“We’re sorry, mister,” Ace said. “Things just sort of got out of hand.”
Chance looked slightly repentant as he added, “Sometimes my mouth gets away from me.”
Mike grunted. “See that it doesn’t again, at least not in here.” He shook his head. “I don’t care what you do elsewhere or what happens to you, either. You said you wanted a drink?”
“A couple beers would be good,” Ace said.
Mike signaled to one of his aproned bartenders. “Don’t expect ’em to be on the house, though. Not after the way you acted. In fact, I ought to charge you double . . . but I won’t.”
Ace dug out a coin and slid it across the hardwood. Mike scooped it up with a hand that had more of the rusty hair sprouting from the back of it.
The bartender set the beers in front of them.
Since Mike didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on, Ace started a conversation after picking up a mug and taking a sip from it. “You mentioned your father and grandfather. Did they own this saloon before you?”
“What’s it to you, kid?” asked Mike as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Nothing, really,” Ace replied honestly. “I’m just interested in history, that’s all.”
A short, humorless bark of laughter came from the saloonkeeper. “Red Mike’s has got some history, all right. The original tavern, back in the days when all the fur trappers and traders came through St. Louis on their way to the Rockies, was over by the docks, almost right on the river. A hell of a place it was, too. Men were men back in those days, especially those fur trappers. Always ready to fight or drink or bed a wench. My grandpap ruled the place with an iron fist. He had to.”
“His name was Mike, too?”
“The name’s passed down to me from him,” the saloonkeeper confirmed. “My pa, whose name was Mike as well, moved the tavern a couple blocks in this direction. When I took over, I figured it was time to make a regular saloon out of the place and moved it again. I kept the name, though.” He laughed again, but he sounded more genuinely amused this time.
“A while back, one of those old mountain men wandered in. Claimed he knew my grandpap and used to drink in his tavern, more than forty years ago. I figured he was probably crazy, but there was just enough of a chance he was telling the truth that I bought him a drink for old time’s sake. Can’t remember what he said his name was. Deacon or something like that.”
Chance inclined his head toward the guards on the platforms. “Would they have really started shooting if somebody threw a punch?”
“Damn right they would have,” snapped Mike, losing his slightly more jovial attitude. “Both of those boys can hit a gnat at a hundred yards.”
Ace wasn’t convinced that the saloon owner would resort to execution to break up a fight, especially with so many innocent bystanders around . . . but as long as people believed it was possible, they would be a lot more likely to behave.
“Now drink up,” Mike went on, “and then get out.”
“You’re giving us the boot, too?” asked Chance, sounding surprised.
“That’s right. I don’t want you hotheads starting anything else.”
Ace was equally determined that wouldn’t happen, so he didn’t argue with the saloonkeeper’s edict. He wanted to leave and find a place to stay for the night. He had already seen enough of St. Louis to satisfy any curiosity he had about the city. He drained the rest of his beer and told Mike, “Again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Let’s just go,” Chance muttered after swallowing the last of his beer.
They headed for the entrance, moving past several tables full of drinkers and a couple poker games. Chance pushed through the batwings first with Ace right behind him. They went to the hitch rail, untied their horses, and started along the street leading the animals.
Ace was looking around for a hotel that might be a place they could afford to stay when hands suddenly grabbed him and jerked him away from his horse, flinging him along a narrow alley between two buildings. The hour was late in the afternoon and shadows already gathered in the alley, but as Ace stumbled and then caught his balance, he could see well enough to make out several figures blocking his way back to the street.
A couple of the men had grabbed Chance, too, and dragged him into the narrow alley space. They gave him a hard shove that made him go to one knee. He cursed bitterly as Ace took hold of his arm and helped him up.
“Look what I landed in!” Chance exclaimed.
Ace was less worried about that than he was about the fact that they were surrounded. He recognized not only the burly dockworker called Dave but also the man who had spilled his drink when Chance bumped into him.
“So the two of you are friends,” Ace said.
Dave shook his head and grinned. “Naw, I don’t even know this fella. But we both have friends of our own, and we both know you two need a good stompin’. So that’s what we’re gonna give you.”
With fists flying, the ring of attackers closed in around the Jensen boys.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2016 J. A. Johnstone
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3799-5
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3799-7
First electronic edition: June 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3800-8
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3800-4
Will Tanner Page 27
