Rimfire

by William W. Johnstone

  “I know you,” one of the men blurted. “You’re that gambler—Drake.”

  Once Ace heard that, he realized he had seen their rescuer at one of the poker tables he and Chance had passed on their way out of Red Mike’s.

  “That’s right,” acknowledged the man with the rifle. “I’m Steve Drake.”

  Ace realized that Steve Drake was introducing himself to them. He replied quickly, “My name’s Ace Jensen, and this is my brother Chance.”

  Steve Drake chuckled. “Ace and Chance, eh? I like that. You must have been given those monikers by another knight of the green felt.”

  Ace frowned.

  “A poker player,” Drake added in explanation.

  “Yeah,” said Chance. “A fella named Doc Monday.”

  “Doc! I know him. We’ve sat down at many of the same tables over the years, although I haven’t seen him in a long time. He’s your father?”

  “No, sir,” said Ace, “but he raised us.”

  “Doc’s a good man, as I recall.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Drake,” Ace said. “He’d be obliged to you for giving us a hand.”

  Dave stabbed a blunt finger at them. “You got no right mixin’ into this, Drake. These boys deserve what we were handin’ ’em.”

  “Beating them to death? Or close to it?” Drake said coolly. “What did they do to deserve that? Bump into you? Spill a beer? Remember, I was in Mike’s place. I saw everything that happened. That’s why I borrowed a rifle from one of Mike’s men and followed them out here. I figured you and your friends might be ugly and brutal enough to do something like this.”

  So the Winchester Steve Drake held wasn’t like the ones the saloon guards used. It actually was one of the same rifles, Ace mused. The gambler and Red Mike had to be friends for the saloonkeeper to have allowed that.

  “Let’s go,” Drake went on, addressing the Jensen boys. “The rest of you leave these youngsters alone. If you don’t, you’ll answer to me. In fact, if anything happens to them while they’re in St. Louis, no matter who’s responsible, I’ll be looking you up, Dave. And you, too, Wilson.”

  “That ain’t fair!” Wilson exclaimed.

  “Maybe not, but it’s the way things are.” Drake inclined his head toward the street and backed away. Ace and Chance went with him, moving ahead so that they reached the street first.

  Ace spotted their horses standing a few yards from the alley with their reins dangling. He and Chance claimed the animals as Drake lowered the Winchester. Ace was glad no one had stolen them while he and his brother were busy being attacked.

  “Aren’t you afraid they’re liable to bushwhack you?” Chance asked the gambler.

  “That bunch?” Drake chuckled and shook his head. “There’s not a gunman among them. They fight with their fists and feet. I doubt if any of them could hit the side of a barn with a shotgun.” He pointed along the street. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the hotel where I’m staying. I’m pretty sure there’s an empty room there.”

  “Don’t you need to take that rifle back to Red Mike’s?” asked Ace.

  “I’ll do that later. Mike and I have known each other for years. When I was starting out in this game, I knew his father, too. He trusts me.”

  Ace and Chance led their mounts while Steve Drake walked along the street with the Winchester tucked casually under his left arm. He wore a good brown suit and a cream-colored Stetson. The brown hair under the hat was liberally streaked with silver.

  In the light from the buildings they passed, Ace saw that the older man’s face had a rugged, roughhewn look about it, as well as a deeper tan than most gamblers possessed. Obviously, Steve Drake didn’t spend all his time in saloons.

  When they came to the Halliday House, Drake said, “It’s not the fanciest hotel in St. Louis, I’ll grant you that, but it’s clean and comfortable.”

  “It may be too fancy for us to afford,” Ace said.

  “Are you going to be in town for a few days?”

  “I don’t really know. We don’t have any plans.”

  Steve Drake waved a hand. “Then don’t worry about it. I’ll make up the difference if I need to, but I doubt if that will happen.” He looked at Chance. “You enjoy a good game of cards, don’t you? You have that look about you.”

  Chance grinned. “Not much I like better than a good poker game, although a girl might tempt me away from one . . . if she was pretty enough.”

  “A man with his priorities in order,” Steve Drake said with a grin of his own. “I like that. You’ll do fine. You boys are looking for a stake, aren’t you?”

  “We could use one,” admitted Ace.

  “Then come on. We’ll get you settled, take these horses to the livery, have a good meal, then find a game so Chance here can get started on it.”

  “Maybe not at Red Mike’s,” Ace said. “He told us to stay out of there.”

  “There are plenty of other places in St. Louis,” Drake said.

  They left their horses at the hitch rail, carried their rifles and warbags into the Halliday House, and checked into the hotel. The clerk seemed to know and like Steve Drake.

  The gambler appeared to have friends all over town, thought Ace.

  That was confirmed a short time later when the proprietor of the livery stable greeted them with a big grin and a booming, “Howdy, Mr. Drake!”

  “Hello, Gil,” Steve Drake said as he returned the grin. “Take good care of these boys’ horses, will you?”

  “Why, sure thing, Mr. Drake,” the burly stableman agreed.

  The three of them proceeded to a café.

  The people who worked there also were friendly, especially the blond, curly-haired waitress who hovered over the table. “Is there anything else I can get you or do for you, Mr. Drake?”

  “Not right now, darlin’,” he replied, his Southern drawl even thicker than before, “but if there is, I’ll be sure and let you know right away.”

  While they were eating bowls of thick beef stew and chunks of fresh bread, washed down with hot, strong coffee, Ace asked the gambler, “Where are you from, Mr. Drake?” Then, because some men didn’t like being asked that question, he added, “Not that I mean to pry or anything.”

  “That’s all right, lad,” said Steve Drake. “I don’t mind telling you. I was born in Virginia. The Old Dominion.”

  “Were you in the war?” asked Chance.

  The older man’s rugged face tightened slightly. “Now that’s something I don’t like to talk about. The way I see it, the war’s over and done with, and the sooner we all put it completely behind us, the better.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, a lot of folks have a hard time doing that.”

  “We were born in Denver,” Ace said, thinking it might be best to change the subject.

  “I’m sure your mother and father must have been very proud of a couple fine, strapping boys like you.”

  Chance shook his head. “We never knew our mother.”

  “Or our father,” added Ace. “Like we told you, we were raised by a man named Doc Monday.”1

  Steve Drake nodded. “Oh, yes, of course. I remember now.”

  “He may not have been our real pa, but he did a good job of bringing us up.” Chance grinned. “Although most folks probably wouldn’t think so, considering how much time we spent in saloons and gambling dens or out on the trail.”

  “There are some fine people in those places,” said Steve Drake. “Although you do have to know where to look for them.”

  After they were finished with the meal, they left the café and headed toward a different saloon—one called The Royal Flush. Despite the rather gaudy name, the establishment was small and on the sedate side.

  Chance frowned as they went in and commented quietly, “This place doesn’t look like it’ll be very entertaining.”

  “Do you want entertainment,” asked Steve Drake, “or the chance to win some money at poker?”

  “You know my name,” Chance replied with a smile.

>   “I’ll be at the bar.” Ace left the card-playing to his brother. He preferred to nurse a beer and just sort of keep an eye on things while Chance sat in on the games.

  Chance and Drake went to a table in the back of the room where four men sat with cards in their hands and money in the center of the green felt. Evidently the Virginian was known to all of them, because they gave him friendly nods. When the hand was over, the two newcomers were invited to join the game.

  “Get you something, young fella?” a balding bartender asked Ace at the bar.

  “Beer will be fine.”

  The drink juggler nodded toward the table as he filled a mug from a tap. “You boys friends with Mr. Drake?”

  “Well, I guess so. We only met him earlier this evening, but I reckon you could say he’s sort of taken us under his wing. He seems to be a fine hombre.”

  “Oh, he is, definitely.” The bartender set the beer on the hardwood in front of Ace. “In fact, if you’re friends with Steve Drake, that’s good for a free drink. This one’s on the house.”

  Surprised, Ace said, “I’m obliged to you.”

  “No, to Mr. Drake. He helped me come up with the money to start this place. I offered to make him a silent partner, but he didn’t want that. Said he didn’t want to be tied down in one spot for too long.”

  “I can understand that feeling.” Ace stood with one elbow propped on the bar while he sipped his beer and watched the game in progress. Several other men were drinking in the saloon, but none of them bothered him. There were no gaudily dressed saloon girls or women of any sort in there.

  Ace trusted his instincts and his judgment of Steve Drake’s character, but in the back of his mind lurked the worry that the gambler had befriended them and brought them there only to try to fleece them of whatever funds they had left.

  As he watched the game, he could tell that wasn’t the case. Chance won some hands and lost others, but he seemed to be playing more cautiously than usual and didn’t appear to have any big losses. Maybe he was following Steve Drake’s example and learning from the older man.

  The pile of bills and gold pieces in front of Chance grew slowly but steadily. Ace figured it wouldn’t be long until they had enough to stay in St. Louis for a few days and then stock up on supplies before heading out on the trail again. Hearing heavy footsteps from the boardwalk outside, he looked in that direction.

  The batwings swung back and several men entered the Royal Flush, stopping just inside the door. The one in the lead wore a cheap brown suit and a derby. His mustache curled up on the tips. He had a good-sized belly, but he didn’t look soft. Just the opposite, in fact. The fabric of his suit bulged more from muscle than with fat. The men with him, although they were all different shapes and sizes and dressed differently, had the same sort of cheap but tough look about them.

  They were trouble, Ace realized instantly. Hired muscle looking for someone.

  So he wasn’t all that surprised when the leader stepped forward, glaring at the table in the back of the room. “There you are, Drake! You’re comin’ with us!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Moving deliberately, seemingly unbothered by the intrusion, Steve Drake placed the cards in his hand facedown on the table in front of him and raised his head. “Hello, Bennett. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “You’ll be with me right now, blast it,” responded the tough called Bennett. “Mr. McIsaac sent us to fetch you, and that’s just what we’re gonna do.”

  “When I’m finished with this game.”

  “No. Now.”

  Bennett’s ham-like hands clenched into fists as he started toward the table with his cronies close behind him. Other customers quickly got out of their way.

  The four men in the game when Drake and the Jensen boys had entered the saloon looked like they wished they were somewhere—anywhere!—else. Chair legs scraped on the floor as they put down their cards and pushed away from the table.

  Chance stayed where he was, sitting forward tensely. “Mr. Drake . . .”

  The gambler casually lifted a hand and gestured for Chance to stay where he was. “I’ll reason with these fellows.”

  “Not gonna be any reasonin’,” declared Bennett. “We’re takin’ you out of here, mister, if we have to drag you by the heels to do it. Or by the neck, as long as we don’t kill you.” He sneered. “Mr. McIsaac didn’t say what sort of shape you had to be in when we take you to his house.”

  Ace had seen and heard just about enough. He stepped away from the bar, palmed out the Colt on his hip, and eared back the hammer as he pointed it at Bennett and the others. The metallic ratcheting made all of them freeze.

  “That’s far enough,” Ace said. “Hold it right there.”

  At the table, Steve Drake pursed his lips slightly as if he wasn’t happy that Ace had stepped in to help him.

  Ace saw it and thought that was just too bad. The gambler had saved him and Chance from that trouble earlier in the evening, so they owed him.

  Bennett looked back over his shoulder and rumbled, “Kid, you won’t want to get mixed up in this.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Ace. “I don’t know what you think Mr. Drake has done, but he’s my friend and I’m not going to let you take him anywhere he doesn’t want to go.”

  “Ace, I appreciate the sentiment, lad,” said Steve Drake, “but Bennett here is right. This is a private matter between me and his employer.”

  “That fella McIsaac he mentioned? I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that you saved our bacon a while ago, and I intend to return the favor if I can.”

  Steve Drake sighed. “There’s no way I can talk you into putting away your gun and backing off, I suppose?”

  “No, sir,” said Ace.

  “Or me, either,” added Chance. His hand was close to the opening of his coat, where it could dart inside and snatch the revolver from his shoulder holster with blinding speed if necessary.

  How the confrontation might have ended was destined to remain unknown. One of the men with Bennett stealthily reached over, grasped the back of an empty chair, then suddenly jerked it up, whirled toward Ace, and let it fly.

  Ace tried to duck away instead of opening fire, but the chair crashed into him and knocked him back against the bar. It jolted his arm upward so that when his finger tightened involuntarily on the Colt’s trigger, the bullet went harmlessly into the ceiling.

  The man who had flung the chair charged right behind it. He tackled Ace while the young man was still off balance. The man’s fingers closed around the wrist of Ace’s gun hand and kept it pointing up. At the same time, he rammed his shoulder into Ace’s chest and drove him into the bar again. The painful impact against the small of his back made Ace groan as he fought to stay on his feet.

  With surprising speed, Bennett charged the table where Chance and Drake sat. Chance reached for his gun, but Bennett plowed into the table first, upsetting it and knocking Chance’s chair over backwards. As Chance hit the floor, a couple of Bennett’s companions leaped at him. Bennett pivoted toward Drake and lunged at him, hands outstretched.

  Drake was on his feet to meet Bennett’s attack. The gambler grabbed Bennett’s right arm with both hands, twisted at the waist, and threw a hip into Bennett’s onrushing form. Using his attacker’s own momentum against him, Drake bent and heaved. Bennett flew into the air, flipped over, and slammed down on his back.

  Over at the bar, Ace hooked a left into his opponent’s belly. The powerful blow made the man double over as whiskey-laden breath gusted out of his mouth. His grip on Ace’s gun hand began to slip.

  As the man bent toward him, Ace lowered his head and butted the hombre in the face, knocking him loose completely. Ace brought his gun arm down swiftly, reversing the Colt and clipping the man on the head with the butt. His knees folded up, dropping him to the sawdust-littered floor.

  Chance struggled to get to his feet as the pair of foes closed in on him. He hadn’t made it when one of the
men aimed a kick at his head. Chance jerked aside, avoiding a broken jaw or worse, but the kick still caught him on the shoulder and knocked him down again.

  The second man was ready to strike, rushing in with a foot lifted so he could drive his heel down viciously into Chance’s face.

  Chance’s reflexes were fast as his hands shot up, grabbed hold of the foot, and heaved. Balanced only on the other foot, the man couldn’t stop himself from toppling over with a startled, angry yell.

  Chance rolled into the other man’s legs, reached up, caught hold of his belt, and pulled him down. With both of his foes floundering on the floor, he scrambled to his feet.

  One of the men tried to get up and ran into a powerful right hook to the jaw that stretched him out and left him too stunned to rise again for a few minutes. The second man made it to his feet and even managed to throw a punch, but Chance avoided it and landed a counterblow that knocked the man to the floor next to his ally.

  Having disposed of their opponents at roughly the same time, Ace and Chance looked toward Steve Drake and saw that the gambler was standing over Bennett with a nickel-plated revolver in his hand.

  The gun must have been under his coat, Ace thought, because he hadn’t seen it.

  Bennett’s face was flushed dark red with fury, but clearly he understood the threat of the gun in Drake’s hand and didn’t want to buck it. “You’ll be sorry about this, Drake,” he raged, spittle flying from his mouth. “Damn sorry!”

  Drake backed off a little and motioned with the gun for Bennett to get up. “You’re going to have to take something back to Joshua McIsaac, Bennett, but it won’t be me, so deliver this message instead. I never led his daughter on, and I certainly never promised to marry her. That’s all in her imagination. If she actually believes it . . . well, she’s fooled herself into thinking it’s true.”

  Bennett clambered to his feet and growled, “You expect me to tell him that? The old man dotes on that gal. He believes every word that comes outta her mouth!”

  “I’m sure he does, but that doesn’t change the facts of the matter. I never asked Lydia McIsaac to marry me. I promise you, I have no interest in taking a wife!”