'He's coming for Joey, here.' Joey didn't smile, or even indicate that he had heard the conversation. But he felt pleased.
Billy Williams had told him many tales of Call's exploits. He had no fear of the man, though. No old gringo, however famous, was likely to interfere with his plans, not for long, anyway. But it interested and pleased him, that he had robbed enough and killed enough so that the Americans were sending their best bounty hunter after him. That was satisfying. It meant he had scared the Americans, and hurt them by taking their money.
John Wesley Hardin had noticed Joey come in. He was certainly a pretty boy, too pretty to last, Hardin thought. His clothes were too clean. In such a place, it was irritating to see a boy with clothes that clean. The rifle he kept with him was certainly exceptional, though. John Wesley had never killed with a rifle. He usually killed at close range, with his revolver, firing two or three shots right into the midsections of his enemies. He liked the way the heavy bullets kicked the life out of them. He liked their looks of shock, when they fell down and saw the blood spreading underneath them. He also liked to be looking at them when they died. That way, they would know that John Wesley Hardin had killed them personally. He had never killed a man from ambush, or from any great distance at all.
The notion that Woodrow Call would come all the way to Crow Town for this boy, this g@uero, was interesting, though. The boy must have vexed the rich men a good deal, for them to call out the old Ranger.
He looked at the boy and met a pair of cold, blue eyes.
Lordy Bailey, the blacksmith, was still standing there, with his hammer. Joey thought the man was a complete fool. He should go, while he was alive.
'You still owe me,' Lordy said. 'There's no reason I should give you a nigger to kill.' 'I hate idiots like you,' John Wesley Hardin said. He cocked his revolver and shot the blacksmith right in the gut. Then he shot him again, at about the point where his beard tucked into his overalls. He cocked the gun a third time, and shot the man in the gut again.
Lordy staggered backward, but didn't fall.
He felt surprised. Hardin had seemed to be calming down. Lordy had not really expected him to shoot. Now he had been shot three times. He felt puzzled; he had meant to leave, but had waited a little too long. He didn't feel anything, just puzzled.
Joey Garza didn't move. It did not surprise him that the scabby old man had shot the blacksmith. He himself would have done it much sooner. But he knew better than to call attention to himself while the scabby killer had a gun in his hand.
'Wait--don't die,' Wesley Hardin said, to Lordy Bailey. 'You forgot to tell me how you knew Call was coming.' He was mildly annoyed with himself for having shot the man fatally before securing that piece of information.
Most men, once shot a time or two, were so shocked to find themselves dying that they lost their power of speech.
'Famous Shoes told me,' Lordy said. For a moment, the fact that he could still talk reassured him. Perhaps he hadn't been shot, after all. It was such a comforting thought that he believed it, for a second. He dropped his hammer, and reached down to pick it up. But his hand wouldn't grip. He could see the hammer, but he couldn't grasp it. At that point he sat down, being as careful as possible.
All he wanted to do was pick up his hammer and leave.
'Don't sit there and die, you damn bastard,' Wesley Hardin said. 'Go outside and die.
Nobody wants you dying in here.' 'Oh,' Lordy said, disturbed to have been caught in a breach of etiquette. He started to sit up, but instead, slowly toppled over and lay on his side, on the dusty floor.
'I thought I told you not to die in here, you ugly sonofabitch!' Wesley Hardin said. His temper was rising. The blacksmith had done nothing but vex and disobey him.
'If you weren't already nearly kilt, I'd take a bed slat to you--it might teach you some manners,' he added.
Lordy Bailey realized he had made a serious error, bringing the black man to a town Wesley Hardin frequented. He was well known to dislike black men.
'Ought not to have ...' he said, but then his tongue stopped working, and he felt a great loosening inside himself. He rolled on his back and stared upward until the light became dark.
Patrick O'Brien, the bartender, walked over and looked at Lordy.
'He's dead, and we're without a blacksmith,' Patrick said.
'Good, I disliked the bastard,' Wesley Hardin said. 'He thought I ought to pay for his nigger, the damned idiot!
'Drag him out, boy,' he said, addressing the order to Joey. 'He'll soon stink up the place if we leave him long.' Joey met the scabby man's look, but didn't speak.
'Goddammit, is everybody stubborn in this town?' Wesley Hardin asked, his face splotchy with anger.
Patrick O'Brien felt a little worried.
Many of his customers had killed a man or two, but not since he'd opened the bar had he had two men in it who were as dangerous as Wesley Hardin and Joey Garza. Between them, they had killed a fair number of men. It was early in the day, but already a man lay dead on the barroom floor.
It occurred to the saloonkeeper that Wesley Hardin, a selfish fellow who didn't take much interest in other people, might not realize how dangerous Joey Garza was.
'This is Joey Garza,' he said. 'He's the one they sent Call after.' Joey looked Hardin straight in the eye.
He wanted to study the man, and would rather not have to kill him. But that was up to Hardin. He would kill him, if it became necessary, with his bowie knife. He had watched Hardin shoot the blacksmith. Hardin had managed it, but he was quite slow, Joey thought. An Apache would have killed the man with a knife, in half the time or less, and Joey modeled himself on the Apache when it came to killing. Joey knew he could slip behind Hardin and cut his throat with one move and one stroke.
