The Loner: Rattlesnake Valley

by J. A. Johnstone

  Or maybe Breck and Early really were just a couple of troublemaking oafs, as Sophia had called them. The Kid couldn’t be sure. Either way, they might have killed him if the woman hadn’t stepped in.

  He smiled at her as he stepped onto the boardwalk. “I’m much obliged to you for your help,” he told her. “I think I could have handled those two, but it would have been quite a chore.”

  She lowered the Colt, gave him a scornful look, and snorted. “A skinny hombre like you? They would have busted you to pieces, mister.”

  The Kid suppressed a surge of irritation. “Can I buy you a drink to show my gratitude?”

  She turned toward the batwings, saying, “You don’t have to buy me a drink. I own the place.”

  “Then I’ll buy one for the house and increase your profits.”

  That offer made her pause and look back over her shoulder at him. “I never refuse to take cash from a paying customer. Come on in, Mister…?”

  “Morgan,” he supplied.

  Sophia pushed the batwings aside and called to one of the three bartenders behind the hardwood, “Drinks all around, Fergus, on Mr. Morgan here!”

  A cheer went up from the saloon’s patrons, many of whom had crowded up to the front windows to watch the fight. The three bartenders began to set up drinks for the house.

  Sophia walked along the bar, pausing to shove the Colt Navy into the empty holster of a man standing there. “Thanks for the loan of the hogleg, Dandy,” she told him.

  He snatched his shapeless old hat off and said, “You’re mighty welcome, Miss Sophia. Would you really have shot them fellas if they didn’t do like you told them?”

  Sophia smiled. “What do you think?”

  Dandy gulped nervously. “I think I would’ve done just exactly what you said, ma’am!”

  That brought laughter from the men around him. Sophia looked back at The Kid again and coolly crooked a finger for him to follow her. He glanced around the saloon as he did so. The Rattler’s Den looked like a profitable establishment. A long, gleaming hardwood bar with a huge mirror behind it, busy poker games and a spinning roulette wheel, tables crowded with drinkers, crystal chandeliers…The place had success written all over it, and in the rugged frontier community, it was hard to believe that a woman owned it, and such a young and attractive woman to boot.

  The Kid followed Sophia through a door at the end of the bar. It opened into a short hallway with several more doors. She swung one of them back and revealed a comfortably furnished office with a big desk and chairs upholstered in red Moroccan leather behind and in front of it. She closed the door and motioned for The Kid to take a seat in front of the desk while she went behind it.

  “Do you invite all your customers back here to your private office?” The Kid asked as he sank into the leather chair and casually cocked his right ankle on his left knee.

  “Only the ones I find interesting,” Sophia said. She leaned back in her chair and swiveled it slightly from side to side. “You don’t look like the sort of saddle tramp or grub line rider who usually drifts into Bristol, Mr. Morgan.”

  “You don’t look like most of the saloon owners I’ve run into, either,” he said. “They tend to have jowls, muttonchop whiskers, and big red noses.”

  Amusement danced in her astonishing green eyes. She had a tiny beauty mark just to the left of her mouth. At first glance, The Kid had taken her to be very young. He would have said that she was barely out of her teens. Now he saw that she was somewhat older than that, twenty-five or twenty-six, maybe. That was still awfully young for her to be running a saloon.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I could ask the same thing of you.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Making money hand over fist, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “I just meant that it’s unusual to find a woman—”

  She held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t start on that. You’re probably like everybody else. You think I ought to find myself a man, settle down, and start popping out babies. Well, that’s not going to happen.” Her husky voice hardened. “Ever.”

  The Kid shrugged. “That’s none of my business. I was just commenting on the fact that there aren’t many saloonkeepers like you.”

  “You were avoiding my question, that’s what you were doing. What brings you to Bristol?”

  “Just passing through,” The Kid said.

  “And if I said I don’t believe you?”

  “I’d say it’s not considered polite to call a man a liar,” The Kid pointed out. “A woman in the saloon business probably ought to know that.”

  She appeared to be annoyed. The Kid figured that with her good looks, she was accustomed to having men falling all over themselves to give her anything she wanted. The fact that he seemed immune to her charms—even though he was well aware of them—probably bothered her.

  “That gun on your hip,” she said abruptly. “Are you any good with it?”

  “Good enough to have stayed alive this long.”

  “What would you have done if Breck and Early had slapped leather instead of starting that rough-and-tumble? Could you have killed them both?”

  “I don’t reckon we’ll ever know, will we?”

  He could tell that she was getting more put out with him by the minute. What was the purpose of all these questions, he wondered. Was it possible that she had taken him for a professional gunman and wanted to hire him, like Diana Starbird had tried to do?

  The answer to that question would have to wait. The door behind The Kid opened, and instinct brought him out of the chair as a man said, “Sophia, I wanted to—”

  The newcomer stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise and alarm as he found himself staring down the barrel of The Kid’s Colt.

  Chapter 14

  “Mr. Morgan!” Sophia said from behind the desk. “Don’t shoot! He’s a friend.”

  The man who had come into Sophia’s office ventured an uncertain smile as he said, “I’ll echo that sentiment. Please don’t shoot me.”

  The Kid lowered the gun and took his finger off the trigger. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Habit.”

  “A rather dangerous one for those who find themselves around you, I’d say.”

  The Kid holstered his gun and narrowed his eyes. “Most people don’t sneak up behind me more than once,” he said.

  “Jefferson didn’t sneak up on you,” Sophia said. “He came into my office to see me. And while it would be preferable if he knocked in the future”—she gave the newcomer a look—“he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Sorry, Sophia, about not knocking,” the man said. He wore spectacles, and they had slipped down a little on his nose. He put a finger on them and pushed them up again. “It’s just that I heard people talking about how you were out in the street waving a gun around a short time ago, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine. A couple of Malone’s hard cases were making nuisances of themselves again and brawling with Mr. Morgan here. I sent them packing.”

  A look of dislike came over the man’s face at the mention of Malone’s name. “I see,” he said.

  “Mr. Morgan, this is Jefferson Parnell. Jefferson, Mr. Morgan. I’m afraid I don’t know his first name.”

  Parnell extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan…especially since you’re not pointing that gun at me anymore.”

  The Kid noticed dark stains on Parnell’s fingers. “You’re a newspaperman, are you?”

  Parnell looked surprised. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know I’m…Oh. The ink stains.” He grinned. “Occupational hazard.”

  The Kid shook hands with him. Parnell had a strong grip. He was a big man, a couple of inches taller than The Kid and broad across the shoulders. His dark hair was rumpled, and several strands fell across his forehead. He pushed them back with his left hand, and The Kid got the impression that was sort of a nervous habit with the man, like pushing his glasse
s back up his nose.

  Parnell didn’t look like a journalist. As big and strong as he was, he looked more like he ought to be swinging a pick in a mine or wrestling a load of freight onto a wagon.

  The Kid knew you couldn’t judge a man by appearances, though. Some of the deadliest gunmen in the West were small and mild-looking, more like clerks than killers. He himself didn’t look like a former business tycoon who was still a very rich man.

  “If you were mixed up in that trouble, maybe I could get an interview with you, Mr. Morgan,” Parnell went on.

  The Kid shook his head. “I’m not interested in being in the paper. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Morgan’s just passing through,” Sophia said. “At least, that’s what he claims.” She pulled the purple plume out of her hair and toyed with it. “Personally, I think he’s another hired gun that Malone has imported.”

  The Kid looked around at her with a frown. “I thought you said those men I had trouble with, Breck and Early, work for Malone.”

  “They do,” Sophia said. “But you just got into town. You didn’t know them, and they didn’t know you. All of Malone’s men are sons of bitches. Trouble follows them around.” She smiled. “Is that an accurate description of you, Mr. Morgan?”

  Unfortunately, it was, The Kid thought, but not for the reasons she meant.

  “I’m not a hired gun.”

  “Judging by what I saw a few minutes ago, you’re fast enough on the draw to be one,” Jefferson Parnell said.

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Parnell’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “If you say so.”

  “Who’s this fellow Malone you keep talking about, anyway?” The Kid thought he might as well try to get any information they might have.

  Parnell perched a hip on the corner of the desk and reached into his coat to bring out a pipe. He didn’t fill it or light it, just fiddled with it in his long, ink-stained fingers. “Terence Malone,” he said. “He has a ranch near here.”

  “But that’s not all he is,” Sophia said. “Or all he used to be, I should say. He was a pirate. Black Terence Malone, they called him in those days.”

  “A pirate?” The Kid repeated, trying to sound as if he didn’t already know all of this. “You mean like from a storybook? The Jolly Roger and the bounding main, all that?”

  Parnell said, “There was nothing fanciful about his career, Mr. Morgan. He and his crew of brig-ands looted and sunk a number of ships in the Caribbean. Malone was a very dangerous man…and he still is.”

  “How do you know about this?”

  “From another rancher named Owen Starbird,” Parnell explained. “Starbird is a former British naval officer who hunted Malone down and put him in prison.”

  “Then what’s Malone doing here in Rattlesnake Valley?”

  “He served his sentence and was released,” Parnell said.

  The Kid nodded as if he had just figured out something. “And he came here to settle his old score with this fella Starbird.”

  “According to Starbird, that’s the case. Malone tells a different story.”

  “What does Malone say?” The Kid didn’t figure he would put much credence in Malone’s version of the situation in the valley, but he wanted to hear it anyway.

  “He claims he just came to the valley to settle down and make a new life for himself. But if that were true, why would he bring some of his old pirate crew with him?”

  The Kid made his voice sound dubious. “He brought more pirates with him?”

  Parnell nodded solemnly. “That’s right. He hired a number of gunmen, too. Hard cases like someone would hire to fight a range war. I’m sure that’s why Miss Kincaid here thought you’d come to Rattlesnake Valley to work for Malone.”

  “So I look like a hard case,” The Kid said dryly.

  Sophia said, “You got that Colt out of its holster in a mighty big hurry. What are we supposed to think?”

  “Just because a man knows how to use a gun doesn’t mean it’s for hire.”

  The young woman’s lovely bare shoulders lifted and fell as she said, “I meant no offense.” She looked like she had made up her mind about something. As she rose to her feet, she went on, “You bought a drink for the house, Mr. Morgan. Why don’t you let me buy one for you?”

  “And then?” The Kid asked.

  “And then you can go on about your business.”

  A faint smile tugged at The Kid’s mouth. “You’re kicking me out of your saloon?”

  “Not at all. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I just don’t want to keep you from doing anything you want to do. You should come and go as you please. Do we understand each other?”

  The Kid nodded slowly. “I think we do.”

  He stood up as well, and Jefferson Parnell straightened from his casual pose leaning against the desk. The Kid turned toward the door, then paused.

  “Since it was two of Malone’s men I had trouble with, maybe I’d better ask you if there are any more of his men out there who might be holding a grudge against me.”

  “Because of that ruckus with Breck and Early?” Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know who might have come in while we’ve been back here talking, but I don’t recall seeing any more of Malone’s men in the saloon when the fight started.”

  That was interesting, but The Kid carefully kept his face expressionless. At first he’d been certain that Breck and Early were the ones who had bushwhacked him and his companions at the river. Then, when he had discovered that neither of their mounts had that nicked horseshoe, he had speculated that the actual bushwhackers had sent two more of Malone’s men after him.

  Now, based on what Sophia had just said, it began to appear as if the bushwhackers hadn’t come to the Rattler’s Den at all when they reached Bristol. They might be anywhere in the settlement, or they might not have ridden into town at all.

  He was going to have to work on becoming a better tracker, The Kid told himself. Given the sort of life he led, he couldn’t afford to have dangerous enemies slip away from him once he was on their trail.

  Of course, he couldn’t learn everything at once. He didn’t have the sort of seasoning and experience that most frontiersmen did. So far he had been getting by on instinct and his natural ability with a gun. However, it took more than that to ride the lonely trails and survive. His father was living proof of that.

  Those thoughts went through The Kid’s mind as he nodded to Sophia and said, “Much obliged.” He slid a hand in his pocket and brought out a double eagle. “Is this enough to cover that round of drinks I bought for the house?”

  She nodded. He tossed the coin on the desk, where it bounced and clinked. Then he turned and left the office.

  Parnell hurried after him. “Don’t mind Sophia,” the big newspaperman said. “She can be a little hard to get along with sometimes. It’s because she has to put up such a tough front in order to make folks take her seriously. Not many women own businesses, you know, and certainly not saloons.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” The Kid allowed as he and Parnell went in to the main room of the Rattler’s Den. “How’d she come by the place?”

  Parnell shook his head. “I don’t really know. I’ve only been in Bristol about six months myself, and even though Sophia and I have become friends, I don’t really feel like I can ask her personal questions, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” The Kid drawled. “She might bite your head off if you did.”

  He went to the long, hardwood bar and found an empty space. Parnell moved in beside him, and as one of the bartenders came over, the newspaperman said, “Miss Kincaid offered to buy Mr. Morgan here a drink, Fergus.”

  The stocky bartender frowned skeptically at them. “Is that so?” He glanced along the bar and his demeanor changed. From the corner of his eye, The Kid saw that Sophia had emerged from the office as well, and he knew she must have nodded to the bartender. The man put his hands on the bar and asked, “What’ll you h
ave, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Beer’s fine,” The Kid said, “as long as it’s cold.”

  “Coldest you’ll find in this part of the country,” Fergus declared. “Just one more reason the Rattler’s Den is the best saloon this side of El Paso.”

  Considering the vast, empty stretches of West Texas where settlements were few and far between, that might not be such an impressive boast, The Kid thought.

  The bartender drew the beer and set it in front of The Kid. Parnell ordered one, too. He seemed determined to make friendly conversation. The Kid suspected that Parnell was still angling for a story for his newspaper. If that was the case, he was going to be disappointed. As long as Parnell was being talkative, The Kid intended to get information, not give it.

  “Tell me more about this so-called pirate Malone, and the man he came here to get revenge on,” he suggested.

  Parnell was glad to comply. For the next several minutes, as they sipped their beers, Parnell told the same story that The Kid had heard from Diana Starbird: how George Starbird had settled in Rattlesnake Valley, uncovered the springs that fed the river, and turned the place into an oasis in the middle of the West Texas badlands. The rest of the yarn spun out the same, with Owen Starbird immigrating to Texas from England, and Black Terence Malone evidently following with the desire for dark and bloody vengeance in his heart.

  “If everybody knows about this, how can Malone get away with what he’s been doing?” The Kid asked.

  “A little matter of proof,” Parnell replied. “The Starbird ranch, Diamondback, has lost some cattle to rustlers, and somebody has taken potshots at the ranch hands, but no one has ever actually seen Malone or his men doing such things.”

  “I’m surprised the people in these parts put up with that. Don’t the citizens here in town care what’s going on?”

  Parnell grunted. “Even if they did care, they’d be too scared of Malone to do anything about it. You can’t expect a bunch of shopkeepers and clerks to go up against pirates and gunfighters, Mr. Morgan. Anyway, the days of everyone in Bristol feeling beholden to the Starbird family are over. A lot of people have moved in since George Starbird died, so they never knew him. And from what I gather, his brother Owen was never popular. Folks thought he was odd, and pretty much a cold fish. George Starbird had a daughter, a wildcat named Diana. All the cowboys who rode for the spreads in the valley other than Diamondback tried to court her at one time or other, but she ran them all off.” Parnell shook his head. “So you see, no one here in town or in the rest of the valley is going to risk his life trying to help the Starbirds. They figure that Owen Starbird and his niece are rich, so they can take care of themselves.”