floor.
Billy, who was holding a smoking pistol, laughed.
“Look at that,” he said. “Did you see the way Lenny jumped? Ain’t that about the funniest thing you ever seen?”
“Billy Ray!” Gibson shouted, and when Billy Ray looked toward the bar, he saw that the owner was aiming a double-barreled shotgun at him. “Put that pistol down. I ain’t goin’ to have you shootin’ up my place.”
“Well, hell, Rodney, you don’t have to get your dander up over it,” Billy Ray said as he handed his pistol to Kelly. “I was just tryin’ to get the piano player’s attention, that’s all.”
“You shouldn’t of done that,” Mary Lou said. “You could have killed Lenny.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t kill him, did I?” Billy Ray said. “Hey, you, Lenny. Play me a song I can do the fandango to.”
“I’m—I’m not sure I even know such a song,” the young man replied.
“Then make one up,” Billy Ray demanded. He reached out to take the bar girl’s hand. “Me’n the whore here is goin’ to dance the fandango.”
Lenny began playing a Spanish piece with a strong rhythmic beat, which intensified as the song progressed.
Billy Ray stepped out, whirled, stomped his feet, clapped his hands, then leaped up and tried to kick his heels together. When he did, he got his feet tangled up and he fell. He didn’t get up.
Mary Lou let out a little cry of alarm.
“Oh! Is he dead?” she asked.
Kelly leaned over to look at him. “Nah,” he said. “He is either knocked out or passed out drunk, but he ain’t dead.”
“That’s a shame,” the bartender said.
As the patrons of the New York Saloon stood looking down at the prostrate form of Billy Ray Quentin, an older man, with a scraggly beard, a barrel chest, and a bulging eye that didn’t track with the other, stepped in to the saloon. He stopped just in front of the swinging batwing doors when he saw that everyone was quiet.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked.
“Hello, Cole,” Kelly said.
“Where’s Billy Ray?” Cole asked.
Kelly pointed to the prostrate form on the floor.
“Is he all right?” Cole asked.
“Yeah, he’s all right. If you call passed out drunk all right,” Kelly said. “What you doin’ here? You ain’t a drinkin’ man.”
“I came for Billy Ray,” Cole said. “His pa wants him to come home.”
“I hope you come in a buckboard, ’cause ole Billy Ray sure as hell ain’t goin’ to be able to ride back.”
“I did,” Cole Mathers said. He walked over to Billy Ray, looked down at him, then sighed. “You boys get him outside, throw him in the back of the buckboard,” he ordered.
Cole was able to give them orders because he was the ranch foreman. “And tie his horse to the back.”
“All right, Reeves, Lewis, you heard the man,” Kelly said to the other two. “Let’s get him out there.”
“You think he’ll remember in the morning that he owes the three of us a dollar each?” Reeves asked.
“Hell, if he remembers anything, he’ll probably insist that he did it and
Cole watched as Reeves and Lewis picked up the unconscious man and carried him out.
“You might want this,” Kelly said, handing a pistol to Cole.
“Why would I want that?”
“It belongs to Billy Ray.”
Cole nodded, then took the pistol and stuck it down into his belt. He started toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Kelly. “You comin’, or are you stayin’?”
“Mr. Quentin didn’t send you after me, did he?”
“No.”
“Then I’m stayin’.”
Cole nodded, then walked outside, just as he saw Billy Ray being unceremoniously dropped into back of the buckboard. With a nod of thanks, he climbed into the seat, then drove off.
Two hours later, Billy Ray Quentin was back home at the Tumbling Q sitting at the kitchen table and drinking a cup of hot coffee. He made a face. “What’s in this coffee? Horse piss? It tastes awful.”
“I had the cook make it very strong. I want you to sober up,” Pogue Quentin said.
Pogue was sitting across the table from his son, and these were the first words he had spoken.
“All I did was have a few drinks,” Billy Ray said.
