By Joe R. Lansdale
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Punching cows? Herding sheep? Hunting men? You call those real jobs. ” “This sure isn’t a real job. ” Bucklaw put his foot in the stirrup. “Sorry, Jim. After the war they didn’t leave nothing for us Johnny Rebs. ” Bucklaw swung into the saddle. “I’m going down there,” he said. ” “You don’t owe that scum anything. Besides, we’re outsiders; we haven’t got a price on our heads. ” I sighed. ” I climbed on my horse. “I’m saying now that I don’t like this none. ” “All right, you’ve said it. Just this one time, Jim.
I positioned my saddle under my head and decided I wouldn’t get much sleep this night. No sir, I didn’t trust that old major, not one damn bit. Well after midnight I awoke from an uneasy sleep. Sound had brought me around. Not stealthy sound, just plain old noise. Bucklaw was already sitting up. 38 Prescott revolver in his lap on top of the blanket. “Those Crows,” he said. ” Sure enough, they were. All except one. The man with the eagle feathers. The Crows were clustered together about the fire, turning up jugs of whisky—all but Eagle Feather.
Reckon we ought to get started right quick, pilgrim. ” “Not much. ” The giant laughed. “Not hardly. ” “Jim Melgrhue. ” “Johnston. ” “Yep, some call me that, too. ” “Well I’ll be damned. ” “In a way I am. ” Johnston worked up a fire just outside the passenger car, heated his big Bowie knife. It wasn’t something to look forward to with any anticipation. He got a bottle of very dark whisky from his saddlebag and made some splints from the slats in one of the passenger seats. After that Johnston got the Bowie out of the fire and the thing I remembered most was him coming toward me, smiling, with that red-hot blade.
Blood Dance by Joe R. Lansdale