You want to call me anythin’ . . .
CALL ME KILLER!
To most people, no matter how talented you might be, you were always ‘a two-bit gunshark’ . . . behind your back, that is. In your company, they groveled. It was indeed a curious old world which the Yankees had won in the trial by arms. It was hard not to be totally cynical, so why try?
A voice reached him. It was loud and filled with authority.
“You there with the tied-down guns. Just a moment.”
Farley turned slowly to see Testament’s law approaching along the street puffed up with his own importance and flanked on either side by a rifle-toting deputy.
Farley didn’t like the look of the red-faced, sideburned sheriff, but it was the man’s accent that really grated. As Northern as a Canadian goose. A Yankee badgepacker in a Southern town.
Howcome he wasn’t in the least surprised?