The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s just that there ain’t been a gal that nice lookin’ in Cooter’s Landin’ for quite a spell,” Rollins said from behind the bar. “When one like her comes along, we sure do hate to let her go before we all get to know her better.”

  “Bill . . .” Sadie said, and she really sounded scared now.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Breckinridge told her. “None of these fellas are big enough to scare me.”

  “You’re a big one, all right,” Sandy Mustache said, “but put us all together and we’re a heap bigger ’n you.”

  The three men from the other table had joined the first trio in blocking the way out of here. They spread out some and started to close in on Breckinridge and Sadie. Breck backed against the bar, taking her with him. Sandy Mustache had a friend, and the bartender had declared himself in with the others.

  That meant Breckinridge was outnumbered nine to one. The man down at the far end of the bar was the only one not making a move to join in. He concentrated on the mug of beer in front of him.

  So things could have been worse, Breckinridge supposed. The odds could have been ten to one.

  Another thought flashed through his mind. Despite all his vows to avoid trouble, it had found him anyway. Maybe that was just the natural order of things where Breckinridge Wallace was concerned.

  “You can see things ain’t gonna go your way, mister,” Rollins said. “Might as well be reasonable. The offer to go in halves on what the girl earns still stands.” The man’s voice hardened. “Make us take her away from you and you won’t get a thing out of the deal except a busted head.”

  They weren’t leaving him any choice. Breckinridge said quietly, “Sadie, you stay close behind me.”

  “What—”

  Before she could finish the question, he grabbed the nearest table and hoisted it in the air. The barrel out of which it was made was heavy, and two normal men would be needed to move it.

  Breckinridge Wallace was no normal man, however. He let out a roar, because he knew that would give him strength, and lifted the table even higher. For a second the men blocking the tavern’s front door forgot about threatening him and stood there openmouthed, gaping at this incredible feat of strength.

  Then they realized what was about to happen and tried to get out of the way, but they were too late. Breckinridge heaved the table in their direction. It crashed into two of the men and drove them off their feet. They went down hard with the table on top of them.

  That created a gap on the group trying to keep Breckinridge and Sadie from leaving the tavern. Breck grabbed Sadie’s hand and charged toward that opening.

  The sheer surprise of the devastating attack should have been enough to let Breck and Sadie get clear, but one of the men recovered quicker than Breckinridge expected. The man lunged at them and left his feet in a diving tackle. His arms went around Breck’s knees.

  At the same time, another man made a grab for Sadie. He managed to snag the collar of her dress. The material gave with a loud ripping sound and the garment came half off of her. Sadie screamed.

  Breckinridge tried to kick free of the man who had hold of his legs, but while he was doing that another of the varmints hit him high and knocked him off balance. He lost his grip on Sadie as he felt himself falling.

  Men piled on as he hit the dirt floor. Punching, kicking, gouging, they swarmed over him. The man who had torn Sadie’s dress had his arms around her now. Still screaming, she writhed and struggled against him, but she was no match for his strength.

  Breckinridge could take a pounding better than most men, but this rain of violence was too much punishment for even him to absorb and shrug off. His head spun crazily after a couple of kicks. He bellowed and swept his arms around in an attempt to get some breathing room. It worked, but only for a second. Then the brawlers closed in again, driven on by Rollins exhorting them from behind the bar, “Kill him! Kill the big son of a bitch!”

  It looked like that stood a mighty good chance of happening.

  Chapter Ten

  The gunshot was deafening in the low-ceilinged tavern, pounding against the ears like a physical blow.

  The sound made everything stop. Breckinridge almost groaned in relief as fists and feet stopped crashing into him. As the shot’s echoes died away, a man’s voice said into the resulting hushed silence, “Let go of that girl, my friend, or I’ll put a pistol ball through your brain.”

  “You . . . you just got one shot,” another man said. “You can’t get all of us.”

  “That’s absolutely right,” the first man replied with a note of amusement. “Confer among yourselves and decide which one of you would like to die.”

  A voice Breckinridge recognized as belonging to Rollins, the proprietor of the place, said worriedly, “Better do what he says, boys. That’s Jack MacKenzie. He’s a crack shot. They say he’s killed three men in duels down in Chattanooga.”

  “That’s right,” the man identified as MacKenzie drawled. “And those are just the ones that people know about.” His tone became more brisk as he went on, “The rest of you, back away from that man.”

  “He jumped us!” somebody protested.

  “Only after you threatened to rape his lovely companion. Now move!”

  A couple of men were still on top of Breckinridge, holding him down. It felt good as their weight went away. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. His head still spun a little as he looked around, but he was getting his wits back.

  The man who had been standing at the far end of the bar, enjoying a solitary drink, now had a pistol in each hand. The one in his left hand was down at his side, a tiny tendril of smoke still curling from its muzzle. The one in his right hand was leveled at the brawlers, and he held the weapon rock-steady.

  The man reminded Breckinridge of Richard Aylesworth. He was well dressed and sleekly handsome, with dark hair under a beaver hat. He didn’t have Aylesworth’s air of smug arrogance about him, though. His demeanor was more one of quiet confidence.

  Freed from the grip of the man who had half torn her dress off, Sadie hurried over to kneel next to Breckinridge. She had to hold the ruined garment around her with both hands as best she could, and even her best effort didn’t prevent a considerable amount of creamy flesh from showing. She risked further exposure by putting a hand on Breck’s shoulder and asking, “Are you all right, Bill?”

  Breckinridge knew he would be bruised and sore by the next morning, but all his muscles seemed to be working and his head was settling down. Lucky for him his skull was too thick to be damaged easily. He said, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “You want me to help you up?”

  “No, I can manage. You just, ah, keep that dress on if you can.”

  Grimly, she stood up and tightened her grip on the torn dress. Breckinridge put a hand on the floor and levered himself up. He was shaky once he got on his feet, but that passed quickly.

  MacKenzie motioned with the cocked pistol in his right hand and ordered, “All of you clear out, right now. This place is closed for the time being.”

  “You can’t do that,” Rollins protested with a yelp. “I make my livin’ from this tavern.”

  MacKenzie set the empty pistol on the bar, reached into one of his waistcoat pockets, and took out a gold coin. Without really looking to see what he was doing, he tossed it unerringly to the bartender, who plucked it out of the air with avaricious deftness.

  “There,” he said. “I’ve just rented the entire establishment for the night for me and my new friends here.”

  Rollins bit the gold piece and nodded in satisfaction. He said, “You got yourself a deal, Mr. MacKenzie.”

  “That’s more consideration than you deserve. You helped start this trouble. But I tend to choose the simplest solution to a problem, and it’s easier to pay you off than to kill you.”

  Rollins swallowed hard and said, “I appreciate that, sir.” He waved a hand at his sullen customers. “Shoo, the lot of you. You can come back and drink again tomor
row.”

  “Maybe we will and maybe we won’t,” one of the men said in a surly voice. “We won’t forget the way you just turned on us. This ain’t the only tavern in Cooter’s Landing, you know.”

  “It’s the only one that serves anything besides hog swill,” Rollins said. “Now go on, git.”

  The men left, muttering resentful curses under their breath. When they were gone, MacKenzie finally lowered the loaded pistol and said to Rollins, “We’ll be wanting some supper, and we’ll take both rooms, of course. What I paid you ought to cover everything.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it. Food won’t be anything fancy, but it’ll be good.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Listen, mister,” Breckinridge said to the well-dressed man, “I’m obliged to you for your help, sure enough, but I can pay for our own food and lodgin’—”

  “Nonsense,” MacKenzie cut in. “I’ve taken you under my wing for the moment, and that’s that. I never like to see anyone being ganged up on, and the way you leaped into the fray without hesitation to defend your lady tells me all I need to know about your character.” He shifted the loaded gun to his left hand and extended the right. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Jack MacKenzie.”

  Breckinridge shook hands and said, “I’m Bill Walters.” That was close enough to his real name he hoped he could remember it. “And, uh, this is Sadie.”

  He didn’t claim that she was his wife, but he didn’t say that she wasn’t, either.

  “It’s my pleasure,” MacKenzie said to her with a smile. “I trust you have another dress to replace the one that lout ruined.”

  “That’s just it,” Sadie said with a little quaver in her voice. “I don’t. This dress I have on my back is my one and only.”

  “Well, that won’t do. Stay here. I’ll go over to the store and pick one up for you.”

  Breckinridge said, “We couldn’t ask you to do that—”

  “You didn’t,” MacKenzie pointed out. “I offered. Don’t worry about the money. I sat in on a poker game in Chattanooga a couple of nights ago and had a run of exceptionally good luck.”

  “You’re a gambler?”

  “Among other things. I do a little bit of whatever strikes my fancy.”

  That would be a wonderful way to live, thought Breckinridge. MacKenzie looked like he enjoyed it, too.

  “Go on back to one of the rooms,” MacKenzie went on. “I’ll return shortly.” He glanced at Rollins before he left. “Don’t try to double-cross me, friend, or you’ll live to regret it. Not much longer than that, though.”

  “No, sir, Mr. MacKenzie,” Rollins said hastily. “We done made a deal, and I’ll stick to it, you can count on that.”

  Taking both pistols with him, MacKenzie strode out of the tavern. Breckinridge glanced at Rollins and couldn’t stop his hands from clenching into fists. Less than a quarter of an hour earlier, the white-haired bartender had been urging those ruffians to kill him. Breck hadn’t forgotten about that.

  For the time being, though, he supposed it was best to put his anger aside. He growled, “Show us them rooms.”

  “Yes, sir, right back here.” Rollins waved them toward the blanket-draped doorway.

  The rooms were as squalid as Breckinridge expected, airless cubicles furnished with rope bunks that had straw ticking mattresses on them. The only other items of furniture in each room were a crude chair and a tiny table that held one lonely candle. Pegs had been driven into chinks in the log walls for patrons to hang their clothes. Blankets hung over the door to each room. At the moment the only light came through cracks in the walls and roof.

  Breckinridge took a look around and his mind rebelled at the thought of spending the night in one of these pestholes. But Jack MacKenzie had paid for the accommodations and Breck figured it would be rude to turn them down.

  Besides, Sadie seemed more impressed with the place than he was. As she held the torn dress around her, she said, “My, it’s nice. And it’ll be better than sleepin’ on the ground again tonight, won’t it, Bill?”

  When she’d decided to run away with him, she hadn’t known what she was letting herself in for, he thought. Life on the trail had been harder than she’d expected.

  Maybe once she slept in a real bed again, even a mighty poor one, she might decide it would be better to go on home to her grandpap.

  “All right,” Breckinridge said to Rollins. “One room’s as good as the other, I reckon. We’ll stay here. Sadie, you wait here for Mr. MacKenzie. I’ll go tend to Hector. Figure I can get a stall for him in that livery stable I saw down the street, next to the blacksmith shop.”

  “Ernie Muller runs it,” Rollins volunteered. “He’ll take good care of your horse, Mr. Walters.”

  Breckinridge fixed the man with a cold stare and added, “Better not anybody bother this gal while I’m gone.”

  “No, sir. Nobody’ll come back here but Mr. MacKenzie. I give you my word on it.”

  Breckinridge wasn’t sure why he should be so quick to take the word of a man who’d urged his murder only a short time earlier, but that seemed to be the way things had developed. He waited until Rollins left, then turned toward Sadie to tell her to holler if anybody bothered her.

  He didn’t get the words out because Sadie chose that moment to give up the fight with the torn dress. She let go of it, and the ruined garment slid over her body and dropped to the floor around her feet. She wasn’t wearing anything under it, so she stood there naked and unashamed in front of Breckinridge.

  There was an awful lot of pink and white and gold for him to look at, and he didn’t figure he should be looking at any of it. So he averted his eyes—although not without a struggle—and grabbed the threadbare blanket from the mattress.

  “Here,” he said as he thrust the blanket at her. “Wrap this around you.”

  “I’m not worried about you seein’ me, Bill. It don’t bother me at all. We’re supposed to be hitched, ain’t we?”

  “Supposed to be ain’t the same as the real thing. Now cover up, blast it.”

  She sighed and took the blanket from him. When he dared to risk a glance, he saw that she had wrapped it around her, covering herself completely.

  “I don’t like this,” she said. “It’s hot and itchy.”

  Breckinridge felt hot and itchy sensations of a whole other sort, but he didn’t say that to her. Instead he told her, “I won’t be gone long,” and stalked out of the room.

  * * *

  Ernie Muller was a fat, stolid Dutchman who knew horses. He looked at Hector and said, “This is a good horse. Not for show and not fast, but he will never let you down, Herr Walters.”

  “You’re right about that,” Breckinridge agreed. He handed one of his precious coins to the liveryman in return for a stall and care for the night.

  Some of the men he’d clashed with at Rollins’s place were hanging around in front of the other tavern. They stared at him from across the street with hostile expressions as he went back to Rollins’s.

  When he got there, Sadie was waiting for him in the main room. She wore a blue dress now, nothing too fancy or expensive but a lot nicer than the gray wool dress that had gotten torn. She sat at one of the tables with Jack MacKenzie, who lounged back in his chair with a drink in front of him. The bottle stood next to his glass.

  Smiling brightly, Sadie said, “Look at this beautiful dress Mr. MacKenzie brought me, Bill. Ain’t it just the loveliest thing you ever saw?”

  “It’s made much lovelier by the woman wearing it,” MacKenzie said. “And I told you, you can call me Jack.”

  Breckinridge started to scoff and say that Sadie was a girl, not a woman, but as he looked at her, the words died on his tongue. It was true she looked older in the dress. Girls were full grown sooner than fellas, he reminded himself.

  MacKenzie looked up at Breckinridge and said, “As for you, my large young friend, sit down. Have a drink. Rollins promises that our dinner will be ready soon.”

&nb
sp; Breckinridge lowered himself on one of the chairs made from an empty keg. He said, “I never cared much for the taste of whiskey.”

  “That just tells me that you’ve been drinking the wrong whiskey,” MacKenzie said with a smile. He signaled to Rollins for another glass, and when the bartender brought it, MacKenzie splashed a couple of inches of amber liquid in the bottom of it. He urged Breckinridge, “Give that a try.”

  Breckinridge did. He made a face at the way the stuff burned his gullet, but even so, he had to admit it was smoother than the whiskey he’d tried in the past.

  “What do you think?” MacKenzie asked.

  “Not too bad, I reckon.”

  “It gets better,” MacKenzie said with a smile as he poured more liquor in Breckinridge’s glass.

  Rollins brought them roast beef, potatoes, and bread. Simple fare, as he had said it would be, but the beef wasn’t too tough and the bread was actually good. Once Breckinridge started eating, he realized how hungry he really was. He put away more food than his two companions combined, washing it down with shots from MacKenzie’s bottle.

  The gambler was right. The whiskey got to tasting better and better as the evening wore on.

  Something was nagging at Breckinridge, though, a thought that he couldn’t quite put out of his mind. He wondered what had happened when MacKenzie got back to the tavern from the store. Had Sadie still been wrapped up in that blanket when he gave her the blue dress? Or had she acted as brazen with him as she had with Breck? Had MacKenzie left the room while she got dressed, or had she allowed him to watch the whole thing?

  Breckinridge told himself it was none of his business. He had no claim on Sadie. She had tried to give herself to him more than once, and he had refused. She could do anything she wanted with anybody she wanted, and he wouldn’t have the right to say a blessed thing.

  Breckinridge knew that, but the things he didn’t know bothered him anyway.

  Luckily the whiskey sort of dulled any worries that he had. Between the liquor and the big meal, he found himself getting sleepy. He tried to shake off the lassitude but couldn’t.