Free The Adventures of Slim & Howdy by Bill Fitzhugh, Kix Brooks, Ronnie Dunn

the bowl, shelled them, and tossed the hulls onto the sawdust-covered floor. He knew he ought to start working on his next set list, but he was distracted, thinking about how he ought to commit to taking care of that girl’s patch of grass before somebody showed up with a riding mower. Before he could make his mind up one way or the other, he saw Howdy approaching with his guitar case.
    “How’s the game goin?” Slim asked. “You rich?”
    “Not yet.” Howdy shook his head, then nodded toward the stage. “Nice set, by the way.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Oh.” As if something had just occurred to him, Howdy snapped his fingers and said, “Hey, listen, I need the truck keys.”
    “Sure.” Slim reached into his pocket. “Where you off to?”
    “Nowhere,” Howdy said, avoiding eye contact and otherwise acting funny.
    Slim stopped just before he tossed the keys. “Nowhere?”
    “Yeah,” Howdy said. “You ain’t gonna believe what happened.” He shook his head some more and forced a laugh that was a lot more nervous than infectious, which explained why Slim didn’t catch it. “Check this out,” Howdy said. “I opened with a pair of queens in the hole.”
    “Good start.”
    “Oh yeah, real good
start.
” Howdy proceeded to give the complete bet-by-bet, card-by-card with some colorful asides about the peg-legged dog, Gutterball’s parachute pants, and Dempsey Kimble’s gum problems.
    Slim listened with increasing curiosity—not because he wanted to know how it turned out but because, as he put it, “I still don’t see why you need the keys.”
    Howdy, still assiduously avoiding eye contact, shuffled his feet a bit, shook his head, pushed his hat back, and said, “Aw, hell, I might as well just tell you. I lost the truck.”
    Slim’s expression didn’t change. He just stared, unblinking, at Howdy.
    “Man, I had a queens over kings, boat,” Howdy insisted. “Tell me you wouldn’t have stayed.”
    “You bet the truck?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Which half?”
    “I know,” Howdy said, ducking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m good for it. I swear.”
    “Good for it? How’re you gonna be good for it? You gonna gimme a piggyback ride to our next stop?” Slim was aware that although they had agreed to put both their names on the title to the truck back at Red’s Used Cars, they’d never actually gotten around to it. His mistake, looking back.
    “Look,” Howdy said. “If it’s any consolation, I bet my saddle first. That was a damn seven-hundred-dollar raise. And by the way, remind me not to get into another no-limit game. Anyway, I figured seven hundred would put an end to it, but the sumbitch saw that, then turned around and raised me again.” He shook his head. “It was like he knew what I had. Hell, I came this close to betting my guitar,” he said, hefting the case. “But, well, I just couldn’t.”
    “So you bet a truck you only own half of?”
    In the vain hope that Dempsey Kimble’s dishonesty would distract from his own stupidity, Howdy said, “I’m pretty sure he cheated.”
    “Uh-huh.” Slim looked around the room, then back at Howdy. “Well, I’m pretty sure you gotta sell that guitar now.”
    “What?”
    “Somebody’s got to get the truck back,” Slim said. “And I don’t think it’s going to be you. That leaves me. And if I’m going to get in the game to see if this guy’s cheating, I’m going to need money. And I damn sure ain’t gonna use my own, if you get my drift.” He gestured at the crowd. “So you better find somebody in here to give you five hundred bucks for that thing.”
    It only took Howdy fifteen minutes to find a buyer but, desperation smelling the way it does, he only got three hundred for it.
    He handed the cash to Slim and said, “Now what?”
    Slim took the money and stuffed it in his pocket. He gestured at the guy who bought the guitar and said, “Now, go back and see if the guy’ll loan it to you so you can do the next set.” He turned and