They’d barely slurped the snow-white foam off their first beers at the bar when a voice cut through the saloon chatter and the drunken laughter.
“Weeel Leweees!”
Will turned slowly, stepping away from the bar. There were two men facing him from about eight feet away. The speaker was Mexican, with long, greasy hair and a drooping mustache that hung two inches below his jaw. His holster, tied low on his thigh, held a Colt .45. “You have someteeng my fren’ Meester VanGelder wants.”
The second man was white, short, and scruffy, looking like a cowhand at the end of a drive, except for his tied-down holster.
“Your friend VanGelder is a fat, cowardly pig, an’ you two sows look like you came from the same litter,” Will said in almost a conversational tone. “You got something to take care of with me, let’s get to it.”
The Mexican’s eyes were coal black and glistened like those of a snake. “You make beeg talk,” he snarled, “but now you die. No?” His hand swept to the grips of his pistol . . .