Blood on the Divide

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’d never get away with it,” Ace said.

  “Won’t I? Why do you think none of the crew has come to see what all the commotion’s about? I told the chief steward I’d be dealing with some cheap troublemakers – in my own way – and he promised he’d make sure I wasn’t interrupted. You see” – the red-faced man chuckled – “I’m not involved with just the railroad. I own part of this riverboat line as well.”

  Ace and Chance exchanged a glance. If the man shot them, his hired ruffians could toss their bodies into the midnight-dark Missouri River and no one would know they were gone until morning. It was entirely possible that a man of such wealth and influence wouldn’t even be questioned about the disappearance of a couple drifting nobodies.

  But things weren’t going to get that far.

  Ace said in a hard voice that belied his youth, “That only works if you’re able to shoot both of us, mister. Problem is, while you’re killing one of us, the other one is going to kill you.”

  The man’s eyes widened. He blustered, “How dare you threaten me like that?”

  “Didn’t you just threaten to kill us?” asked Chance. “My brother’s right. You’re not fast enough ... and your nerves aren’t steady enough ... for you to get both of us. You’ll be dead a heartbeat after you pull the trigger.”

  The man’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace. “Maybe I’m willing to take that risk.”

  Well, that was a problem, all right, thought Ace. Stubborn pride had been the death of many a man, and it looked like that was about to contribute to at least one more.

  Then a new voice said, “Krauss, I guarantee that even if you’re lucky enough to kill these two young men, you won’t be able to stop me from putting a bullet in your head.”

  The rich man’s gaze flicked to a newcomer who’d stepped out of the shadows cloaking the deck in places. Wearing a light-colored suit and hat, he was easy to see. Starlight glinted on the barrel of the revolver he held in a rock-steady fist.

  “Drake!” exclaimed Krauss. “Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”

  “I think it is.” Drake’s voice was a lazy drawl, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath the casual tone. “Ace and Chance are friends of mine.”

  Krauss sneered. “You wouldn’t dare shoot me.”

  “Think about some of the things you know about me,” said Steve Drake, “then make that statement again.”

  Krauss licked his lips. He looked around at his men, who were starting to recover from the battle with the Jensen brothers. “Don’t just lie there!” he snapped at them. “Get up and deal with this!”

  One of the men sat up, shook his head, and winced from the pain the movement caused him. “Mr. Krauss, we don’t want to tangle with Drake. Rumor says he’s killed seven men.”

  “Rumor sometimes underestimates,” said Steve Drake with an easy smile.

  “You’re worthless!” Krauss raged. “You’re all fired!”

  “I’d rather be fired than dead,” one of the other men mumbled.

  Steve Drake gestured with the gun in his hand and told Ace and Chance, “Stand up, boys.”

  The brothers got to their feet. Chance reached inside his coat to a pocket and brought out a gold turnip watch with an attached chain and fob. “I don’t want to have to be looking over my shoulder for you the rest of my life, mister. This watch isn’t worth that.”

  “You mean you’ll give it back to me?” asked Krauss.

  Ace could tell from the man’s tone that he was eager to resolve the situation without any more violence, now that it appeared he might well be one of the victims.

  “I mean I’ll sell it back to you,” said Chance.

  Krauss started to puff up again like an angry frog. “I’m not going to buy back my own watch!”

  “I won it from you fair and square,” Chance reminded him. “Unless you think I cheated you ...” His voice trailed off in an implied threat.

  Krauss shook his head. “I never said that. I suppose you won fair and square.” That admission was clearly difficult for him to make. “What do you want for the watch?”

  “Well, since it came from a famous man, I reckon it must have quite a bit of sentimental value to you. I was thinking ... five hundred dollars.”

  “Five hun – ” Krauss stopped short and controlled an angry response with a visible effort. “I don’t have that kind of money on me at the moment. That’s why I put up the watch as stakes in the game.”

  Steve Drake said, “We’ll be docking at Kansas City in the morning. I’m sure you can send a wire to your bank in St. Louis and get your hands on the cash. That’s the only fair thing to do, don’t you think? After all, you set your men like a pack of wild dogs on to these boys, and then you threatened to murder them and have their bodies thrown in the river like so much trash. You owe them at least that much.”

  “Nobody’s going to take their word over mine,” said Krauss, trying one last bluff.

  “Captain Foley will take my word,” Drake said. “We’ve known each other for ten years, and I’ve done a few favors for him in the past. He knows I wouldn’t lie to him. You wouldn’t want it getting around that you were ready to resort to murder over something as petty as a poker game, would you? Seems to me that would be bad for business.”

  “All right, all right.” Krauss stuck the pistol back under his coat. “It’s a deal. Five hundred dollars for the watch.”

  “Deal,” Chance said.

  The rich man laughed. “The watch is worth twice that. You should have held out for more.”

  “I don’t care how much it is. I just want you to pay to get it back.”

  Krauss snorted in contempt, turned, and stalked off along the deck. His men followed him, even though he had fired them. Evidently that dismissal wouldn’t last, and they knew it.

  A man with a temper like Krauss’s probably fired people right and left and then expected them to come right back to work for him once he cooled off, Ace reflected.

  Once Krauss and the others were gone, the Jensen boys joined Steve Drake, who tucked away his gun under his jacket and strolled over to the railing to gaze out at the broad, slow-moving Missouri River.

  The gambler put a thin black cheroot in his mouth and snapped a match to life with his thumbnail. As he set fire to the gasper, the glare from the lucifer sent garish red light over the rugged planes of his craggy face under the cream-colored Stetson.

  “We’re obliged to you, Mr. Drake,” Ace said. “You’re making a habit out of pulling our fat out of the fire.”

  “Yeah,” Chance added. “If you hadn’t come along when you did, we might’ve had to kill that obnoxious tub of lard.”

  “Krauss’s gun was already in his hand,” Steve Drake pointed out, “and yours were in your holsters. He might have gotten one of you, just like you said.”

  “Yeah, and he might have missed completely,” said Chance. “We wouldn’t have had any choice but to drill him, though.”

  “And then we would have been in all kinds of trouble,” put in Ace. “The odds of hanging are a lot higher if you kill a rich man instead of a poor one.”

  “You sound like you have a low opinion of justice,” said Steve Drake with a chuckle.

  “No, I just know how things work in this world.”

  The gambler shrugged and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You may be right. We all remember what happened back in St. Louis, don’t we?”

  Chapter Two

  St. Louis, three days earlier

  Neither Ace nor Chance was in awe of St. Louis. They had seen big cities before. Traveling with Doc Monday when they were younger had taken them to Denver, San Francisco, New Orleans, and San Antonio so the buildings crowded together and the throngs of people in the streets were nothing new to the Jensen brothers.

  It had been a while since they’d set foot in such a place. They reacted to it totally differently.

  Chance looked around with a smile of anticipation on his face as they ro
de along the street, moving slowly because of all the people, horses, wagons, and buggies. He was at home in cities, liked the hubbub, enjoyed seeing all the different sorts of people.

  Because Doc Monday, their surrogate father, made his living as a gambler, he had spent most of his time in settlements. That was where the saloons were, after all. And although Doc had tried to keep the boys out of such places as much as possible while they were growing up, it was inevitable that they had spent a great deal of time in those establishments.

  Chance had taken to that life, but Ace had reacted in just the opposite manner. He didn’t like being hemmed in and preferred the outdoors. He would rather be out riding the range any day, instead of being stuck in a saloon breathing smoky air and listening to the slap of cards and the raucous laughter of the customers. If he had to spend time in a settlement, the smaller ones were better than the big cities. To Ace’s way of thinking, a slower pace and more peaceful was better.

  Ever since Doc had gone off to a sanitarium for a rest cure, the boys had been on their own, and they had packed a lot of adventurous living into a relatively short amount of time. Chance was always happy when they drifted into a town, while Ace was ready to leave again as soon as they replenished their supplies and his brother had an opportunity to win enough money to keep them solvent for a while.

  St Louis was the farthest east they had been in their travels, with the exception of New Orleans. There was no particular reason they were there, other than Chance deciding that he’d wanted to see St. Louis.

  Ace figured Chance might have assumed St. Louis was like New Orleans, the city he loved, with its moss-dripping trees, its old, fancy buildings, its music, its food, its saloons and gambling halls, and especially its beautiful women. After all, both cities were on the Mississippi River.

  He seemed somewhat disappointed in their present surroundings, which led him to look around and ask, “Is this it? A bunch of people and businesses?”

  “That’s generally what a big city is,” Ace reminded him.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t even smell good! In fact, it smells sort of like ... dead fish.”

  “That’s the waterfront,” Ace said with a smile. “New Orleans smelled like that in a lot of places, too. You just didn’t notice it because you liked all the other things that were there.”

  “Maybe,” said Chance, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “I guess we’d better find a place to stay. We’ve still got enough in our poke for that, haven’t we?”

  Chance grunted. “Yeah.”

  Something else caught his attention and he pointed to a large saloon with a sign on the awning over the boardwalk out front announcing its name. RED MIKE’S. “I think we should have a look inside that place first.”

  The place took up most of the block on that side of the street. A balcony ran along the second floor. Ace wouldn’t have been surprised to see scantily clad women hanging over the railing of that balcony, enticing customers to come up, but it was empty at the moment.

  The hitch rails in front of the saloon were packed. The Jensen brothers found space to squeeze in their horses and dismounted, looping the reins around the rail. Chance bounded eagerly onto the boardwalk with Ace following at a more deliberate pace. He would have preferred finding a place to stay first, maybe even getting something to eat, but once Chance felt the call of potential excitement, it wasn’t easy to stop him from answering.

  Considering the number of horses tied up outside, Red Mike’s was crowded with customers. Men of all shapes, sizes, and types lined up at the bar and filled the tables. Ace saw buckskin-clad old-timers and burly men in canvas trousers, homespun shirts, and thick-soled shoes who probably worked on the docks or the riverboats. Also in attendance were cowboys in boots, spurs, and high-crowned hats, frock-coated gamblers who reminded him of Doc, and meek, suit-wearing townsmen.

  Circulating among the men were women in low-cut, spangled dresses that came down only to their knees. Some of them looked fresh and innocent despite the provocative garb, while others were starting to show lines of age and weariness on their painted faces. All of them sported professional smiles as they delivered drinks, bantered with the customers, and occasionally perched on someone’s knee to flirt for a minute before moving on.

  In each front corner of the big room was a platform with steps leading up to it. A man holding a Winchester across his knees sat on a ladder-back chair on each platform. They were there to stop any trouble before it got started.

  The tactic seemed to be working, While Red Mike’s place was loud, even boisterous, it was peaceful enough in the saloon. Everyone seemed to be getting along.

  Ace leaned closer to his brother and said over the hubbub, “It’s too busy in here. We’d better move along and come back later.”

  “No, there’s a place at the bar,” Chance replied, pointing. “Come on.”

  Ace followed, unwilling to let Chance stay by himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his brother, but sometimes Chance could be impulsive, even reckless ... especially in such surroundings.

  They weaved through the crowd to the bar. By the time they got there, the space Chance had noticed was smaller than it had been. There was still room for one of the brothers, but not both of them.

  That didn’t stop Chance from wedging his way into the opening and then using a shoulder to make it wider by pushing one of the flanking men aside. Ace winced a little when he saw that, because he knew what was liable to happen next.

  Chance turned his head and beckoned to his brother. “Come on, Ace. There’s room now.”

  No sooner were those words out of his mouth than a big hand clamped down on his shoulder and jerked him around. The man Chance had nudged aside glared down into his face and demanded in a loud voice, “Who do you think you are, boy?”

  “My name’s Chance Jensen,” Chance said coolly. “If this is a formal introduction, you can go ahead and tell me your name.”

  The man ignored that. “You can’t just push a man around like that and expect to get away with it, boy. You done left school too early. You ain’t been taught all the lessons you need.”

  “From the sound of it, I have considerably more education than you do.”

  The big man’s face darkened with anger. He was several inches taller than Chance, about the same height as Ace, and probably weighed fifty or sixty pounds more than either brother. His rough clothes and a shapeless hat jammed down on a thatch of dark hair indicated that he probably worked on the docks. Not the sort of hombre to mess with unless it was absolutely necessary, that was for sure.

  The man leaned closer and growled. “Listen to me, you little son of a – ”

  Ace managed to get a shoulder between the two of them and said quickly, “My brother and I aren’t looking for any trouble, sir. Maybe we can patch this up by buying you a drink.”

  Chance began, “We don’t have enough money to throw it away buying drinks for – ”

  Whatever Chance was about to say, it wasn’t going to help matters any, Ace knew. He pushed in between them harder, which made Chance take a step back and bump into the man behind him.

  Being jostled made the man spill his beer down the front of his shirt. With an angry shout, the fellow twisted around, brandishing the now-empty mug like a weapon. “What in blazes?” he roared. “I’m gonna – ”

  The place went quiet, but not because of the man’s shout.

  Ace heard the familiar sound of a rifle’s lever being worked and glanced around to see that both men on the elevated platforms in the front corners of the room were on their feet. Their Winchesters were socketed firmly against their shoulders, and the barrels were leveled at the group involved in the confrontation at the bar.

  The dockworker who’d been glaring at the Jensen boys swallowed hard and unclenched his big fists. “Blast it, Mike. Tell those killers o’ yours to hold their fire.”

  A man wearing a gray tweed suit moved along the bar until he was across the hardwood from Ace
, Chance, and the other two men. He was short and broad and the color and coarseness of his hair made it resemble rusty nails. “You know the rules, Dave. No fighting in here. My grandfather didn’t allow brawling and neither did my father. Neither do I.”

  Dave glowered at Chance and accused, “This obnoxious little sprout started it, not me.”

  “Obnoxious,” repeated Chance. “That’s a longer word than I thought you’d be able to handle.”

  From the corner of his mouth, Ace told his brother, “Just be quiet, all right?”

  Chance looked offended, but Ace ignored him.

  “Sorry for causing trouble,” Ace went on to the man on the other side of the bar. Judging by the man’s attitude and the fact that the dockworker had called him Mike, Ace figured he was the owner of the place, Red Mike himself. “We just wanted to get a quick drink, and then we’ll be moving on.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Chance. “I might like it here. I don’t so far, not particularly, but I might.”

  Mike nodded to the brothers and asked the two offended parties, “If these youngsters were to apologize, would that take care of the problem?”

  “Hell, no,” replied the man who had spilled his drink when Chance jostled him.

  Mike pointed a blunt thumb toward the batwings. “Then there’s the door. Get out.”

  The man stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kickin’ me out? I wasn’t doin’ anything but standin’ here enjoyin’ a beer when this little piss-ant made me spill it all over myself!”

  “Come back tomorrow and your first drink is on me,” Mike said. “That’s the best offer you’re going to get, Wilson.”

  The man glared and muttered for a moment, then snapped, “All right, fine.” He thumped the empty mug on the bar with more force than necessary, then turned and walked out of the saloon, bulling past anybody who was in his way.

  “Now, how about you, Dave?” Mike went on. “Will an apology do for you?”

  “No,” the dockworker said coldly. “It won’t. But I don’t want those sharpshooters of yours blowin’ my brains out, so I’ll leave. I reckon that same free drink offer applies to me, too?”