Free Widowmaker Jones by Brett Cogburn Page A

Adam’s apple pumping in slow strokes as he swallowed. They were all obviously drunk, and though she was young, her life had been spent among strangers and she carefully considered the risk they represented.
    A pretty girl learned some things about men quickly, and she had known that she was pretty since she was but a girl. Perhaps she was petite to the point of tininess, but she knew that men found her attractive, and almost everywhere they went there was at least a man or two who made an effort to meet her after a show. It had been that way since she was barely twelve.
    When it came to how to fend off unwelcome advances, she had a good teacher, for her mother had been a beautiful woman and a veritable expert on the subject. That was all a part of the life. There was a subtle art to appearing friendly while politely handling the harmless, flirty ones. You didn’t want to offend someone who might come back and pay their admission fees for a second show. And occasionally there might be a handsome one worth talking to, but then again, there was the other, more dangerous kind altogether. The men before her were that other kind—men you didn’t want to be alone with. And the tall one in the spotted catskin vest? Every sense told her that he was another kind even worse than those with him.
    The tall Mexican stepped past her to the livery corral where Fonzo’s white horses stood gathered around the pile of hay. He ducked through the fence rails and went to Mithridates and ran his hand down his neck and across his back. “Very fine horses. Muy bonita . I don’t think I ever see better.”
    She didn’t like him inside the corral with their horses, but was unwilling to turn her back on his friends. She stood uncertainly between them, wishing either Fonzo would come back or that someone else would wander by.
    â€œCome out of there,” she said.
    He patted the horse’s neck and smiled at her. “I mean him no harm. You act like I might steal him.”
    Fonzo appeared behind the tall Mexican’s friends and quickly stepped past them. “Come out of there and leave our horses alone.”
    The tall one walked slowly to the corral fence. “And who are you?”
    â€œThose are my horses.”
    The man ducked through the fence and when he straightened back up he pointed to the painted words on the side of the living quarters wagon with that same smirk on his mouth. “Is that you? Fonzo the Great?”
    Fonzo stood straight and met the man’s gaze. Kizzy realized that he was trying to seem taller than he was.
    â€œGo to the wagon and get the shotgun,” he whispered to Kizzy.
    The tall one made a show of slowly looking Fonzo up and down. “I said, ‘Is that you?’ ¿Quién es, chico? ”
    Fonzo was a proud young man, and always a little too aware of his small stature. Kizzy could tell that his scant Spanish skills were enough that he understood the tall Mexican had called him a boy.
    â€œI am Fonzo,” he said. “And who might you be?”
    The tall one rested his hand on his pistol butt again and pointed at Fonzo while looking at his friends. “He is proud for a little one, no?”
    â€œ Un niñito afeminado ,” one of the others said.
    Kizzy didn’t understand what the man had said about Fonzo, but from the way they all laughed she knew it wasn’t nice. She glanced at Fonzo and could tell he was frustrated that she wouldn’t go after the shotgun in the wagon. But she was afraid to leave his side.
    â€œWhat did he call me?” Fonzo turned slightly so that he could see both the tall one and his friends at the same time.
    â€œHe said that you are almost as pretty as your sister,” the tall one said.
    The Mexicans laughed again and one of them flung the empty tequila bottle across the road.
    â€œYou are all drunk. If you don’t leave I shall be forced to call the local constable,” Fonzo said,