wasn't worth a bag of rocks."
When they pushed through the swinging doors, the bandy legged man was sitting on a bench. He didn't look up when Hatchet Jack rode down the street, followed by Zebulon riding the bandy-legged man's horse.
ATCHET JACK AND ZEBULON RODE NORTH ACROSS THE high desert towards the Spanish Peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Two days later they reached the cabin, a hard little stand at the end of a steep valley, quilted halfway to the roof with drifting snow
Nothing much had changed. The cabin's roof still had most of its shakes blown off, the makeshift corral hosted three starving mules, and a curl of smoke drifted up from the chimney like a lonely question mark. After they walked their horses over the icecovered river that snaked in front of the cabin, Zebulon hollered a long "Hallooo." When there was no answer, they secured their horses inside the sagging corral and pushed through the stiff door of buffalo hide.
An ancient stern-faced
"I'll take your horse," Zebulon said, "for settlement. And maybe I'll blow off your trigger finger for tryin' to take me out."
The bandy-legged man looked back at the saloon where the two whores were laughing at him through a broken window There was no help from either of them.
His hand shook as he raised his pistol. "No one takes a horse from me, or even thinks about it. And I never jacked it. It was that ferriner or one of them vaqueros or ranch hands at the billiard table. Or that breed. Hatchet Jack. Ask him. He's in there now. I can take a loss. Hell, that's my middle name. Lost and never found. If you don't believe me, we might as well slap to it here and now"
"It's your call," Zebulon said. "But if you dry-shoot me, do it with your whizzle in your pants."
He dismounted and pushed past him into the cantina, not giving a damn one way or the other.
"No sense to it," the bandy-legged man said to the two whores. "The man come back from the dead. What do you want me to do, send him straight to hell again?"
Inside the cantina, the only signs of a shoot-out were dark stains on the floor, a few smashed chairs, and a blown-out window.
Hatchet Jack was sitting at the bar, a bandage wrapped around his head.
Zebulon shoved Hatchet Jack's money towards the bartender, motioning for a bottle of Taos White Lightning.
"No hat size to this town," Hatchet Jack said. "Only thing left is to get shut of it."
"Who shot me?" Zebulon asked.
"You don't recall?" Hatchet Jack rolled a shot glass between his palms. "When I went over to the bar I heard someone, I don't recall who, sayin' the woman was dealin' off the bottom - snakin' a queen of hearts straight flush to your full house. Or maybe it was the other way around. A bunch come in the door and I was too pissed and likkered to notice. Next thing, I'm cold-cocked. When I come to, you was gone and I went upstairs and slept it off. I don't recall the rest. Who gives a damn. We're still on the dance floor, ain't we? More than some."
"You see anything?" Zebulon asked the bartender, a squat man with a bushy mustache and wide red suspenders.
"Not a thing," he replied. "I was out back haulin' likker stock. When I come in, it was all over and everyone had cleared out. I don't remember. Hell, that was two nights ago."
"Anything can happen in two nights," Hatchet Jack said. "Or one, for that matter. Or none."
"You been here two nights?" Zebulon asked.
Hatchet Jack poured himself another shot. "Like I said, I was upstairs. Now everyone's zippered up or rode off. You might have noticed I ain't in the best of shape myself. If someone don't try to plug you, he might settle for me. And that ain't why I rode down here. How about it? You want to ride up to see your Ma and Pa? It ain't like you got anything better to do."
"Tell me one last thing," Zebulon asked. "Did you throw your loop over that bay horse in Galisteo?"
"Hell no," Hatchet Jack replied. "I snagged a zebra dun. The bay wasn't worth a bag of rocks."
When they pushed through the swinging doors, the bandy legged man was sitting on a bench. He didn't look up when Hatchet Jack rode down the street, followed by Zebulon riding the bandy-legged man's horse.
ATCHET JACK AND ZEBULON RODE NORTH ACROSS THE high desert towards the Spanish Peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Two days later they reached the cabin, a hard little stand at the end of a steep valley, quilted halfway to the roof with drifting snow
Nothing much had changed. The cabin's roof still had most of its shakes blown off, the makeshift corral hosted three starving mules, and a curl of smoke drifted up from the chimney like a lonely question mark. After they walked their horses over the icecovered river that snaked in front of the cabin, Zebulon hollered a long "Hallooo." When there was no answer, they secured their horses inside the sagging corral and pushed through the stiff door of buffalo hide.
An ancient stern-faced
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