by Arch Gallen
*Madman of Morale, Western Settler Saga Book VI
Pike’s face hardened. “They don’t call that to my face, Mr. Ingram.” he snapped, “At least not a second time.” this nickname being one of several earned and only one causing objection.
Ingram’s face grayed a mite, stories of this youngster being well told all about Pocatello where he was raised, indeed all up and down canyons of Idaho where Marshall Pike stamped a unique brand of law on claim jumpers and troublemakers of all sorts.
Leaning back, showing the bartender some relaxing in his pose, Adam stretched thick arms and laid large hands palm down on the counter. With a grin, he said conversationally, “So there’s no notion of acting here as I did at Ike’s place and getting in all the hot water for it I did, let me listen friendly to what you can say on this dust up.”
Calculating sharp, Ingram bobbed his head, any trouble from Lambertson caused by talking sure to be less than what Pike would bring. “Not knowing so much.” he replied, bending forward on the bar and glancing about as if to insure no ears minus heads were lurking, “Can say I heard much after Loftin and his father-in-law were killed.”
“Didn’t run off then.”Adam commented, asking softly, “Fair fight?”
The bar man shook his head, eyes flitting from door to windows. “Can’t say for sure, naturally, but no way to figure it was. Not one of Lambertson’s crowd or the man himself inclined to giving even breaks to no one. Heard too” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper near inaudible, “several of his men talking what was planned once he had all that river land in his name and shortly after her men went missing, one of them said something of Lambertson having got a holster he took a shine to. Said it was like them the cavalry wore and he was keeping it in a cabinet for wearing later.”
Pike nodded slowly, eyes focused on a point far beyond the plank walls as he painted in empty spots of a picture largely complete. Straightening, he tossed Ingram an appreciative look and dug in his pocket to buy the beer when the bartender glanced at him oddly.
“Recalling something, Marshall,” Ingram muttered with a puzzled look as he stared at the floor, “about that man of Lambertson’s who was running about telling stories on Mrs. Loftin and her gunman.”
Brow raised, Adam cocked his head listening, a long, broad smile brightening his face and eyes as he did. Pulling out more coin than required, he dropped it on the bar, telling to keep the change and turned to leave. Near the door, he stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
“Every man wearing a badge in the Territory will hear well of your help, Mr. Ingram” he offered, lowering his tone a mite as he added, “so long as none here learn I am a Marshall before I’m wishful of them knowing. Let that happen, will likely return for my change carrying a satchel of black powder to aid in future remembering.”
Taking up the coin with shaky fingers, Ingram objected, “Now, Marshall, ain’t nothing like that necessary.” fully sure the departed Pike was past hearing.
But Adam was listening, not to weak protests from the barman but to insistent grumbles from a belly protesting breakfast being skipped to hasten his arrival. Looking over the small café with a smile, he stepped off the boardwalk, took the reins of his horse in hand and walked them both there, tying the animal in front as he popped up the steps and through the door.
Taking all in with one short look, Pike felt comfort in a place reminding him in every detail of Kate’s when he first arrived in Morale* except this one had oilskin cloths over each of eight tables where such was unknown back then. Doffing his hat, giving a nod to three men seated in one corner, he sat, a fourth man sitting alone wolfing down a meal not noticing his arrival. No more than a moment passed before a portly older woman wheeled from the kitchen with steaming coffee pot and mug in hand, one other difference being she was twice Kate’s age.
