As he suspected would also happen as the town’s population rose and with no law in sight, men who appeared to have little interest in digging for gold themselves also showed up. These fellows were little more than skeevy thieves in the guise of gamblers, confidence men looking for a quick dollar before vanishing in the dark.
As The Last Drop was, at present, the only gambling den in town, Rollie saw most of the grubbing newcomers as they plied their trade. One good thing about them was that since they were in his establishment, he could keep them in sight. Another benefit, they all seemed to be thirsty.
He’d had a run-in with one of their ilk. Enjoyed it, too. Dressed in dusty black togs with a gray silk ascot and pocket kerchief that had been new a long time before, the man had sauntered in before everyone else. He’d glanced at Rollie then dragged a gloved fingertip across the nearest poker table, and selected a seat facing the door. He sat with his back to the side wall.
Rollie took his time lining up the washed mugs and kept his gaze pinned on the man. Within a couple of minutes, the newcomer responded as he thought he might.
“You appear to be interested in me, bartender. Should I be alarmed?”
“Not alarmed, no. But now you mention it, there is something I can’t figure out.”
“What’s that?” said the man, a slow smile spreading across his shiny face.
“I can’t figure out if you’re a pimp or a low-class gambler, or both.”
The smarmy look on the man’s face slipped. “A lesser man might be offended by what you’ve said. But I am no lesser man. I am not a man to take offense to the words of a mudslinger. No, sir. No, I say. I am a businessman seeking opportunities, no more, no less.”
“Then you should fit right in here in Boar Gulch.”
“Who are you to speak so boldly to a newly arrived, well-meaning stranger in your midst?”
Rollie snorted, taking no pains to hide the humor he found in the man’s words. “Me? I’m the owner of this establishment. As to you being newly arrived, I’ll grant you that. But well-meaning? Nah. You’re a card sharp, nothing more. I’ve seen your ilk in a hundred grimy little towns and big burgs and never have I seen one worth the effort I’m wasting on you with words.”
The man’s face became a mask of supreme indignation. He made to move, but Rollie shook his head. “I’m not through yet. Now, you are welcome to stay and play— provided you conduct yourself in a legal fashion and, of course, that you drink your share. I’m going to make certain everyone knows what you are. Then you can do what you feel you need to do. That way the good folks of Boar Gulch who are inclined to wager with you will go into the game knowing they might lose.”
The man shoved back his chair and stood, the fingertips of one hand splayed on the baize tabletop before him. With his other hand he swept back the dusty tails of his frock coat and rested his hand on his waist, above a small, holstered nickel-plate derringer.
Rollie beat him to it. The serious end of his Schofield wagged back and forth. “Not in my establishment, mister. Hand that thing over and await your prey or leave my bar. Choose. Now.”
The bar was quiet for long moments while the gambler considered all angles of play he might make. Rollie was tempted to sigh. He’d seen this behavior far too many times and it rarely ended well should the fool decide action of the sudden sort was the way to proceed. This man was smarter, albeit slightly, than he looked. He reached slowly for his derringer.
Rollie nodded. “Slower. Pinch it out and lay it on the table. Then sit down.”
The man did so and Rollie smiled as he palmed the little gun. “You’ll get it back when you decide to leave town. Now,” he holstered his revolver. “What’ll it be?”
The man was doing his best to kill Rollie with a viper-like look. It wasn’t working, and he finally realized it. He sighed. “I’d like a half bottle of decent whiskey and a glass.”
Rollie smiled a smile that offered no promise of mirth and backed behind the bar. He knew better than to show the man his back. The seedy gambler was likely packing a hideout gun and had about him the rank tinge of a back-shooter.
Over the next few hours, the man had surprised him in staying with it, shuffling and reshuffling his deck of cards, smiling as regulars dropped in. He sipped his whiskey, which Rollie insisted he pay for when he’d set it on the table. He also kept a thin smile in place as Rollie announced to each new patron that the man was a professional gambler who’d come to Boar Gulch seeking to mine the miners.
That, Rollie was certain, dissuaded a few of the weaker and poorer among his regulars from sitting down to a game with the man. Well into the evening, the man rose from what had been a weak game between himself and Bone and his slow-to-think son, Young Bone, and walked to the bar. “You win, bartender. I will pull up stakes first thing in the morning and seek my fortune elsewhere. For the night, I will camp outside of town.”
“That’s fine,” said Rollie. “Good night.”
“My gun, if you please.”
“Oh, drop in before you leave in the morning. I’ll have the coffee on. You can have your derringer then.” He smiled and let his right arm hang down by his side, a bit of a show, he knew, but he’d gotten a rise out of it.
The gambler gave him another snakelike gaze and stormed out. Stray chuckles from the other patrons followed him.
When he’d returned the next morning, Rollie had given him a cup of coffee.
“Why do you object to gambling in your saloon, sir?” said the man, sipping the hot brew and eyeing Rollie over the cup’s rim.
“I don’t object to gambling, but I do not like dishonesty and treachery, and while you didn’t display either of those two rank traits, you carry the whiff of them.”
“How on earth can you make that assumption?”
Rollie shrugged in response and sipped his coffee.
“Oh, I see. You are a lawman. Or you were. Do I know you?” The man narrowed his eyes and looked at Rollie hard.
“I doubt it.” Rollie set the man’s derringer on the bar, but kept his hand on it. “So, are you going to try your luck here again today or move on?”
“No, I’ll stick with my plan and move on.”
Rollie handed him the gun.
“And my bullets?”
Rollie shook his head. “Those I keep. You best get a start if you’re leaving the Gulch today. It’s not a quick trip to anywhere from here.”
The man made it to the door, then stopped and pointed a wagging finger at Rollie. “I swear you look familiar. It’ll come to me.”
“Feel free to write, if it comes to you.” Rollie wiped the bar, and when the man finally left, riding a sag-bellied brown horse northward down main street and out of sight, he felt relief. He suspected he’d been too rigid, but he took cold comfort in the fact that in the past he’d seen too much of what liquor and money and anger and guns and men could do when they got tangled up together.
The thought didn’t make him feel any better, only tired. And the day had barely begun.
Rollie kept a tight count on his bottles and casks, and worked out how many days he would be able to serve before running out of stock. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep a lock on being the only place of business to serve booze to the burgeoning populace, but he’d ride it as long as he was able.
Fortunately, Chauncey Wheeler was experiencing the same situation with beans, flour, coffee, and other staples of mining life. The two men worked out agreeable terms and Rollie agreed to drive the mayor’s big work wagon to the valley town of Bella Springs to fetch the vital supplies early the next morning. Wolfbait agreed to ride shotgun. As a bonus, the old buck had his own weapon, though he didn’t seem hale enough to Rollie to heft a double scattergun. But, two beat one.
All he had to do was pin Nosey down to committing to tend the bar. If not, he would shut the doors for the day. Chauncey had assured him if they left at first light they could return with the laden supply wagon by dark. A long day, but a vital trip
for them all.
The northeast road, he’d been told once more, was in far smoother condition than the one he’d taken to get there. Rollie limped back to the bar and asked Wolfbait where Nosey’s claim was located. “Up yonder of a hill and down again. Odd spot. But then again he’s an odd fellow, is Nosey Parker.”
“Okay, but how would I get there?”
“Bah, I’ll go fetch him. Easier than yammering all day about it.” He slid off his polished stool and ambled to the door.
“Thanks, Wolfbait.”
In reply, Rollie received a grunt and the sound of the old man blowing his nose into the big, grimy red hanky that always trailed from his back pocket like a tail.
Rollie nipped out back for a quick visit to the outhouse. When he walked back inside, he was faced with two large men, half again as tall as Rollie and twice as wide, identical in appearance save for the various tears in their mammoth bib overalls. They stood inside the front door of the bar, grinning and pointing twin converted cap-and-ball pistols at him.
Rollie grabbed for his Schofield, which rode on his hips from waking until he retired to his bed. Both the grinning twins thumbed back their hammers. The one on Rollie’s left shook his head. The other said in a high, thin voice that surprised Rollie, “No, no, mister-man.”
Rollie stayed his hand, a claw in the air an inch from his holster.
“You be Finnegan.”
It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer. Not that he would have anyway.
They advanced on Rollie, the other brother spoke in that same high voice. “Toss that away.” He wagged the snout of the pistol, indicating Rollie’s gun.
“Like hell,” said Rollie.
They kept grinning and moving forward. They split, one angled behind Rollie, the other stopped in front of him. Closer, the stink wafting off the two grimy beasts was awful, like they’d rolled in a week-old skunk carcass. Rollie’s eyes teared and he fought to keep from grabbing his nose. He wasn’t certain he could prevent retching, though.
Their dirt-caked hair hung in slick, waxy clumps like yarn dragged through the mud. Their fleshy faces were accented with creases packed with grime. Tobacco juice stained their lips and mouth corners, trailing down in runnels where they’d drooled as they chewed. Painful-looking green-and-blackened stumps jutted where their teeth should be.
Rollie backed up, trying to keep both men in view, but he was too far from the door to his room. The man behind him was quick, quicker than Rollie thought a large, fat brute had a right to be. The stranger snaked a thick hand out and snatched Rollie’s Schofield, shucked it clean out of his holster. Rollie felt only vanishing steel as it whisked by his own grabbing fingertips.
The man before him stepped closer, the gagging reek clouding off him in waves. High on the man’s chest, Rollie saw clusters of pimples on the skin flecked with dirt. Breasts larger than those of many women sagged out from behind the man’s coveralls and jiggled as he moved.
A quick movement behind him caused Rollie to shuffle sideways—what they wanted. The one he couldn’t see brought a hand down and Rollie pulled away. His reflexes were good, not what they once were, but thanks to the long days of labor, they were better than they’d been in months. He ducked low as the unseen blow glanced off his head. He felt hot pain above his ear, but knew it could have been worse. It was all they needed.
The one before him had holstered his pistol and wrapped a filthy arm around him, locking Rollie’s head in flesh and suffocating him with soft, stinking fat. Rollie clawed, tore at the tightening arm, pinched, tried to pull out handfuls of meat, anything. Nothing seemed to slow the viselike squeezing. He would black out soon.
He grabbed the arm with both hands and, suspending himself from it, kicked hard backward with his boot heels. Once, twice, connecting each time with what had to be the fat giant’s legs. The squeezing lessened and the man dropped Rollie, who fell to the floor, holding his head, one leg bent beneath him. He gasped from the pain in his gamy leg and from the squeezing he’d received.
Wheezing laughter came from two high-pitched voices, and he saw the man who’d been behind him. The savage muscled onto Rollie’s shoulder and lifted him like a child’s doll off the floor, then shook him. The laughter continued. Rollie lashed out with hands and feet, his wounds aching him as if hot pokers were held to each spot. But he used them to keep his mind clear and intent on somehow defeating these two brutes. He’d worry about who they were and why they were attacking him later. If there was a later.
One flailing fist landed a lucky blind punch, and he felt the fleshy grip loosen, and thought he heard an “Oof!” as air left the pig’s body. Rollie repeated the move over and over and thought he might have made a success of it. But as quick as the brute tossed him down, the other scooped him up.
And so it went for what felt like hours to Rollie, but he knew was mere seconds. One of the massive twins shook and squeezed him only to have Rollie flail in some lucky sequence, landing blow enough to gain a momentary reprieve while the other fat savage scooped him up to exert yet another round of pummeling.
He heard a voice, a familiar one, and saw from between two rolls of fat, Nosey Parker standing in the saloon doorway, staring at them all.
“What are you three doing? This is no place for a wrestling match. You want to do that, take it out of doors. You should know better, Mr. Finnegan!”
“Aha!” shouted one of the twins.
“It is him!” shouted the other.
“Of course it’s him, you moron,” said Nosey, walking behind the bar and hanging his hat and coat on a hook. He turned, walked back out from behind the bar, straightened his vest, and shrieked, assuming a low defensive pose, moving his hands slowly before him, which he held in curved, bladelike shapes.
He advanced on the three men, chopping the air and howling louder than ever in a lingo Rollie had never heard. He wasn’t sure it was a language. He didn’t really care, but at that moment he sure wished Nosey carried a gun. The man was weird, but at least he was game.
The twin Rollie had been floundering with, trying to pull free of, whipped him around in a circle, avoiding the advancing Nosey. This seemed to suit the odd man fine, for he focused his shrieking, hand-chopping efforts on the other twin. He’d advanced within three feet of the grinning big man when Nosey launched himself at him.
Rollie wasted no time in renewing his thrashing, kicking, pummeling efforts, reigniting the stalled, sweaty dance. He winced as he heard wood crack and splinter as they flailed around the barroom, knocking into the spindly furniture. If he could get the man down on the floor he could drive his thumbs into the fat man’s eyes, distract him enough somehow to steal the man’s pistol and end this foolishness.
He caught quick glimpses of Nosey grappling with the other fat man and heard one of the little man’s hair-raising shrieks pinch off in a gag as the fat man muffled him by stuffing Nosey’s face under his armpit. Poor kid, thought Rollie as he landed a decent kick at his twin’s crotch. The sloppy beast never lost his grin and kept coming. Rollie gave him another kick, and a third. That did the trick. The fat man slowed his progress, his demented smile slipped a little bit, and his fat lips parted. He let loose with a squeal such as a giant pig might make.
Meanwhile, a crowd of regulars clustered on the street outside. They stared at the tent and plank structure, wincing and clamping hands over their mouths as another round of crashes and howls rose from within.
“Somebody should do something,” one of them said, but none made a move.
More people joined them.
Among them was a solidly built, bone and muscle black man with short salt-and-pepper hair partially covered by an aged brown bowler. He wore patched denim overalls, toted a ratty satchel over one shoulder, and smoked a corncob pipe. If the commotion inside the bar hadn’t been in play, he would have received that afternoon’s full attention, but he was given little more than sideways glances. He regarded the vibrating saloon with the rest of the crowd.
<
br /> He pointed with his pipe stem. “Any of you seen two huge, lookalike white boys, dumb as stumps and smelling worse than goats?”
A high-pitched squeal rose up from inside.
“Never mind. I found ’em.” He walked up the steps as if he’d been there before, opened the door, walked on in, then closed the door behind him. “Well now,” he said, assessing the scene before him.
A young man was laid out on the floor, either dead or knocked cold. His nose appeared to have been broken. With gun drawn, the fat man he’d been wrassling was advancing on a trim, north of middle age, bearded man with a fancy mustache, who was otherwise engaged in playing slap and tickle with the other fat twin.
“Damn you Dickey boys,” muttered the black man, shaking his head as he unclasped his satchel.
The fat man thumbed back the hammer on his pistol and was about to squeeze the trigger and blow a hole in Rollie’s back when the newcomer reached into his satchel and with a deft move in the bag’s depths, cocked and triggered a sawed-off Greener.
It blasted a ragged, smoking hole through the end of his satchel and made an even bigger mess of the back-shooting twin’s massive belly. The shot punched the big, slop-bellied beast backward, squealing like a knife-stuck hog on slaughter day. He slid, then skidded to a stop in a greasy smear of blood, his arms and legs raking feebly in the air.
“Stings, don’t it?” said the black man, his lips tight to his teeth in a grimace. He swung the satchel around on the second twin, but the bearded man was in the way. He sidestepped this way, then that for a cleaner view, but found no clear trail to the second twin.
Rollie used the distraction of the shotgun blast to snatch the pistol from his adversary’s low-hanging holster. He cranked back on the pistol’s hammer and jammed it into the sagging gut before him. As soon as it sunk in good and deep, he pulled the trigger.
The mountain of flesh seized, stiffening—as much as was possible for such a pile of fat—and a high-pitched squeal leaked from the man’s mouth, much like the last sound wheezing out from the lips of his brother. Blood and tobacco spittle drooled from his maw and he began to lean.
By the Neck Page 6
