Scar looked at some Colts. He looked at some Remingtons. Some Merwin & Hulberts. Some Bacons. None suited him as much as the Smith & Wessons. He chose a matched pair of the newest, bought boxes of ammunition, and went out and made camp in the prairie. There, he practiced until he could draw both revolvers remarkably quick and hit what he shot at ten times out of ten.
From Dodge, Scar drifted. Because he liked to frequent saloons, and he had a temper, and because there were a lot of drunks who tested that temper, he shot four more men inside of a year. He acquired a reputation. People whispered about him behind his back.
No one called him Scar back then. He was known as Kid Wratner. That changed on a fateful night in Caldwell. He’d sat in on a card game. It was a gambler’s turn to deal, and he saw the gambler deal a card from the bottom of the deck. Right away he accused the man of cheating. That was his first mistake. He should have stood and taken a few steps back and then accused him. When the gambler angrily protested he’d done no such thing, Scar made his second mistake. He bent toward the man to accent a point by jabbing a finger at him.
The gambler exploded out of his chair, whipping a knife out of his sleeve as he rose. Not just any knife, either, but a bowie with an eight-inch blade. The gambler slashed at Scar’s face and opened it like a melon.
Scar would never forget the sharp sting and awful pain and the spray of blood. He’d flung himself back and his chair had crashed to the floor. The gambler turned to flee, but Scar, heedless of his terrible wound, had risen with a pistol in each hand and put two slugs into the man before he’d taken two steps. The gambler screamed and tried to crawl and Scar walked up to him, shooting as he went, sending six more slugs into the twitching body, one after the other in a slow beat of thunder and hate.
A sawbones had done the best he could stitching Scar’s wound, but it was too big to ever heal right.
At first Scar hated it. Every time he looked in a mirror he wanted to smash the mirror. Then folks took to calling him Scar instead of Kid, and they were more afraid of him than ever. He liked that. He liked that a lot.
Scar had fallen in with Grat about two years ago. Grat was from Tulsa, and had shot a couple of men down Oklahoma way. One was the owner of a horse Grat stole, the other a townsman who refused to hand over his poke when Grat popped out of an alley late one night and demanded it. Grat was small-fry, and not all that likable. He griped about everything and wasn’t much shucks with a pistol except up close.
They’d met over a card game in Longmont, Colorado. Another player had recognized Scar. Someone asked if it was true he’d bucked out over a dozen men.
Scar had said it was. Another player had asked if Scar ever had a problem with peckerwoods who figured they could acquire a reputation of their own by gunning him. Scar had answered that now and then he did.
Until that moment Grat had been silent, but then he piped up with “What you need is a pard to watch your back.”
Scar had jokingly asked if Grat was volunteering, and Grat surprised him by saying he wouldn’t mind partnering up if that was what Scar wanted.
Scar couldn’t say what made him agree. For all he knew, Grat might want a rep of his own and put lead into his back when he least expected it. It took a couple of months for Scar to accept that Grat was in earnest, and from then on he counted on Grat to watch his back wherever they want.
Scar didn’t count on Tuck for anything. Tuck didn’t have a thimbleful of brains. He was slower on the draw than a snail. Left on his own, he was next to helpless. The only redeeming trait he had was that he worshipped Scar.
Ever since he was a sprout, Tuck had been fascinated by shootists. He could read, provided he went slow and mouthed the words, and his favorite reading material was those lurid dime novels about gunmen and outlaws. Never mind that they didn’t contain a lick of truth. Never mind that the stories were exaggerated potboilers only simpletons would believe. Tuck was a simpleton, and he believed them. He could ramble by the hour about the daring exploits of Wild Bill Hickok and Black Bart and a host of shooters of every stripe. But until Tuck met Scar, he’d never come across one in real life.
Scar, to Tuck, was one of his heroes made real.
They’d met in Cheyenne. Tuck came up to Scar’s table, hat in hand, and asked if Scar really was who a man at the bar claimed, “the great and wonderful Scar Wratner.” Grat had snickered, but Scar gave him a look, and then asked Tuck what made him so wonderful.
“Why, you’re about as famous a man-killer as there is,” Tuck had gushed. “It’s an honor for me to meet you.”
His fawning adoration was a new experience for Scar. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or rap him on the head with a pistol barrel, so he compromised and invited Tuck to sit at their table.
Grat had scowled, but even he warmed up after Tuck prattled for damn near an hour about every gunny under the sun, and then some. Scar had been amazed at how anyone so dumb could remember so much. On an impulse, when they rose to go, he asked if Tuck wanted to tag along, and you would have thought Scar had offered him his weight in gold from the way Tuck’s face lit up and he babbled about how, golly, he’d do anything in the world if he could ride with them. He’d cook Scar’s food and polish his boots and wash his clothes and look after his horse and whatever else Scar wanted him to do.
Scar thought for sure that after a few months the luster would wear off and Tuck would drift elsewhere, but no. If anything, Tuck became even more attached to him, especially after Scar bedded down a few sons of bitches who deserved the bedding.
Now here he was, with Grat and Tuck at his back, striding into the saloon he’d been given, as pleased as he could be. Over a week had gone by, and he’d taken to his new role with enthusiasm. So what if he had to give a percentage to Adams, and it was Deitch who handled the books and not him? The Tumbleweed was still his saloon.
On this particular night Scar was halfway to the bar when he sensed something was amiss, and he stopped. The place was too quiet. The regulars at the bar and at the tables had the subdued looks of men who were afraid trouble might break out. Scar glanced over at Deitch, who nodded toward a corner table.
A trio of newcomers were sharing a bottle between them. One look, and Scar recognized them for what they were: curly wolves on the prod. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belts, he ambled over and planted himself where he had a clear view of their hands and arms. “Howdy, gents.”
They were young and had been drinking awhile, which could account for their lack of sense. The wolf in the middle tilted his head and said, “What the hell do you want, ugly?”
“I run this place,” Scar informed him with undisguised pride.
“So?” the same one demanded.
“So I don’t want you snot-nosed kids causin’ trouble,” Scar replied. He probably could have chosen his words more carefully, but then, he’d never given a good damn about whether he offended people.
The wolf on the left bared his teeth. “You had no call to say that. We’re sittin’ here mindin’ our own business.”
“Think of it as nippin’ you in the bud,” Scar said. He could be witty when he wanted to.
The third tough was as prickly as his pards. “What does that even mean, you old goat?”
Scar lost a lot of his good mood. No one had ever called him “old” before. “It means you behave or I have you tossed out on your ears.”
“Why don’t you try tossin’ us yourself?” the first one said.
“I don’t toss,” Scar said. “I shoot.”
“Me, too,” the first one declared. “And if you’re not careful, I’ll put a slug into you like I did your ceilin’.”
Scar looked up. Sure enough, there was a bullet hole above their table. “Son of a bitch. When did you do that?”
“About ten minutes ago when we came in. I let out a howl and shot to let everyone know they’d best step easy.”
Scar felt a familiar urge come over him, that hot-water feeling he loved so much. “Any gent who will shoot another man’s ceilin’ doesn’t deserve to go on breathin’. Go for your guns, you jackasses.”
“You’d gun us over a hole?” the man on the right said.
“We should break the window while we’re at it,” the one on the left said.
The wolf in the middle pushed his chair back and stood. “Didn’t you hear this ugly bastard? He’s fixin’ to try and take us.”
“All three of us?” the man on the left said. He rose, too.
The third man stayed in his chair. “Hell, shoot him and let’s get back to our drinkin’.”
“I believe I will,” the wolf in the middle said, and went for his six-shooter. So did the man on the left.
Scar had his Smith & Wessons out and cocked before either could draw. He fired both simultaneously, going for their heads.
The third man saw his friends crash down and froze. “They didn’t stand a prayer!” he gulped, and thrust his arms out from his sides.
Scar trained the Smith & Wessons on him.
“Hold on!” the man cried. “I’m not goin’ to go for my gun.”
“You should,” Scar said, and shot him.
27
Beaumont Adams woke up but didn’t open his eyes. He felt Isolda’s cheek on his chest and her soft breath on his skin, and he lay savoring the miracle that had come into his life until the muffled hubbub of voices out in the street reminded him he couldn’t lie there all morning.
The drawn window shade had a glow around the edges. By the clock on the dresser, it was past ten. Early, by Beaumont’s standards, but he’d been in bed by eleven the night before. His usual bedtime was four a.m. or later.
Beaumont lightly placed his hand on Isolda’s head and ever so gently ran his fingers over her silken hair. “You beauty, you,” he whispered.
“About time you woke up,” Isolda said. Raising her head, she grinned and kissed him on the chin. “I’ve been lying here for over an hour listening to you breathe.”
“I suck in air and let it out, like everybody else,” Beaumont said. Shifting, he sat up with his back to the headboard and she rose with him, her forearm on his chest, her eyes lovely pools he’d love to lose himself in.
The bedroom was nicely furnished, with feminine touches in the form of lacy curtains and a doily and a pink bedspread.
“If my father were alive, you wouldn’t be breathing at all,” Isolda remarked.
“Don’t take this wrong,” Beaumont said, “but thank God he isn’t. We could never have moved in together.”
“I wonder if my sister has found out yet.”
Beaumont pulled her close and kissed her. “We were lucky this place was for rent.”
“A whole house, all to ourselves,” Isolda said dreamily. “How you found it on such short notice is beyond me.”
Beaumont held his tongue. It wasn’t a case of finding out the house was available so much as paying the owners a visit—with Dyson and Stimms in tow—and explaining how happy the owners would make him if they left for, say, Denver for five or six months and rented their home to him. At first the couple refused. The man couldn’t possibly be away from his job for that long. Beaumont explained how much healthier they’d stay if they agreed, and the pair promptly changed their minds.
“I’ll go fix breakfast and you come down in a bit,” Isolda offered.
“I have a better idea,” Beaumont said. “We get dressed and go down together.”
He liked being in her company. In fact, he’d gotten so used to it he didn’t like to be separated from her for any length of time. It was silly. He’d never felt this way about a woman. Most, he’d bedded and forgotten. Not Isolda. She’d gotten into his blood, into his very marrow, in a way he’d never have imagined a woman could.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Beaumont reminded himself that she didn’t miss a thing. “I still can’t get used to us being together.”
“You disappoint me, Beau,” Isolda chided. “You need to come to grips with this. We have a town to take over. I can’t have you playing catch-up all the time.”
“This is you we’re talking about, not the damn town,” Beaumont said peevishly.
Isolda smiled and touched his arm. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic. I forgot you’re from the South.”
“Southerners aren’t any more romantic than Yankees.”
“I beg to differ,” Isolda said. “I’m a Northern girl, remember? And Northern men, by and large, are cold fish when it comes to their women. I can’t recall a single instance when my father bought my mother flowers or a gift out of the fondness of his heart. He wasn’t romantic whatsoever.”
“You can’t judge all men by your pa.”
“As if I ever would. Do you rate my intelligence that low?”
“You’re about the smartest female I’ve ever came across,” Beaumont confessed. He was in awe of her ability to see to the root of a problem, and to do whatever she had to to solve it. She was also so practical she was spooky.
Isolda rose and stretched, seemingly unconscious of her nakedness. Showing no embarrassment whatsoever, she crossed to the chair she had draped her robe over and casually slipped into it. “To get back to you and me. Don’t get me wrong. I like your romantic streak. Just don’t let it get in the way of what we have to do.”
“Why would I?” Beaumont asked.
“By confusing what we share in here with what we share out there,” Isolda said, gesturing at the window. “In here it’s you and me, our hearts entwined. Out there, it’s you and me against the world.”
“Now who is thinkin’ the other one must be dumb?”
“You’re anything but that, my handsome rogue,” Isolda said. “The thing you lack isn’t intelligence. It’s your ambition that needs improving. I’m here to remedy that.”
“You think that you have more ambition than I do?”
“How long have you been in Whiskey Flats but you don’t control it yet?” Isolda replied. “You took a while to get started, and you’ve let events control you instead of controlling events. I won’t. We’ll seize the initiative before someone else comes along and seizes the town for themselves.”
“Anyone tries and they’ll regret it.”
“I’m with you there, but why let it come to that? We lock Whiskey Flats down as quickly as we can.”
On that note their conversation ended until they were in the kitchen and she was pouring coffee into his cup.
“The hotel is off to a good start,” Isolda mentioned.
“It won’t be all that long before you can have that suite you hanker after,” Beaumont said, “unless you decide to stay in this house.”
“A suite is more in keeping for a queen.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” Beaumont said, and chuckled. “Queen Isolda does have a nice sound to it.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” she said, and laughed.
Half an hour later they emerged into the bright glare of the new day to find someone perched on their porch rail.
“Deitch?” Beaumont said. “What in blazes are you doin’ here?”
“Waiting for you, Mr. Adams, sir.” Deitch was a mousy man who wore spectacles that made his eyes seem as large as an owl’s. Hopping down, he smoothed his ill-fitting suit.
“Why didn’t you knock?” Beaumont asked.
Deitch averted his eyes. “I didn’t want to risk disturbing you and Miss Jessup.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” Isolda said.
“Why are you here?” Beaumont demanded.
“It’s Scar Wratner,” Deitch said. “You instructed me to report to you if he did anything he shouldn’t. I believe last night qualifies.”
“What did he do? Shoot out the m
irror or a window? Or maybe pistol-whip somebody?”
“Would that that were all,” Deitch said, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It’s all over town.”
“What is, damn it?”
“Mr. Wratner took it on himself to kill three customers.”
“The hell you say.”
“I saw it with my own eyes. He shot two of them so fast that if I’d blinked, I’d have missed it.”
The fine morning Beaumont was having shattered by a burst of anger. He swore, then caught himself and asked, “What did they do that he shot them?”
“They swaggered in and shoved people around and pushed a couple of men at the bar to make room. Then one of them whooped and said that they were there to have a wild time, his very words, and to bring on the doves and the coffin varnish, his words again. They went over to a table and the loudmouth fired a shot into the ceiling to force the men already there to vacate their chairs.”
“What was Scar doin’ while this was goin’ on?”
“He showed up a little later. Caught on quick that something was amiss, I must say. When I directed him to the table, he went over and talked to them. One of them mentioned he’d shot the ceiling and that’s when Scar shot all three.”
“Damn him, anyhow,” Beaumont said. “I told him not to scare our customers off.”
“Hold on,” Isolda said. “How did the other people in the saloon react, Mr. Deitch, when Mr. Wratner shot them?”
“Some of them cheered and clapped. A gentleman at the bar said they had it coming. Another that they deserved it, that they shouldn’t have gone around shoving and shooting.”
“Then not much harm was done,” Beaumont said. At least, he hoped not. When a saloon acquired a bad reputation, it was shunned.
“Do you happen to know where Mr. Wratner is right this minute?” Isolda asked.
“Probably at the boardinghouse where he and his partners took a couple of rooms. It’s early yet for them to be out and about.”
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