Never Trust A Woman

Book Number: 0176

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There’s plenty who rate you
as nothin’ . . . and I’m one of ’em!

NEVER TRUST A WOMAN

 

The club hit the meatworker and the meatworker hit the floor.

Hatch was stepping forward, hand resting on gunbutt, when he saw her. She stood on a table in a short, red skirt and low-cut blouse, holding a tankard of beer aloft and yelling encouragement like a meatworker;

“Get him, Biff. Kick him in the cojones, Joe! Don’t let him do that to you.”

The lawman stopped on a dime, his brooding eyes focused on the young woman. She was pretty, in a blowsy sort of way, with the sort of figure to take a man’s breath away. She was the darling of places like the Texas Bar and the Silver King, while mere mention of her name could always be guaranteed to raise a whole chorus of ‘tut-tuts’ among the respectable matrons of Fulton.

“You!” Hatch yelled to a red-nosed drunk, who was cheering the combatants on and plainly loving every minute of it. “What started this?”

“Huh? Oh, howdy there, Sheriff. Oh, shucks, the same old thing, I guess. Cherchez la femme.”

“What?”

“The woman, Sheriff, always look for the woman when fellers start bustin’ one another’s faces.”

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