The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [118]
“You saying I can’t shoot, or’re you just chicken scared!”
“I’m just saying there are many people on the street and inside there.”
“You’re talking awful damn big for a dumb Mex kid. You must be awful dumb.” He looked toward the steps, handling the pistol idly. “He must be awful dumb, huh, Walt?”
Jimmy Robles heard the one called Walt mumble, “He sure must,” but he kept his eyes on Roman, who walked up to him slowly, still looking at him like he was a stump or something that couldn’t talk back or hear. Now, only a few feet away, he saw a glimmer in the sleepy eyes as if a new thought was punching its way through his head.
“Maybe we ought to learn him something, Walt. Seeing he’s so dumb.” Grinning now, he looked straight into the Mexican boy’s eyes. “Maybe I ought to shoot his ears off and give ’em to him for a present. What you think of that, Walt?”
Jimmy Robles’s smile had almost disappeared. “I think I had better ask you for your gun, mester.” His voice coldly polite.
Roman’s stubble jaw hung open. It clamped shut and his face colored, through the weathered tan it colored as if it would burst open from ripeness. He mumbled through his teeth, “You two-bit kid!” and tried to bring the Colt up.
Robles swung his left hand wide as hard as he could and felt the numbing pain up to his elbow the same time Sid Roman’s head snapped back. He tried to think of courtesy, his pistol, the law, the other three men, but it wasn’t any of these that drew his hand back again and threw the fist hard against the face that was falling slowly toward him. The head snapped back and the body followed it this time, heels dragging in the dust off balance until Roman was spread-eagled in the street, not moving. He swung on the three men, pulling his pistol.
They just looked at him. The one called Walt shrugged his shoulders and lifted the bottle that was almost empty.
WHEN JOHN BENEDICT closed the office door behind him, his deputy was coming up the hall that connected the cells in the rear of the jail. He sat down at the rolltop desk, hearing the footsteps in the bare hallway, and swiveled his chair, swinging his back to the desk.
“I was over to the barbershop. I saw you bring somebody in,” he said to Jimmy Robles entering the office. “I was all lathered up and couldn’t get out. Saw you pass across the street, but couldn’t make out who you had.”
Jimmy Robles smiled. “Mester Roman. Didn’t you hear the shooting?”
“Sid Roman?” Benedict kept most of the surprise out of his voice. “What’s the charge?”
“He was drinking out in the street and betting on shooting at the sign over the Supreme. There were a lot of people around—” He wanted to add, “John,” because they were good friends, but Benedict was old enough to be his father and that made a difference.
“So then he called you something and you got mad and hauled him in.”
“I tried to smile, but he was pointing his gun all around. It was hard.”
John Benedict smiled at the boy’s serious face. “Sid call you chicken scared?”
Jimmy Robles stared at this amazing man he worked for.
“He calls everybody that when he’s drunk.” Benedict smiled. “He’s a lot of mouth, with nothing coming out. Most times he’s harmless, but someday he’ll probably shoot somebody.” His eyes wandered out the window. Old man Remillard was crossing the street toward the jail. “And then we’ll get the blame for not keeping him here when he’s full of whiskey.”
Jimmy Robles went over the words, his smooth features frowning in question. “What do you mean we’ll get blamed?”
Benedict started to answer him, but changed his mind when the door opened. Instead, he said, “Afternoon,” nodding his head to the thick, big-boned man in the doorway. Benedict followed the rancher’s gaze to Jimmy Robles. “Mr. Remillard, Deputy Sheriff Robles.”
Remillard’s face was serious. “Quit kidding,” he said. He moved toward the sheriff. “I’m just fixing up a mistake you made. Your memory must be