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tions like this, a man has to figure for a minute or two that it could go either way. He moved cautiously around so that what was left of the hazy streaks of sunshine fragmenting down through holes in the cloud deck would be in Pasquel's eyes and not his. His thumbs were hooked in his belt, a long way from the ponderous and preposterous-looking Colt revolver that was strapped to his hip. |
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For the record, Bart Miller hated guns, had hated them since he was a kid. He had even gone so far as to tell Red he wouldn't carry one. But, and there's always a "but," he had changed his mind the night Clyde Mercer got his head blown off trying to break up a fight at the Chino Club. Guns, Bart figured, caused more problems than they solved, but after seeing Clyde Mercer in the morgue at Brownsville, he had decided to carry one whenever Red called him to duty. |
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Pasquel was studying him through squinted eyes. "Well, if you don't want to talk about the storm, what do you want to talk about?" |
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There was too much on his mind and too much to do to play games with the old man. Besides, if he had learned anything from Red Gleason in the years he had been serving as a special deputy, it was, especially in situations like this, to get straight to the point. |
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"You know I gotta ask, Pasquel. Did you do it?" |
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