Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition Read Online Free

approach, and relief passed over his face. The big Irishman moved down the side of the bar toward the table, unseen by Watson and the half-dozen of his men clustered together on the other side of the circle of rough planking.
    “I see you kept your word, Irishman.”
    So intent was Kelly on the tableau of an unconscious Little and a hovering Slocum that he did not notice the tall Texan leaning against the bar. The Texan pushed forward and barred Kelly's way. “I reckon you want satisfaction now,” he said. He was grinning good-naturedly and he began to unbuckle his gunbelt.
    Kelly was staring absently at the slumped figure of Little, already thinking of what man he could send out as scout to relieve Jake Reeves and be depended on to bring an honest report. There wasn't a one. “Not now, Texas,” he said gruffly. “I'm busy.”
    He pushed past the tall man, who looked after him with thoughtful eyes. “Can't you sober him up, Slocum?” Kelly said.
    Slocum glanced at Watson and his men. “He ain't drunk, Mr. Kelly. He's been pistol-whipped.”
    Kelly jerked up. “Who done it?”
    Slocum nodded in the direction of Watson.
    “Get him over to the doctoring tent, lad,” Kelly said grimly.
    Slocum nodded and hefted Little over his shoulder. His boots sinking into the mud, he struggled past the tall Texan and out of the tent.
    “Who did it?” Kelly demanded of Watson and his men. “Which one of you yellow-bellied scum was afraid to shoot—but beat that lad with his gun?”
    “Hold on Kelly,” Watson said harshly. “There was a little misunderstanding, and then your scout tried to pull a knife.”
    “Asa Little would never give a man a chance if he had pulled his knife,” Kelly said. “And I said if he pulled his knife.”
    “Come on and have a drink, Kelly,” Watson said with a shrug.
    “Who whipped my scout!” Kelly roared. “Step out and whip me, if one of you dares to face up to a man!”
    The men glanced at each other. Then one of them stepped out, a thick-set, wide man. “Kelly, I've had enough of your bellowing. I whipped your scout. Now what'n hell you think you going to do about it?”
    Watson had moved a safe distance away. The Texan leaned at the bar, sipping his whisky and watching the scene.
    Kelly moved in on the thick-set man and knocked him sprawling. “Get up!” he roared.
    At a sign from Watson the other men circled Kelly, removed their guns, and reversed the butts. The big Irishman charged, his fist catching one man and knocking him cold. But as he moved, the others got behind and around him and began to hammer at his head.
    The Texan finished his drink, removed his hat and stepped into the fray. He reached one man on the back of the head with his own gun-butt, and was slugged in return by one of Watson's men. Kelly slammed a man back against the planking, and tore down a whole section. The Texan landed heavily against the inner bar, and bottles and crocks of whisky fell with a crash. He bulled his way back to where three Watson men were hammering at Kelly and, in turn, began methodically chopping at the Watson men.
    A reeling man fell hard against one of the thick tent poles and half the tent fell in on the fighters. The women began to scream, and when neither Kelly nor the Texan could find anyone to swing at, they scrambled out from underneath the canvas. They stood outside the stricken tent and looked over each other solemnly, sucking at their knuckles.
    “I forgot my saddle and hat in the tent,” the Texan said gravely.
    He turned and scooped up one edge of the tent and disappeared.
    Kelly waited. There were sudden loud smacking sounds, a crash of bottles and the heavy thud of a man going down. Then silence.
    The edge of the tent was lifted and the Texan emerged with his saddle and his hat, replacing his Colt in its holster. Kelly's face was heavy with chagrin.
    “I want you to know, I didn't ask you to help me!” Kelly said, “I could have handled those toughs without your