Texas Tornado Read Online Free PDF Page B

great respect for womanhood, as he calls it. That’s why he passed a law against whores.”
    â€œI always thought that was a shame,” Deputy Clyde blurted, and then, appalled by his own boldness, he clamped his mouth shut and put his hand over it.
    Mako’s jaw muscles twitched. “The point, you jackasses, is that the mayor does everything by the law. His law. Break it and you end up in here. Or worse.”
    â€œI won’t ever touch them,” Brock said. “I promise.”
    Fargo was so intent on overhearing what was said that he almost failed to notice when Marshal Mako started to turn toward the window. Instantly he ducked and waited for an outcry, but there was none. He didn’t tempt fate. He got out of there, counting on the darkness to conceal him if the lawman looked out.
    He returned to the saloon by a winding route.
    Halfway there, a feeling came over him that he was being followed. He looked back but saw only a man and a woman strolling arm in arm.
    Shrugging, Fargo continued on. Half a block later the feeling came over him again. This time he ducked into a dark doorway. Several minutes went by and no one appeared. He stepped out and scanned the street. The few people he saw were going about their own business.
    Fargo walked on, puzzled. Normally he could count on his hunches. Honed by his years in the wilds, his instincts were rarely wrong.
    The feeling persisted all the way to the Tumbleweed. He glanced over his shoulder as he pushed on the batwings, but again, nothing.
    The place was lively. Everyone was having a good time. The smell of booze, the clink of poker chips, the haze of cigar smoke were a tonic.
    Fargo bought a bottle and sat in on a game of poker.
    â€œThe usual rules,” the dealer informed him as he cut the cards. “Except that you can’t ever raise more than a dollar.”
    Fargo thought his hearing must be going. “Was that your notion of funny?”
    â€œSure wasn’t, mister,” another player said. “It’s the law.”
    Fargo absorbed that. “There’s a law against betting more than a dollar?”
    The dealer nodded. “The mayor says it cuts down on violence.”
    â€œThat’s right,” another man said. He favored red suspenders and a green shirt. “Players hardly ever fight over a dollar.”
    â€œAnd everyone goes along with it?”
    â€œIt’s the law,” the dealer said.
    A third man mentioned, “If the marshal hears we broke the limit, we’d be hauled off and fined.”
    â€œA dollar limit it is,” Fargo said.
    â€œIt’s good you’re so reasonable,” the dealer said. “Some strangers come riding into Fairplay and reckon they can do as they damn well please.”
    â€œThey find out soon enough they damn well can’t,” said the man wearing the red suspenders.
    â€œAre there many sheep raised hereabouts?” Fargo couldn’t resist asking.
    All the players stared.
    â€œSheep?” the dealer said.
    â€œThis is cow country, mister.”
    â€œWoolies wouldn’t be welcome here.”
    â€œWhat in hell makes you think there’d be sheep, anyhow?”
    Fargo placed his poke on the table and opened it. “Everywhere I go, I hear them.”
    The man who was about to deal stopped. “I savvy what he’s saying, boys. He’s saying we’re the sheep.”
    â€œHow come us?” the man in the suspenders said.
    â€œYou’d better be careful with talk like that, mister,” the dealer warned. “Some of us might not take too kindly to it.”
    â€œWhat will you do besides twiddle your thumbs?” Fargo wondered.
    â€œInsult us all you want,” the dealer said. “We like a peaceful town.”
    â€œEveryone’s happy here,” the man with the suspenders said.
    Fargo knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t. “Except the ones in chains.”
    â€œThey