Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe

again—dark, rich, and delicious. “Whew,” Fargo managed. “You do know what the word ‘mite’ means, don’t you?”
    “Yes, sir,” the man said, now grinning openly. “ ‘Just a little.’ You should try our really spicy version. Last week, it nearly killed a man.”
    “How . . .” Fargo stopped, ate another piece of bread, and took a swallow of beer. “How do you manage to eat that stuff, let alone sell it?”
    “I tried to tell you, sir,” the man said, his head bowing down. “It’s better if you dip the bread in it. That’s what it’s for.”
    “Then why’d you give me a spoon?” Fargo demanded.
    The man sighed. “If I tried to tell you it was too hot, you wouldn’t have believed me, sir!”
    Fargo thought about it a minute, then began to chuckle ruefully. “I suppose you’re right.” The flavor was nice, so he said, “Dip the bread into it?”
    The man nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s not half as bad the second time.”
    Fargo tried it, dipping the cornbread into the gumbo, and found it to be much more tolerable. In fact, it was like nothing he’d ever had and he found himself setting to with a vengeance. “How do you get it so spicy?” he asked, between bites.
    “Family secret,” the man said. “But part of it is the pepper oil.”
    “Pepper oil?” he asked. “What’s pepper oil?”
    “If you squeeze certain types of peppers, you get a tiny amount of liquid that is very hot. By itself, it can cause blisters on the skin. So we dilute it, of course, but it still adds a lot of heat to the gumbo. But it’s good, yes?”
    Fargo had to admit it was delicious, despite the fact that even with the bread and the beer, he knew he’d be feeling the heat of the meal two hours later. “Yes,” he said. “It is good. Just not something you’d want to dive into without instruction.”
    “No, sir,” the man said. His eyes widened a bit, and he was about to say something else, when Fargo felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder.
    “You Skye Fargo?” a deep voice asked from behind him.
    Fargo didn’t turn around, but said, “Who wants to know?”
    The hand squeezed his shoulder, and the voice said, “ I’m asking you, and if you don’t want a broken collarbone to go with your dinner, you’ll answer.”
    So fast that the man behind the counter gasped aloud, Fargo spun on his stool, catching the man’s hand in his own, reversing it and yanking the fingers down. Several broke with an audible crack ing sound and the man let out a muffled whimper. It was muffled because as he’d gone down, Fargo had shoved his knee into the man’s face, breaking several teeth.
    He saw that there was a second man behind him, reaching for his gun.
    “I wouldn’t,” Fargo warned. He twisted slightly and shoved the man with the broken hand to the ground, pulling his Colt with blazing speed. He had it pointed at the other man before his pistol could clear leather.
    “Drop it,” Fargo snapped. “Back into the holster, nice and easy.”
    The man did as he was told, then raised his hands. His partner on the ground managed to get to his feet, but his lips and nose were bloody ruins and three of the fingers on his right hand were twisted and broken.
    “Let me guess,” Fargo said, keeping his gun pointed at them. “You were sent to bring me to Senator Beares.”
    “That’s right,” the broken-fingered man said. “He wants to see you.”
    “I take it he’s not used to being refused,” Fargo said.
    “You can come with us now,” the other man said, “or we’ll leave and come back with a dozen guns to take you the hard way.”
    “Hey, Ratty,” the man behind the counter said. “Looks like the only folks getting the hard way so far is you and Puncher.”
    “Shut up,” Ratty said. “You don’t want to cross us, Fargo. Why not make it easy and come along and see what the Senator has to say?”
    Fargo cocked his gun and their eyes went wide. “Or I could just kill you both,” he