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and easily outweighing him by 50 pounds, took a lumbering step sideways so Miller could see into the old man's bedroom. Pasquel Morgan was sprawled out in the middle of a dirty, braided, oval rug. He was lying face down in a pool of something that looked like thick, black-red syrup that had started to wend its way across the floor to what the old man called his living room. |
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Bartholomew, ignoring the brace of snubnosed revolvers, bolted past the two men into the bedroom, rolled Pasquel Morgan over on his back and sucked in his breath. The hole began in the old man's lower abdomen, traversed the length of his body and ended up just under the chin. He had been gutted and laid open for all the world to inspect and speculate on how the inner parts of an old man actually worked. Bartholomew felt his stomach do a slow roll and the air stop halfway down to his lungs. |
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He started to look up and felt the cold, hard steel muzzle of one of the short barrels press against the base of his skull. |
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"Keep your head down, gringo," the short one ordered. |
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"That old man killed Acota." The other voice, wet, slurred and slobbering, came at him from the background. "Acota was our friend, man." |
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"Yeah, man, tit for tat. We killed him be- |
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