Free A Thousand Falling Crows by Larry D. Sweazy

gun without alerting the duo that he was armed.
    â€œHand. Then raise your damn hand.” The talker brought his barrel level with his partner’s so they were both focused on Sonny.
    Tom stood still in the periphery, hands reaching to the ceiling. He looked like he was playacting a statue or a tree. There was no emotion on his face, and he barely blinked. It was like time had stopped, catching Tom Turnell unaware. But that wasn’t the truth. The market owner was completely aware of every movement, every sound. Sonny was sure of it. Just as he was sure that somewhere close, under the counter or nearby, a weapon of some kind sat waiting. A man like Tom would be prepared for something like this, especially with the hooligan barns across the road. He just seemed too calm, too resigned, not to have some kind of plan.
    â€œGo ahead now, old man, don’t make me do somethin’ I‘ll regret,” the talker said, with a flip of the gun’s barrel. There was an obvious, familiar accent at the end of his tongue. Sonny had already determined the two were Mexican, but he didn’t recognize either of them. They’d covered their faces like old-time bandits, which wasn’t a bad move on their part. Sonny probably wouldn’t have known them anyway—they were young—but he could identify them later if he could get a good look at their faces.
    â€œYour mother must be proud,” Sonny said. He said it in Spanish as coldly as he could. Su madre debe estar orgulloso.
    It surprised the talker that he could speak the language so clearly, so fluently. He glanced over to his partner. “Keep him covered,” he said in Spanish as well.
    The partner said nothing, just nodded as the talker lowered his weapon and walked over to Sonny, stopping inches from him. He was shorter than Sonny and had to look up to make eye contact. He smelled like juniper berries and sweat. The foulness spoke to Sonny. The talker’d been in a room with a batch of bathtub gin recently, but it was more than that. The kid—and that’s all he was, a kid—was afraid, too. It was just harder to see at a distance. There was a twitch in his right eye. Sonny wondered if this was his first stickup.
    â€œDon’t try anything stupid, amigo,” the talker continued in Spanish. “We just want money. No trouble, you understand? But I will hurt you if I have to. My brother might even kill you—just for the fun of it.”
    Careful , Sonny thought, you’re giving yourself away, amigo . He said nothing, though, just nodded, looking at the talker’s head, then over to the other one. Quiet ones could be even more dangerous than cocky ones.
    Sonny didn’t believe the fearful one had it in him to kill. That clearly wasn’t their intent. But it could happen. Years as a Texas Ranger had forced him into the aftermath of a lot of human storms, some planned, most not—just circumstances that had spiraled out of control quicker than they were supposed to. An explosion of anger followed by fleeting regret. It was common. Rage, fear, often mixed with jealousy and alcohol, were more lethal than any gun sitting on a shelf or in a locked drawer.
    â€œNow, amigo,” the talker snarled, “I don’t have much time to be nice, even to a cripple like you.”
    There it was. The loss of his arm had evoked a response. Maybe it would save his life—the irony wasn’t lost on Sonny, and he offered no reaction to the word. He raised his hand straight to the air without any protest at all.
    â€œThat’s more like it, amigo,” the talker said in English. “You move a muscle and you will be shot. Do you understand?” He glanced over at Tom—who had not offered any evidence that he understood Spanish—making sure he understood. Sonny was betting that Tom understood every word that had been said. But it was hard to tell. Some folks refused to utter, or learn, a word of