by Jane Shoup
Mitchell slumped in his chair, but his relaxed stance was a far cry from how he truly felt. Howerton and his boys were eyeing him hungrily from across the room. “Damn vultures,” he said to no one in particular.
They were just waiting for him to leave or get drunk off his ass. They’d have a long wait, because it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to get drunk and he wasn’t leaving without an escort back to the jail. His plan was to sleep there until the Triple H boys got fed up and left town. Or maybe he’d sneak away when they weren’t paying attention. They weren’t nearly as clever as they thought they were. He’d dodged them all this time. A couple of tables over, some men started playing a three-handed game of poker. Mitchell had played with one of them before. The man’s name was Jim something or other. “Mind if I sit in?” Mitchell asked.
The three either ignored or didn’t hear him.
“Hey, Jim—”
Jim turned. “Yeah?”
“Mind if I sit in?”
“Sure, I guess it’s okay,” Jim replied. His eyes flicked to the group of men watching Medlin. “Long as there’s not going to be any trouble.”
Mitchell also glanced at Howerton’s table and then got up and joined the others. “Nah, no trouble. Name’s Medlin,” he said by way of introduction. “Mitchell Medlin.”
“You’re the one all that fuss was about,” an older man put in as he shuffled the cards.
“Yep.”
“What happened with that?”
“The magistrate let me go ’cause there wasn’t no evidence.”
The cards were dealt.
“Evidence of what?” Jim asked. “What was it about?”
“Murder,” Mitchell replied with a smirk.
The third man, a good-looking fellow with curly dark hair, looked up sharply. “There wasn’t no evidence or it wasn’t true?”
“There wasn’t no evidence because it wasn’t true,” Mitchell replied, picking up his cards.
“This here is Fred Wells,” Jim said, pointing to the old man, “and that’s Grady Douglas.”
“How many?” Fred asked Mitchell.
“Two.”
“Jim?”
Jim considered. “Give me three.”
“Grady?”
“Two.”
“And the dealer takes one.”
“Hey, Mitchell,” Jim said. “Why are them men watching you like a hawk?”
“’Cause they’re sore losers.”
“Tell you what,” Jim said, shaking his head, “that would make me jittery as a junebug.”
Grady glanced over at the men.
“They don’t bother me,” Mitchell said.
Grady narrowed his eyes at Mitchell. “Is there gonna be trouble with them? ’Cause we don’t need that.”
“No, there’s not gonna be no trouble. You see the deputy by the door?”
All three men glanced over.
“Well, hell,” Mitchell complained. “Why don’t ya’ll look at once?”
“What about him?” Grady said.
“He’s watching so they don’t get me,” Mitchell replied. “The marshal don’t like men taking the law into their own hands.”
“So, let’s play,” Fred said.
Sam Blake made his way to Howerton’s table and sat. “Tommy’s still alive,” he reported. “He hasn’t woken up yet, but he is still alive.”
“Who said?” Howerton asked, as he passed Sam the bottle.
Sam poured himself a drink. “The telegraph operator. Gunderson. Fella with a short leg.” He drank. “He said some doctors from Philadelphia are coming.”
“Good.”
“Shot in the head,” Lynn Green said, “and still alive. How’s that possible?”
“I don’t know,” Sam replied, “but you know what occurred to me a little while ago? We never did tell Mitchell that Tommy’s alive. Did we?”
“No,” Ulrich spoke up.
“You can see how torn up he is,” Howerton seethed.
“About Blue, too,” Bud said.
Howerton picked up his glass and downed his whiskey.
“You know that money you gave me for incidentals?” Sam said to him.
Howerton looked at him. “Yeah.”
“I spent it.”
“All of it?”
“I may get some of it back, but, yeah.”
“What for?”
“After I sent the telegraph and got one back, I went over to the marshal’s office. Had a chat with him.”
“And?”
“I gave him the money.”
“Why?”
“To snare a killer, I hope.” He looked over at the poker game. “See that fella with the curly hair? We’ve staked him.”
Howerton glanced over and then poured more whiskey in his glass. “Hope he can bluff.”
Lisa Owens walked into the jail carrying a plate covered by a striped dishcloth. “I made your favorite,” she said dryly, “although I doubt it’s as good as it was.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve got to keep my eye on a situation,” Vince explained.
“I know that since Johnny Jewel came by the house and told me.” She handed Vince the plate. “Is there any particular reason one of your deputies can’t keep an eye on this situation?”
“It’s a long story,” Vince replied as he pulled off the towel. “That smells like heaven.”
“It smells like beef tips and gravy,” she retorted. “Eat.”
He did. “So good,” he said, shaking his head.
“Your daughter won the spelling bee at school today,” she said, pulling up a chair in front of his desk. She leaned forward and took a pinch of one of the yeast rolls on his plate.
He playfully slapped at her hand. “Hey, that’s mine.”
“And just what were you going to eat, if I hadn’t brought this?”
“You know I’d rather have my supper at home with you and the kids,” he said from behind his napkin, since his mouth was full.
“I made blueberry pie, and I didn’t bring you a piece, either. So you better just wrap this situation up.”
“Done,” he replied with gusto.
She shook her head, but finally grinned. “Katy spelled equinoctial.”
He took a forkful of greens. “Never even heard of it.”
“Me neither,” she admitted. “Can you believe that? Only in the sixth grade, and she spelled equinoctial.”
“How’d Andrew do?”
“He was out in the second round.”
Vince shrugged. “Spells like his old man.” When he finished the plate, he sat back with a sigh. “That was good.”
“You eat too fast.”
“You make it too good. Can’t help it.” He covered his mouth and belched.
She rose and began gathering up plate, fork and napkin. “How late will you be?”
He rose and started around the desk. “I don’t know.” He kissed her temple. “Save me a piece of pie?”
“Can’t promise anything.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“Oh? You can spare five minutes to walk your wife home?”
He grinned. “I can, at least halfway.”
She shrugged and started toward the door. “Alright,” she said. “A woman takes what she can get.”
Vince walked her home, kissed his children good night and left again, going directly to the saloon Medlin had chosen to patronize. His men had gone back and forth between saloon and jail all afternoon reporting. Mostly that there was nothing of significance to report. When he walked in, the place seemed both louder and smokier than usual. These days, more men were smoking than chewing, and it was hard on his eyes after a long day. “Anything?” he asked Ashcroft.
“Only that Grady’s made a new friend,” Ashcroft joked.
Vince looked over at Howerton and his men. They took up three tables. “Looks like they’ve settled in,” he observed.
Ashcroft’s mouth kicked up. “For a long time, they all stare
d at Medlin and he acted like he didn’t notice. ’Course he kept scooting around in his seat and glancing sideways at them. Yeah, he didn’t notice. But they’ve kept their distance. Nobody’s yelled nothing or threatened.”
Vince looked back at the poker game. “He doesn’t seem mindful of them, now.”
“Nope. Sure doesn’t,” Ashcroft agreed.
Grady poured more whiskey for everybody. Medlin had a big thirst, but he wasn’t sloppy. And he was winning most every hand.
“I never did shoot a man,” Jim said.
“That’s a good thing,” Grady replied. “It’s not exactly something that makes you feel good.”
Mitchell looked up from his cards. “How would you know?”
Grady didn’t reply.
“Who’d you shoot?” Mitchell pushed.
“It’s nothin’ I want to talk about,” Grady stated flatly, “and it’s your call.”
“Most men,” Fred said, slurring his words a bit, “we don’t have it in us.”
“Bull,” Mitchell scoffed. “Most men sure as hell do have it in them.”
“Depends on the situation,” Grady said.
“Damn right it does,” Mitchell agreed.
“It’s not always even a crime,” Grady said. “Not really.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell agreed again. “Least, there’s times it shouldn’t be.”
“Fellas, I’m out,” Fred said. “Medlin done wrung me dry.”
Mitchell grinned. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Fred shrugged. “Win some, lose some.”
“You mean, win some, lose a lot.” Mitchell laughed.
Fred waved his hand at Medlin, got up and left.
“I think I’ll get us another bottle,” Jim said, patting his pockets.
“Here,” Mitchell said, handing him money. “What the hell.”
“Thanks, Medlin.”
Mitchell tossed his cards down. “That hand got screwed.”
Grady gathered up the cards.
“So, who’d you shoot?” Mitchell asked, leaning forward onto his elbows.
“I’m not saying, so you can stop asking,” Grady returned as he began to shuffle.
“I’ll tell you,” Mitchell offered.
“I don’t care,” Grady stated.
“Come on,” Mitchell urged.
“What the hell you want to know for?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Curious.”
Grady sighed and shook his head. “I’ll just say this. Did you ever know somebody who just wouldn’t leave you alone? Who just rode you and rode you. Always running off at the mouth.”
“Yeah.”
“There you go. Enough said.”
“Enough said,” Mitchell repeated.
“It’s not like I didn’t warn him,” Grady added.
“People should know when to keep their big mouths shut,” Mitchell agreed. “It was the same with me. Only my guy . . . he didn’t plan on my buddy showing up with a gun.”
“Walter, the man I shot,” Grady said in a low voice. “He had a gun. He’d a shot me, if he could have drawn fast enough.”
“Johnny, too,” Mitchell said in a low voice. “He sure as shit would have. Probably wouldn’t have killed me. Probably would have shot me in the foot or something.”
Grady shook his head. “Not me. Man would have shot me dead. Thing is, I warned him.”
“Me, too,” Mitchell replied. “I said, ‘You’d best stop poking fun of me, asshole.’”
Grady made a face. “That was quite a buddy, to shoot him for you. I never had a friend like that.”
Mitchell shook his head. “He didn’t shoot him for me. Didn’t have the balls. I took the gun from him, took aim, bye-bye, asshole. Cain’t say I didn’t warn him.”
“This looks deep,” Jim said, as he returned with the bottle. “Whatch’all talking about?”
“Nothing at all,” Mitchell said easily, leaning back in his chair again. “Shootin’ the shit.” He grinned and winked at Grady. “Get it? Shootin’ the shit?”
“I’m out,” Grady announced, pushing his chair back.
“No! C’mon, stay,” Mitchell said, slapping the table. “Night’s young.”
Grady stood. “Not for me. It just got old.” He turned and walked away.
“Well, screw him,” Mitchell complained. “We’re going to need more players,” he said. “Who wants some?”
Grady walked to the marshal, who was standing near the door. “He did it.”
“He said so?” Vince asked, frowning.
Grady nodded. “Said a buddy of his showed up with a gun, Medlin took the gun and shot a man, name of Johnny. I didn’t get a whole lot of details.”
“That confirms what I heard,” Vince said. “Any doubt that he was telling the truth?”
“No,” Grady replied. “It’s true and he’s not a bit sorry.”
“What do we do now?” Gene asked.
Vince was quiet a moment. “Go on home,” he finally replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m half drunk, so I am going,” Grady said. “It’ll be another week or so before I can report back, you know.”
“I know,” Vince replied. “How’s your father doing?”
“He busted the leg good, but we got a lot of people stepping up to pitch in.”
“I appreciate your help on this.”
“I didn’t mind.” Grady glanced over at Medlin’s table and saw that two other men had moved in and begun playing. “He’s a cold one.”
“You’re sure?” Gene asked Vince. “About going?”
Vince nodded. “I think I’ll be able to sleep just fine, no matter what happens. What about you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Gene said. “I’ll sleep like a babe. You coming, Grady?”
Grady saw Sam Blake heading their way. “In a bit. I’ll see you.”
Gene left as Sam joined them. “Learn anything interesting?” he asked conversationally.
“Like that he did it?” Grady asked. “Yeah, he did it.”
“I know he did,” Sam replied evenly. He looked pointedly at Vince.
Vince gave him a significant nod. “It’s late. Think I’ll be going home now.”
Sam offered his hand. “We’ll probably be heading out soon, so—”
“Safe journey,” Vince said, accepting the handshake.
Grady reached into his pocket for the little bit of money still there. “There’s not much left,” he said. “He was winning.”
“Keep it,” Sam said. “Far as I’m concerned, it was money well spent.”
Grady nodded and left, shoving the money deeper into his pocket, and Sam looked at Mitchell, who hooted at another victorious round. “His streak’s about over,” he murmured under his breath.
Mitchell felt victorious. He’d won at least two hundred dollars, and Howerton and the others had called it a night. Of course, the night was gone. It was almost two in the morning as he left the saloon. “Walk me to the jail,” he said to the two men he’d been playing with at the end.
“The jail?” one exclaimed.
“Yeah, the jail.”
“Why?”
“I’m sleeping there. For protection.”
The man shrugged. “I’m going that way, anyhow.”
“Not me,” the other man said. “’Night.”
Mitchell looked up and down the street. He saw neither hide nor hair of his foe, so a one-man escort would do. Halfway there, he stumbled on a rock in the road and realized he was drunker than he’d realized. Luckily, the jail was close.
“’Night,” his escort muttered as they reached the jail.
“Yeah, ’night.” Mitchell went to walk inside but ended up falling into the door because it didn’t open as he’d expected it to. He tried the doorknob again. Locked. He peered inside, but it looked deserted, which made no sense. A lawman had been watching him all night, making sure Howerton and the others kept their distance. Why would they abandon him now? He swore under his breath.
“Hello, again,” Mark Hanks said.
Before Mitchell could react, his gun was yanked away and six others were pointed at him.
“I told you,” Mitchell wheezed. “You got it all wrong.”
“Shut up,” Howerton said. “We’ve wasted enough time on you.”
A gag was shoved into Mitchell’s mouth. His hands were forced behind his back and bound by rope. Despite the gag, he yelled. It was muffled, sure enough, but loud.
The barrel of a gun came down on his head, stunning and silencing him, and blood trickled into his eye as he was led away. He could barely keep his legs under him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Emmett waited, hat in hand, as the passengers began to disembark from the train. One by one, he eliminated them as possibilities. A fair-haired woman paused in the door of the train, looking around for someone. She was so attractive, he stared longer than he should, but she was no doctor. She was tall and slender and moved with the sort of elegance that came from a highly privileged upbringing.
Emmett noticed a squatty-looking, middle-aged man and woman making their way toward him. They looked disenchanted and ill tempered, but perhaps he was judging too quickly. He cleared his throat as the couple drew close. “Dr. Werthing?”
The man appeared to be insulted and walked on without even the courtesy of a reply.
“I’m Dr. Werthing,” a man said behind him.
Emmett turned sharply and was astounded to see the lady he’d noticed earlier standing next to the gentleman who’d spoken, obviously her brother.
“I should say, we both are Dr. Werthing,” the man said with an easy smile.
They were both handsome as could be with wheat-colored hair and gray eyes. Their posture and carriage made Emmett want to stand up straighter; in fact, they made him want to be taller. Their clothing was stylish and highly fashionable. Philadelphia doctors were obviously a different breed from the homespun variety he’d known. “T. Emmett Rice,” he said, offering his hand.
