Free Corkscrew and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett

when you come to town,” I said pleasantly. “Matter of fact, you’re not supposed to bring ’em in at all, but I’m not inquisitive enough to look under a man’s coat for them. You can’t wear them out in the open, though.”
    Beard and mustache parted to show a smiling curve of yellow teeth.
    â€œMebbe if el senor jerife no lak t’ese t’ings, he lak try take t’em ’way?”
    â€œNo. You put ’em away.”
    His smile spread.
    â€œI lak t’em here. I wear t’em here.”
    â€œYou do what I tell you,” I said, still pleasantly, and left him, going back to the Jew’s shack.
    Leaning over the counter, I picked the sawed-off shotgun out of its nest.
    â€œCan I borrow this? I want to make a believer out of a guy.”
    â€œYes, sir, sure! You help yourself!”
    I cocked both barrels before I stepped outdoors.
    The big Mexican wasn’t in sight. I found him inside, telling his friends about it. Some of his friends were Mexican, some American, some God knows what. All wore guns. All had the look of thugs.
    The big Mexican turned when his friends gaped past him at me. His hands dropped to his guns as he turned, but he didn’t draw.
    â€œI don’t know what’s in this cannon,” I told the truth, centering the riot gun on the company, “maybe pieces of barbed wire and dynamite shavings. We’ll find out if you birds don’t start piling your guns on the bar right away—because I’ll sure-God splash you with it!”
    They piled their weapons on the bar. I didn’t blame them. This thing in my hands would have mangled them plenty!
    â€œAfter this, when you come to Corkscrew, put your guns out of sight.”
    Fat Bardell pushed through them, putting joviality back on his face.
    â€œWill you tuck these guns away until your customers are ready to leave town?” I asked him.
    â€œYes! Yes! Be glad to!” he exclaimed when he had got over his surprise.
    I returned the shotgun to its owner and went up to the Cañon House.
    A door just a room or two from mine opened as I walked down the hall. Chick Orr came out, saying:
    â€œDon’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t do,” over his shoulder.
    I saw Clio Landes standing inside the door.
    Chick turned from the door, saw me, and stopped, scowling at me.
    â€œYou can’t fight worth a damn!” he said. “All you know is how to hit!”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    He rubbed a swollen hand over his belly.
    â€œI never could learn to take ’em down there. That’s what beat me in the profesh.”
    I tried to look sympathetic, while he studied my face carefully.
    â€œI messed you up, for a fact.” His scowl curved up in a gold-toothed grin. The grin went away. The scowl came back. “Don’t pick no more fights with me—I might hurt you!”
    He poked me in the ribs with a thumb, and went on past me, down the stairs.
    The girl’s door was closed when I passed it. In my room, I dug out my fountain pen and paper, and had three words of my report written when a knock sounded on my door.
    â€œCome in,” I called, having left the door unlocked for Milk River.
    Clio Landes pushed the door open.
    â€œBusy?”
    â€œNo. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Milk River will be along in a few minutes.”
    I switched over to the bed, giving her my only chair.
    â€œYou’re not foxing Milk River, are you?” she asked point-blank.
    â€œNo. I got nothing to hang on him. He’s right so far as I’m concerned. Why?”
    â€œNothing, only I thought there might be a caper or two you were trying to cop him for. You’re not fooling me, you know! These hicks think you’re a bust, but I know different.”
    â€œThanks for those few kind words. But don’t be press-agenting my wisdom around. I’ve had enough advertising. What are you doing out here in the