Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe Page A

said evenly, “finish my dinner, and go on about my business.” He glanced around the room. “I imagine most everyone in here will say it was self-defense.”
    “He just wants to talk to you, mister,” Puncher said, holding his hand. “Just talk.”
    “Then why try to force me at all?” Fargo said.
    “We heard you was a tough guy, is all,” Ratty replied. “Figured we’d have to use force.”
    “You couldn’t force me to blink,” he replied. He glanced at a nearby table, then gestured with the Colt. “Take a seat,” he said.
    “What?” Puncher said. “Why?”
    “Because I said so,” Fargo said, turning the Colt back in his direction. The size of the bore must have made an impression because both Ratty and Puncher moved to sit down.
    Once they were seated, Fargo sat back down on his own chair. “Now, sit there, be quiet, and don’t cause trouble,” he said. “When I’m finished with my meal, we’ll go find your boss.”
    “He said to bring you now ,” Ratty whined. “He don’t like waiting on no one.”
    “Then he should’ve sent me a note,” Fargo said. “You’ve got a choice, Ratty. Sit there, shut up, and let me eat in peace, or I’ll send you back to Senator Beares so full of holes, he’ll change your name to Cheese.”
    Ratty looked like he was going to say something more, but discretion got the better of him and he snapped his mouth shut.
    “Good,” Fargo said. He turned back to the gumbo. “You boys hungry?” he asked, not looking their way. “The gumbo here is a mite spicy, but it’s delicious.”
    “He’s not tough,” Puncher mumbled under his breath. “He’s crazy. That gumbo could melt lead.”
    Fargo ignored him and finished his meal, keeping one hand close to the Colt at all times. When he’d finished, he put a dollar on the bar. “There you go, mister,” he said. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget that meal.”
    “It’s only two bits, Mr. Fargo,” the man said. “Let me get you your change.”
    Fargo shook his head. “No, the rest is a tip. What’s on the menu for tomorrow?”
    The man behind the counter grinned. “Blackened alligator steaks,” he said. “They’re a mite—”
    “Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “I’ll look forward to it.”
    He put his hat on and gestured to Ratty and Puncher. “Let’s go see your boss,” he said. They stood and he followed them out into the New Orleans night.
    Most of the towns Fargo had ever been in, the small cattle towns that dotted the western landscape, went pretty quiet after sundown. Even the saloons weren’t all that noisy unless a bunch of cowpunchers got paid and came in to raise a little hell. But for the most part, after dark, the towns of the West were quiet places. The folks who lived there worked too hard during the day to kick up much of a fuss at night.
    But New Orleans was a different place after dark. An entirely new population walked the streets. Heavybrowed men looking for prostitutes, thieves skulking in alleyways looking for tourists who didn’t know the danger that surrounded them, whores calling out from balcony windows—some of them showing more skin than clothing—and then there were the children. All ages and skin colors raced through the streets, but all of them were dirt poor. They were out scavenging, looking for the scraps of the day, trying to find enough food to eat.
    Following Ratty and Puncher through the maze of streets, Fargo kept his eyes and senses alert for trouble. There was no telling when they’d run across either more of Senator Beares’ men or a contingent of men belonging to Anderson or Parker. Both men walked in front of him, their shoulders tense, their heads swiveling on their necks as though if they tried hard enough, they could see right through the shadows around them to whatever danger might be approaching.
    After several blocks, they turned and began to relax, eventually leading him to a house with a heavy iron gate in front of it. “This is