Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. Tom bristled, but resumed scrutinizing his hand. Zeke silently folded. Frenchy, however, had fallen asleep where he sat. His head lolled backward, his mouth hung open, and his cards splayed loosely in his hand.
Tom made no bones about examining Frenchy’s cards. He clucked his tongue. "He’s only got two pair, and low numbers at that. Swede, ye haven’t got piss, have ye?"
Swede scowled, humiliated yet again. He threw in his hand, and Tom scooped the pot toward his growing stash with a chuckle.
"Care for another round?" Tom licked his thumb, ready to deal.
"Not for me," Zeke said, spitting tobacco on the ground.
Frenchy snorted in his sleep.
Bobby got up sullenly from his spot, clearly finished.
Swede wiped a hand across his blurry eyes. "I’m all done in." He was about to see if he could push himself up from the table without staggering sideways when he heard the distant bray of a mule. The weekly deliveries weren’t due, so it could mean only one thing. A stranger was coming to Paradise Bar.
Henry Harrison, "Ace" to those who presumed to challenge him to cards, had never worked so hard to maintain his legendary poker face as when he first glimpsed Paradise Bar. He’d heard about the gold camps. Indeed, he’d always intended to try his luck with the pick and pan. But the lure of one-eyed jacks and his own easy brand of mining had kept him in decent clothes, good whiskey, and San Francisco. Until recently.
His fortune had turned nasty, spurred on by a sore loser who had flapping jaws and friends in high places. The charge was tampering with the deck, and not even the offer of a sizable donation to the city could keep the law off his tail. So he’d sent the meddling gossiper to an early grave with the help of Mr. Deringer, as he had countless others who’d dared to cross him. Only this time, it had turned him into a wanted man.
Fortunately, Lady Luck had always been his mistress, and it wasn’t long before she dealt him a wild deuce. It seemed his older brother had, the letter poetically informed him, "passed out of this world and on to the next." Needless to say, he decided it was time to pay his respects to dearly departed, gold-fevered Dr. James Harrison, who’d conveniently settled in a remote mining camp in the middle of nowhere.
He hardly remembered James. If it wasn’t for the boastful letters he got from him every couple of months, the man could have dropped off the face of the earth for all Henry knew. Truth to tell, they’d never spent much time together anyway, what with the eight years between them. But blood was blood, and if you couldn’t turn to kin in times of hardship, what good were they?
Still, clinging for dear life to the back of a pesky mule all the way up the canyon, he’d had second thoughts. He was plainly out of his element. In the wilderness, every flicker of light, every rustle in the bushes had him as spooked as a new bride. It was no wonder he’d shot that Injun kid at the last switchback, what with the boy sneaking up on him like that. And now that Paradise Bar proper sprawled in all its dilapidated glory before him, only the possibility of inheritance and the memory of the gallows awaiting him in San Francisco kept him from hightailing it all the way back to the Bay.
So he pasted on a counterfeit smile, pretending he held four kings when it sure looked like a pair of threes. He tipped his hat as, one by one, the miners took notice of him.
"Evening," he said, remembering to color his friendliness with a touch of melancholy.
To his trained eye, the residents appeared to be soused, and some of them gambled at cards, a combination that spelled easy winnings. He licked his lips. His fingers itched to deal a hand of poker.
But penny ante poker wasn’t why he’d come. He’d had to get out of San Francisco, true, but he also needed to bankroll his escape, and for that he needed big money. He intended to change his name and buy his own small, discreet gambling establishment in Sacramento, comfortably close to the sweet smell of gold dust, far enough from San Francisco to lay low. And James had obliged him by giving up the ghost, leaving behind what he’d constantly bragged was enough riches to keep a man in "whiskey, wine, women, and whiskey" for life.
"Hello," he said politely when a giant of a man with haystraw hair lumbered forward.
"Howdy." The man sized him up, his drunken eyes slowly perusing him from beaver hat to polished boot. "You’re new to these parts."
"That I am, sir." He dismounted as gracefully as he could, considering his legs still quivered from the harrowing ride. Then he doffed his hat and extended his hand. "My name’s Henry, Henry Harrison. I’m...James’s brother."
The big man’s eyes narrowed, and he whistled a quick breath in through pursed lips.
A skinny old man with a threadbare beard hobbled up alongside him. "You mean Doc Jim?"
Suddenly the miners were all ears. They shuffled forward, staring at him as if he were a particularly intriguing bug.
"Yes, I suppose that’s what he go-...went by," he told them.
"Ye got my letter then, did ye?" A dapper Irishman in a derby came forward and took his elbow.
"Yes. Yes, I did."
"‘Tis a shame, ‘tis." The man doffed his hat, holding it over his heart for a respectable period of time, then tapped it back onto his head. "Come along then, lad, and we’ll drink a wee dram in his honor."
Henry usually avoided liquor in unfamiliar company. It slowed his wits and distorted his judgment, banes of the gambler. But he didn’t intend to gamble this afternoon. There’d be time to fleece the miners later, and from the looks of things, it’d be as easy as stealing peppermint drops from a child. Sure, he’d drink with the gang. Why not? He was a decent, companionable fellow, just like them, wasn’t he? Besides, he was just a mite shaky still from shooting that Injun kid.
By the time he’d choked down half a cup of their noxious whiskey, he knew the Irishman’s entire ancestry, and his head was buzzing like a horsefly.
"So how did it happen?" he asked. After all, it wouldn’t do to appear indifferent, even if he and James had never been closer than apples dropped at opposite ends of the orchard.
They told him James had died peacefully, in his sleep. If he knew his brother, it was more likely a drunken stupor.
"Did he leave anything behind?" Like a trunk full of gold? he wondered, remembering to withdraw a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes. "Any memento I could send to our dear mother? A piece of clothing? A journal? His medical bag?"
"Well, shit, er, shoot," the big blond man said. "You see, your brother was fixin’ to marry himself up with a young lady from back east. Wouldn’t you know it, she arrived the day after he kicked the bucket."
The skinny prospector elbowed the man in the ribs.
"That is," the giant amended, "after he passed on."
The Frenchman, who’d awakened only moments ago, chimed in, "She had not a friend in the world. We could not leave her out in the cold."
"We gave her Doc’s things and put her up in his cabin over yonder," a strapping lad added, pointing to a path that led off toward the woods.
"It was the least we could do, seein’ as how she was a widder and all."
Henry nodded in agreement, but his thoughts spun away quicker than a wheel of fortune. A woman? What the hell business could James have with a woman? And what was a woman doing in a gold camp anyway?
Spending James’s fortune. That’s what she was doing. Why else would a woman take up with his drunkard brother?
"Would you or the lady have any objections," he humbly offered, "if I took a gander at a few of his personal effects just one last time before I go?"
The big blond man hesitated, scratching the back of his head. "Well, to tell you the truth, the lady’s been feelin’ kinda poorly of late."
"She ain’t gonna want to see nobody anytime soon," said a strapping lad cradling a rifle against his side.
"That’s right," the skinny old man added. "She’s...in mournin’."
The rest of them nodded in agreement, and Henry had to
fight to keep his temper in check. He saw the looks they exchanged. They were hiding something, these miners, and he intended to find out what it was. He hadn’t come almost two hundred miles just to smile, shrug, and walk away. No woman was going to stand between Henry Harrison and his hard-won inheritance.
He hung his head with as much meekness as he could muster, and said, "I understand." Then he pretended to be suddenly inspired. "Do you think she might take comfort in meeting kin?"
The miners exchanged doubtful glances, and Henry longed to scream in frustration.
"She don’t want to see nobody," brooded the boy with the gun. "Not after what we done."
The rest of the men seemed upset by the boy’s vague confession. Henry decided he wouldn’t take the bait, at least not yet. “What they’d done” could come later. For now, he just wanted to get his hands on that stash.
"But perhaps if I spoke with her..."
"I told you, Mister," the boy warned, "she don’t want to see nobody." He could see now that the lad’s eyes were bloodshot. Lord, he was drunk as a sailor. And he had a gun.
"Come on, Dash." Another boy nudged his shoulder, but he angrily wrenched away. "He don’t know nothin’ about that."
The skinny miner scratched his chin. "Maybe if you were to stick around for a few days—“
"She don’t need no one stickin’ around." The boy’s words came loud and slurred and belligerent as he shifted his grip on the rifle. Henry could almost smell the hankering for violence on the kid.
But what the hell. It didn’t matter. Things were rapidly slipping past the point of negotiation anyway. Henry didn’t have time to "stick around." And he was fast tiring of minding his manners. Maybe it was time to take a firm stance.
"Now look here," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, "James was my brother. This...woman apparently didn’t even meet him. I believe I have the right to—“
"What’re you sayin’?" the kid challenged, his fingers dancing a frenzied two-step on the stock of the gun. "What’re you sayin’, Mister?"
"Jeeze, Dash!" His companion tugged on his arm.
Henry narrowed his eyes. It was clear the kid was looking for any excuse for a fight. He was that drunk. Hell, he wondered if the boy’s gun was loaded.
"Look, son," he said reasonably, "where I come from, a man doesn’t let himself be led around by the nose, and certainly not by some Jezebel in dungarees." He’d seen the kind of woman that answered the call of the gold fields, and they weren’t a pretty sight.
"You!" The boy’s voice broke. "You take that back!" He batted away his friend and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. "You take that back or I swear I’ll shoot you dead!"
He’d never be sure if it was the click of the gun being cocked or the blaze of fire in the boy’s eyes that set him off, but Henry’s instincts took over. As fast as a rattler striking, he slipped the golden pistol from his vest and slugged a smoking hole in the boy’s chest.
The smell of gunpowder filled Henry’s nose like a potent drug. Shit! There was no turning back now. The boy hit the dirt, and Henry took that instant to punch the kid’s sidekick into oblivion with the butt of the pistol. Then, discarding the empty weapon, he snagged the boy’s rifle from his death grip and turned on the rest of them. There wasn’t time to aim. He sent a blast from the rifle toward one of them. Before the sound finished echoing down the canyon, he whipped the Deringer from his boot and fired it off, too. Then he swung the rifle butt-first in a wide arc, clipping a couple of heads with the heavy stock. He dropped the Deringer. The round from his last pistol, the one at his hip, cracked the air like thunder. With no time to reload, he gave up the gun and let his Bowie knife do the rest of the damage.
By the time the gun smoke cleared, not one of the nine men remained standing.
Henry swore and kicked at the ground. Now he’d done it. Made a stupid mistake. If he’d only been a little more patient, a little less edgy, he might have walked away from the camp without more blood staining his hands. But now, if he didn’t find the loot and get the hell out of Paradise Bar, he’d find himself wanted all up and down California.
He cussed once more at his fool temper and gathered up his guns. He had one more stop to make, and this time, he wanted to be ready. He plucked a bullet from his vest pocket and packed it into the golden pistol. He didn’t intend to use it, at least not right away. After all, he had to find out where the gold was stashed. And he’d never shot a woman. But then, the way the bodies were piling up, what difference would one more make?
Chapter 19
Despite the constant barrage of gunfire all day, Mattie flinched when she heard the knock at her door. It certainly wasn’t him, she sternly reminded herself, vexed at the way her heart raced hopefully. He wasn’t coming back. He’d made that perfectly clear. Not that she could blame him. Sakote was lucky he could walk, considering the beating the miners had given him.
No, it had to be one of the men from Paradise Bar. And that didn’t exactly give her heart ease either.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of them exactly. After all, they’d bent over backwards, Swede in particular, to let her know how sorry they were that things had gotten out of hand. They’d only been trying to protect her.
She understood all that. But that night had irrevocably awakened her to the violence of which the miners were capable. A wall had risen between them, and she had to bear in mind that while the men of Paradise Bar might mean her no harm, they were still as dangerous as loaded guns.
The knock came again, a little louder. Wiping her hands on her apron and eyeing the rifle hanging on the wall, she moved tenuously forward to open the door.
"Howdy, ma’am," the stranger said, his gaze floating over her in brief but obvious surprise. He removed his hat.
"Hello."
He wasn’t unattractive. He was tall, neither fat nor thin, and in the young prime of his life. His clothes, though dusty and rumpled, were well-tailored and stylish, and his boots looked finely crafted. His brown beard and hair were neatly trimmed, his features balanced, if nondescript. His brown eyes were dull and unremarkable. In fact, the only remarkable thing about them were that, at the moment, they displayed absolutely no discernible expression at all. It was a rather bland face, one she’d have difficulty sketching.
"May I help you?" she said, peering briefly past his shoulder to ascertain that he was alone.
He glanced meekly down at his hat. "I’m Henry Harrison, ma’am, the brother to your late, er, husband."
"Oh." His words took a moment to register. "Oh!" She bit her lip, unsure what to say, then backed away as gracefully as she could. "Won’t you come in?"
"Much obliged."
She showed him to a stool, and then crossed to the stove. "May I pour you coffee?"
"No thanks, ma’am. I just..." He broke off, and to Mattie’s dismay, seemed to bite back tears.
"Are you...all right?" she ventured.
He nodded, but his mouth formed a taut line. "It’s just...such a shock is all. Here I come looking for my dear brother, and..." A sob escaped him, and he ducked his head.
Mattie felt wretched. It had never occurred to her that James Harrison might have family that needed to be notified of his death.
"Awful sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to bring you more grief."
"No, that’s all right," she hastened to tell him. "I never really had the chance to meet your brother. We had only corresponded by post."
He tugged a handkerchief out of his inside pocket and blew his nose soundly. "I just wish..." he said, blinking hard, "I just wish I’d been able to tell him goodbye."
Mattie wrung her hands, growing more and more miserable by the minute, while he snorted into his handkerchief.
"Is that..." he finally asked, nodding to Doc Jim’s black bag, "Is that his valise?"
"Why, yes," she replied, eager to distract him from his weeping. "Would you...would you like to have it?"
He looked aghast. "Oh, no, I couldn’t. I ju
st couldn’t. He meant for you to share his worldly goods, and—“
"I have no use for a doctor’s bag," she assured him, fetching it from the foot of her bed. "I doubt it has much value...to anyone else anyway. I’m certain he would want you to have it."
"Our mother will be so grateful," he managed before his brow crumpled yet again.
Mattie felt sorry for all the unkind things she’d thought about Mr. Harrison when he’d come to the door. He was certainly not unremarkable, and his eyes were far from unfeeling, moistened now by tears of honest grief. No, he was a gentleman, unlike the men with which she’d been acquainted of late. Henry Harrison wouldn’t beat a man senseless as the miners had, nor would he, like Sakote, abandon a woman who had shared her heart with him. He was...decent.
"I’m terribly sorry for your loss," she told him, laying a hand on his forearm. "If there’s anything I can do—“
"No. I’ve troubled you far too much already." He cast a glance around the room. "Just being here, amongst his things, has brought me peace."
Mattie felt a lump grow in her throat. How long had it been since she’d heard such a sentiment? It sounded like poetry. Here was a man she could talk to, a man who felt deeply, a man concerned with more than just gold dust, cheap whiskey, and high stakes poker.
"Would you," she said on a whim, "care to join me for supper? I haven’t anything fancy, but there’s sourdough rising, beans on the stove, and a tin of peaches on the shelf."
"Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t want to be any trouble."
"It’s no trouble at all," she decided, whirling away from him to stir the beans bubbling over the fire. After several days bemoaning the convoluted ethics and twisted logic of men, Mr. Harrison was beginning to restore her faith in the gender, and she wasn’t quite ready to let him go.
While she readied supper, she asked him casual questions about his background, where he’d grown up, what his family was like, what he did for a living. His answers were vague, and he seemed uneasy. He came from St. Louis, Missouri. His family was nice. He worked in shipping or transport or some such field. But he didn’t elaborate. He seemed far more interested in the contents of Doc Jim’s bag, opening each of the little vials to peer within.
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