The Lawmen Read Online Free Page A

bearded man, who was still bent over from being kneed in the groin. “I got it.”
    “Good,” Clay said. He turned to Julie. “Now give him back his twenty-five dollars.”
    Stunned, Julie reached into the top of her dress and pulled out the bearded man’s purse. She held the purse out, and the bearded man snatched it with ill grace. “I’ll be getting the rest of my clothes now,” he growled.
    Julie made a face at him as he hobbled back to her crib. “You going to be all right?” Clay asked her.
    With her fingers she dabbed the blood from her lips and nodded. “You seem like a decent fella,” she said. “I hope you don’t end up like the last few that had your job.”
    “You’re not the only one,” Clay replied.
    “Come see me, why don’t you? If you want, that is. I won’t steal your money. ”
    Clay hesitated. “I... I never really . . .”
    “Visit whores?”
    Clay nodded, sheepish.
    “It doesn’t have to be a business call. I can make you supper. You probably ain’t had a home-cooked meal in ages. I know I ain’t fixed one.”
    Clay remembered the last one he’d had. It had been in December of ’63, when he was home on leave from the army—when he still had a home. “It has been a while,” he admitted. “Could be I’ll take you up on that offer.”
    She started away, and Clay said, “Stay out of trouble, Julie Bennett.”
    She smiled. “Take care of yourself, Clay Chandler.”
    At two o’clock Clay’s young deputy, Johnny Evitts, came on duty. Clay left his shotgun at the office and went in search of a place to relax. He ended up at the Equity Saloon, on Tucson Street, where it entered the Triangle. The Equity was a cowboy hangout. The adobe walls were decorated with cattle skulls, longhorns, branding irons, photographs of men and hangings. It was still crowded at this late hour—men drinking and talking, a loud poker game in one comer. There was a back room where whores circulated, trolling for customers.
    Clay eased up to the bar. “Whiskey,” he told the bartender.
    “Sure, Marshal,” the barkeep said. He set a glass and bottle in front of Clay. “Help yourself. It’s on the house.”
    Clay poured a drink and tossed it down. The drink hit him like bursting shrapnel. There was a burning sensation from his stomach up through his nose. “What’s in this stuff?” he gasped. He sniffed the bottle. “It smells like turpentine.”
    “That’s as good a guess as any,” said a smooth voice, and the lawyer Miles Dunleavy sidled up beside him. “Try this instead.” Dunleavy slid his own bottle over. It was called Prickly Ash Bitters. Clay poured some and drank.
    “That’s better,” he said. The burning feeling had been replaced by a curious numbness.
    Dunleavy wore a large diamond stickpin in his tie. His top hat was set at a rakish angle to his slick hair. “Interesting first day, wasn’t it, Marshal?”
    “You could say that,” Clay replied.
    “You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing. I believe I’m safe in prophesying that this town will be fortunate for having obtained your services.”
    In the comer there was an angry explosion of voices from the poker game. “You palmed that queen!”
    “The hell I did!”
    “You cheating sonofa—”
    A bottle fell to the floor, along with cards and chips, as one of the cowboys—hat hanging behind him, dark hair over his forehead—rose and started shooting.
    It happened so fast that no one had time to get out of the way. Clay was caught with the glass of bitters halfway to his lips. There were three shots, then it stopped.
     The smoke cleared. The man opposite the shooter, a skinny redhead, was untouched. The two antagonists stared at each other. Then they burst out laughing. “You had me going for a minute there,” said the redhead, a shifty-looking fellow with freckled cheeks. “I thought you was serious.”
    The shooter holstered his six-gun and shouted to the bar-keep, “Earl! Bring us a fresh bottle! This