Sidewinders

by William W. Johnstone

  “How are we fixed for dinero, Bo?” Scratch asked as he nodded toward a sign on a business building that said RED TOP CAFÉ.

  “We have a little left from that poker game in Cheyenne,” Bo replied.

  “Enough for a good meal after a long ride?”

  “Yeah, but I thought you wanted to start saving up our pesos so we could try to make it south to some place warmer before winter sets in.”

  “Well, I did,” Scratch admitted. “It’s hard on these old bones of mine to spend the cold months this far north. But I got to thinkin’ . . . what are the chances we’ll really come up with enough money to do that?”

  Bo shook his head. “I don’t know. You can’t ever tell. We might find something that would make us some money.”

  “Yeah, and we might starve to death before then, too,” Scratch pointed out. “So we might as well get us a good meal now and postpone that terrible end.”

  Bo laughed. Scratch was a creature of the moment, and he could usually find some way to rationalize giving in to whatever impulse gripped him. And it was true, too, that Bo was hungry and would enjoy an actual hot meal for a change, instead of the skimpy trail grub they’d been making do with.

  “All right,” he said as he reined his horse toward the café. “Reckon we might as well.”

  They rode over to the hitch rail in front of the café and dismounted. A low boardwalk ran in front of the buildings on this side of the street. The Texans stepped up onto it and were about to enter the place when they heard a commotion coming from inside.

  “Blast it!” a man yelled. “I said I was havin’ a kiss with my piece of pie, and I meant it!”

  Bo and Scratch exchanged a glance. “Maybe we ought to find some other place to eat,” Bo suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” the silver-haired Texan shot back with a quick, eager grin. Before Bo could stop him or say anything else, Scratch pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Bo was well aware that his old friend had a tendency to rush into trouble. In this case, that was all right, because Bo had to admit he was curious about what was going on inside the Red Top Café, too.

  As he came through the door, his gaze flicked back and forth and instantly took in the scene before him. The Red Top was a neatly kept place with a number of tables covered by checkered tablecloths. To the right was a lunch counter with stools along it. Behind the counter, a pass-through was cut into the wall between the dining room and the kitchen. Also on that wall were a blackboard with the day’s menu and prices chalked on it and a couple of shelves with several pies and cakes sitting on them. A small wood-burning stove behind the counter kept a pot of coffee warm. Another stove squatted in the rear corner of the dining room, giving off enough heat to keep out the chill from the wind blowing outside.

  Since the hour was getting close to the middle of the day, quite a few of the tables were occupied by men eating lunch. Some of the stools at the counter had been until recently, too, judging by the abandoned plates half-full of food and the men he saw standing back along the wall. Some of them were still clutching napkins, as if they had just gotten up and hurried out of harm’s way.

  “Harm’s way” was a good description of the man who stood in front of the counter, glaring across it at the woman behind it. He was tall and broad shouldered, with heavy muscles that bulged the flannel shirt he wore. His thick legs were like the trunks of trees, and the lace-up work boots he wore were some of the biggest Bo had ever seen. The clenched fists at his side reminded Bo of hams. He wasn’t sure if either of them would fit in a two-gallon pail. The man was hatless, revealing a tangled thatch of dark hair that fell forward over an ape-like brow. Dark beard stubble grew on the slab-like jaw he thrust out defiantly.

  That was the monster Scratch was about to confront.

  The giant rumbled, “Come on, Sue Beth. It’s not gonna hurt you, and you know it. One kiss, that’s all I’m askin’.”

  “And it’s one more kiss than you’re going to get, Reese Bardwell,” the woman behind the counter shot back at him. “I’ll sell you pieces of pie all day long if you want, but my kisses are not for sale, sir!”

  Bardwell snarled and stepped closer to the counter. He lifted arms that were so long there was no place back there the woman called Sue Beth could avoid their reach.

  Scratch’s deep, powerful, commanding voice rang out. “Hold it right there, amigo.” He didn’t speak loudly, but everybody in the place heard what he said.

  Bardwell sure did. The big man stiffened and slowly swung around. The glare on his face was as dark and ominous as a thundercloud.

  “Are you talkin’ to me, mister?” he demanded.

  “You seem to be the only one in the place makin’ a jackass of himself, so I reckon I am,” Scratch said.

  Bo hated to see it come to this. Bardwell towered over Scratch and probably was thirty years younger, too. But if Scratch hadn’t stepped in, Bo would have had to. The blood of Texans flowed in their veins. Neither of them was going to stand by and do nothing while somebody was bothering a woman.

  “Mister, you don’t have to get mixed up in this,” the woman said quickly. “This is between me and my customer.”

  Bardwell shook his shaggy head. “Not any more, it ain’t. If this old rooster wants to horn in and start crowin’, he’s gonna have to pay the price.” He took a step toward Scratch. “You know what happens to an old rooster, mister?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Scratch said coolly.

  “He gets his neck wrung!”

  The big man lunged at Scratch with surprising speed. Those ham-like hands reached for the silver-haired Texan’s throat.

  Scratch was pretty fast, too. He jerked to the side and lowered a shoulder, causing Bardwell’s attempted grab to miss. He stepped closer to Bardwell. Scratch’s right fist whipped up and out in a wicked blow that sank solidly into his opponent’s midsection.

  Unfortunately, Bardwell didn’t even seem to feel it. He brought his right fist hammering down on top of Scratch’s head. The big, cream-colored Stetson absorbed some of the blow’s force, but it still landed plenty hard enough to drive Scratch to one knee. Bardwell reached down, grabbed Scratch’s buckskin jacket, and hauled him up again. Scratch looked a little addled. He could hold his own in most fights and had been doing so for many, many years, but he had bitten off too big a chunk of hell this time.

  Knowing that, Bo acted before his friend could get hurt too badly. He slipped his Colt from its holster, pointed it at Bardwell, and eared back the hammer.

  That metallic sound was distinctive enough—and menacing enough—to make Bardwell freeze with one hand bunched in Scratch’s coat and the other drawn back and clenched to deliver another thunderous blow.

  “Let him go,” Bo ordered.

  Bardwell turned his head enough to give Bo a baleful stare. “Who’re you?”

  “His friend,” Bo said. “Also the fella who’s going to blow your kneecap apart with a forty-five slug in about two seconds if you don’t let go of him and step back.”

  For a second Bo thought Bardwell was going to be stubborn enough that he’d have to go through with that threat. But then the hand holding up Scratch opened, and the Texan slumped against the counter. The woman reached across it to take hold of his arm and steady him while he got his feet under himself again.

  “This was none of your business,” Bardwell said, “but you made it that way. You’d best remember that.”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” Bo said. “Have you paid the lady for whatever you ate?”

  “I’m not gonna—”

  Bo’s voice cut across the angry protest. “Have you paid the lady?”

  “He doesn’t owe me anything,” the woman said.

  Bo nodded. “Then I’d suggest you mosey on out of here, friend.”

  “I ain’t your friend,” Bardwell said. “You’d better remember that.”

  “I can live with that . . . as long as you leave.”

  Bo stepped b
ack to cover Bardwell as the giant stomped past him and out of the café. He moved to the door and watched as Bardwell moved off down Main Street. Bo didn’t pouch his iron until he felt fairly sure Bardwell wasn’t coming back.

  He turned as he slid the gun into leather. Scratch had regained his wits and had his hat in his hands, pushing it back into shape where Bardwell’s fist had partially flattened it.

  Scratch’s face was set in an accusing frown. “You didn’t have to do that, Bo,” he said. “I had things under control. I was about to give that big varmint his needin’s.”

  “I know that,” Bo said. “I just didn’t want you to have all the fun by yourself.”

  The woman behind the counter said, “That’s your idea of fun? If I didn’t already know it from your accents, I’d know you were Texans from your sheer knuckleheadedness!”

  “You’re welcome,” Scratch said. “We were glad to step in and help you, ma’am.”

  “You mean stick your interfering noses in where they weren’t needed, don’t you?” She gestured toward the stove and the coffeepot. “I was about to give Reese a faceful of hot coffee. He’d have behaved himself after that, I can promise you!”

  She was in her thirties, Bo estimated, with work-roughened hands and enough lines in her face to show that life hadn’t always treated her kindly. Thick auburn hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head and pinned into place.

  Bo thumbed his hat back and said, “Sorry if we added to the problem, ma’am. We were just trying to help.”

  Her expression softened a little. “Oh, I know that. And I suppose I appreciate it. It’s just that this isn’t the first time Reese has gotten a mite frisky. He’s troublesome at times, but he’s not really a bad sort. I’ve always been able to handle him. I just hope this doesn’t make him turn really mean.”

  One of the customers drifting back to the plate of food he had left on the counter spoke up, saying, “Calling Reese Bardwell troublesome at times is being mighty generous, Sue Beth.”

  Another man said, “And if he’s not really mean already, I don’t want to be anywhere around when he is.”

  The woman nodded and said to Bo and Scratch, “See, that’s what I mean. He’s got a bad reputation around here, and some would say it’s well deserved.” She shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. “I expect you want some lunch?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Scratch said. “We’d be obliged.”

  “You will be, to the tune of a dollar each.”

  Scratch frowned. “That’s a little steep, ain’t it?”

  “Deadwood is a mining town. Everything costs a little more here.”

  One of the diners put in, “And it’s worth it, mister. Sue Beth dishes up the best food since Aunt Lou Marchbanks quit the Grand Central and went to work cooking for the crew out at the Father De Smet mine.”

  “Go on with you, Hal,” Sue Beth said. “You’re just angling for an extra piece of pie.”

  “But without a kiss,” the man said with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind, you understand, but I imagine my wife would.”

  Sue Beth laughed, then pointed at a couple of empty stools in front of the counter and told Bo and Scratch, “You two sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.” As she fetched a pair of empty cups, she called through the pass-through to the cook, “I need two more lunches, Charlie.”

  Bo and Scratch sat down and took off their hats. Things were getting back to normal in the café now that the ruckus was over. As Sue Beth poured the coffee, Scratch said, “We ain’t been properly introduced, ma’am. My name is Scratch Morton, and this here is my friend Bo Creel.”

  Sue Beth smiled. “Your mother actually named you Scratch, Mr. Morton?”

  “Well, uh . . . no, ma’am. But it’s been so long since I used my real name that I sort of disremember what it is. I can try to dredge it up if you want.”

  “No, that’s all right.” She looked at Bo. “And I suppose your name is short for Beauregard.”

  “No, ma’am,” he told her. “It’s just plain Bo, B-O. My pa liked the sound of it.”

  “I see. What brings you boys all the way up here to Dakota Territory from Texas?”

  “Oh, we didn’t come here straight from Texas,” Scratch said. “We were in Colorado for a while, and then we decided to ride on up this way for a while.”

  “We tend to drift around a little,” Bo added. “Never stay in one place for too long.”

  “Saddle tramps, in other words,” Sue Beth said. Bo shrugged. “Call it what you will. It seems to suit us, and has for a long time.”

  “Yeah, only this time we plumb forgot that you don’t head north durin’ the autumn,” Scratch said. “We’re like little birdies. We usually fly south for the winter.”

  “You’ll get plenty of winter here if you wait a few weeks,” Sue Beth said. “By the way, I’m Susan Elizabeth Pendleton. Sue Beth to my friends. You can call me Mrs. Pendleton.”

  “You’re married?” Scratch asked. He couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  “I was. My husband worked in one of the mines. He was killed by the smoke and poison gas when a fire broke out underground a couple of years ago.”

  “We’re mighty sorry to hear that,” Bo said.

  Scratch nodded and said, “We sure are.”

  “Thank you.”

  To change the subject, Bo said, “I was wondering about something. The name of this place is the Red Top Café, but the roof’s not red.”

  Sue Beth smiled and pointed to her auburn hair. “It’s named after me, not the building. It was my husband Tom’s idea.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s a good one.”

  The face of a scrawny old-timer appeared at the pass-through. He pushed a couple of plates across it and said, “Here’s those two lunches, Sue Beth.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” she told him as she turned and picked up the meals. She set them in front of Bo and Scratch, who practically licked his chops. Bo didn’t blame him. The thick slices of ham, the mounds of potatoes, and the biscuits dripping with butter and gravy looked and smelled delicious.

  Before they could dig in, though, shouting erupted in the street outside. Bo and Scratch turned to look as one of the men at a table close to the door stood up and opened it so the customers in the café could hear better. The shouts had a frantic, frightened quality to them.

  “What is it?” Sue Beth asked. “Trouble at one of the mines?”

  Scratch said, “It sounds to me like preachin’. Somebody’s hollerin’ about the Devil.”

  Bo happened to be looking at Sue Beth Pendleton as Scratch spoke. All the color washed out of the woman’s face, and she looked as scared as the people outside sounded.

  “Not just one devil,” Sue Beth said. “A whole gang of them. The Deadwood Devils must have struck again.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “The Deadwood Devils,” Bo repeated. “Doesn’t sound like a very friendly bunch.”

  Sue Beth shook her head. “They’re not. They’re outlaws who have been causing trouble around here for the past few months. They’ve held up stagecoaches, hijacked gold shipments, and murdered at least a dozen men that we know of.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same bunch doin’ all that?” Scratch asked.

  “We’re sure,” Sue Beth replied with a grim nod. “The Devils make sure we know. Any time they kill somebody, they carve a pitchfork on his forehead, right here.”

  She tapped a fingertip against the center of her forehead.

  Bo frowned and said, “I’ve heard of people doing things like that, but it’s usually vigilantes who are trying to warn lawbreakers what’s going to happen to them.”

  “Same thing, in a way,” Scratch said. “They want to keep folks scared.”

  “It’s working,” Sue Beth said as she wiped her hands on her apron again and walked down to the end of the counter. She moved aside a swinging gate there and stepped out. “I want to see what’s happened now.”

  Scratch was on his f
eet. “We’ll join you.”

  “But your lunches—”

  “They’ll keep,” Bo said. He, Scratch, and Sue Beth headed for the door along with most of the other customers inside the café. In a frontier town like Deadwood, any news always attracted a lot of attention.

  As they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Bo saw a crowd of people gathering in front of an impressive, two-story frame building across the street. A large sign stuck out from the front of the building above the boardwalk. It read BANK, and in smaller letters below that single word, STEBBINS, POST & CO. People seemed to be clustered around someone. Through a gap in the crowd, Bo caught a glimpse of a short man with a white beard and a mane of equally snowy hair.

  Sue Beth saw the man, too, and exclaimed, “That’s Chloride Coleman!”

  “Who’s he?” Scratch asked.

  “An old-timer who drives for the Argosy Mining Company. I don’t see his wagon anywhere on the street, though.”

  “Carries gold shipments, does he?” Bo asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And delivers ’em to that bank across the street, I’ll bet,” Scratch said. “Reckon he got held up, Bo?”

  “He must have, to cause this much commotion,” Bo said. “You want to go see what we can find out?”

  Scratch shrugged. “I’m a mite curious.” He turned to Sue Beth. “You reckon you could put our plates on the stove to stay warm, ma’am?”

  “Why do you care about a robbery?” she asked. “It’s no business of yours.” Then she shook her head and went on, “Sorry, I forgot I was talking to Texans.”

  Scratch just grinned, and Bo said, “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  They headed across the street to join the crowd that had formed around the old man on the boardwalk. Chloride Coleman wore faded and patched denim trousers, an equally hard-used flannel shirt, and a buckskin vest. An empty holster sagged on his right hip. He had several bloody scratches on the leathery skin of his face and hands and obviously had run into some trouble.