17
Wendell and Smoke sat at the table littered with dirty glasses. Wendell lifted his hand to feel the wound on his head.
“Is it bleeding?”
“Just a little bit.”
“Jesus Christ. I thought you could shoot.”
Smoke pulled some coins from his pocket and tossed them on the table.
“What the hell is that?”
“Our winnings,” Smoke grinned. “Fast hands.”
“Hell yes,” Wendell laughed. He waved to Clem who was watching the two warily from behind the bar.
“We’re ready for another round.”
He turned back to face the table, surveying it like a king surveys his fertile lands.
“We got a table,” he said.
“William Tell was a stupid idea,” Smoke growled in a good-natured way. He was feeling all right about the evening, like things were turning.
“Yeah . . . Next time, I’m going to shoot the bow.”
“You know how to shoot a bow?”
“Nah . . .” They both laughed. It was a good night.