Free Book of Secrets by Chris Roberson Page A

When I opened the box, something caught my eye. I pulled out one of the magazines and examined the cover. The title, emblazoned on the cover in inch-high letters, was True Western Tales , the same I'd seen mentioned in connection with the other magazine. I flipped the front cover open and saw a listing for a La Mano Negra adventure there in the index. Curious, I tossed it over onto the bedding, and then closed up the box.
      Tan came walking into the room, as only he can. Suspended from the ceiling in midair, he moved hand over hand, gripping onto the rungs of a ladder bolted horizontally onto the ceiling.
      "You get your nest all straightened out, little chick?" he taunted, barely out of breath.
      "Yeah," I answered. "Thanks for letting me crash here."
      "Hell," he grunted, moving over towards the table where his wheelchair sat, "don't give me that shit. You can stay here anytime you like, and you know that."
      "Okay, but thanks anyway."
      Tan maneuvered himself right above the wheelchair, and without a second glance let go his grip on the ceiling rungs and dropped like a shot into the chair. He landed artfully, a ten point Olympic landing, and casually lit up a cigarette.
      "You know," he continued, blowing out a cloud of rancid gray smoke, "I could probably find out about this bird of yours a lot quicker than Humidor can."
      I let the dig slide, and crossed to the table where my own cigarettes were.
      "Yeah?" I asked.
      "Sure, I still got connections, you know. Just 'cause I'm retired doesn't mean I forgot everything I ever knew, or everybody, and I knew a lot of bodies when I was inside."
      "Alright, then," I answered. "You want to ask around, great, I appreciate it. But don't be giving me shit for it later, like I can't do my job." I jabbed a finger at him in mock accusation. "You're not doing my job for me, you lecherous old fart, you're doing me a favor."
      "Fine, fine." He waved me off. "Just stop crying about it. Come on, fix me a drink."
    The old man finally gave up on the day, just before he was about to drink me under the table, and wheeled off to his bedroom. I kicked off my boots, wondering just what kind of luck I'd got from them after all, and settled onto the floor on my little nest of bedding. The western pulp magazine was at hand and, still too wired up to sleep, I dragged it over to me and flipped it open to the first page.

"Guns At Dawn: A La Mano Negra Adventure"
    by J. C. Reece
    (originally appeared in
    True Wester n Tales, Sept 8th, 1918)

    1
    S tring him up, Lefty," shouted the swarthy rider on the seventeen-hand painted stallion. "Don't let him get away."
      "I'll get him, Shorty," replied his companion, in the saddle of a high-shouldered bay. "Just keep your shirt on."
      The two men, ranch hands from the state of their clothes and the easy way they sat in the saddle, were galloping through the brush, across the hard, level ground of the Rio Grande Valley, in pursuit of a man on foot. Their prey, a stocky Mexican in simple white cotton, was on foot, out of breath, and just about out of luck.
      Lefty, standing high in his stirrups, let fly his lariat, and with practiced aim brought the loop down around the Mexican's shoulders. Kicking his mount to a halt, he pulled tight the rope, and brought the Mexican to the ground.
      "Good eye, Lefty," Shorty admitted.
      "What would you know about it, booze hound?" Lefty shot back. "If it weren't for you we'd've got him five miles back."
      "I told ya, I was aiming for his horse, not for him."
      "Yeah," Lefty spat, crossing his arms over the saddle horn, the rope clutched in his fist. "Well, next time you best oughta aim at me. You'd have a better chance of hitting him that way." 
      Shorty looked from Lefty to the Mexican, now laying dazed on the ground.
      "Whatta we oughta do with him, you think?" Shorty asked. "Shoot 'im now?"
      "Nah," Lefty answered. "I figure we oughta have a bit a fun with 'im,