Sidewinders. William W. Johnstone

his mother. Thinking about settling down with the Widow Sutherland, are you?”

      “Me?” Scratch held his hand over his heart for a moment, then grinned. “You got to admit, Bo, she’s a fine figure of a woman.”

      “It was a pretty picture,” Bo mused, “her standing there on that porch with the wind in her hair and those cactus roses blooming at her feet. But we don’t know a blasted thing about her, other than the fact that she’s got a couple of sons and a stage line started by her late husband. We don’t even know how long he’s been gone. She may still be in mourning.”

      “Wasn’t wearin’ black,” Scratch pointed out.

      “No, she wasn’t, that’s true,” Bo admitted as he undid one of his saddle cinches.

      “And she’s got a whole heap o’problems on her plate, from the sound of it. Might be we could give her a hand with ’em.”

      “Nobody’s asked us for our help.”

      “Give it time. Anyway, ain’t you curious about what’s goin’ on around here? You always did like to get to the bottom of any trouble we ran into.”

      “That’s true,” Bo said with a shrug. “I guess we could hang around for a while and see what happens. Like I said, it seems like a pretty nice little town.”

      Scratch grinned. “And a pretty nice little woman, too.”

      Bo just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

      CHAPTER 3

      There were a couple of rocking chairs on the porch of the adobe office. Bo and Scratch walked around the building after tending to their horses and sat down in those chairs to wait. They weren’t sure what they were waiting for, but that was a pretty common situation. Years of drifting had taught them to be patient.

      They didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. Three men came down the street and stopped in front of the headquarters of the Sutherland Stage Line. One of them was young, twenty or twenty-one, more than likely, and his brown hair and the cast of his features resembled those of Gil Sutherland. Bo figured he and Scratch were looking at the heretofore-missing Dave Sutherland, Gil’s younger brother.

      The other two men were older but still in their twenties. One was tall and scrawny, with a shock of straw-colored hair under a battered, pushed-back hat. The other was short and broad, built like a bull, with an animal-like dullness in his eyes and on his face. He wore a derby over dark hair that grew down low on his forehead.

      “You hombres looking for somebody?” asked the young man Bo and Scratch took to be Dave Sutherland. He swayed back and forth, and his speech was slurred enough to indicate that he’d been drinking.

      The afternoon was well advanced, so it wasn’t like he was drunk first thing in the morning or anything like that. Still, he was a mite young to be putting away enough liquor to get him in such a condition. His companions might have been drinking, too, but they didn’t appear to be as snockered as young Dave.

      “We’re waiting for Mrs. Sutherland to get back,” Bo said.

      “If you wanna buy tickets on the st-stage, you might as well wait until in the morning. There’s one due in this afternoon any time now, and there won’t be another one leaving until tomorrow.”

      Dave was making a visible effort to stand up straight, and he was being more careful and precise when he talked now, two more signs that he’d guzzled too much rotgut.

      “Today’s stage is already in,” Scratch said. “We came in with it.”

      “Then why are you hanging around here? Go on about your business!”

      Bo frowned. “What did you say, mister?”

      “You heard me! You look like saddle tramps to me. Probably want a handout or something. Well, you won’t get it here!”

      “You’re makin’ a mistake, son,” Scratch said.

      “You’re the one who made the mistake, old-timer. I’m Dave Sutherland. My ma owns this stage line, and I’m telling you to rattle your hocks!”

      Dave had confirmed what Bo and Scratch already suspected, that he was Abigail’s younger son, but his belligerence took them by surprise. Some people got proddy like that when they’d had too much to drink, though, and evidently Dave was one of them.

      The tall, straw-haired man stepped forward. “You heard Dave. Vamoose, you two old pelicans!”

      Scratch frowned, too, and looked over at Bo. “You hear what he called us?”

      “Yeah,” Bo said. “Looks like this town isn’t as friendly as we thought it was.”

      “Hey! We’re talkin’ to you!” the straw-haired man said.

      Scratch nodded. “Oh, we heard you. Either that or there’s a donkey brayin’ somewhere close by.”

      The man’s hands closed into bony fists. “Why, you—”

      “We’ll just wait here for Mrs. Sutherland,” Bo cut in. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

      “You got it whether you’re lookin’ for it or not. Now drift, or—”

      “Or what?” Scratch said.

      “Or Culley and me will make you wish you had!”

      Scratch nodded toward the short, broad man and said to Bo, “You figure the baby bull there’s Culley?”

      “I reckon,” Bo said.

      “He looks strong enough to bend a railroad tie.”

      The straw-haired man sneered. “He is, and you’re about to find out for yourself, old man.”

      “But dumb as dirt,” Scratch went on as if the other man hadn’t spoken.

      Bo heaved a sigh. If a fight hadn’t been inevitable to start with, it sure as blazes was now. Culley’s face darkened with slow anger, and he started toward the porch steps. He was so muscular that his walk had a peculiar rolling gait to it.

      Bo made one final attempt to stave off a ruckus. He stood up, held out a hand, and said, “You boys don’t want to do this.” He looked at Dave. “I’m betting your mother won’t like it if there’s a brawl on her front porch.”

      “My mother doesn’t tell me what to do,” Dave shot back. “And you shouldn’t have mouthed off to Angus and Culley.”

      “Hey!” Scratch said indignantly as he got to his feet. “I’m the one who mouthed off, and don’t you forget it!”

      Culley spoke for the first time, rumbling, “Gonna rip you apart, old man!” He charged up the steps, followed closely by the straw-haired man, whose name was Angus evidently.

      Scratch lifted his right leg, planted his boot heel in Culley’s chest, and shoved. Culley went backward into Angus, knocking him over like a ball in a game of ninepins. Both men sprawled in the dirt in front of the porch, looking surprised. Scratch hadn’t seemed like he was moving very fast. His movements had appeared almost casual.

      Dave gaped. “You gonna let that old varmint do that?” he demanded, the slur slipping back into his voice.

      “Not hardly,” Angus vowed as he scrambled to his feet. He had to help Culley up, because the muscle-bound man was flailing his arms and legs like a turtle that’s been flipped over onto its back.

      Once they were both up, Angus said to his companion, “All right, we’re gonna go at this different. I’ll take the preacher, you handle the Fancy Dan in the buckskin jacket.”

      Culley nodded. He didn’t have much of a neck, just a thick column of muscle. “Yeah. Gonna bust him to pieces.”

      Scratch grinned and said, “Come on, baby bull. You try it.”