“Pour that out, Pablo,” one of them said to the bartender. “We will not drink anything bought by filthy gringo coins.”
“Wait just a minute, sir,” Padgett said, turning toward the two charros. “I’ve already pointed out that I meant no offense by my comment about the young lady. I was just admiring her beauty.”
One of the men spat a curse in Spanish. “Lupe needs no compliments from the likes of you.”
The object of the discussion had delivered the drinks to the table. Now she hurried back over to the bar, looking as nervous as the bartender, and said quickly, “There is no need to argue, mi amigos. My honor is not insulted.”
“A worthless puta like you has no honor,” snapped one of the Mexicans. “But this dog of a gringo had insulted us by calling us greasers.”
Leon Mercer let out a low moan of sheer terror. His drink was untouched on the bar. Suddenly he snatched up the glass and gulped down the fiery tequila, as if to fortify himself for the trouble he seemed certain was coming.
Longarm also figured things were about to go from bad to worse. He had known that Padgett could be crass and crude at times, and he’d figured that came from being a politician. It had to be difficult to hide your true feelings all the time and only tell people what you thought they wanted to hear. But he had certainly never expected the senator to come in here and provoke trouble so quickly and effortlessly. It was almost like Padgett wanted to start a fight.
That thought could have done with some more pondering, but there was no time for it. The untouched drinks still sat in front of the two Mexicans, and Padgett pointed at them as he said loudly, “Now I’m going to be insulted if you don’t drink those. There’s nothing wrong with them, and where I come from a man doesn’t dishonor another man by turning down a drink.”
“What does a dog know of honor?”
Longarm reached for Padgett’s arm. It was time for that better part of valor he’d heard tell of. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going back to the hotel.”
Padgett jerked his arm free. “Not yet. Not until these men do something with those drinks.”
The two Mexicans did something, all right. They picked up the glasses and splashed the tequila all over the front of Padgett’s suit. The senator gaped down at the wet mess in astonishment, then shouted, “By God, I won’t stand for that!” He lunged at the nearest of the Mexicans, swinging a fist at the man’s head.
Longarm darted forward, trying to get between Padgett and the other men. The senator’s fist brushed the side of his head, making his ear sting. Longarm ignored that and lowered his shoulder, driving into the chest of the Mexican and knocking the man back against his companion. Both men went down. Longarm jerked around and barked, “Get out of here! Now!” at Padgett and Mercer. Mercer was already tugging frantically on the senator’s arm, urging him to run.
“Damn it, this is my fight!” protested Padgett.
“Not any more! Now git!”
Longarm didn’t have time to continue arguing. One of the Mexicans was back on his feet, and Longarm saw the flicker of a knife in his hand. He ducked back against the bar as the blade lanced out at him like the tongue of a snake. As the Mexican slashed at him again, Longarm grabbed the bottle of tequila that still sat on the bar and used it to block the knife. The blade scraped off the thick glass, then Longarm brought the bottle down hard on the man’s wrist. With a yelp of pain, the man dropped the knife.
From the corner of his eye, Longarm saw Mercer prodding the reluctant Padgett out of the cantina and felt a surge of relief. At least the senator wasn’t going to get himself killed over some stupid, senseless argument.
Of course, he might not be able to say the same for himself, Longarm realized, because the second charro was back on his feet, and the man was reaching for the pistol in that tied-down holster. He was fast too.
Longarm slowed him down a little by flipping the bottle at him. The man had to put up an arm to bat it aside. That gave Longarm the chance to reach his own gun. He palmed out the .44 and brought it up level in one smooth motion. “I wouldn’t,” he said coldly as the Mexican’s hand touched the butt of his gun.
One of the three white cowboys, who had watched the whole fracas from the table, let out a whistle of admiration. “Whoo-eee! That fella’s faster on the draw than Marshal Earp down at Tombstone!”
Longarm had never had any interest in being known as a fast gun. He was fast enough on the draw to have stayed alive this long, and that was all he cared about. Now, as the Mexican slowly moved his hand away from his gun, Longarm nodded and said, “I’m obliged to you for seeing the light of reason, old son. Neither one of us has any business dying over what some loudmouthed blowhard has to say.”
“You know this amigo of yours is-“
“Is damned hard to swallow sometimes,” Longarm finished with a nod. “I sure do. And he ain’t really my amigo. But I have to look out for him anyway.”
The two Mexicans exchanged a glance that told Longarm they understood what he meant. It was his job to stand between Padgett and whatever trouble came up, even trouble of the senator’s own making, and they could respect him for doing just that. The one who was holding the sore wrist that Longarm had cracked with the bottle rasped, “Do not let him come in here again.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Longarm assured him. “I reckon he’s had enough local color to last him for a while.”
At least, Longarm damned well hoped so.
He holstered his gun, but he kept a close eye on the gents at the bar until he was out of the cantina. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he walked quickly toward the hotel. He was still plenty angry at Padgett for provoking the confrontation, even though no one had been hurt seriously. It was just a matter of luck that no one had gotten killed.
Going straight to the senator’s room, Longarm rapped on the door. Mercer opened it almost immediately, as if they had been waiting for him. The pallor on the face of the senator’s assistant was even deeper than usual.
“There you are, Marshal,” Mercer said. “We were afraid you might have been killed-“
“No thanks to your boss that I wasn’t,” Longarm snapped as he shouldered past Mercer. The smaller man got out of his way and shut the door behind him. Longarm faced Padgett, who stood near the window smoking a cigar. “What was the idea, Senator? You trying to start a war with Mexico? Or did you just decide it was time to start acting like an asshole?”
Padgett’s face darkened redly. “By God, I don’t have to take that kind of talk from you, Long!”
“The hell you don’t.” Longarm’s anger got the best of him, and he stepped forward and prodded Padgett in the chest with a finger. “You acted like you wanted to start that fracas, and I want to know why. Maybe you figured that I’d jump in—hell, you had to know I would!—and what you really wanted was to get me killed!”
Padgett stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why in heaven’s name would I want you dead, Marshal?”
Longarm caught himself just in time. He almost blurted out, Maybe you’ve finally figured out why I’m really here. Instead, he said, “You’ve made it pretty clear you don’t think there’s any reason for me to keep riding hard on you.”
“But I’d hardly try to arrange things so that you’d be killed just because of that!”
Longarm had to admit the senator was right: That made a mighty feeble motive. He said, “You’ve been a little jealous right from the start of all the attention those Cassidy sisters have been paying me.”
“Good Lord! I’m a married man, Marshal. I couldn’t risk my reputation—my very career—by becoming romantically involved with women young enough to be my daughters!”
“Plenty of politicos have done that very thing, and lived to regret it,” Longarm pointed out.