the smuggler’s bible

Lambert

Lambert drapes his duster over the hitching post and tips his hat back until it falls over his head and dangles by the leather thong. Then he coughs into his fist and kicks one boot straight out into the saloon doors so they slam against the interior walls.

“Somebody get out here,” he hollers, “and gunfight with me.”

The chatter inside dries up into small rivulets of whisper. “Goddamnit, Lambert,” a small voice finally calls out, “you was here yesterday with that mess.”

“And I’ll be back tomorrow, too,” Lambert roars. “Ain’t no such thing as getting good without practice.”