A Gown of Spanish Lace Read Online Free

as sittin’ on a rock.”
    Sam shrugged, nodded, and shoved some wood into the firebox. He filled the blackened pot with water and slashed open a small bag holding coffee grounds and liberally dumped some into the pot.
    Silence followed until Sam had finished his duties and returned to his log seat.
    “We oughta get us a few more chairs,” he said more to himself than to the big man.
    “Hard to carry behind a saddle,” the boss growled. He reached out a hand to drum his fingers in agitated fashion on the boards of the wooden table.
    Silence again. At last Sam spoke.
    “So yer worried about ’im?” he asked. His voice was lower now—his manner less defensive.
    “I worry,” admitted the big man in response.
    “I still think he can handle hisself.”
    “Maybe,” replied the big man. “But odds are agin’ it.”
    “How so?”
    The fingers beat more rapidly on the tabletop.
    “Doublin’ up. One man forces a draw—another comes in—gits his attention. First man has a chance for a slow, careful shot with his good hand. Takes ’im.”
    “Come on, Boss,” scoffed Sam. “How often ya seed thet happen?”
    “It could.”
    “Sun could come up in the west, too, I reckon—but I ain’t seen it do it yet.”
    “Could happen,” insisted Will.
    Sam got up to check the coffee. It wasn’t boiling yet.
    “Sure gonna be good to have a decent cup of coffee,” he muttered. “Thet stuff we been drinkin’ tasted ’bout like slop.”
    He brought two chipped, stained cups to the table.
    “Know what I think?” he asked softly.
    There was no response, so after a few moments of silence he continued. “I think yer jest worryin’ too much. The boy is doin’ jest fine. Can’t think me of a better tracker—smarter woodsman—more careful feller at watchin’ his back—why—bet there ain’t an Injun—”
    He stopped. The big man had begun cursing and spitting. Sam quickly changed the course of the conversation.
    “It’s jest ’cause yer his pa thet yer frettin’,” he hurried on. “Boys are gonna think yer a stewin’ ole woman iffen—”
    The big man stirred restlessly and his curses grew louder. Sam went for the coffee, hoping it was boiling. He may have pushed a bit too far. It was time to back off.
    “I know he can take care of hisself,” the big man growled. “Iffen he chooses to—thet’s the rub. He’s gotta learn thet ya have to take yer man. Dead men don’t carry grudges. No smart man leaves him a trail of one-armed men carryin’ a full pail of bitter with ’em. Sooner or later one of ’em varmints is gonna turn up and he ain’t gonna be lookin’ to play fair.”
    It was a new thought for Sam and the first one he agreed with. He poured the coffee and moved to put the pot back on the stove.
    “Too hot to be drinkin’ coffee,” he muttered to himself, even though he sniffed the deep aroma with appreciation.
    He returned to his seat and took a drink of the scalding liquid. The coffee burned all the way down, causing his eyes to water. When he recovered he spoke again.
    “So what ya plannin’?”
    There was silence while the big man fingered his cup.
    “Gotta force his hand,” he said at last.
    “Force his hand? You mean—make him take his man?”
    The big man nodded, his eyes dark and smoldering.
    “And how ya fixin’ to do thet? You gonna call him out?”
    Will Russell answered that ridiculous question with a dark stare.
    “Okay, okay,” hurried Sam. “So thet was dumb. I take it ya got a better idea.”
    The big man sipped his coffee slowly, smarter than to gulp it as Sam had done.
    “Well—” prompted Sam.
    “What’s the one thing thet a man—almost any man—would kill fer?” asked the boss.
    “Money?”
    The big man cursed. “We got thet,” he reminded Sam. “Stashed away. An’ we can get more—anytime we take a notion.”
    “Then—?” Sam let the question hang between them.
    “A woman,” said Will simply.
    “A what?”
    Sam could not believe what he had