by Arch Gallen
*Sand Hills Sioux, Western Settler Saga Book I
“Don’t know many widows causing such trouble.” he responded.
“This one is!”the man objected, “Nothing but since her Pa dynamited a rockslide to block water from Mr. Lambertson’s land then accusing him of murder when her Pa and husband up and run from an honest rancher!”
Frowning, showing proper concern, Pike nodded. “Is some trouble, that.” he agreed, “None can do without water.”
The grocer shook his head vigorously. “And all know it! Is why Mr. Lambertson tried so hard to reach agreement but them folks just want all for themselves, her even hiring up a known killer gunman for doing her dirty work. Word around now is he’s fixing to hunt down Mr. Lambertson any day having already shot down three of his hands.”
Eyes narrowing reflexively, Adam tossed a look out the window then met the store man’s gaze with a beaming smile. “Sounds like a man hunting a riding job best look farther north. Have no interest in gun wars over cows or water.” he volunteered, sacking his purchases before pivoting to the door.
Crossing through, Pike gave a quick look at the seated men, their stern faces and quiet glares suggesting not all agreed with the shop keepers assessment of the town’s situation. Edging to his horse, he stowed the small bag of goods in his saddlebag, fussing over the strap a mite longer than needful, his thoughts racing. Arriving in time to help was one matter; arriving too late to stop killing from happening another. Fighting a rising urgency, he peered at the saloons, selecting the nearest to continue inquiries not yet satisfied.
Parting bat-wing doors, Adam strolled through a dim interior, smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke assailing his nostrils. He laid an elbow on the bar with a glance at the bartender. “Beer.” he said cheerfully.
As the man brought a bottle, he eyed the empty room, seeing nothing unlike others of its kind then met the saloon owner’s gaze. Burly if short, wearing a shirt stained by many whiskies spilled across more years, the man looked back from under heavy grey brows, two days stubble dotting red cheeks.
“Hearing some amount of ruckus is going on.” Adam grinned, saluting the man with the bottle before taking a swallow. “Any you can tell me about it so I can think on staying or going?”
Ingram, or so Pike guessed he was from the wide sign hung behind the bar, stared without hint of friendliness. “Don’t talk with strangers about our doings.” he replied harshly.
Adam waggled his head, answering with a smirk, “Reckon is wise practice, sir, never knowing if a stranger has some side to take.”
Slipping his left hand under the vest as he sipped again, Pike brought out his badge, easing it to position on his chest without giving view to the bartender. Dropping his hand, he shifted to fully face the man, smiling widely.
“Maybe easier to talk to a US Marshall, Mr. Ingram?” he suggested, amused at abrupt changes in his manner.
“Not wishing to talk at all.” Ingram answered dubiously.
Adam chuckled lightly. “Sad to say, sir, that’s not a choice given to make. I’m needful of knowing more on this trouble between Loftin and Lambertson and likely none in town hear more than you.”
A spark of recognition snapped in the man’s eyes as he stepped backward a half pace. “I know you.” he uttered, “You’re that Marshal what done blew up Ike Crowder’s saloon* near Boise, the one they call Madman of Morale.”