Free Lookout Hill (9781101606735) by Ralph W. Cotton

evil, just to catch folks unawares, I’m thinking.”
    “Jesus…,” said Siebert. “Let’s get to sewing.” He threw back a long drink, set the cup down and laid his hand over the pocket pistol.
    Daphne’s bloody fingers crawled across the tabletop and felt of his hand.
    “Why do you keep your hand on this little thing all the time?” she asked.
    Siebert grinned behind a warm whiskey glow.
    “Because it’s all I have right now,” he said.
    “Dudley’s got a bigger one,” she said.
    “Really…?” said Siebert. “Where’s it at?”
    “Back in the bedroom under a plank beneath the bed,” the woman said. “We’ll go get it when I’m finished here. There’s a good liver dun horse in the barn too,” she added.
    “No fooling?” said Siebert. “Why are you telling me all this, Daphne?”
    She paused for a moment before saying, “I’m hoping if I give you everything we’ve got, you won’t kill us.”
    “Listen to you, old sweetheart,” Siebert said affectionately. He cupped his hand over hers again. “God forbid if I were to harm a hair on your precious head—Dudley’s either.” He smiled and sighed. “Now get on with the sewing.”
    Even with the whiskey surging through his veins, he still felt every sharp sting of the needle sliding through his flesh, every draw of thread as the old woman tightened on it. But by the time the last stitch was looped and tied, he had fallen into a painful lull that kept him from being either asleep or awake. Twice in the night he either felt, or
thought
he’d felt, the old woman try to raise his hand from the pocket gun lying on the table. Both times he gripped the gun and gave a warning growl. Finally he turned half-closed eyes to the woman and saw her knobby hands folded on the tabletop.
    “Are we through?” he asked.
    “We’ve been through for a while,” the old woman said. “It’s near daylight. Do you want some coffee? I’ve got some boiling.”
    Barely awake, Siebert looked around at the ray of venturing sunlight stabbing slantwise through the front window. His wet eyes swam around the room to a coiled lariat hanging from a peg.
    “Yeah, I want some,” he said. His gaze moved back to the table and focused on a large Dance Brothers .44 revolver staring at him from the tabletop. Beside the big gun lay a large tin of ammunition. “Holy dogs,” he whispered.
    “I went and got it for you,” said Daphne.
    “Did you load it?” Siebert grinned, reaching for the pistol.
    “I was afraid to,” said the woman. “I was afraid you’d wake up and get the wrong notion.”
    “You should have been my ma,” Siebert said. He picked up the big pistol and turned it in his hands. “What about that coffee?” he said stiffly, feeling the tightness of the fresh stitches all over his face, his head and his upper body.
    The old woman went to a small hearth and poured coffee into a battered tin cup. Siebert stood up, loaded the revolver and spun it on his finger, liking the feel of it.
    “All right,” he said. He twirled the gun into his empty holster, drew it, reholstered it loosely and let his hand rest on the bone handles. “I need to see how it shoots.”
    Daphne set the cup of steaming coffee on the table. Siebert stuck the Colt Pocket down in front of his gun belt. He picked up the tin of ammunition and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
    “Get on the table,” he commanded.
    Daphne stared at him through her thick spectacles.
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Because I told you to,” said Siebert, his palm resting on the butt of the small Colt, his fingers tapping idly.
    “I never done nothing this crazy in my life,” the old woman said. But she crawled up atop the table on all fours.
    “You have now,” said Siebert. “Lie on your back.”
    She stared questioningly at him through the spectacles, one lens covered by the magnifying glass.
    “So I can tie you up,” said Siebert, gesturing toward the lariat hanging on the wall. “I don’t trust you