The Last Renegade

by Jo Goodman

  The smile that wreathed his face settled in his eyes. “Glad to hear it, Mrs. Berry. Surely, now, I’m glad to hear it.”

  She chased him off and immediately engaged another customer in conversation. Kellen Coltrane had not made an appearance since he had returned to his room after dinner. In the dining room, he had remained apart, choosing to sit by himself in spite of overtures by the couple from Springfield and Emily Ransom’s attempts to pair him with Mr. Weyman, the whiskey drummer, before Mrs. Garvin arrived with her two comely daughters in tow. Mr. Coltrane even managed to beat back Mrs. Garvin without using a stick. This was mostly open range country, but her shootist knew how to set up a fence as prickly as barbed wire.

  She had spoken to him at dinner, just a few words in passing as she made her rounds. It annoyed her that she found even that brief exchange of words difficult.

  Perhaps it was because she had spoken to him of Ellen earlier. He was a stranger, and even after so much time had passed, it still seemed wrong to speak of her sister to someone from the outside. Ellen would have been the first to laugh at the notion that anyone was an outsider. Her sister had welcomed everyone. She had been genuinely kind, friendly to a fault. She had taken it to heart that people should be treated as she wanted to be treated. It had been her idea to hire Walter Mangold, and Raine had never regretted listening to her.

  But Ellen’s sweet nature meant she did not always see the wickedness that was around her, and when she saw it, she made excuses for it and tried to be kinder, more generous, as though she could change character that had meanness bred in the bone.

  Raine feared little for herself, but it had been her life’s work to fear for Ellen. In spite of her vigilance, she had failed her sister. Ellen was dead.

  Kellen Coltrane deserved an explanation. Raine had offered none. Once Ellen’s name passed her lips, her throat closed. She had meant to be matter of fact, the way she was when she and Mrs. Sterling talked about the day Ellen died, but emotion overwhelmed and words failed her. She could not say one more word than she already had. Silence had been her refuge. It had also been painful.

  It could only have been more humiliating if she had cried.

  She wondered what had gone through Mr. Coltrane’s mind as she sat mute. He didn’t press her with questions, offer sympathy, or in any way indicate that he was uncomfortable. He simply sat there, and she had the sense that he was not waiting her out, but waiting with her. It was unexpected and oddly calming.

  She had finished her drink, found her voice in the bottom of that glass, and promised that she would speak to him later. He didn’t ask her to define what later meant. He stood the same time she did, took her glass, and walked her to the door. He opened it for her. It all seemed rather vague now, as though she had passed time in a dream, and she forgave herself for the passing fancy that she was being courted like a woman who deserved it.

  Jem Davis, one of the ranch hand regulars, snapped his fingers in front of Raine’s face. He had hands like small hams and fingers as thick as sausages. He liked to say that as appendages they represented the best parts of a pig.

  Raine jerked her head back. “Take your hand out of my face, Jem Davis. What do you want?”

  “Two beers and a whiskey for me and my brothers.” He used his chin to indicate the two young men collecting cards at the table closest to the stairs.

  “You’re not playing poker with your brothers, are you? Someone always gets hurt.”

  “Someone always cheats. At least when we’re the only ones at the table, no one ends up dead.”

  “True.” She set him up with his order. “Try not to break anything tonight.”

  He laid his money down and picked up his drinks, calling out to his brothers. “Jessop. Jake. The Widder Berry says I’m not allowed to break anything but your heads.”

  Raine’s smile was indulgent as the brothers whooped. Shaking her head, she began to gather up empty glasses and line up clean ones.

  The hardware store owner sidled up to the bar. “Did you hear about the murder?” Ted Rush asked.

  “If you mean the one on the train, I heard. Mr. Collins told me.” She hoped that by invoking Mr. Collins’s name, she would end the conversation. Ted was surely going to quote the same source. “What can I get you, Ted?”

  “Stomach’s been giving me the devil lately. You have any of that ginger beer you make?”

  “Some. I’ll get you a glass, but you know you should stop at the drugstore and ask Mr. Burnside for something.”

  “I like your ginger beer better.”

  Raine disappeared into the back room and returned with a bottle. She uncorked it and poured a glass for Ted Rush. She slipped the cork back into place and put the bottle under the bar. “There’s more if you take to feeling poorly.”

  “It’s the killing that did it to me.”

  Raine had almost made her escape, but she was still turned too far toward Ted to pretend she hadn’t heard. She did not want to ask a question so she kept her features expressionless and began folding bar rags.

  “That’s right,” Ted said. “I was on the train on my way back from Cheyenne. The murder happened in the coach ahead of mine. I came that close to seeing what happened. Who knows, maybe if I’d chosen a different seat, I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have caught the killer.”

  And maybe the earth would open up and swallow her whole, Raine thought. It could happen, it just didn’t seem very likely. She tried not to allow any part of her skepticism to show. Except for his elaborations, Ted Rush was an honest man, and he ran a respectable business that delivered denim, flannel, and leather goods to the cowmen. Raine had never met Ted’s wife. Mrs. Rush died years before Raine came to Bitter Springs. Now in his early fifties, Ted was still alone and it seemed to be by his own choice. She supposed that didn’t mean he wasn’t lonely from time to time. She tried to be patient with his patter.

  “I had to answer questions before I could leave the train,” he told her. “Seems the dead man was going to Bitter Springs. I got a glimpse of him, and I had to say I never saw him before. Of course that’s the truth. I never did see him before, and it could be that we’ll all sleep easier because he didn’t get off the train.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They say his name was Nat Church. That’s trouble if ever I heard it. You know what he’s like.”

  “Nat Church is a character in dime novels, Ted.”

  “That doesn’t mean Nat Church and the Watchers ain’t a true story. It doesn’t mean Nat Church don’t live outside a book.”

  “Did you read Huckleberry Finn?” she asked.

  “Sure. Good story. Not as exciting as Nat Church and the Sleeping Detective, but good.”

  “And do you think Huck is a real person?”

  “Well, hell, Mrs. Berry. Of course he ain’t. No white boy is going to take up with a ni—”

  “Mr. Rush,” Raine said.

  “Well, he ain’t.”

  Raine sighed. Was there a line of reasoning anywhere that could make an impact? If so, she hadn’t found it yet.

  Ted moved to the left so another cowpoke could belly up to the bar. After Raine had served him and Richard Allen headed back to his table, Ted continued. “I heard there’s a man staying here that saw it all.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Mr. Collins seemed to think your guest saw it all. I was thinking that I might want to talk to him, get his sense of what happened. Wouldn’t hurt to compare stories.”

  Not inclined to encourage him, Raine shrugged. After Ted ambled off with his glass of ginger beer, she turned away, facing the mirror as she straightened the bottles beneath it, and was brought up short by the man reflected over her right shoulder.

  She acknowledged this new arrival with a curt nod and turned around slowly. No one with a lick of sense kept their back to a Burdick if there was a choice. “What can I get you, Mr. Burdick?”

  “Now you know Mr. Burdick is my father, Lorrain
ey. Haven’t I asked you to call me Eli?”

  “You told me to call you Eli, Mr. Burdick. It’s not quite the same.”

  Eli Burdick had a helmet of thick, dark hair. He ran his fingers through it after he removed his hat. He set the Stetson on the bar but kept one hand on the pearl gray crown. “I notice you didn’t tell me not to call you Lorrainey.”

  “Would it make a difference?”

  “Probably not.” He had a handsome smile, but it did not always touch his pale blue eyes. That was not the case now. His eyes fairly danced, but it was with the kind of amusement that rarely boded well.

  It raised Raine’s hackles. She repeated her first question, “What can I get for you?”

  “Whiskey.”

  She set a glass in front of him. Before she could fill it, he took the bottle out of her hands, preferring that to the glass. “If that’s your pleasure,” she said, and wished immediately that she could call the words back.

  “What do you think you know about my pleasure?”

  Raine held her tongue this time.

  “I thought so.”

  He spoke to her as though they were intimates and alone. She saw his eyes lift to the mirror and knew he was taking the measure of every man in the room. He didn’t see a threat. She was not sure he would recognize one. It had been a long time since anyone outside of his own family had challenged him.

  Raine remained attentive to Eli Burdick but did not fail to notice the man who came to stand beside him.

  “Beer,” Kellen Coltrane said. He slid a coin across the top of the bar. He set the toe of one boot on the brass rail and turned his head casually in Eli Burdick’s direction. “Evening.” He glanced at the bottle Eli was still holding. “The whiskey here that good that you don’t want to give it up?”

  Eli looked him over. “I don’t know you.”

  “It would be strange if you did. I don’t know you either.” He held out a hand. “Coltrane. Kellen Coltrane.”

  Eli would have had to give up the bottle or release the crown of his hat. He did neither.

  Kellen allowed his hand to remain suspended in the air for a few moments before he shrugged and withdrew it. He returned his attention to Raine.

  “Is someone going to play that piano?” Kellen asked. “Seems a shame to let it sit idle.”

  Eli Burdick tilted the bottle to his lips and took a deep swallow. Then he used the sleeve of his coat to wipe his mouth. “You play the piano?”

  “That depends who you ask. I’ve never had a teacher who thought so, but my mother says I have an angel’s touch.”

  “An angel’s touch?”

  Kellen’s shrug was sheepish this time. “She’s my mother.” He took the beer Raine passed to him. “Thank you, Mrs. Berry.” He took a swallow, found it to his liking, and asked Eli, “What about you? Ever play?”

  Eli’s eyebrows took a hike toward his dark hairline. “Me? You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “I thought we established that. I’m Kellen Coltrane and you are…”

  The piercing pale blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “Eli Burdick,” he said.

  “Good to make your acquaintance.” Kellen did not offer his hand a second time. “So what is it about being Eli Burdick that prevents you from playing the piano?”

  Raine could barely draw enough breath to fill her lungs. She did not believe she had ever heard anyone try to engage Eli Burdick in a conversation about anything that did not have to do with cattle, cattle drives, cattle prices, and cattle rustling. Eli was known to talk about other things, mostly women and whiskey and sometimes cards, but those subjects were best left alone unless he brought them up. It was beyond absurd that he was being asked about the piano.

  Every ear in the saloon was straining to hear how he would answer.

  “Uriah Burdick,” said Eli.

  “Ah.” Kellen nodded, understanding. “Your father? My pa didn’t much care for it either.”

  Eli took another swig from the bottle. “My mother played.”

  Kellen raised his glass. “To mothers, then.” He watched Eli’s grip tighten. He was prepared to duck and feint if the bottle found the arc that would bring it crashing toward his head. That didn’t happen. Eli tapped the bottom of his bottle to Kellen’s glass.

  “To mothers.” He glanced at the piano. “Are you going to play something?”

  “Perhaps later.” He pointed to Sue Hage as she carefully wended her way toward the piano. “Looks like Miss Hage is going to entertain us.” He didn’t think it was possible for her to look more frightened than she had earlier standing in front of his door. She was proving him wrong. It occurred to him that she might faint before she reached the relative safety of the piano stool.

  Raine saw it, too. Eli Burdick’s presence always put Sue on edge. She called out to Charlie Patterson. “Hey, Charlie. Why don’t you help Sue with her music?”

  He jumped to his feet and almost turned the table over in his eagerness to lend assistance. He took the music Sue was carrying and set it on the piano. It was only then that he realized he had no idea what to do. He couldn’t read a lick of music.

  “Turn the pages when you see me nod,” Sue said under her breath. “And pray Eli Burdick likes what I play.” She set her hands on the keys and began playing the overture from The Pirates of Penzance.

  “That’s unexpected,” Kellen said mildly.

  “I like it,” said Eli Burdick. He took another long swallow.

  “Then I like it, too.”

  Raine was aware that customers were slowly turning back to their tables and once again speaking to their neighbors. The oppressive hush was lifting. Sue’s playing was lively but did not overpower conversation. The Davis boys started trading cards and insults. Ted Rush cornered Richard Allen and launched into his near encounter with a killer. Charlie Patterson, sitting at the piano beside Sue, could not have been happier if someone called him a cat and dipped him in cream.

  “If you don’t play the piano, Mr. Burdick,” said Kellen, “do you play cards?”

  “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t play cards.”

  “What’s your game?”

  “There is only one.” When Kellen only regarded him blankly, he said, “Poker.”

  “Oh, of course. I don’t play it much myself. I prefer faro. Do you ever buck the tiger?”

  Eli’s strong features settled into thoughtfulness. His mouth tipped slightly to one side and his eyelids fell to half-mast. “There’s no satisfaction bucking the tiger, but poker…”

  Kellen held up one hand, palm out. “Not for me.”

  “One game,” Eli said. “Small stakes.”

  Kellen considered that. “Not money. Something else.”

  Eli had been raising the bottle to his mouth. He stopped and regarded Kellen with suspicion. “Like what?”

  “If I win, you try your hand at the piano.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then I’ll buy that bottle for you.”

  Eli glanced at the bottle. “This? I wasn’t going to pay for it anyway.”

  Kellen pretended he didn’t understand. “Well, now you can.”

  “You seem sure you’re going to lose,” said Eli.

  “Not at all,” Kellen said. “I’m just certain you’re going to win.”

  Eli grinned appreciatively. “You’re right.” He looked up at the mirror, caught the eye of Jem Davis, and jerked his head to indicate Jem and his brothers should vacate their table. He expected them to move quickly, and they did not disappoint.

  Kellen took his beer and followed Eli to the table. Cards lay scattered across the top. He gathered them up because Eli was still holding the bottle and his hat and didn’t give either up until he was seated.

  “Do you want to shuffle?” asked Kellen.

  “No. You shuffle. I’ll cut.”

  Kellen riffled the deck with his thumb, squared it off, and began to shuffle. He was slow and methodical, careful not to let the cards spill out of his hands. He
felt Eli’s eyes boring into him.

  Eli clamped a large hand over Kellen’s. “You foolin’ with me?”

  Kellen looked up from the cards. “Fooling with you?”

  “I never saw a man trying so hard to mix the cards. Are you clumsy or just pretending to be?”

  “Why would I pretend?”

  “That’s what I can’t figure. Maybe you don’t want me to know you’re a card sharper.”

  “That would explain it, all right.”

  “So you are a sharper.”

  “No. But if I were, I don’t think I would want you to know.”

  Still visibly distrustful, Eli removed his hand. It hovered for a moment before he snatched the cards from Kellen. “I think I will shuffle after all.” He did so expertly and then slid the deck toward Kellen for the cut.

  Kellen declined. He saw this had the effect of making Eli Burdick more suspicious, not less. There was nothing he could do about that. Eli Burdick was the sort of man used to taking others, not being taken. He waited for the deal and had to hope for the best, which meant he wanted the worst.

  He fanned his cards. His soft groan was involuntary. Five hearts. He looked at Eli. The man was a stoic. Even so, it would be extraordinary for him to have a better hand than a flush. Kellen had watched him carefully as he shuffled and then dealt. There was no sleight of hand.

  “How many cards?” Eli asked.

  “I have to take three.” He chose three hearts with the highest value and pushed them to the side.

  Eli passed him three new cards before he examined his hand a second time. He plucked a card from the middle and set it facedown. “Dealer takes one.”

  Kellen closed his card fan. He had drawn a club, a spade, and another heart. He didn’t even have a pair. He was feeling hopeful and he let it show. It couldn’t hurt Eli Burdick to wonder and worry. Kellen saw the man’s eyes dart to the piano.

  Eli jerked his chin at Kellen. “What do you have?”

  “Nothing.” He turned over his cards and spread them out.

  Eli leaned back in his chair and showed his hand. “Three lucky sevens.”

  Kellen thrust his fingers through his hair. “Well, then, it seems I’m buying your bottle this evening.” He started to push his chair away from the table. “I’m going to settle up with Mrs. Berry.”