Lando (1962) Read Online Free PDF

others followed.
    The bearded man was big, and he was wearing a pistol, as were some of the others.
    My walking staff was a handy weapon, if need be. A Welshman in the mountains had taught me the art of stick fighting, and I was ready.
    The bearded man stopped in our path as we drove off the ferry. He glanced from the Tinker to me, and it was obvious that neither of us had a gun.
    Four men behind him ... a dirty, boozing lot, but armed and confident. My mouth was dry and my belly felt empty.
    "Stoppin' around?"
    "Passin' through," I said.
    One end of my stick rested on my boot toe, ready to flip and thrust. A stick fighter never swings a wide blow--he thrusts or strikes with the end, andforthe belly, the throat, or the eyes.
    "Have a drink!" The big man thrust the bottle at the Tinker.
    "Never touch it," the Tinker replied.
    Two of the other men were closing in on me, about as close as I could afford for them to get.
    "You'll drink and like it!" The big man suddenly swung with the bottle, but he was too slow. The Tinker's hand shot out, flicking this way and that as though brushing the big man with his fingers' ends, but the big man screamed and staggered back, his face streaming blood.
    Even as he lifted the bottle, the two men nearest me jumped to get close. My stick barely had room, but the end caught the nearest man in the throat and he fell back gasping horribly. As he did so, without withdrawing the stick I struck sidewise with it, not a hard blow, but the other man threw up an arm to block it and staggered. Instantly I jerked back the stick, which was all of five feet long and broom-handle size, and grasping it with both hands, struck him in the face with the end of it.
    The fight was over. The Tinker glanced at the other two men, who were withdrawing. Then he coolly leaned over and thrust the blade into the turf near the road to cleanse it of blood.
    Three men were down and the fight gone out of the others, and it hadn't been twenty seconds since they stopped us. No doubt they'd robbed many a traveler at this point and believed us easily handled.
    We paid them no more mind, starting off up the rise toward the high ground back of the river. And that big man was dead. From time to time I'd seen fighting done, but not a man killed before, and it seemed there ought to be more to it. One moment he was coming at us blustering and confident, and the next he was dying in the trail mud.
    We did not stop that night, but went on, wanting distance between us and trouble. West and south we kept on going, through sunlight and rain, the Tinker plying his trade, and me swapping here and there.
    The mare was filling out, carrying her colt, and I was in fine shape.
    Down at Jefferson in Texas, we laid in supplies. We walked out of town before we made camp, and we were just setting up to eat when we heard horses soft-footing it along the trail.
    Turning to warn the Tinker, I saw him standing outside the firelight, a blade in his hand.
    Me, I held to my place at the fire, letting them think me alone.
    The riders stopped out beyond the firelight and a voice called out, not loud, "Hello, the fire!
    Can we come in?"
    "If you're friendly, you're welcome.
    Coffee's on."
    Those days nobody rode right up to a fire or a house. It was customary to stop off a bit and call in--it was also a whole lot safer.
    There were three of them, one about my own age, the other two a mite older. They were roughly dressed, like men who were living out in the brush, and they were heavily armed. These men, by the look of them, were on the dodge. his'Light and set. We're peaceful folk."
    They sat their horses, their eyes missing nothing, noting the Tinker there, knife in hand.
    "You with the knife." The speaker was a handsome big man with a shock of dark, untrimmed hair. "You wishin' trouble?"
    "Fixed for it. Not hunting it."
    The big man swung down, keeping his horse between himself and the fire. "You look like movers," he said pleasantly. "I was a mover one time