by Tinnean
“I heard tell the two men threw down on a friend of Mr. Weatherford’s and shot him to doll rags.” Lem picked up his glass, took a healthy swallow, then held it out for more.
“You didn’t pay for the last drink,” the barkeep snapped.
Lem dug in his pockets, didn’t seem to find anything, took a coin from the table, and tossed it to the barkeep. “And one for my friends.” He grinned in satisfaction when his glass and Zeke’s were refilled.
The barkeep turned to Sharps and held up the bottle. “Lem paid for it.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
He shrugged and returned to stand behind the bar. “No sense letting good liquor go to waste.” He poured himself a glass.
“What happened?” Sharps asked.
“Huh?”
“With the two men?”
Lem scratched his nose. “The sheriff caught up with them before they could leave town. They’re in the pokey now, but they’ll get strung up after the pummeling.”
“Aren’t they going to get a trial?”
“Nah. Like I said, this is Mr. Weatherford’s town.”
“Used to be our town,” one of the card players grumbled.
“You said this town has a sheriff?”
“Of course it does. This is 1869.” The barkeep actually seemed offended.
“Why isn’t he stepping in?”
“For one thing, he’s on Mr. Weatherford’s payroll. For another, he’s scared of him.”
“And no one else is willing to stand up to him?”
“You think we’re stupid?”
No, Sharps thought they were cowards. Most men in the towns he’d ridden through—and even some back home in Brooklyn—had fought in the war. They carried firearms and knew how to use them. If these people were willing to let Weatherford run their town, then they were getting something out of it.
“You gonna say it don’t seem fair, stranger?” the barkeep challenged.
Sharps pushed away from the bar. This isn’t your business, he told himself. “Not my business.”
“Right smart of you. This is gonna be the most excitement Willow Crick has seen in a coon’s age.”
“Seeing two men get hung?” That was sad.
“That yeah, but the whupping, too. The wagon master got tossed into jail along with the other men.”
“Wagon master?” Sharps felt his stomach twist. Not many wagon trains came this way. Could it be Captain Marriott? Sharps knew he was headed in this direction.
“Yeah. It was a small party—just a couple of wagons with two families.”
“Why is he going to be whupped?”
“From what I heard, he tried to stand up for his friends and took a swing at one of Mr. Weatherford’s men. Problem was, he wound up knocking down Mr. Weatherford instead. A man lays a hand on Mr. Weatherford, he’s got to pay for it.”
It didn’t sound like the captain to go off half-cocked like that. Sharps relaxed, certain it wasn’t him.
“Did anyone see what happened?”
“Sure, Mr. Weatherford’s men.”
“Other than them.”
“The two city slickers gave some cock and bull story about Mr. Weatherford’s friends shooting at them for no reason and killing their friend, but with all the lead flying around, he was probably shot by one of them. Mr. Weatherford told us we wasn’t to believe a couple of strangers, especially when it was obvious they was together.” The barkeep shared a knowing leer with the card players.
Sharps frowned at them. “I don’t follow.”
“Oh, come on. You gotta know what I mean.”
“Can’t say as I do.”
The barkeep huffed out a breath. “They was most likely fucking each other.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Up the ass.”
“So?”
“What do you mean so? It’s against the Bible.”
“Were they bothering you?”
“What are you, a heathen? It’s against the Bible!”
“Tell him what else they said, Rufe.”
The barkeep scowled at Sharps, but he took up Lem’s suggestion. “They kept saying Mr. Weatherford had to let them go, that the men who’d shot their friend took off with a woman and a kid. Of course no one believed them. They’d say anything to get out of a hanging.”
“That was when the wagon master turned up,” Zeke said. “He went almost crazy. The next thing anyone knew, Mr. Weatherford was on his ass in the street, and let me tell you, he weren’t happy about that. That’s why the wagon master spent the night in jail with those other two.”
“And this morning Mr. Weatherford sent word all over town there was gonna be some excitement down to the livery stable before the lynching.” Lem finished his drink, set the glass down, reached for his cards to pick them up, then paused. “Say, stranger, you care to join us, or are you just gonna stand there batting your eyes?”
“Yeah,” Sharps said shortly. He had no intention of playing cards with these yahoos, although it would be a pleasure to take them for every red cent they had.
“Huh.” Lem made a point of ignoring him.
“So that’s why everyone is there? To see this poor man get beat up?”
“Yep. I reckon you could say that.” Zeke picked up his own cards and studied them. “I’m in.” It seemed as far as he and Lem were concerned, the conversation was done.
“I did just say that.” This wasn’t Sharps’s battle—all he’d wanted was the mare his captain had left for him—but he didn’t like the sound of what the card players told him. “Well, this isn’t my affair. I’ve got a couple of horses that need looking over.” Sharps jerked his thumb in the direction of the street. “If the blacksmith is available, I’d as soon have him do it so I can find the woman who took my horse and be on my way.”
The barkeep glanced out the window of the saloon and dropped the glass he’d been drying. His reaction had Lem and Zeke glancing over their shoulders to see what had shaken Rufe. Their eyes widened, and they leaped to their feet, knocking over the table and sending cards, coins, and glasses spilling to the floor.
The horses were visible. They stood in hip slouches, occasionally stamping a hoof or flicking a tail at a buzzing fly.
“Where…” The barkeep suddenly looked sick. “Where’d you get those horses?”
“I took ‘em off two men who didn’t have any more use for them.” Sharps didn’t say he’d killed the Wilson brothers. They’d know taking a man’s horse left him as dead as a bullet between the eyes.
“I recognize that gray stud. He belongs to Ezra Wilson.” The barkeep swallowed heavily. “One of Mr. Weatherford’s friends.”
“Belonged. A man doesn’t know how to care for his animals, he doesn’t deserve to keep ‘em.”
“Mr. Weatherford ain’t gonna be happy about that.”
“I don’t rightly care about your Mr. Weatherford.”
“That’s mighty big talk for a lone kid.”
“I’m not alone.” Sharps rested his hand suggestively on the butt of his Remington. “And I’m not a kid. Now, suppose you tell me where in tarnation the livery stable is?”
Rufe jumped at Sharps’s suddenly harsh tone. His eyes widened, and his jaw worked furiously on the chewing tobacco in his mouth, but then he lowered his right hand below the bar.
“I wouldn’t,” Sharps said, making his tone bored, so his words were even more of an insult.
“Wouldn’t what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. Then you won’t mind keeping your hands where I can see them.” Sharps had the Remington out, and the speed he’d drawn it from his holster obviously startled the three men.
Lem and Zeke reached for the skies, and the barkeep gave a weak smile and placed his hands flat on the bar.
“Good. Now. Are you gonna tell me where the livery stable is?”
“Down to the end of Main Street,” the barkeep said, not only resentment in his voice, but fear as well. “Go along the alley between the office o
f the Willow Crick Gazette and the Chinese laundry.”
“Much obliged. And for your information, those two friends of Weatherford’s had a woman and a kid with them.”
The barkeep swallowed the tobacco juice and started choking.
Lem dropped back into his chair and landed on the sawdust-covered floor when he missed.
Zeke just stood there, opening and closing his mouth.
“Now I’d advise you gents to stay put. I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.” Sharps stepped through the saloon’s swinging doors, keeping an eye on the three behind him. They might claim ignorance of this whole affair, but he wouldn’t put it past them to try to shoot him in the back to curry favor with the town boss.
He slid the Remington into its holster, caught up the horses’ reins, and swung into the saddle. After a final glance into the saloon, he headed down the street, trailing the pinto after him.
Chapter 9
Sharps passed the Weatherford Hotel and Baths and thought wistfully of a hot bath to wash off the grime of the past weeks—bathing in creeks or ponds didn’t work as well. The bath would have to wait until he’d seen to his horses though.
He rode on, past Weatherford’s Mercantile, Weatherford’s Eats, and Weatherford’s Feed and Grain. More buildings lined Main Street, the bank, post office, and finally the jail.
Jiminy Cricket, why didn’t they just name the town Weatherford and be done with it?
The only establishment that didn’t have Weatherford’s name on it was the Chinese laundry and the dilapidated building with an even more dilapidated sign that read Miss Sadie’s Emporium for the Discerning Gentleman. It was obvious it hadn’t been used in quite some time.
Sharps turned down the alleyway that separated the laundry from the newspaper office. He could hear raucous shouts even before he emerged into the space in front of the livery stable.
Twilight was a tall stallion, and his height gave Sharps an advantage—he was easily able to see over the heads of the men who encircled the combatants and who shouted and cheered each time a blow landed. Bets were being laid, not as to the winner, but as to how long the wagon master would remain on his feet.
Sharps assumed the man with his back to him was the wagon master, and he seemed to be holding his own. Of his three opponents, one had landed in a pile of manure and held a hand to his bloody nose, while another sprawled by a water trough, blinking and shaking his head.
The wagon master spun around and squared off against the last, finally giving Sharps a clear view of his face.
“Well, now.” Sharps’s heart flipped over, a feeling he hadn’t had in five years, and a slow smile curled his lips. He pulled out the pouch that held tobacco and papers and settled in to watch. Back during the War, men would wrestle and box when they had spare time, and their comrades would watch and cheer and place bets, much like now.
Only back then, they hadn’t aimed to kill each other. Sharps narrowed his eyes as the man who’d been by the trough got to his feet and approached from behind. Even from a distance, Sharps could see the crafty look in the varmint’s eyes as he shifted a large knife from one hand to the other.
Sharps tucked the pouch into his shirt pocket, drew his Remington, and cocked the hammer. No one reacted, because the sound was drowned out by the shouts and yells that erupted as the bastard with the knife made his cautious way closer to the wagon master. Sharps shook his head, raised the gun, and fired at the knife’s blade, shattering it. The man who held it yowled, dropped the handle, and sprang backward, tripping over his feet in the process and landing on his ass in the dust.
A shocked silence fell, and then the crowd shied away from him and stared. “Now that I’ve got your attention…” Sharps nudged the gray forward, and they hurried to get out of the stallion’s way.
“What the hell?” the man sitting in horseshit snarled. He struggled to get to his feet but lost his balance and fell back into it.
There were snickers from the crowd.
“Yes, what the hell?” One of the townsfolk swaggered up. He wore a black broadcloth suit and a derby, and carried a walking stick topped with a chunk of black stone. “Who are you, boy, and what do you mean by interrupting something that’s no business of yours?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter.” Sharps holstered his gun and curled his knee around the saddle horn. He took the pouch from his shirt pocket and resumed rolling a cigarette. “As for me interrupting what’s been going on…Well, let me tell you boys.” He glanced at the three men who’d been most involved. “I’m as in favor of a good fight as any man,” he drawled, “but when someone brings a knife to a fist fight, well, then I have to stick this nose of mine into it.” He reached into his vest pocket for a match, struck it against the heel of his boot, and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.
“Do you know who I am?” the dapper man demanded.
Sharps blew out a thin stream of smoke. “Can’t say as we’ve been introduced.”
“I’m Horace Weatherford.”
“Yeah? Can’t say that means anything to me either.”
Dull color started to creep up his cheeks. “This is my town—” His gaze narrowed as he took in the horse that sidled nervously beside Sharps, at the big stallion he sat on. “Where did you get those horses?”
“It’s interesting you should want to know that. The gents at the saloon asked me the same thing. I reckon you could say I found ‘em wandering on the prairie. Right careless of the men who owned them.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Suppose I said we drew straws for ‘em, and they lost?”
“That’s insane!”
“That I found ‘em or that they lost ‘em?” Sharps inquired casually.
“Either…both…” Weatherford was almost frothing at the mouth.
“I reckon it’s a matter of perspective.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Weatherford’s frustration became even more evident.
“You see—” Sharps paused to remove a flake of tobacco from his tongue. He shouldn’t enjoy riling the man so much, but he’d come across others of his ilk while he’d worked for Colonel Sebring, and he had no liking for them. “You don’t strike me as a man who rides much—seeing the way you’re dressed and all—so you just might consider the condition I found these horses in as acceptable. Now me? I think it’s a pure disgrace.”
“I wasn’t…I didn’t…” The man ground his teeth. “What I meant was I don’t believe you found these horses simply wandering around loose.”
Sharps gave Weatherford a hard grin. “You calling me a liar?”
The man backed away, then forced himself to stop. “You don’t scare me, boy.”
“Then you’re a fool, Weatherford.”
Sharps glanced around at the sound of that voice, and this time he knew his grin was warm and welcoming. “It’s good to see you again, Captain.”
“Same here, Sharps. I—”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“Have you? I looked for you after the war…”
“Pa told me.”
The captain glanced at the too-interested crowd. “We’ll talk about it later.” There was an irritated twist to his mouth. He picked up his hat, slapped it against his thigh, and clapped it on his head, something Sharps recalled from years before when the Cap was annoyed with either the men or the situation they’d found themselves in. What was he…?
And then Sharps began to chuckle. “Sorry to spoil your fun, Cap. I wouldn’t have interfered, even with the odds three against one, but three plus a knife…Now that just doesn’t strike me as fair.”
“I have to admit it was much appreciated.” The captain’s expression smoothed, and he smiled up into Sharps’s eyes. For a moment, Sharps couldn’t catch his breath at the sheer welcome and…and liking in that smile.
“What are you talking about?” Weatherford demanded, disturbing the moment. “And why do you call him captain? He’s nothing but a saddle tramp.”
“How did you know that?” the captain asked, surprise evident on his face.
Sharps grinned at him. “You could say a little bird told me.” A bird by the name of Sebring, who’d somehow discovered Sharps’s devotion to the captain.
“There’s no need to make a big deal of it, Corporal.” The captain blushed, and Sharps fell a little more in love with him.
“No, sir. Sorry.” He brought his cigarette to his lips to conceal his smile. He wasn’t surprised the captain didn’t know of his promotion. No one did, although it was in his records.
“You didn’t used to smoke.”
“I didn’t used to do a lot of things.”
“What—” The captain shook his head. “No time for that now. That’s something else we’ll talk about later.” He frowned at the men who’d been trying to beat him down. “I’d advise you three to hightail it out of here. And that includes all you good people as well.”
The crowd grumbled but shuffled away, returning to their business—whichever it was—in other parts of town or the nearby mine or on their farms. It was easy to tell their occupation by the clothes they wore.
Weatherford and his three, however, remained.
“You’re still here?” The captain didn’t seem disappointed they hadn’t taken his suggestion.
“We don’t work for you,” the man who’d had the knife growled.
“You don’t, do you?” Sharps observed easily. “In that case, it won’t matter to the captain if I shoot you. I don’t like it when bullies gang up on my friends.”
“You can’t shoot us! We’re—”
“For God’s sake, Asa, shut your fucking mouth!” the man who’d finally managed to get up from the pile of manure ordered. He brought his arm to his face to mop up the blood seeping from his nose and grimaced, either from the pain in his nose or the odor that rose from his seat. Whichever it was, his discomfort pleased Sharps. “You’re gonna get us killed.”
