Andromeda Gun Read Online Free PDF

was deviltry in the smile that flashed teeth in the afternoon sun, an animal litheness in the swing of the broad shoulders. The only aspect of the approaching man Ian approved of was the way in which he wore his pearl-handled revolver, strapped low on his thigh with a double thong in the conventional manner of the gunfighter.
    The hand had a long way to travel before it reached the pistol’s butt. Billy Peyton would be dead before his gun cleared its holster.
    Ian glanced down at the book, opened it, and immediately became so engrossed he barely noticed Peyton enter and order a cup of coffee. He failed to notice, entirely, the hostile glance Peyton threw down the counter at him.
    Ian was reading. Although unable to decipher the name of the book, Novum Organum , he made out most of the words inside. When he discovered that long words were small words put together, he had found a key to a language he recognized as English but which was written in a manner no trailhand ever used and, for that matter, no newspaper. After three pages, he was picking up speed. Almost unconsciously he asked for a second cup of coffee because, after the fifth page, he was breaking out of the chaparral. By the seventh page, he was reading at a full gallop. On page twenty, and his third cup of coffee, he was brought back to his surroundings by the loud voice of Billy Peyton.
    “Looks like you got a scholar in here, Gabe, and a real coffee drinker.”
    Ian looked up the counter toward the man. With intuitive clarity, he realized that his virtuous behavior had availed him nothing; Billy Peyton, grown jealous of a reading ability which would raise a man’s standing in the eyes of a schoolteacher, was trying to pick a fight.
    Shamefacedly, Ian closed the offending book and shoved it down the counter, as Gabriella tried to wedge polite formality between the two men. “Mr. Peyton, this is Mr. McCloud. He brought in Brother Trotter.”
    Peyton was not interested in friendly formalities.
    “Well, coffee drinker,” he said with loud contempt, “you must be a Samaritan.”
    “No, sir,” Ian said politely, “I hail originally from Alabama.”
    “My, isn’t he the witty one.” Peyton addressed the girl with mincing tones. “Or maybe your scholar doesn’t know that a Samaritan is somebody who does good deeds, like bringing in a dead body before the other buzzards get to it.”
    Billy Peyton was using grammar, yet he was making out that Ian was a sissy.
    “I just did my Christian duty, sir,” Ian interposed humbly.
    Billy Peyton slapped his exposed thigh and guffawed, still directing his conversation to Miss Stewart. “A Christian as well as a scholar! I bet he’s a chicken lover, too.”
    Billy Peyton was spoiling for a fight. Coming out from under the influence of Francis Bacon, Ian’s thoughts swung back into their old channels. If Peyton didn’t appreciate virtue and wanted to fight, he was giving Ian a chance to get rid of the horse guard at church tomorrow. But, he cautioned himself, Peyton might be a coward who wore a fancy gun to shore up his courage and . he might back away from a showdown. Ian wanted to forestall any backdown. He wanted to kill Peyton fair and square, and it would hurt his currently high standing in the community if he shot a man in the back who was running away.
    Ian affected an apologetic look and spoke with a voice that reeked with humility. “I truly do love chicken, Mr. Peyton. I ain’t never wrapped my lips around a better breast than Miss Stewart’s and her thighs are about as good as any I ever sunk my teeth into.”
    “What are you talking about, boy?”
    “Miss Stewart’s chicken, sir.”
    “Sounded for a minute, there, like you were giving your last will and testament, and maybe you were.”
    “If I done you any offense, Mr. Peyton, I surely want to apologize. Next to Miss Stewart’s chicken, there’s nothing I’d like better than a little peace…”
    “Watch it, boy!”
    In desperation, Ian