Fraker came to his feet, but he couldn’t get there in time to stop her from rubbing a hand up and down Kipp’s arm and saying, “Hello, big fella. How’d you like a little eye-opener this morning, if you know what I mean?”
Kipp’s lumbering reaction reminded Fraker even more of a bear. The man’s shaggy head swung slowly toward Lorrie.
“Get away from me,” he said, adding a vile name that made Lorrie flinch even though surely she had heard it before.
“You got no call to talk to me like that,” she said, her voice going up shrilly.
Fraker was only a few feet away now. He held out a hand and said, “Oscar, why don’t we—”
Kipp didn’t let Fraker finish. Instead his arm came up, and even though he was sick and dizzy, he moved with surprising speed. The back of his hand smashed across Lorrie’s face. She didn’t even have time to cry out in shock and pain before she sailed backward and fell across one of the empty tables.
The saloon was busier now than it had been earlier when Fraker and Macauley first came down from upstairs. Several men stood at the bar, and a couple of the tables were occupied besides the one where Fraker and Macauley had been sitting.
When Kipp hauled off and hit Lorrie, one of the men at the bar thumped his beer mug down and said, “Hey, you son of a bitch! You can’t treat a woman like that!”
Fraker reached for Kipp, saying, “Oscar, no!”
But Kipp lowered his head and charged toward the man at the bar, barreling past Fraker like a runaway bull. Fraker stood just about as much chance of stopping him as he would have of stopping a bull, too.
The man got his fists up and swung a punch at Kipp’s head, but the blow missed and Kipp plowed into him, driving him against the bar. The man yelled in pain.
One of the other men at the bar grabbed a bottle and swung it at the back of Kipp’s head. The big man hunched his shoulders and took the blow on them. The bottle shattered, spraying him with whiskey, but didn’t do any real damage.
Kipp lashed out. His arm struck the man who had just broken the bottle on his shoulders and drove the man off his feet.
Continuing the move, Kipp turned and grabbed the shirtfront of another man. With a bellow of rage, Kipp lifted the man and slung him all the way over the bar. The man’s legs hit bottles lined up along the back bar and broke them with a crash of glass.
Fred Smoot wheeled himself toward the melee and shouted, “Stop it, you idiots, stop it!” He cast a desperate look at Fraker and Macauley. “Do something!”
Fraker knew it was too late for that. If Smoot thought he and Macauley could control Kipp when the big man went on a tear like this, the saloon owner was sadly mistaken.
The only thing they might be able to do was get close enough to Kipp to bend a gun barrel over his head and knock him out, and even that was doubtful.
Considering their plans, though, drawing attention to themselves wasn’t a good idea, so Fraker slipped his gun from its holster and moved in. He had to draw back when Kipp grabbed one of the other men and used the yelling hombre like a battering ram to clear a space around him.
The bartender came up behind Kipp on the other side of the hardwood and tried to use a bungstarter on him. Some instinct must have warned Kipp, because he twisted around and flung up an arm to block the blow.
His other fist shot out and crashed into the bartender’s face. As the blow drove the bartender backward, he let go of the bungstarter. It dropped to the bar with a thud.
“Stop it!” Fred Smoot screeched from the sidelines of the brawl as he clenched his fists and beat them against his useless legs. “You bastard!”
At that moment, Fraker didn’t know if Smoot was talking to Kipp…or cursing himself for not being able to get up and stop the fight.
There was no time to think about that. Kipp grabbed the bungstarter from the bar. He flailed around him with it, and the men who’d been trying to throw punches at him had no choice but to dive out of the way.
With that much force behind it, the bungstarter could crush a skull like an eggshell if it landed against somebody’s head.
Even in Kipp’s addled, hungover state, he had something specific in mind, though. He fixed his fierce gaze on Smoot and shouted, “You cripple! I hate a damn cripple!”
Fraker’s jaw clenched. He had made the same comment a few days earlier, and Kipp must have remembered it. The state he was in, though, he had recalled it incorrectly and thought he was the one who had expressed that sentiment.
He was in the mood to take action on it, too. He lifted the bungstarter over his head and charged at Smoot, who paled in sudden fear and grabbed the wheels on the sides of his chair to try to push himself out of the way.
He didn’t have a chance. Kipp swung the bungstarter but missed, hitting the back of the chair instead. His momentum made him crash into Smoot anyway. The chair went over with a splintering of wood, and Smoot spilled out onto the sawdust-littered floor.
“Should we shoot him?” Macauley asked Fraker in a tense voice.
Fraker had considered that idea, too. As loco as Kipp was now, plugging him might be the only way to stop him.
Kipp was still important to his plans, though, and any time you took a shot at a man, you risked killing him, even if you were just shooting to wound and subdue him. All it took was a bullet nicking a vein, and a fella could bleed to death in a hurry.
Kipp scrambled after Smoot on hands and knees, still holding the bungstarter. Smoot tried to pull himself along with his hands as his legs trailed limply behind him, but he had no chance to get away.
Kipp loomed over him, the bungstarter raised high. When it fell, it would shatter the saloon owner’s head and splatter his brains all over the floor.
Chapter 23
Bill had just swung down from the saddle and looped the reins over the hitch rail in front of the marshal’s office when he heard someone shout, “Marshal! Marshal Harvey!”
That sounded like trouble. He turned quickly, his hand going to the Colt on his hip.
A man was running across the street toward him. Bill recognized the man and knew he lived here in Redemption, but he couldn’t recall the fella’s name.
“What is it?” he asked as the townie came up to him, panting and out of breath.
“Big fight…down at Smoot’s,” the man said. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, looking a little green around the gills as he did so. “Fella’s actin’ like…he’s gonna kill somebody.”
“Who is it?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know. One of the strangers in town.”
That didn’t narrow it down much, Bill thought. In addition to the full-time citizens of Redemption, currently the town was populated by the teamsters and bullwhackers from Gus Meade’s train of freight wagons, Colonel Bledsoe’s buffalo hunters, and the usual assortment of folks who drifted in and out of town all the time…gamblers, wandering cowboys, immigrants, and the like.
Of course, it didn’t really matter. Whoever was causing trouble, it was Bill’s job to stop it.
“Thanks,” he told the man who’d reported the fight. “I’ll go on down there. Can you see if Deputy Flint is in the office, and if he is, send him to Smoot’s, too?”
He didn’t think he’d have any trouble subduing one troublemaker, but you never could tell.
The man nodded and said, “Sure, Marshal, but you’d better hurry. That big varmint is hell on wheels.”
That didn’t sound like anybody Bill knew. He started toward the saloon, moving as quickly as his bad leg would allow.
He heard yelling before he got there. Men were crowded around the entrance, peering over the batwings as they tried to see what was going on.
Bill called in a commanding voice, “Step aside, there! Step aside!”
The knot of men around the door parted. Bill put his hand on the butt of his gun but didn’t draw the weapon yet. He didn’t want to shoot anybody unless he had to. He had seen some trigger-happy lawmen down in Texas, and
he didn’t ever want anybody accusing him of that.
Bill shouldered through the batwings and stepped into the saloon. The first thing he saw was a big man on one knee next to Fred Smoot, who had fallen or gotten knocked out of his chair somehow and was sprawled on the floor.
The big man had a bungstarter in his hand, and clearly he was about to brain Smoot with it. Bill slid his Colt out of its holster as he yelled, “Hey!”
The bungstarter didn’t fall. The man’s head jerked around toward Bill. Rage contorted his features as he stood up, let out an incoherent yell, and charged, waving the bungstarter.
Bill’s eyes widened. Clearly, this hombre was loco and intended to kill him. A man had to be crazy to charge right into the barrel of a gun.
Bill dropped his aim and pulled the trigger.
The Colt roared and bucked in his hand. The slug tore through the big man’s right thigh and knocked that leg out from under him. Bellowing like an angry bull, the man tumbled off his feet. The bungstarter flew out of his hand and clattered across the floor.
The wounded man clutched his leg and rolled back and forth. Blood welled between his fingers.
But somehow he pushed himself to his feet. From the look on his face, he intended to tear Bill apart with his bare hands, even if he had to drag his bloody leg behind him to get there.
Bill wondered if he was going to have to kill the man to make him stay down.
Before things got to that point, another man stepped up behind the stranger and chopped down with the butt of the gun he had reversed in his hand. The blow landed with a solid thud on the back of the big man’s head.
The big man dropped to his knees and toppled forward like a falling tree. He didn’t even put out his hands to catch himself. His face hit the floor. He didn’t move.
The man who had hit him from behind slipped his revolver back in its holster and said, “Thanks for not killin’ him, Marshal.”
Bill’s heart was still pounding hard in his chest, but he managed to keep his voice calm and steady as he asked, “Friend of yours, mister?” He recognized the men from outside the saloon a few days earlier.
“That’s right.”
“What in blazes is wrong with him? Is he touched in the head?”
The man laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “No, just hungover. He gets like this sometimes, when he’s had too much to drink.”
Bill took a fresh cartridge from one of the loops on his shell belt and replaced the round he had fired. Doing that routine chore gave him the chance to get his pulse and breathing under control even more.
“If he’s your friend, maybe you should try to see that he doesn’t drink that much.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” the man said with a shrug, “but it’s not always easy to do.”
Bill supposed that was true. Grown men had a habit of doing what they wanted to.
“Is there a doctor in this town?” the man asked. “That bullet hole in his leg needs to be patched up before he bleeds to death.”
“No doctor.” Bill remembered how Eden had taken care of him when he was gored by that steer, and later when he was shot. “My wife’s pretty good at taking care of wounded men, though.” He looked around and his gaze stopped on one of the townies. “Run across to the mercantile and fetch Mrs. Harvey if she’s there, would you, Jimmy?”
“Sure, Marshal.” The townsman hurried out of the saloon.
Bill went over to Fred Smoot, who still looked dazed despite having pushed himself up into a sitting position.
“Somebody set up that wheelchair and give me a hand with Fred,” Bill ordered.
“Won’t do any good, Marshal,” a man said. “The chair’s busted.”
Bill looked closer and saw that one of the wheels had broken off.
“Go get Josiah Hartnett. Maybe he can fix it.” Bill hunkered on his heels next to Smoot. “Are you hurt, Fred?”
Smoot passed a shaking hand over his face. “No…no, I reckon not. Just shaken up. That monster was going to kill me, and I don’t even know why! I didn’t do anything to set him off. Nobody did, except—” The saloonkeeper looked around. “Where’s Lorrie? Is she all right?”
One of the soiled doves who worked for Smoot came over. She had a bruise starting to come out on her face, but other than that she didn’t seem to be injured.
“I’ll be fine, Fred,” she told him. “It’s sweet of you to worry about me, though. Maybe some of the boys should carry you up to my room and put you to bed.”
Smoot shook his head. “No, I’m all right. If somebody will just help me into a chair…”
The bartender and a couple of the saloon’s patrons did that while Bill checked on the other men who had been injured in the brawl. Some of them were still groggy, and there were plenty of bumps, bruises, and scrapes, but no one was hurt seriously.
Eden hurried into the saloon, followed by the man who had gone to fetch her. Relief lit up her eyes when she saw that Bill was on his feet and apparently unhurt.
“Thanks for coming, Eden,” he told her. He motioned toward the unconscious man. “You think you can wrap up that leg and stop the bleeding?”
“I can certainly try,” she said. “Some of you men shove a couple of tables together and lift him onto them so I can work on him.”
Bill smiled at the way she took charge. While she was taking care of that, he went over to the man who had knocked out the loco varmint and said, “I’m much obliged to you for your help.”
The man shrugged. “I understand why you had to shoot Oscar, Marshal, but I didn’t want you to kill him.”
“That’s his name? Oscar?”
“Oscar Kipp. I’m Jake Fraker.” He inclined his head toward a dapper man who had come up beside him. “This is Luther Macauley.”
“The three of you are partners?”
“That’s right. We’ve been riding together for a while.”
“You know your friend’s gonna have to go to jail once he’s patched up?” Bill said.
Fraker nodded. “I figured as much. There’ll be damages to pay, and probably a fine.”
“Judge Dunaway will have to sort out all of that.”
“Whatever it comes to, we’ll pay it.”
“Fair enough.” Bill looked over at the tables where Eden had cut away Oscar Kipp’s trouser leg to reveal the bullet holes in his leg. It appeared that the slug had gone clean through.
“His leg doesn’t seem to be broken,” Eden said as if reading Bill’s mind. “So the bullet missed the bone. He should be all right once it heals up, as long as I can get this bleeding stopped. I need some clean rags for bandages.”
The bartender handed her several rags. She stuffed one in each bullet hole, then used Kipp’s own belt to tie them in place. Red stains spread on the rags, then slowed and stopped.
“You can get him over to the jail now,” Eden told Bill.
“He’s your friend,” Bill said to Fraker and Macauley. “How about lending a hand?”
Macauley didn’t look very happy about that, but Fraker said, “Sure, Marshal.”
A couple of other men pitched in, too. Together they carried the still-unconscious Oscar Kipp toward the jail. Bill and Eden trailed behind.
On the way they met Mordecai Flint. “I just heard about what was goin’ on,” the deputy said. “You all right, Marshal?”
“Fine,” Bill said with a nod. “We’re gonna lock this fella up. He raised a ruckus in the saloon, tried to kill Fred Smoot, and came at me with a bungstarter like he had the same thing in mind.”
“He’s lucky you didn’t blow a hole through his innards, instead of just wingin’ him.”
Bill nodded. “I thought about it. A saloon brawl didn’t seem worth killin’ a man over, though.”
Once the men had Kipp on the bunk in one of the cells, Eden sent a man over to the mercantile for some actual bandages. She asked Bill to go back to the saloon to get a bottle of whiskey so she could use it to clean the wounds, but Flint cleared his th
roat, opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a bottle.
“Figured this might come in handy for, uh, medicinal purposes,” the old-timer said. “And it looks like I was right.”
Bill tried not to grin as he took the bottle and carried it into the cell to hand to Eden.
Kipp began to come around as Eden used the fiery liquor to swab blood away from the bullet holes. Bill stood nearby with his hand on his gun.
“Take it easy, mister,” he warned as Kipp’s eyelids fluttered open. “You’re in jail, you’re under arrest, and you’re not goin’ anywhere. Now let the lady take care of that wounded leg for you.”
Fraker and Macauley were standing outside the cell, along with Flint. Fraker said, “Oscar, it’s me, Jake. Do you hear me?”
“Jake…?” Kipp muttered.
“That’s right. You went on a rampage in the saloon because you were hungover. You remember that? That’s all that happened, so you just lay there and let the lady tend to you. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”
Something about the urgency in Fraker’s voice struck Bill as a little odd. It was like the man was really trying to get through to Kipp and make him understand the situation.
But Bill supposed that was because Fraker didn’t want Kipp trying to fight again. That made sense.
“Jail,” Kipp said as his head dropped back on the bunk.
“Don’t worry,” Fraker said from the other side of the bars. “Luther and I will see to it that you’re all right. We’ve got enough money to cover the damages and pay for the fine. You’ll be outta there before you know it.”
“The judge will determine that,” Bill said.
“Yeah, but surely he won’t lock our pard up for too long over a simple bar fight. A night or two to cool off, maybe.”
“We’ll see,” Bill said, a curt edge in his voice now. He wasn’t going to make any promises.
He could see Fraker’s point, though. As things turned out, Kipp had been hurt worse than anybody else. And besides, everybody in Redemption had more to worry about right now than some saloon brawl. The threat of the Pawnee war party still loomed.
The man got back from the mercantile with a roll of bandages. After a few more minutes of work, Eden had the bullet holes cleaned and bandaged.
Hunters Page 17
