The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon

before walking to us.
“What’s keepin’ us?” he said, grinning.
    On the way to the saloon I explained our plan
to hire Teresa and Blanca.
    “You want them to live in or come back an’
forth each day?”
    “I never thought about it. We’ve got enough
bedrooms, so they might just as well live at the
ranch, if they want to do that. We’ll pay ’em good,
an’ the work ain’t half bad—cleanin’, cooking, an’
such like.”
    “They live above the dry goods store,” Tiny
said. “You more’n likely can catch them there
now.”
    “I’ll go,” Arm said. “I have Spanish. You boys
go ahead, but make sure you save some beer for
me.” He turned to me. “What will we pay?”
    I looked at Tiny. “Twenty a week, each?”
    “Damn,” he said, “that’s more than a good
cowhand draws. Them ladies’ll jump on it.”
    We separated, Arm walking toward the dry
goods store and Tiny and I to the saloon. There
were a bunch of horses tied outside, and lots of
noise from inside, considering it was barely noon.
    “The KG boys just dropped a thousand head at
the railroad yards,” Tiny said. “They’ve got money
in their pockets an’ they’re thirsty an’ horny.”
    As we approached the bat wings a lanky fellow
with a nose gushing blood came out as if he were
flying—a good couple of feet above the ground.
He hit about eight feet out, moaned, turned over,
and went to sleep.
    As we walked in, a ’hand drew his Colt andput
a couple of slugs into the ceiling. That kind of
gave his pals an idea and within seconds the
place sounded like a shooting gallery at a county
fair. There were thirty or so men crowding the
bar. Some showed signs of a very recent bath, a
haircut and new clothes; the rest looked about
like you’d expect a man to look after over a month
on the range, driving a thousand head of beef.
    There were three bartenders and all of them
were running their asses off, trying to keep up
with shouted orders from the cowboys. They were
also pocketing money the cowhands didn’t
owe—snagging a five-dollar note for a single
beer, clearing off the change in front of other men
who were too drunk to see what was happening.
    Tiny and I stood just inside the bat wings. My
hand dropped to the grips of my Colt on its
own—I didn’t tell it to do so.
    Tiny leaned in close to me and shouted into my
ear, “They’re harmless, Jake. Drunk an’ stupid,
but they wouldn’t draw on a man. Shit, if I followed
cows’ asses for a month or better, I’d be
raisin’ hell, too.”
    We shoved our way to the bar. One tender recognized
Tiny and came right over.
    “Six beers,” Tiny shouted. “We got a friend
coming.”
    “Lookit, Tiny,” the bartender said, “the owner
has jacked the prices of beer an’ booze and…”
    I placed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the bar.
“Keep ’em coming,” I said.
    The whores were doing lots of business; no
sooner would a soiled dove come down the
stairs than she’d be escorted back up by anothercowboy.
A couple of minor fistfights broke out
about who was next, but nothing serious.
    The beer tasted real good.
    Armando came in, a big smile on his face, and
pushed his way to me an’ Tiny.
    “The ladies, they’ll be out tomorrow,” he said.
“They’ll be ready to move in—a friend will bring
them and their things on a farm wagon.”
    I shouted into Arm’s ear, “There’s no supplies
for them—nothing for them to cook. How can…”
    “I give them one hundred dollar, mi hermano. They’ll buy what they want at the mercantile.
That’s why they needed the wagon—to haul
all that stuff to the ranch.”
    “I hope you told them to stock up on beefsteaks,”
I said.
    “For sure, no? I tol’ them we like to eat steak for
every meal, an’ we like them rare an’—”
    “Now, lookit this,” a cowboy yelled. “We’re
drinkin’ with a goddamn beaner.”
    “Ahh, shit,” Tiny said.
    Armando wasn’t a man to do much talking before
a fight. He buried his fist in the