“I reckon he’s right, Jim,” Harvey snarled. “I ain’t never seen a man win so much in one night.”
“Yeah!” Billy said, weaving on his feet. “He was cheatin’. And you know what we do to cheaters.” He sloppily pulled out a Remington derringer.
Drew ran his thumb over the hammer of the Colt, cocking it silently. In the condition young Billy was in, he probably couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. But Drew didn’t like to take chances.
“Whoa, little brother!” Harvey warned, scraping his chair back as he stood. “You don’t want to be doin’ that.”
Shit, were they all related? If Drew had known that, he wouldn’t have let the game go on so long. It was one thing to take a man’s money. It was another to impoverish a whole family.
“Easy, Billy,” Jim told his little brother. “Put the gun away. Let’s settle this fair and square.”
With a touch as light as a feather, Drew caressed the trigger with his fingertip. He wanted to be ready, but he didn’t want to jump the gun. Usually these things worked themselves out with no shots being fired.
“Look, boys,” Drew said calmly, “I don’t want to make trouble. I swear I wasn’t cheatin’. Sometimes it’s just the luck o’ the draw. How about I buy us a round o’ drinks and we call it a night?”
Drew saw Jim’s gaze narrow in suspicion. No doubt he’d noticed that only one of Drew’s hands was on top of the table. And he could probably guess where the other hand was.
“Billy,” Jim said, rubbing at his beard, “put the gun down. He’s right. We can settle this peaceful-like.”
Billy chewed on that for a little while. Finally, with a curse of disappointment, he reluctantly shoved his Remington back into his holster. It took him three tries.
Drew eased the hammer on the Colt quietly back into place, holstered his weapon, and waved the saloon girl over. Walking out of town without a bullet hole in his gut was well worth the price of four whiskeys.
Jim leaned over to whisper something to Harvey. Harvey nodded, plucked his hat off the rail of his chair, and smashed it down over his thinning hair.
Drew eyed him with suspicion. “You goin’ somewhere? The whiskey’s comin’.” He nodded at the saloon girl and held up four fingers.
Harvey got up. “I’ll be right back.” He pushed his chair in and headed out the door.
Drew smelled trouble. Maybe it was time to bid them goodnight.
“Aw, hell,” he said after Harvey was gone. “I clean forgot. I got a pretty little lady waitin’ for me. What time is—”
He reached for his pocket watch. Before he could draw it halfway out, Jim scraped his chair back in a panic and shot to his feet. The movement startled Billy, who tipped over backwards in his chair. Drew had his Colt whipped out and cocked before Billy’s head hit the floorboards with a sickening thud. Meanwhile, Jim was struggling to untangle his own six-shooter from its holster.
Drew still hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot somebody. Billy was out cold. And it looked like Jim had the shooting skills of a four-year-old.
Unfortunately, the bartender spotted the flash of Drew’s Colt and decided to intervene. From the corner of his eye, Drew saw the barrel of a rifle swing up over the bar.
Drew ducked, which turned out to be unnecessary. The bartender’s shot was a warning blast only, fired at the plaster ceiling.
The crack of the rifle got everyone’s attention. Jim responded reflexively, unfortunately before his gun was clear of the holster. He shot a chunk out of his big toe.
Still, Drew didn’t fire. He might be a fast gun. But he never wasted ammunition.
For everyone else in the bar, however, two shots were a call to battle. Those who had guns pulled them out. Those who didn’t armed themselves with broken bottles.
Before all-out war could break out, the front door of the saloon crashed open. A sour-faced giant of a man barged his way in.
At his heels was Harvey. “See, Pa? I knew he was trouble.”
Pa? Drew scowled. Was all of Shasta just one big, happy family?
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Pa boomed.
Then Drew noticed the star on the big brute’s vest.
“You old fools!” the big man barked. “Put away your guns.” He shook his head. “Pete?”
The bartender answered. “Just another poker game gone bad, sheriff.”
“Is that so?” He scoured the room. When he saw Billy passed out on the floor and Jim limping around with a bloody foot and wrenching at his stuck pistol, a curious look came into his eyes.
Disappointment.
Drew realized a powerful man like that was probably ashamed to have such inept, sniveling cowards for sons.
Jim’s face was white, and he grimaced in pain. But his beard quivered with rage over his misfire. “He was cheatin’, Pa, just as bold as brass.”
Harvey chimed in. “It’s like I said, Pa. That no-good half-breed has been takin’ our money all night.”
The sheriff snorted, then peered down at Billy. “He all right?”
Jim was more concerned with his own bloody foot. “Aw, hell, he just passed out. He’ll be fine.”
Then he gave Drew the once-over. “What’s a half-breed doin’ in my town?”
“Just passin’ through,” Drew said.
“Like a bank robber’s just passin’ through?”
“Naw, not me,” Drew said in his best aw-shucks voice. “I’m just visitin’ from Hupa, over yonder.”
“I don’t care if you’re Shasta born and bred,” the sheriff said, pointing a sausage-sized finger at him. “We don’t allow cheaters in this town.”
“That’s right,” Harvey echoed.
“Oh, I wasn’t cheatin’, sir.”
The sheriff closed his eyes to slits. “I got three men that…” He glanced down again at his son, unconscious on the floor. “Two men that say you were.”
Emboldened by his father’s bravado, Harvey chimed in, “I’ll swear to it before the judge.”
The sheriff looked again at his offspring. His mouth curled down. He’d probably just as soon sweep this whole incident under the rug. His sons weren’t half the man that he was, and he probably didn’t want anyone else knowing it.
With a sigh, he said, “Oh, I don’t think we need to go to court.”
Drew was happy to hear that. He wouldn’t stand a chance in court. It would be his word against the sheriff’s. No half-breed in his right mind would take those odds.
Then the man added, “We can just take care of this little problem ourselves.”
Even that was fine with Drew. To be honest, in a situation like this, he didn’t mind folding. He’d consider himself lucky to give back his winnings to the sheriff’s boys and call things fair and square. He wasn’t above cutting his losses and moving on. And he sure as hell wasn’t looking for a fight.
“You gonna hang him, Pa?” Harvey asked with far too much enthusiasm.
Jim’s eyes lit up at getting payback for the humiliation of having almost shot himself in the foot. “That’ll teach the thievin’ son of a bitch.”
To Drew’s alarm, the sheriff didn’t rush in with dissent. And Drew quickly read in the man’s eyes that he wasn’t interested in a diplomatic solution. His sons’ honor had been compromised. He’d like to pretend it hadn’t happened. But barring that, he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
Hanging him is exactly what he planned.
Drew was tempted to draw his gun and shoot his way out of this predicament. But he never wasted bullets when he could use his fists. And he never used his fists when he could use his wits.
Before the sheriff could say the words to condemn him, Drew grabbed the edge of the table. He wrenched it up and tipped it over forward, forcing the lawman to dodge back. Cards and money scattered. Silver coins rolled across the floor. Some of the opportunistic denizens of the saloon dove forward, eager to claim their share of the loot. Others battled them for it.
In the chaos, Drew droppe
d to the ground, snatched his hat from its perch on his chair, and jammed it down over his head. Then, using the rolling round table as a shield, he scrambled toward the door.
“He’s gettin’ away, Pa!” Harvey cried.
Drew plowed forward with the table, bowling over the sheriff before he could reach for his gun.
“Shoot him! Shoot him!” screamed Harvey, blocking his way.
Having had about enough of Harvey, Drew grabbed his duster from the coat rack by the door and then used the rack to sweep the man’s feet out from under him. Harvey went down with a satisfying squeak and a crash. And Drew made his escape.
Once outside, he donned his duster and headed directly for the closest competing saloon. Nobody would think to look for him there. They would guess he’d hightail it out of town. But like Xontehl-taw, Trickster Coyote, Drew had always found stealth and brains more useful than speed and brawn.
Sure enough, as Drew slipped into the Shasta Saloon, an angry mob burst out of the Winsome, with the sheriff at the fore. Drew quickly headed for the back of the establishment, where a piano player was making a big ruckus. Taking up residence in the corner beside the piano, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and slouched against the wall, as if he’d been standing there for hours.
In twenty minutes or so, he’d slip out of Shasta in the dark, going by way of the deer trails that wove through the mountains. If his luck held, he wouldn’t get killed by a mountain lion on the way.
Sheriff Jasper Brown wheezed as he stared off into the dark of the woods with his revolver drawn.
“Shit.”
The half-breed was long gone.
Scrambling up behind the sheriff were his two good-for-nothing sons.
“Did you get him, Pa?” Harvey hissed.
Jasper grimaced, thinking for the hundredth time that if only he hadn’t joined up to fight in that damned War Between the States, maybe he’d have some real sons instead of the lily-livered brats his shrinking violet of a wife had raised.
“Did you, Pa?” Jim asked.
“Too dark,” Jasper gasped out. “Liable to get killed, shootin’ in the dark.”
“Aww, dang it,” Harvey whined like a petulant child.
Jasper would have liked to wallop him with the butt of his pistol right about then. But he’d promised Priscilla that he’d take care of the boys after she passed. He’d kept that promise for the last six years, even though they weren’t boys anymore and ought to know how to fend for themselves. At least they ought to know not to fraternize with Injuns.
Jim slapped his hand on his holster, as if he actually knew how to use the pistol in it. “We can start out bright and early tomorrow.”
Jasper bit back his real opinion about that—that he’d rather take his chances in a pit full of rattlesnakes than hunt outlaws with his trigger-happy, foot-shooting son.
“Sure,” he grunted.
Harvey hitched up his trousers with a sniff. “Leastwise we got our money back.”
“It ain’t about the damn money,” Jasper snarled. “It’s about honor.”
“Yeah, Harvey,” Jim chimed in, giving his brother a shove. “Don’t you know nothin’?”
Harvey shoved Jim back.
Jasper jammed his gun into its holster and grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks. He resisted the urge to knock their heads together.
He supposed he’d have to spell it out for them. “I won’t have it bandied about that the Brown boys were beat at poker by a damn Injun. Do you know what that would do to my reputation?”
The boys gave him a blank look.
Harvey licked his lips. “Actually, Pa, he was a half-breed.”
Jasper growled, gave them a good shake, and let them go, walking off in disgust. “It don’t matter. I’ll hunt him down tomorrow and put an end to it.”
What the boys were too stupid to understand was that the natives around here tended to get uppity. And if they started getting it into their heads that they might get the upper hand against lawmen, who knew what would happen? Just a few years back, not that far from here, the Modocs had made a stand against the U.S. Army and nearly won.
There would be no Injun war in Shasta, not on his watch. And the only way to prevent that was to subdue insurrection—before it happened.
If there was one thing he’d learned fighting in the War Between the States, it was that white men didn’t dare give an inch or they’d lose a mile.
Hell, they’d lost a mile already, surrendering to the Negro-loving North. Freed slaves were running loose all over his good country.
If Jasper had anything to say about it, they’d go back to the way things were when he was his boys’ age. Back then, there was a bounty of five dollars on every Injun scalp a white man collected.
His sons were savvy enough not to chatter at him on the return walk to the Winsome Saloon. Now all he had to do was collect his youngest boy, take him home, and sober him up.
When he swung open the saloon door, it was still a busted-up mess. But all the drunks were gathered around his boy. And the town doctor was crouched beside him.
Jasper’s jaw tensed, and the coppery taste of fear hit his tongue. He barged forward, hauling men out of his way.
“What’s goin’ on?” he growled at the doctor. “What’s happened to my boy?”
The doctor looked up at him with fearful eyes and slowly shook his head.
For the space of a heartbeat, Jasper was stunned. Then he decided the doctor didn’t know shit. He shoved the man aside and crouched by Billy himself.
“Come on, Billy,” he demanded, grabbing him by his suspenders and giving him a good shake. “Wake up!”
Billy’s head lolled backward. He felt as limp as a stillborn calf.
“Wake up, damn you!”
He gave Billy another shake. But already he was starting to realize this was no drunken stupor. His son was gone.
There was deadly silence in the saloon.
Jasper’s heart began burning like a smoldering coal. He’d broken his promise to Priscilla. He’d lost one of her boys. He’d lost her little Billy.
He clenched his teeth together hard enough to crack them. He didn’t dare surrender to the strangling ache in his throat. If people glimpsed a weak spot in him, he’d never hold sway over the town again.
So instead of a sob of grief, he snarled, “Who did it? Who did this to my boy?”
The bartender, frowning in concern from behind the bar, said, “Word is he just fell backwards and cracked his skull.”
Jasper gave him a cold stare. That wasn’t how it had happened. No boy of his was going to die from some drunken accident. Someone had to pay.
Beside him, Jim was rubbing his beard in agitation.
Harvey offered, “I saw what happened. It was Jim’s fault. He stood up all sudden-like and Billy just—”
“You’re full o’ shit! It was that half-breed!” Jim yelled. “He’s the one that did it! They was arguin’ over that poker hand, and…and…he drew his gun!” He shoved at Harvey. “Remember? Remember he drew his gun?”
“Maybe,” Harvey agreed.
Jasper nodded. That was good enough for him. Before anyone in the saloon could naysay him, he stood up with his hands raised.
“If the half-breed did this, then it’s my duty to bring him in for justice. Me and my boys are gonna go after him in the mornin’.” He didn’t relish taking his sons along, but if they were underfoot, at least he’d be able to keep them from getting killed like Billy.
“I’m deputizin’ you, Nate,” he said to the bartender.
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Nate replied, untying his apron.
Then Jasper nodded to the doctor. “You put my Billy in a good pine box, Doc. I ain’t comin’ back till I get the son of a bitch who did this.”
Then he left the saloon and headed home in the dark, where no one could see the wet in his eyes or the vengeance in his heart.
Chapter 4
Twenty-seven dollars.
That was how much Catalina had made since she’d begun working at The Parlor.
On her hands and knees in the secondhand blue calico frock and apron she’d altered to fit, she scrubbed at a stain on the polished wood floor. In one corner, a fiddler sawed out merry songs. At the nearby tables, men played poker, cursing when they lost a bet, crowing when they won.
She’d learned to ignore the sight of half-naked women on the balcony and the catcalls and bad language from the men downstairs. She’d even learned to sleep with a pillow over her ears so she wouldn’t hear the sounds of fornication coming from the rooms next to hers.
And she’d prayed every night to receive absolution for frequenting a bordello, reminding god that if he saw fit to gift her with a windfall of money, she would immediately give Miss Hattie her notice.
So far, he had not.
Catalina had fully intended to hold herself aloof from the fallen women who worked at The Parlor. To be a well-respected dressmaker, she couldn’t afford to be associated with what some referred to as soiled doves.
But she’d been unable to resist the friendly overtures from two of the nicer ladies, who considered themselves Catalina’s guardians.
Emily, whose grin could light up a room, had given her the dress. Anne, who always had a mischievous twinkle in her eye, made sure Catalina knew all the latest gossip.
In the end, she was grateful for their friendship. Some of the other ladies were not so welcoming. They saw Catalina as a threat and were openly hostile.
Sitting back on her heels, Catalina mopped her brow with the back of her forearm.
How the ladies could be worried about her stealing their “regulars,” she couldn’t imagine. Catalina had no interest in pursuing their line of work.
She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and resumed scrubbing the floor.
She still had moments when she doubted her decision to leave Italy and struggled with homesickness.
She missed her friends.
She missed her family.
She missed the way the sunlight fell across the Ferrara vineyards.
She missed the music of her language, the cold, velvety sweetness of gelato, the sight of starlings forming beautiful shapes against the azure sky.
Native Hawk (California Legends Book 3) Page 3
