Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jimbo Wells. You may have heard of him. And this is Benton Seward, our closest neighbor.”
    Whatever else might be said of them, they ate well, and I am a man who appreciates good food. But as the evening wore on I began to wonder, and kept remembering the line so often printed in accounts of executions: “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.”
    The dress that Doris Wells wore was scarcely less revealing than the bikini, but it was not entirely her fault. Nature had provided her with equipment that defied concealment…and it was Doris who brought gaiety and laughter to the meal.
    No doubt I contributed my share, for there is something in me, some nervous reaction, that is stirred to levity by the deeply serious or the dangerous. Tonight was no exception.
    Without doubt they had me in a corner, but I had no idea what had brought it about. For some reason they were afraid of me, and their instinct, like that of some wild animals, was to kill whatever they feared. But for the first time I had a lead.
    The sharp reaction to my idle comment about real estate brokers opened a door to speculation.
    What was it they feared?Were they afraid I might stir up something to cloud the title of the Wells holdings? Was that title somehow vulnerable?
    If that was the case then I could understand their worry. This ranch and the adjoining property they held must be worth several millions.
    Was there a connection between the killing of Manuel Alvarez and this ranch? Pete Alvarez had been killed here, by Floyd Reese—for rustling…or because he knew something that must not be told?
    As we ate, one part of my mind kept worrying over the problem like a dog over a bone. Suppose the Toomey brothers had settled on this land and somehow been displaced by the Wells outfit? If the Wells family had never tried to sell any of their land perhaps there had never been a title search; and even if there had been, the methods of acquiring land in pioneer days had been irregular, to say the least.
    From time to time my eyes wandered to Jimbo Wells. I knew of him, of course. He had been a runner-up for the All-America, had broken an intercollegiate shot-put record, and had played three years of professional football. He was big, fast, and notoriously rough, even in such a rough game as pro football.
    He had that close-cropped, freshly washed look so often associated with bright young college football players and nice boys, but my recollection of his playing and of the gossip around the world of sports was that he was something less than a nice boy.
    “We never had a writer on the place before.” He was looking right at me, and I knew trouble when I saw it coming.
    “You must have met a few at college.”
    “Pantywaists.” Jimbo was deliberately contemptuous. “They had a few around all right. I had nothing to do with them.”
    It was a comment to ignore, and I did, turning to exchange a comment with Belle.
    For the first time in years I had suddenly wanted, really
wanted
, to throw a punch. I felt it rising in me, but my good sense rang a warning bell. I was on their property, far from possible intervention in case of trouble, and in a situation where I couldn’t win without losing.
    My first warning was the grating of his chair and the rattle of a dish as he pushed against it. Then he had grabbed me by the collar. “Now look, writer, that wasn’t polite. I wasn’t through talking to you.”
    “No?”
    “You just tell me: I want to know how you writers work. Now supposin’ you were going to do a story on this ranch, how would you go about it?”
    My left hand lifted and I suddenly dug my thumb under the hand that held my collar and got hold of his little finger, bending it sharply back. He had to let go or have his finger broken, and he let go.
    “Why, you—”
    “You were asking how I’d work,” I replied calmly. “In the first place, I doubt if there is a good story of my type concerning this ranch. As for stories of the Apaches, I had