by Tinnean
“We’ll have to tell Georgie and Bart. That McCloud’s dead, not that you killed him.”
“Yeah. I reckon we will.” Sharps reached across and took Steve’s hand, relieved Steve didn’t try to shake him off. Sharps hadn’t brought this trouble to them, but he’d be the one who dealt with it, and he accepted it. But…he prayed he didn’t lose his lover over it.
They walked for about half a mile before Sharps released Steve’s hand. They mounted up again and continued north at a brisk canter to Hummingbird valley.
* * * *
When they rode into camp, Mrs. Hall was bent over the cookfire. She straightened, dug a fist into her spine, and arched into it.
“I have no idea how Mama did this day after day.”
“She had help,” Bart said as he approached her. He slid an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.
“Yes, your mama. That was how I met Bart,” she told them.
“And I nearly swallowed my tongue the first time I saw you.”
“Really? I don’t remember you acting like that.”
“I’m a very good actor.”
She chuckled and shook her head; it was easy to see the warm feelings they had for each other. “Supper’s almost ready.” She smiled at Sharps and Steve. “Did you have any luck?”
Steve answered for them. “We found the land we want to claim, a sweet little valley Sharps and Thomas came across yesterday.” He dismounted and handed Sharps his mare’s reins. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The look his lover sent his way…For a second Sharps couldn’t catch his breath. It was very similar to the look Bart had given his wife. “Welcome, Cap.”
Steve smiled at him and squeezed his knee, then turned back to the couple. “But that’s not important now. Where’s Frank? He and the young ones need to be here also.”
“What’s wrong?” It was obvious Mrs. Hall had picked up on the troubled tone of Steve’s voice.
“We may have a serious problem. McCloud found us.”
“The sheriff from Willow Crick? Shit, that’s all we need.”
In spite of the situation, Sharps had to swallow a grin. Now he understood why it hadn’t seemed to startle Steve when the woman swore.
She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. In a matter of seconds, her siblings and Frank had gathered around.
“I’ll go take care of the horses.” Sharps nudged the stallion’s sides, and the gray headed toward the corral, Bella ambling beside him. Sharps would leave the telling of the tale to Steve. These were his friends.
Sharps already knew what he was going to do. He just hoped Steve would still love him after he found out what it was.
Chapter 32
Supper had been a tense meal—at least Steve had felt that way. Sharps hadn’t said a word as he’d eaten the venison stew Georgie had prepared—Charlie had managed to take down a small buck—while Steve and the other men had discussed their options.
Sharps got to his feet, scraped the remains off his tin plate for the mama cat who’d accompanied Georgie from back east, and put the plate in the pot of soapy water. “Sorrowful hasn’t had much exercise. I’m gonna take him out for a ride.” He left the campfire before anyone could comment.
Steve watched as Sharps saddled the gelding and rode out. His boy didn’t have watch until the early morning hours, and Steve gnawed his lower lip. He’d had an uneasy feeling from the time he’d told Georgie, Bart, and Frank what had happened in the valley he and Sharps had decided was theirs and had warned the youngsters they’d need to be vigilant.
“What’s going on, Steve?” Georgie asked.
“I’m not sure.” He crossed to the makeshift corral and led Bella out.
“You’re going after him?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want us to come with you?”
“No, but thanks for the offer.” He finished saddling his mare and slung his banjo over his shoulder before mounting up. “I’m hoping we’ll be back before sunrise, but we’ll see.”
“If you’re not, we’re coming after you.”
“Don’t put yourselves in danger.” He didn’t wait for Georgie to respond to that, just tapped his heels against Bella’s sides, and she stepped out in a ground-eating walk. Once they were out of sight of Hummingbird Valley, he urged her into a canter.
What was his boy up to?
* * * *
It was still light when Steve rode down the main street of Woody Draw, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. He used the opportunity to study each horse tied outside the various buildings, but none of them was the black and white gelding. It was getting late, and most businesses were starting to close. Well, he intended to find Sharps if he had to break down every door in town.
Meanwhile, he rode up to the sheriff’s office. He figured if Weatherford was in this town, Cottyn should know.
He tied Bella to the hitching rail, crossed to the door, and let himself in.
The sheriff looked up from his desk and gave a satisfied grin. “Marriott.” The sheriff held out his hand, which Steve shook.
“Cottyn.”
“No.” Cottyn laughed. “Your guns. You’re dropping them off, aren’t you?”
Steve hadn’t forgotten the sheriff’s rule of no guns in town, which was why he’d brought the banjo with him. He had no intention of not being armed if his boy was in any kind of danger “Of course,” he said. He loosened the rawhide thongs that tied down his holsters, unbuckled the belt, and handed it to the sheriff.
“I didn’t expect to see you here just yet, although I can’t say I’m surprised.” Cottyn wrapped the belt around the guns and set it in a drawer in his desk beside a familiar-looking holster bearing a Remington. “I had a feeling you’d be coming back to town soon.”
“You did?”
“Your young friend is here. He stopped by to leave his gun.”
“I can see that. However, Sharps isn’t the only reason I’m in town.”
“Do tell.”
“You have trouble in Woody Draw.”
“Trouble by the name of Horace Weatherford?” Cottyn’s grin became wry. “We’re not the rubes that city slicker took us to be. Word of what he did at Willow Crick reached us long before he did, and when he tried to peddle his brand of snake oil here, he found that out. Although I have to say I don’t understand why he’d pick Woody Draw.”
“From what I was led to believe, he and his partner were chased out of town.”
“Glad to hear the people of Willow Crick finally wised up, but there are plenty of towns between there and here. Makes me wonder what it is about our fair town that drew them here.”
“Maybe there wasn’t enough distance for those two to feel comfortable.”
“Maybe,” the sheriff agreed. “Anyway, last I saw, Weatherford was at the Diamond Garter, playing cards while he waited for that partner of his to show up.”
He would have a long wait, Steve thought grimly but said nothing about that. “Did he say where his partner was?” he asked idly.
“Just that he was out scouting for a place for them to settle down. Not sure what they’ll find. The best land has already been claimed.”
The door burst open, and a boy rushed in. “Sheriff! Sheriff! Mr. Jacob says get down to the Garter right away. Trouble’s brewing!”
“Go tell Jacob I’m on my way.”
The boy had been staring at Steve, but he jumped, then dashed off.
“Excuse me, Marriott. Duty calls.” Cottyn made sure his own holster was fastened to his thigh and his gun had a round chambered. “Just in case, you know?”
“I understand. Mind if I join you? I’ve had some experience as a deputy.”
“Why not? There isn’t much in the way of entertainment in this town in the middle of the week. Just make sure you stay out of my line of fire.”
They left the jail, and as they neared the Diamond Garter, they could hear strains of “The Man on the Flying Trapeze” drifting boisterously through the sa
loon’s swinging doors, along with the sound of raucous laughter.
“Just one thing,” the sheriff said, his hands resting on the curved tops of the swinging doors. “This is my town. I’ll deal with this situation. If you interfere in any way, you’ll spend the night in jail.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff.” Steve didn’t add a night in jail didn’t disturb him in the least. He’d do whatever was necessary to keep his boy safe.
He followed Cottyn into the large, brightly lit, noisy space. A few men were lined up at the bar, a foot braced on the railing, chatting or staring moodily into the mirror behind the bar. In spite of what the sheriff said, it seemed the girls were busy that night. Some of them sat on knees or leaned on shoulders, watching the card games in progress, while others danced with customers before they led them up the stairs to their cribs. The dark-skinned boy at the piano in the far corner switched to a poignant rendition of “Sweet Genevieve,” and the couples began to waltz.
The barkeep caught Cottyn’s eye and nodded toward one of the card tables.
“Ah, hell,” the sheriff muttered. “Looks like we are gonna have some trouble.”
Steve could see it brewing at the card table where his boy lounged, an ankle braced on his knee, facing the saloon doors and holding a hand of cards. His hat shielded his face, and a curl of smoke rose from the cigarette that dangled from his lips. Across from him sat the man who’d run Willow Crick—Horace Weatherford.
The pot at the center of the table consisted of a few greenback dollars but mostly silver and gold coins.
“Raise to fifty,” Sharps said. He pushed a small stack of coins to join the rest of the pot.
Steve let out a silent whistle. That was a large bet. Where had he gotten that kind of money?
One by one, the other players glared at the hands they held, then folded and tossed their cards facedown onto the table. They waited with tense interest, their eyes on Sharps and Weatherford.
Weatherford matched Sharps’s bet. “And I call.” He grinned and spread out his cards. “Full house.”
“You’ve got the devil’s own luck,” one of the men grumbled.
“The devil had nothing to do with it. I’m that damned good. So you can imagine how good I’d be at running your town.” Weatherford, grinning even more broadly, reached for the pot.
“Hold on a second.”
Weatherford froze at Sharps’s words. One by one, Sharps laid out his cards: ace, king, queen, jack, and ten, all spades.
Steve let out a silent whistle. An ace-high royal flush
“I reckon the pot is mine.” Sharps stubbed out his cigarette on his boot heel.
Weatherford stared down at the cards and turned pale. “That…that’s all my money,” he declared hoarsely.
“Reckon you wouldn’t be so good running the town,” the same man who’d grumbled earlier now said with ill-concealed satisfaction.
Weatherford narrowed his eyes and glared at him. Then he wheeled back to face Sharps and snarled, “You cheated.”
The piano came to a discordant stop. The dancing couples stopped as well.
“What?”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, shit, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
The women yanked their partners back, giving the table a wide berth, while those sitting at the table scrambled to put some distance between them and the two men facing off. Conversations throughout the saloon faltered and petered out.
A string of curses spilled from under the sheriff’s breath as the saloon became quiet, and Steve had to agree with him. Accusing someone of cheating was a damn-fool thing that could cost a man his life. Weatherford should have known that, but it seemed it was only the scraping of chairs that alerted him to the fact something had gone wrong. He looked up and turned even paler as he found himself alone at the table except for Sharps.
“Y’know, this is the second time you’ve impugned my reputation.”
“What? What are you talking about? And how does a saddle tramp know words like that?” Weatherford reached for the glass in front of him, his hand shaking so hard he nearly caused its contents to spill.
Steve bristled at his boy being called a saddle tramp, but the derogatory term didn’t seem to faze Sharps at all.
“I went to school,” he said. “And as for what I’m talking about…” He pushed his hat back, revealing his face—for the first time? In spite of his relaxed appearance, Sharps’s gaze was hard and cold.
“You…you…” Weatherford seemed taken aback, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“Yeah, me. In Willow Crick you called me a liar, and now you’re calling me a cheat.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re calling me a liar again.” He pulled out the makings and began to roll himself another cigarette.
“I know this kid.” In desperation, Weatherford turned to the men who were backing even further away. “He’s nothing but trouble.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that because he just won the pot, would you?” another of the men asked snidely.
“Goddammit, Johnson,” Cottyn snapped. “You’re not helping things.”
“Sorry, Sheriff.” But Steve could see he wasn’t.
Weatherford sneered at Johnson. “You don’t understand. He’s a boy, obviously too young to know how to play cards. He cheated! He must have cheated!” He was beginning to sound desperate.
“You can’t have it both ways, Weatherford,” Sharps said in a casual tone that actually sent shivers running up Steve’s spine. “If I’m too young to know my way around a deck of cards, how could I possibly know how to cheat?” He struck a match and lit his cigarette.
“Damn it,” Cottyn swore again and approached the table. “Okay, folks, fun’s over for the evening. Jacob, the next round is on me.”
Everyone forgot what was happening at the card table and rushed to the bar, even the boy who played piano.
“All right, Weatherford.” The sheriff caught his elbow and hauled him to his feet. “We’d better get you out of here.”
“But…But I’ve been cheated!”
“No, I’d say you lost fair and square.”
“I couldn’t have lost. I never lose,” he insisted.
“Looks like you did this time. Now, come with—”
Weatherford jerked himself free of the sheriff’s grip and shoved the man aside as he wheeled to face Sharps. “This is your fault. This is all your fault. Everything went to shit when you turned up in Willow Crick. Bob and I wouldn’t have had to leave town if it hadn’t been for you.” He flipped his wrist and a derringer slid from his sleeve to rest snugly in his palm.
“Oh, hell.” Steve felt cold. No one in town should have been armed, but as small as that derringer was, Weatherford was close enough that it could do serious damage. Steve fumbled with the banjo, trying to get it out of its case, but he seemed to be all thumbs, and before he could free it, a shot rang out. “Oh, hell.” Pain tore through him as if he himself had been shot, and he stared at his boy’s chest, waiting for the blood to come pouring out.
“What…?” Weatherford’s gun had flown from his grip to skid across the floor, and he stared down at his hand, which was bleeding profusely. He staggered and raised his slack-jawed gaze to the bartender, whose rifle was out and smoking. “Y-you shot me.”
“Damn right I did. You’re lucky I didn’t do more than blow off a couple of fingers.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that, Jacob.” The sheriff handed Weatherford a handkerchief. “Wrap up your hand.”
“Sorry, sheriff. I couldn’t let him shoot up my saloon.”
“No, but you could have hit an innocent bystander. And remember, it’s my job to keep the peace.”
“You know I always hit what I aim at. Besides, you were too close to get a good shot.”
Cottyn snorted. “We’ll have a talk about this when things settle down. Meanwhile, don’t do it again.” He grabbed Weatherford’s uninjured arm. “You
come with me.”
“W-where are you t-taking me?”
“To jail.”
“You can’t do that. I need to see a doctor.”
“Jacob, send Paddy for the doctor, would you? Tell him he’s got a patient at the jail.”
“Paddy,” the barkeep bellowed. “You heard the sheriff. Go fetch Doc Hale.”
The boy tore off into the night.
Steve watched as the sheriff dragged Weatherford out of the saloon. He’d seen something the sheriff apparently hadn’t—a small hole just above the spot where Weatherford’s vest buttoned. Steve had also noticed the darkening patch on the back of Weatherford’s frock coat. He’d seen wounds like that before, both during the War and afterward, on the trail to California, and he knew if a bullet even nicked the big artery running to the heart, those wounds were fatal.
Jacob glared at the blood on the sawdust-covered floor and huffed. “Jim, get a mop and bucket and clean up that mess,” he ordered one of the shabby men who hung around hoping someone would buy them a drink.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jacob.” Jim hopped to it.
“And if you find any of Weatherford’s fingers, chuck ‘em the hell out of my saloon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Looks like things are settling back to normal. Steve crossed to the table where Sharps was lounging casually, one booted foot again resting on his knee.
“Gather up your winnings. We’re heading back to the valley.”
Sharps tilted his head. “Is there any rush, Cap? I kind of had a hankering for a real bath.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, then rose and swept the coins into a neat pile. He took a leather pouch from his pocket and put the coins into it.
“We won’t have much time.” And he wanted his boy out of here before the sheriff realized Weatherford was a dead man walking. “I told Georgie we’d be back before sunup.”
“I reckon that’s plenty of time.” He put the pouch back into his pocket and began gathering the greenbacks into a neat stack.
“We don’t have clean clothes.”
