“He’s here ’cause I asked him to be here,” Dinkins said.
“What?”
“He’s the one I was telling you about. He’s the one I asked to join us. He’ll be with us when we hit the bank in Crystal.”
“You really think we need someone like that to hold up the bank in that little town?” Parnell asked.
“If people like Smoke Jensen are going to start coming after us, it would be good to have someone like Harley on our side,” Dinkins said.
Harley stepped up to the bar and slapped a coin down.
“Whiskey,” he grunted. “The good stuff.”
“Oh, sorry, mister, but you are just a little too late for any of our good stuff. That miner down there at the other end of the bar just bought our last bottle of blended whiskey. But I think you’ll find our trade liquor ain’t that bad.”
Harley turned to look at the young miner, who had just poured himself a glass from the bottle. “Mister, I’ll be askin’ you to sell that bottle to me.”
The miner shook his head. “Friend, I been bustin’ up hard rock all week, just a’ thinkin’ about comin’ in here for a good bottle of whiskey. I aim to keep it for myself.”
Harley put some money on the bar and slid it toward the cowboy.
“Mister, don’t you hear good?” the miner asked. “I told you, I ain’t sellin’ my whiskey.”
“Either pick up the money, or go for your gun,” Harley said.
“What?”
“I said, pull your gun or give me the bottle.”
“I ain’t even wearin’ a gun. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“You.” Harley looked toward Travis Slater. “You’re wearin’ a gun. Give it to the miner there.”
“All right.” Travis pulled his pistol from his holster by thumb and forefinger, carried it over to the miner, and held it out toward him.
The miner held up his hands, as if pushing Travis away. “I don’t want your gun.”
“Put it on the bar, then back out of the way,” Harley said.
Travis did as Harley directed.
“You’re armed now,” Harley said. “Pick it up.”
“Mister, are you serious?” The miner’s voice was high-pitched and cracking with fear. “You really aimin’ to throw down on me over a bottle of whiskey?”
“For God’s sake, give him the bottle, boy,” the bartender said.
“I paid for this bottle, and there ain’t nobody goin’ to buffalo me into givin’ it up. I don’t know who you are, mister, but I ain’t givin’ you my bottle, and I ain’t goin’ to pick up this pistol.”
Harley pulled his gun and fired. Pink mist sprayed from the miner’s earlobe and he slapped his hand up to the side of his head with a howl of pain. By the time the smoke cleared, the pistol was back in Harley’s holster.
“Give me the bottle,” Harley ordered.
With his left hand still pressed against his ear, the miner shoved the bottle down the bar with his right. “Here. Take the goddamn bottle.” He reached for the money.
“Uh-uh. That ain’t your money now. You didn’t take it when I give you the chance.”
The miner stared at Harley through terror-stricken eyes. Keeping his hand pressed against the side of his head, he rushed out of the saloon.
Harley picked up the bottle. Carrying it and Travis’s pistol with him, he walked over to join Dinkins and the others at his table. “I thank you for the loan of the pistol.” He held the gun across the table. Raising the bottle to his lips, he took a couple swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Dinkins. He smiled. “Hello, Little Brother.”
“Brother?” Frank Slater said. “You two are brothers?”
“Yeah.” Dinkins reached over to shake hands with Harley.
“How come you ain’t got the same last name?”
“We got the same mama, but different daddies,” Dinkins said.
Harley took another swallow from the bottle. “We think.”
“You think?” Parnell asked, clearly confused by the strange answer. “What do you mean, you think? Do you have different daddies or not?”
“Mama was a whore,” Dinkins said. “She didn’t always keep track of the men she slept with.”
“When you sent for me, you said you had somethin’ in mind,” Harley said. “What is it?”
“Banks,” Dinkins replied. “Startin’ with one over in Crystal, tomorrow.”
“Banks?” Parnell asked.
