but I’m not inquisitive enough to look under a man’s coat for them. You can’t wear them out in the open, though.”
Beard and mustache parted to show a smiling curve of yellow teeth.
“Mebbe if el señor jerife no lak t’ese t’ings, he lak try take t’em ’way?”
“No. You put ’em away.”
His smile spread.
“I lak t’em here. I wear t’em here.”
“You do what I tell you,” I said, still pleasantly, and left him, going back to the Jew’s shack.
Leaning over the counter, I picked the sawed-off shotgun out of its nest.
“Can I borrow this? I want to make a believer out of a guy.”
“Yes, sir, sure! You help yourself!”
I cocked both barrels before I stepped outdoors.
The big Mexican wasn’t in sight. I found him inside, telling his friends about it. Some of his friends were Mexican, some American, some God knows what. All wore guns. All had the look of thugs.
The big Mexican turned when his friends gaped past him at me. His hands dropped to his guns as he turned, but he didn’t draw.
“I don’t know what’s in this cannon,” I told the truth, centering the riot gun on the company, “maybe pieces of barbed wire and dynamite shavings. We’ll find out if you birds don’t start piling your guns on the bar right away—because I’ll sure-God splash you with it!”