It had been a while since they’d set foot in such a place. They reacted to it totally differently.
Chance looked around with a smile of anticipation on his face as they rode along the street, moving slowly because of all the people, horses, wagons, and buggies. He was at home in cities, liked the hubbub, enjoyed seeing all the different sorts of people.
Because Doc Monday, their surrogate father, made his living as a gambler, he had spent most of his time in settlements. That was where the saloons were, after all. And although Doc had tried to keep the boys out of such places as much as possible while they were growing up, it was inevitable that they had spent a great deal of time in those establishments.
Chance had taken to that life, but Ace had reacted in just the opposite manner. He didn’t like being hemmed in and preferred the outdoors. He would rather be out riding the range any day, instead of being stuck in a saloon breathing smoky air and listening to the slap of cards and the raucous laughter of the customers. If he had to spend time in a settlement, the smaller ones were better than the big cities. To Ace’s way of thinking, a slower pace and more peaceful was better.
Ever since Doc had gone off to a sanitarium for a rest cure, the boys had been on their own, and they had packed a lot of adventurous living into a relatively short amount of time. Chance was always happy when they drifted into a town, while Ace was ready to leave again as soon as they replenished their supplies and his brother had an opportunity to win enough money to keep them solvent for a while.
St Louis was the farthest east they had been in their travels, with the exception of New Orleans. There was no particular reason they were there, other than Chance deciding that he’d wanted to see St. Louis.
Ace figured Chance might have assumed St. Louis was like New Orleans, the city he loved, with its moss-dripping trees, its old, fancy buildings, its music, its food, its saloons and gambling halls, and especially its beautiful women. After all, both cities were on the Mississippi River.
He seemed somewhat disappointed in their present surroundings, which led him to look around and ask, “Is this it? A bunch of people and businesses?”
“That’s generally what a big city is,” Ace reminded him.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t even smell good! In fact, it smells sort of like . . . dead fish.”
“That’s the waterfront,” Ace said with a smile. “New Orleans smelled like that in a lot of places, too. You just didn’t notice it because you liked all the other things that were there.”
“Maybe,” said Chance, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“I guess we’d better find a place to stay. We’ve still got enough in our poke for that, haven’t we?”
Chance grunted. “Yeah.”
Something else caught his attention and he pointed to a large saloon with a sign on the awning over the boardwalk out front announcing its name. RED MIKE’S. “I think we should have a look inside that place first.”
The place took up most of the block on that side of the street. A balcony ran along the second floor. Ace wouldn’t have been surprised to see scantily clad women hanging over the railing of that balcony, enticing customers to come up, but it was empty at the moment.
The hitch rails in front of the saloon were packed. The Jensen brothers found space to squeeze in their horses and dismounted, looping the reins around the rail. Chance bounded eagerly onto the boardwalk with Ace following at a more deliberate pace. He would have preferred finding a place to stay first, maybe even getting something to eat, but once Chance felt the call of potential excitement, it wasn’t easy to stop him from answering.
Considering the number of horses tied up outside, Red Mike’s was crowded with customers. Men of all shapes, sizes, and types lined up at the bar and filled the tables. Ace saw buckskin-clad old-timers and burly men in canvas trousers, homespun shirts, and thick-soled shoes who probably worked on the docks or the riverboats. Also in attendance were cowboys in boots, spurs, and high-crowned hats, frock-coated gamblers who reminded him of Doc, and meek, suit-wearing townsmen.
Circulating among the men were women in low-cut, spangled dresses that came down only to their knees. Some of them looked fresh and innocent despite the provocative garb, while others were starting to show lines of age and weariness on their painted faces. All of them sported professional smiles as they delivered drinks, bantered with the customers, and occasionally perched on someone’s knee to flirt for a minute before moving on.
In each front corner of the big room was a platform with steps leading up to it. A man holding a Winchester across his knees sat on a ladder-back chair on each platform. They were there to stop any trouble before it got started.
The tactic seemed to be working, While Red Mike’s place was loud, even boisterous, it was peaceful enough in the saloon. Everyone seemed to be getting along.
Ace leaned closer to his brother and said over the hubbub, “It’s too busy in here. We’d better move along and come back later.”
“No, there’s a place at the bar,” Chance replied, pointing. “Come on.”
Ace followed, unwilling to let Chance stay by himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his brother, but sometimes Chance could be impulsive, even reckless . . . especially in such surroundings.
They weaved through the crowd to the bar. By the time they got there, the space Chance had noticed was smaller than it had been. There was still room for one of the brothers, but not both of them.
That didn’t stop Chance from wedging his way into the opening and then using a shoulder to make it wider by pushing one of the flanking men aside. Ace winced a little when he saw that, because he knew what was liable to happen next.
Chance turned his head and beckoned to his brother. “Come on, Ace. There’s room now.”
No sooner were those words out of his mouth than a big hand clamped down on his shoulder and jerked him around. The man Chance had nudged aside glared down into his face and demanded in a loud voice, “Who do you think you are, boy?”
“My name’s Chance Jensen,” Chance said coolly. “If this is a formal introduction, you can go ahead and tell me your name.”
The man ignored that. “You can’t just push a man around like that and expect to get away with it, boy. You done left school too early. You ain’t been taught all the lessons you need.”
“From the sound of it, I have considerably more education than you do.”
The big man’s face darkened with anger. He was several inches taller than Chance, about the same height as Ace, and probably weighed fifty or sixty pounds more than either brother. His rough clothes and a shapeless hat jammed down on a thatch of dark hair indicated that he probably worked on the docks. Not the sort of hombre to mess with unless it was absolutely necessary, that was for sure.
The man leaned closer and growled. “Listen to me, you little son of a—”
Ace managed to get a shoulder between the two of them and said quickly, “My brother and I aren’t looking for any trouble, sir. Maybe we can patch this up by buying you a drink.”
Chance began, “We don’t have enough money to throw it away buying drinks for—”
Whatever Chance was about to say, it wasn’t going to help matters any, Ace knew. He pushed in between them harder, which made Chance take a step back and bump into the man behind him.
Being jostled made the man spill his beer down the front of his shirt. With an angry shout, the fellow twisted around, brandishing the now-empty mug like a weapon. “What in blazes?” he roared. “I’m gonna—”
The place went quiet, but not because of the man’s shout.
Ace heard the familiar sound of a rifle’s lever being worked and glanced around to see that both men on the elevated platforms in the front corners of the room were on their feet. Their Winchesters were socketed firmly against their shoulders, and the barrels were leveled at the group involved in the confrontation at the bar.
The dockworker who’d been glaring at the Jensen boys swallowed hard and
unclenched his big fists. “Blast it, Mike. Tell those killers o’ yours to hold their fire.”
A man wearing a gray tweed suit moved along the bar until he was across the hardwood from Ace, Chance, and the other two men. He was short and broad and the color and coarseness of his hair made it resemble rusty nails. “You know the rules, Dave. No fighting in here. My grandfather didn’t allow brawling and neither did my father. Neither do I.”
Dave glowered at Chance and accused, “This obnoxious little sprout started it, not me.”
“Obnoxious,” repeated Chance. “That’s a longer word than I thought you’d be able to handle.”
From the corner of his mouth, Ace told his brother, “Just be quiet, all right?”
Chance looked offended, but Ace ignored him.
“Sorry for causing trouble,” Ace went on to the man on the other side of the bar. Judging by the man’s attitude and the fact that the dockworker had called him Mike, Ace figured he was the owner of the place, Red Mike himself. “We just wanted to get a quick drink, and then we’ll be moving on.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Chance. “I might like it here. I don’t so far, not particularly, but I might.”
Mike nodded to the brothers and asked the two offended parties, “If these youngsters were to apologize, would that take care of the problem?”
“Hell, no,” replied the man who had spilled his drink when Chance jostled him.
Mike pointed a blunt thumb toward the batwings. “Then there’s the door. Get out.”
The man stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kickin’ me out? I wasn’t doin’ anything but standin’ here enjoyin’ a beer when this little piss-ant made me spill it all over myself!”
“Come back tomorrow and your first drink is on me,” Mike said. “That’s the best offer you’re going to get, Wilson.”
The man glared and muttered for a moment, then snapped, “All right, fine.” He thumped the empty mug on the bar with more force than necessary, then turned and walked out of the saloon, bulling past anybody who was in his way.
“Now, how about you, Dave?” Mike went on. “Will an apology do for you?”
“No,” the dockworker said coldly. “It won’t. But I don’t want those sharpshooters of yours blowin’ my brains out, so I’ll leave. I reckon that same free drink offer applies to me, too?”
“It does,” Mike allowed.
Dave nodded curtly. “You shouldn’t take the side of strangers over your faithful customers, Mike. It’s these two as should be leavin’.”
“You’re probably right. Make it two free drinks.”
That seemed to mollify Dave somewhat. He frowned at Ace and Chance one more time and said, “Don’t let me catch you on the street, boys. You’d be wise to get outta town while you got the chance.” With that, he stomped out of the saloon.
The two guards on the platforms sat down again. The noise level in the place swelled back up.
Mike looked at Ace and Chance and asked harshly, “Do you two cause so much trouble everywhere you go or did one of my competitors pay you to come in here and start a ruckus?”
“We’re sorry, mister,” Ace said. “Things just sort of got out of hand.”
Chance looked slightly repentant as he added, “Sometimes my mouth gets away from me.”
Mike grunted. “See that it doesn’t again, at least not in here.” He shook his head. “I don’t care what you do elsewhere or what happens to you, either. You said you wanted a drink?”
“A couple beers would be good,” Ace said.
Mike signaled to one of his aproned bartenders. “Don’t expect ’em to be on the house, though. Not after the way you acted. In fact, I ought to charge you double . . . but I won’t.”
Ace dug out a coin and slid it across the hardwood. Mike scooped it up with a hand that had more of the rusty hair sprouting from the back of it.
The bartender set the beers in front of them.
Since Mike didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on, Ace started a conversation after picking up a mug and taking a sip from it. “You mentioned your father and grandfather. Did they own this saloon before you?”
“What’s it to you, kid?” asked Mike as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Nothing, really,” Ace replied honestly. “I’m just interested in history, that’s all.”
A short, humorless bark of laughter came from the saloonkeeper. “Red Mike’s has got some history, all right. The original tavern, back in the days when all the fur trappers and traders came through St. Louis on their way to the Rockies, was over by the docks, almost right on the river. A hell of a place it was, too. Men were men back in those days, especially those fur trappers. Always ready to fight or drink or bed a wench. My grandpap ruled the place with an iron fist. He had to.”
“His name was Mike, too?”
“The name’s passed down to me from him,” the saloonkeeper confirmed. “My pa, whose name was Mike as well, moved the tavern a couple blocks in this direction. When I took over, I figured it was time to make a regular saloon out of the place and moved it again. I kept the name, though.” He laughed again, but he sounded more genuinely amused this time.
“A while back, one of those old mountain men wandered in. Claimed he knew my grandpap and used to drink in his tavern, more than forty years ago. I figured he was probably crazy, but there was just enough of a chance he was telling the truth that I bought him a drink for old time’s sake. Can’t remember what he said his name was. Deacon or something like that.”
Chance inclined his head toward the guards on the platforms. “Would they have really started shooting if somebody threw a punch?”
“Damn right they would have,” snapped Mike, losing his slightly more jovial attitude. “Both of those boys can hit a gnat at a hundred yards.”
Ace wasn’t convinced that the saloon owner would resort to execution to break up a fight, especially with so many innocent bystanders around . . . but as long as people believed it was possible, they would be a lot more likely to behave.
“Now drink up,” Mike went on, “and then get out.”
“You’re giving us the boot, too?” asked Chance, sounding surprised.
“That’s right. I don’t want you hotheads starting anything else.”
Ace was equally determined that wouldn’t happen, so he didn’t argue with the saloonkeeper’s edict. He wanted to leave and find a place to stay for the night. He had already seen enough of St. Louis to satisfy any curiosity he had about the city. He drained the rest of his beer and told Mike, “Again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Let’s just go,” Chance muttered after swallowing the last of his beer.
They headed for the entrance, moving past several tables full of drinkers and a couple poker games. Chance pushed through the batwings first with Ace right behind him. They went to the hitch rail, untied their horses, and started along the street leading the animals.
Ace was looking around for a hotel that might be a place they could afford to stay when hands suddenly grabbed him and jerked him away from his horse, flinging him along a narrow alley between two buildings. The hour was late in the afternoon and shadows already gathered in the alley, but as Ace stumbled and then caught his balance, he could see well enough to make out several figures blocking his way back to the street.
A couple of the men had grabbed Chance, too, and dragged him into the narrow alley space. They gave him a hard shove that made him go to one knee. He cursed bitterly as Ace took hold of his arm and helped him up.
“Look what I landed in!” Chance exclaimed.
Ace was less worried about that than he was about the fact that they were surrounded. He recognized not only the burly dockworker called Dave but also the man who had spilled his drink when Chance bumped into him.
“So the two of you are friends,” Ace said.
Dave shook his head and grinned. “Naw, I don’t even know this fella. But we both have friends of our own, and we both know you two need a good
stompin’. So that’s what we’re gonna give you.”
With fists flying, the ring of attackers closed in around the Jensen boys.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3818-3
First electronic edition: June 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3820-6
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3820-9
Day of Rage Page 24
