This stopped the cackling, and put a look of concern on their faces, until Hunter pulled out a drawstring leather satchel and tossed it on the table with a thud and a clank. "Spanish gold coin good enough for ya?" asked the gunslinger.
The two men glanced at each other and grunted just a bit. "Have a seat, maybe we can separate you from some of that Spanish treasure?"
Come to find out, from little more than small talk, the old guys Jebediah and Walt, had known and somewhat respected his pa. Maybe it was fear; he wasn't sure. Never the less, their poker game went on through the night. The games were fairly close with Hunter up from the beginning. He backed off enough hands so not to anger the old veterans. It seemed, over the few hours at the table, they developed an unspoken bond between them.
Might mean somthin' down the road, Hunter thought. Then again, it might not. No tellin' what side a man could find himself on.
Hunter's need to gamble was satisfied and he began thinking about sleep. He scraped up his winnings, thanked the old men for their contributions, and headed towards the stairs.
Before he reached the first step, he heard arguing coming from behind him. He turned around and walked over to his spot at the end of the bar, placing his hands palm down on top of it.
Matt and a disgruntled man were twelve feet away from him. They faced each other, the two-foot wide counter separated them.
Hunter figured the patron was a trapper by the way he was dressed. He had clothes made of otter pelts, and a coonskin cap. His rifle leaned against a chair by his side, but Hunter's main concern was the revolver he was waving around in the air. The trapper was clearly drunk and getting nastier by the minute.
Matt was speaking in a calm voice," You're cut off, sir. I suggest you go to where you come from and sleep it off."
"I ain't goin' nowheres," growled the trapper. "I want another drank, and what are you gonna' do 'bout it, huh?"
"I ain't gonna' do nothin'," Matt nodded his head in Hunter's direction, "But that man at the end of the bar will."
The trapper turned toward the gunslinger, squinting his eyes through his drunken haze. "Yeah, and who the Hell 'er you?"
"I'm the peace keeper in here," Hunter replied, his hands still palm down on the bar's countertop, "and you're disturbin' it."
The trapper looked to Matt, then back to Hunter. "Well, screw you," he said, as he brought his arm up, pistol in hand.
Hunter pulled his shiny silver colt out of his holster, faster than anyone had seen before, and blasted the trapper's gun from his mitt, shattering it into who knew how many pieces.
At that moment, Matt reached across the bar, grabbed the drunken man's rifle from its leaning position against the chair, and whacked him upside the head with it. The man hit the wood floor with a thud.
Matt yelled through the room, "Anyone know this drunken ass trapper?" Two men with coonskin caps walked up from the back of the saloon.
"We know 'im," said one. "He's with us, but we don't want no trouble."
"Well, git that son-of-a-bitch out of my saloon before I whack him in the head again."
Hunter had walked up and collected a second pistol from the sprawled out trapper's belt. He unloaded the cylinder and handed the gun to Matt who took it and stuck it behind the bar.
The two men quickly picked up their laid-out friend, hands under each arm, and began dragging him toward the door.
"I don't want to see him anymore tonight!" yelled Matt from behind the bar, "he can pick up his guns tomorrow when he sobers up." Matt turned and looked at Hunter. "Good job, son, thank ya much."
"Don't thank me. It's gonna' cost ya free room, meals, beer, oh, an' whiskey – the good whiskey."
"Well," Matt replied, a look on his face that said he'd just been had, and knew it. "I guess you've decided to work around here, and it's a deal then."
"Yup," Hunter replied as he walked toward the stairs. "I guess it is a deal then. Goodnight, Matt."
"Night, Dolin." Then under his breath, Matt grumbled, "Thievin' son-of-a-..."
* * * * *
It was early winter. The air was unusually dry for the swamp. It had been over a week since the last rain, and the ground was already dried out from the bright Florida sun. Hunter had awoken early and dressed. After eating Bessie's southern morning meal, he went down to the country store and picked up supplies for the cabin. With the packhorse in tow, he headed south down the Myakka River trail. His Appaloosa seemed to take to the cold crisp air.
There was a mile of landscape behind him when his horse suddenly alerted him with a snort. The gunslinger sensed a presence seconds before he saw it. About a hundred feet down the path stood the scar-face warrior called Buffalo Tiger. He had a ten-inch blade clenched in his right hand. He was alone, and his face was bordered with war paint.
Great, Hunter thought, that's all I need this mornin'. He continued on slowly 'til he was twenty paces from the Indian. He looked around behind him and into the woods on both sides of the trail. No movement, that he could see. Content it was just the two of them, he dismounted.
"This don't hafta' to be," Hunter said simply.
The warrior said nothing, just stared with conviction.
Hunter walked his Appaloosa and the packhorse off the path a bit, wrapping the reins around the branch of a small scrub-oak. He took off his gunbelt and draped it over the saddle. Then he pulled out the shotgun from his side holster, sliding it into a vertical holder atop his rig. This scabbard was positioned where he could get to it in case his skills went south. After removing his jacket, he pulled out the Bowie knife with his right hand and moved forward.
They began circling. The Injun warrior lunged toward him, his knife in his fist in an over-hand stabbing motion. Hunter grabbed his wrist with his empty hand and barrel-rolled him over the top. They both came to their feet, separated at the same time, turning around and facing each other.
They began circling once again.
Hunter jabbed twice at the Injun's knife hand, barely missing. The warrior counter-jabbed at Hunter's face then his chest. He also missed.
I'd better put an end to this before someone gits hurt, Hunter thought; namely me.
Buffalo Tiger yelled out a warrior cry and lunged at Hunter, slamming his shoulder into his waist. The gunslinger took it and rolled with it onto his back, continuing over 'til he was on top of his worthy opponent. He held his knife to the Injun's throat, stopping all movement. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
With one flick of his wrist, Hunter could have ended the brave's life, but thought better of it. All he needed was the rest of Buffalo Tiger's renegades tracking him down. He took the Miccosukee's knife from him, before taking the blade from his neck.
Hunter stood up and walked to his horse. He kept a close eye on the Indian while strapping on his gear.
Buffalo Tiger got to his feet and walked to the edge of the woods, and then turned, staring at the half-breed gunslinger.
Hunter gave him a nod of respect then tossed him his knife, which the Indian caught without batting an eye, slipping it into his waist flap. After a slight pause, the scar-faced warrior disappeared into the swamp.
Hunter slid his foot in the stirrup, slinging his other leg over. He continued on, while talking aloud to his horse, "I think we should try stayin' off this damn road, too many Indians travelin' it. What do ya think?"
As if he understood, the Appaloosa shook his head and whinnied.
"Come on, boy. Let's see if we can get where we're goin' without any more troubles."
At a steady gallop, they made it to the cabin in no time at all. After checking the cabin for unwanted guests, Hunter unloaded the packhorse and put the goods in their proper places. He removed the App's saddle and brushed down both horses from head to hoof. He made several trips back and forth from the river with buckets, one in each hand, until the water trough was full. He dumped half a bag of grain into a smaller trough, and left the animals safely corralled for the night. The gunslinger went inside and
pan fried a deer steak on the wood stove, ate it, and then retired to the small front porch to watch the sunset with a smoke.
As the sun went down, and the whippoorwills began to whip-poor-will, he thought, I could git used to this kind of livin'. But to settle down here, I would need a strong handsome woman to share it with. And where is there a good woman way the hell out here? Damn, I must be gittin' old, thinkin' thoughts like this.
He took a swig off a whiskey bottle as he watched a paddleboat go down the main part of the river, its large stacks pouring out steam. He wondered if this could be the beginning of a new way of life for him, or just a lull in the old one. Was he going stupid? A wife, always nagging with, You're drinking too much, stop gambling, when are you coming home? Am I pretty? Christ, he thought, he didn't need that. Besides, there weren't any marryin' kind 'round here anyhow.
He drank the bottle dry, dropping it to the wood porch while stumbling through the door of the cabin. Spurred by habit, he grabbed a chair and shoved it under the door handle. The drunk gunslinger stumbled over to his bed and passed out face first, guns still strapped on, and all. Only good luck kept him from shooting himself in his stupor.
* * * * *
For the next couple of weeks, Hunter spent half his time at the cabin and the other half at Matt's place. The cabin roof needed some fixing, so he did a little roof patch, made up of mud and hay. He fixed the corral fence that had some termite damage. With the packhorse turned mule, he hired Zeke the stable boy to do some log collecting for replacing a fence post here and there.
Before any of this handy work took place, Hunter was compelled, for no reason he knew at the time, to dig out the gun shooting slits near the cabin floor. He thought maybe he was just in survival mode, or maybe in the back of his mind he knew, for him, trouble was always right around the bend.
It was refreshing to be doing honest, hard work on his own land. It was also just plain fun being down at the saloon, getting drunk with Matt, playing poker, and keeping the peace. Kicking ass when the cowboys and trappers got out of hand was part of his job; Hunter thought of it as sort of a bonus. Life was good, life was simple, but unbeknownst to him, life was going to get very, very complicated, very, very quickly.
Chapter Four
She arrived by stagecoach in front of the Jackson Hotel located across the street from Matt's Place. The Jackson stood where Wilson's whorehouse used to be. Bigger and newer than Matt's by a decade, it looked out of place here in Myakka. As far as Hunter could tell, the place had been empty since he came to town. Without gambling or whores, there was no reason for the men of these parts to even pass through the doors. This place was just another rich Yankee's winter home, which was becoming more common every other day in this southern state.
It was early evening, the rainy weather was gone for now, the weather was warmer than since the gunslinger had arrived. Mosquitoes buzzed their ears regularly. Hunter and Matt sat in rocking chairs on the saloon's front porch, smoking cigars, and getting some fresh air, when a stagecoach pulled up. The stagehand who rode shotgun jumped down and opened the door.
Out stepped the most beautiful woman Hunter had ever seen. The sun was setting just above the tree line, but was still bright enough to light up her long auburn hair. She was wearing a low cut, tight, cream-colored dress which she filled out nicely. Hunter stopped rocking his chair, staring in amazement.
Matt's lit cigar dropped out of his open mouth and fell into his lap, causing sparks to fly everywhere. He was trying to stand, arms a flailing, the hot cherry breaking up into many smaller embers burning him and Hunter.
"Damn, Matt!" Hunter yelled as he stood, while trying to put out the small fires on his shirt and britches.
"Sorry 'bout that, son; but damn, there goes the neighborhood. A woman like that 'round here ain't nothin' but trouble."
They stopped bickering at each other for a moment and raised their heads. The woman was looking, smiling right at them. They clumsily removed their hats.
She nodded with a small curtsy and headed up the steps, then disappeared through the front doors of the hotel.
"Who is she, Matt?" Hunter asked.
"I dunno, son. Ain't ever seen her before."
By this time, a small crowd had formed here and there. Hunter spotted Zeke and began waving at him, "Come on over here, boy."
The boy ran up. "Yes, sir."
Hunter still wasn't used to how polite this young man was. He liked him more and more each day. He flipped him a gold piece and followed up with instructions.
"Zeke, without causin' attention to yourself, find out everythin' about that lady that you can. All right?"
With a 'cat that ate the bird' grin on his face, the boy ran off toward the hotel.
"You're really takin' a likin' to that boy ain't ya?" commented Matt.
"That little shit's got half my gold stash," Hunter replied, an annoyed look on his face. "Hell, he's gonna' own this town someday."
"Yup, whatever you say, Mr. Dolin."
"The hell with this," Hunter mumbled as he walked into the saloon. "I need a drink."
He bellied up to the bar and got a beer from Jimmy, one of Matt's bartenders. He was an older man, a local Matt grew up with. He was a man Matt would say he trusted.
"Jimmy, give me a bottle and a beer, would ya?"
"Matt told me to give you whatever you asked fer," Jimmy said, as he set a glass full of draft and a bottle of whiskey on the counter.
Hunter emptied his beer in one gulp. "Damn, must be a hole in the bottom," he said while staring into the glass. He snatched up the whiskey bottle by the neck and retreated to a small table in the corner. He sat down on the wobbly wood chair with his back against the wall and took a long swig. He wondered why he was so testy. Was it the fact that he had father-like feelings for Zeke? Or because he had a schoolboy crush on a woman he saw for two minutes? She was so beautiful. The problem was, settling down in one place around these people was making him weak. Being on the trail, traveling through the woods, keeps a man close to nature and God; it keeps a man's wits about him. Having relations with people makes life much more complicated. He was still young, and now he was seeking family life; something he'd never had before.
He took another long draw off the bottle. Christ, he thought, now I'm soundin' like a tenderfoot. Next, I'll be cryin' like a woman.
Suddenly, as if on cue, a fight broke out at one of the poker tables near the other end of the bar, ending Hunter's emotional thoughts. He stood and walked across the room without breaking a stride, and began beating on the two tussling cowhands. He pulled them apart and stepped in between them. He punched one in the mouth with a right jab, then coming back with his right elbow struck the other man's nose.
Blood splattered in all directions as one man fell on his back one way while the other man fell on his back the other, smashing two chairs and a table. Both men quickly began to rise, hands on their side-arms, ready to draw. Before they could get past a crouching position, they were met with Hunter's Walker Colt gun barrels to their foreheads, stopping all movement.
"Are you boys done?" Hunter said sternly. "Give me a reason, and I'll splatter your brains all over these walls."
By this time, Matt heard the commotion. He came in from the front porch through the swinging doors to see Hunter, who looked to him like a giant eagle with silver colts at the end of each wing. From the bottom of each outstretched arm, the rawhide tassels hung down like feathers.
The cowboys' eyes were as wide as they could get. They both took their hands off their guns and raised their arms slowly at the same time. These two also looked like birds to Matt, but not eagles; they looked more like prey.
They backed up from those shiny pistols and scurried out the front door as Hunter twirled his revolvers, spinning them back into their holsters. Feeling like a man again, he walked to his table, grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle, and headed up the stairs. He would not gamble tonight, he wasn't in the mood.
"G'night, Mat
t."
"Night, gunslinger."
* * * * *
Hunter awoke early the next morning, as usual; he combed his hair and washed his teeth with his forefinger and some lard soap. He dressed, strapped on his weapons, and removed the chair from under the door, before heading down the stairs.
Matt was sitting at his favorite poker table drinking his coffee and reading the oldest looking Bible Hunter had ever seen. It dawned on him, it must be Sunday. Bessie was dishing out vittles to several cowboys, while Zeke was running in and out with a bucket of water for the cleaning of the dishes. Hunter sat down across from Matt at his table.
"Mornin', Matt."
"Mornin', son," replied Matt, without looking up from his Holy book.
At that moment, Bessie brought over two plates of food and poured coffee.
"Thanks, Bess," Hunter offered with a small grin and a nod.
"Yessum, Mr. Dolin," replied Bessie, without making eye contact.
"Please call me Hunter."
"Yessum, Mr. Hunter," Bessie said as she scampered away to attend to other hungry patrons. Hunter stared at Matt for a few seconds trying to get his attention, to no avail.
"Why is she so jumpy around me?"
Matt stopped reading and set down his book, and then he began counting off on his fingers: "Number one, she's a black woman livin' in the south, which I would consider at this day and age unstable territory; number two, she knew your pa, he was a hard man in these parts who was known for his mean streak."
Hunter continued looking up at Matt from his breakfast, not saying anything.
Matt continued, "And number three, he could be an intimidatin' son-of-a-gun. Your pa was one of few men that didn't have no weak nerve." Matt took a bite of his eggs, and washed it down with his coffee. He leaned back in his creaky wooden chair and finished his thought, "He did have a good side; he just didn't show it off much."
Hunter pondered this for a moment. "All right, let me get this straight. Bessie was born a poor black child, my old man was scary, and she thinks the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Does that about sum it up?"
The Half-Breed Gunslinger Page 3
