“Mister, you don’t have to get mixed up in this,” the woman said quickly. “This is between me and my customer.”
Bardwell shook his shaggy head. “Not any more, it ain’t. If this old rooster wants to horn in and start crowin’, he’s gonna have to pay the price.” He took a step toward Scratch. “You know what happens to an old rooster, mister?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Scratch said coolly.
“He gets his neck wrung!”
The big man lunged at Scratch with surprising speed. Those ham-like hands reached for the silver-haired Texan’s throat.
Scratch was pretty fast, too. He jerked to the side and lowered a shoulder, causing Bardwell’s attempted grab to miss. He stepped closer to Bardwell. Scratch’s right fist whipped up and out in a wicked blow that sank solidly into his opponent’s midsection.
Unfortunately, Bardwell didn’t even seem to feel it. He brought his right fist hammering down on top of Scratch’s head. The big, cream-colored Stetson absorbed some of the blow’s force, but it still landed plenty hard enough to drive Scratch to one knee. Bardwell reached down, grabbed Scratch’s buckskin jacket, and hauled him up again. Scratch looked a little addled. He could hold his own in most fights and had been doing so for many, many years, but he had bitten off too big a chunk of hell this time.
Knowing that, Bo acted before his friend could get hurt too badly. He slipped his Colt from its holster, pointed it at Bardwell, and eared back the hammer.
That metallic sound was distinctive enough—and menacing enough—to make Bardwell freeze with one hand bunched in Scratch’s coat and the other drawn back and clenched to deliver another thunderous blow.
“Let him go,” Bo ordered.
Bardwell turned his head enough to give Bo a baleful stare. “Who’re you?”
“His friend,” Bo said. “Also the fella who’s going to blow your kneecap apart with a forty-five slug in about two seconds if you don’t let go of him and step back.”
For a second Bo thought Bardwell was going to be stubborn enough that he’d have to go through with that threat. But then the hand holding up Scratch opened, and the Texan slumped against the counter. The woman reached across it to take hold of his arm and steady him while he got his feet under himself again.
“This was none of your business,” Bardwell said, “but you made it that way. You’d best remember that.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” Bo said. “Have you paid the lady for whatever you ate?”
“I’m not gonna—”
Bo’s voice cut across the angry protest. “Have you paid the lady?”
“He doesn’t owe me anything,” the woman said.
Bo nodded. “Then I’d suggest you mosey on out of here, friend.”
“I ain’t your friend,” Bardwell said. “You’d better remember that.”
“I can live with that . . . as long as you leave.”
Bo stepped back to cover Bardwell as the giant stomped past him and out of the cafe. He moved to the door and watched as Bardwell moved off down Main Street. Bo didn’t pouch his iron until he felt fairly sure Bardwell wasn’t coming back.
He turned as he slid the gun into leather. Scratch had regained his wits and had his hat in his hands, pushing it back into shape where Bardwell’s fist had partially flattened it.
Scratch’s face was set in an accusing frown. “You didn’t have to do that, Bo,” he said. “I had things under control. I was about to give that big varmint his needin’s.”
“I know that,” Bo said. “I just didn’t want you to have all the fun by yourself.”
The woman behind the counter said, “That’s your idea of fun? If I didn’t already know it from your accents, I’d know you were Texans from your sheer knuckleheadedness!”
“You’re welcome,” Scratch said. “We were glad to step in and help you, ma’am.”
“You mean stick your interfering noses in where they weren’t needed, don’t you?” She gestured toward the stove and the coffeepot. “I was about to give Reese a faceful of hot coffee. He’d have behaved himself after that, I can promise you!”
She was in her thirties, Bo estimated, with work-roughened hands and enough lines in her face to show that life hadn’t always treated her kindly. Thick auburn hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head and pinned into place.
Bo thumbed his hat back and said, “Sorry if we added to the problem, ma’am. We were just trying to help.”
Her expression softened a little. “Oh, I know that. And I suppose I appreciate it. It’s just that this isn’t the first time Reese has gotten a mite frisky. He’s troublesome at times, but he’s not really a bad sort. I’ve always been able to handle him. I just hope this doesn’t make him turn really mean.”
One of the customers drifting back to the plate of food he had left on the counter spoke up, saying, “Calling Reese Bardwell troublesome at times is being mighty generous, Sue Beth.”
Another man said, “And if he’s not really mean already, I don’t want to be anywhere around when he is.”
The woman nodded and said to Bo and Scratch, “See, that’s what I mean. He’s got a bad reputation around here, and some would say it’s well deserved.” She shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. “I expect you want some lunch?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scratch said. “We’d be obliged.”
