Gunsight Showdown: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

scene of operations. Butler let out a few shouts and soon had the workers assembled before them, looking expectant.

      “Men,” said Butler, “this is Mr. Slade, the new Big Boss; he has something to say to you.”

      Slade swept the group with his cold eyes; he sensed a certain resentment, a touch of apprehension. Suddenly he smiled, the flashing white smile of El Halcón which men, and women, find irresistible. In a moment there were answering grins, a change of attitude. His deep musical voice rang out—

      “Fellows, I understood from Mr. Dunn that a date has been set for the completion of this project, and that Mr. Dunn is very anxious that it be completed by that date. Okay. For every day less than the number of days specified, there will be a bonus of a full day’s pay at overtime rates. So if you’re looking forward to a really big bust when the chore is finished, go to it!”

      For a moment there was a surprised silence, then a voice shouted—

      “Hurrah for the Old Man!” The cheer was given with a will.

      “Knock off for the day,” Slade said, smiling broadly. He knew that the title “Old Man,” no matter what the recipient’s years, was the highest accolade these rough and ready workers could accord a boss. Another cheer followed and the workers headed for Presidio and a mite of celebration.

      “You’ve got ’em, sir,” chuckled Butler. “They’ll spit in the Devil’s eyes for you from now on.”

      “No sense in them wasting their time here,” Slade said. “It will take you a day at least to complete your survey and line up the project, so let them take it easy till you’re ready for them. Now supposed you and I amble up to Presidio and have a snort and something to eat.”

      “Suits me,” agreed Butler. “I know a place where they put out good chuck. Likker ain’t bad, either, and the games are straight and the girls—accommodating.”

      “Sounds interesting,” Slade answered.

      “Called the Churn Head, from a horse, I reckon,” said Butler. “Feller named Pickle Simon runs it. Where he got his moniker I don’t know. Sort of reminds me of a Mother Goose rhyme.”

      “And speaking of horses,” Slade observed, “I’ll need a place where my cayuse can put on the nosebag and sleep comfortable.”

      “I’ll show you to Amado’s stable, I keep my horse there,” Butler offered. “He’s a Mexican and a good amigo.”

      “Fine,” Slade replied. “Mexicans usually run good stables. The majority of them have a way with horses and horses take to them.”

      “That’s been my experience,” Butler nodded. “Some folks don’t like Mexicans, but I’ve found ’em just the same as other people—mostly good, with now and then a bad one, like everywhere and everybody.”

      “You’re right, there,” Slade agreed. He was beginning to like John Butler who, truculent and apt to fly off the handle, nevertheless impressed him as being honest and with good principles. He decided to have a little confidential chat with the engineer, later.