A couple of men sitting with their backs to the door checked out Josiah in the mirror that hung over the bar.
As Josiah walked up to the bar, the barkeep, a broad-shouldered man who looked to be of German descent and demeanor, with light-colored hair, square jaw, and constant anger set deep in his chin, glanced up at him, then went back to sweeping the floor.
There was no sign of any whores, or of the violence that had recently occurred. It was like the murder had never happened, like the memory of it had been completely rejected, an unseen event that had happened somewhere else.
But it had happened at the Easy Nickel, and Scrap Elliot was doing time in the darkness, bound in a hole, for something he didn’t do, as far as Josiah was concerned. Regardless of the time he had left before leaving Austin, he had to see to it that the real murderer was found and Scrap set free.
He had no other choice. Scrap Elliot was his friend.
CHAPTER 19
“I’ll have a whiskey,” Josiah said as he settled onto a stool at the end of the bar. From his vantage point, and with the help of the mirror, he could see both the front door and the back door leading into the kitchen.
There had been a time when Josiah would have never sat down in a saloon and ordered a whiskey just to drink it by himself. But he’d spent several months in Corpus Christi over the past winter, sitting in a cantina, acting as a spy for Captain McNelly, trying to gain information about the cattle rustling. It had been a long, four-month assignment, born out of the desire of the adjunct general and Captain McNelly to get him out of Austin, to take the attention off of one Ranger killing another. Somewhere along the line, Josiah had developed a taste, if not a tolerance, for the warmth and comfort of a good sip of whiskey.
He’d found the numbing effect a welcome relief to the heartache he felt every second, missing his son and longing to be home in the city—which had come as a great surprise to him. The liquor had helped him sleep deeply, passing off his wartime nightmares and other angry encouragements, allowing for some true rest—as much as that was possible while he pretended to be someone else.
The barkeep looked up from his sweeping and growled, “Ain’t got no whiskey for the likes of you.”
“What’re these fellas drinking?” Josiah was a little surprised at the reception. The Easy Nickel Saloon wasn’t exactly a grand palace that didn’t need every dime for one expense or the other. Just the opposite. The place looked to be on its last legs. Everything looked old and worn out . . . including the barkeep and the two regulars sitting at the end of the bar.
“Lemonade. These fellas are drinkin’ lemonade, and we’re fresh out.”
Josiah nodded and felt a twinge of anger shoot up his back. “This isn’t a drinking club. Doors are open. What gives?”
The barkeep stopped sweeping and walked to where Josiah was sitting. He leaned in face-to-face, so the only things between them were the bar and a wall of sour breath escaping from a mouthful of rotting teeth. Josiah could smell a hint of whiskey and tobacco clinging to the man’s stained white apron, too. “We don’t serve your kind here,” the barkeep said.
“And what kind is that?” Josiah asked, glancing up to the mirror, checking out the two men at the other end of the bar. They were still as statues. For the moment. Both of them wore sidearms in open view. Colts much like Josiah’s. The men didn’t look wrung out by trail riding, just wrung out from living day to day. They looked to be about the same age as him, mid-thirties, with stubble on their faces, mixed with a nice thick coat of daily dirt. It had probably been a month since they’d seen the inside of a bathhouse. The twirling fan overhead helped spread their odor among the other fading rot in the saloon.
“Rangers,” the barkeep said. “We don’t serve no Rangers here. That clear enough for you?”
Josiah stiffened, sat up as straight as he could. “I suppose that’s your right.”
“Damn straight it is.”
“How’d you know I’m a Ranger?”
“Most folks know who you are, Wolfe. You been in here before. I got a memory inside this thick head. Rangers ain’t nothin’ but trouble, you ask me and a load of other folks around these parts of town.”
“All I asked you for was a whiskey.”
“And I said we don’t have none.”
Josiah said nothing for a long second, just stared at the barkeep, unwavering. “I’ll have the lemonade then.”
“You got cotton in your ears, mister?”
“My duty doesn’t start for two days. I’m no Ranger today.”
“Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.”
“So they say.”
The barkeep leaned closer this time, so he was almost nose-to-nose with Josiah. “You need to leave here now.” He glanced over to the men at the other end of the bar, then back to Josiah. “They work for me. Tossed out more cowboys on their asses than you’ve seen in your entire life. What they did with ’em after that was none of my business. But I ain’t never seen none of those cowboys step foot back into this establishment, and I ’spect it’ll be that way with you if it comes to that.”
“So you’re saying they’re tough?” Josiah looked down to the men, smiled, and tapped the front brim of his Stetson. They glared back at him, still unmoving. One of them blinked, the skinnier of the two. The one with dark hair had a thick shadow across his face and a scar under his eye.
“Tough enough to do away with a stick of a man like you, killer or no killer,” the barkeep said.
“I’m not a killer.”
“You think I’m so stupid I can’t read? Even if I can’t, I can listen. You’ve killed two men in the last few months. How many men you kill before that, all in the name of keepin’ the peace? Law’s on your side, or so’s you think.”
The barkeep was most certainly aware of who Josiah was and of the incident with Feders and the bounty hunter, Leathers, that Cortina had sent to Austin. “What’s your beef with Rangers anyway?” Josiah asked.
“My beef? That other Ranger killed one of our best girls. What do you think my beef is? You gotta lot of nerve settin’ foot in this place. You’re lucky you’re still breathin’ the way it is.”
“Scrap Elliot’s innocent. He didn’t kill that girl, and I aim to prove it.”
With an amazing amount of speed, the barkeep reached out in an attempt to grab Josiah by the throat.
But Josiah was ready.
He had slid his hand down to his leg and opened his palm. When he saw the barkeep flinch, saw him signal that he was going to come at Josiah like he had expected him to, intentionally provoked him to if truth be told, Josiah parried his hand across his face, and his fast-moving wrist crashed into the barkeep’s arm, knocking his grasping hands away from Josiah’s throat.
Josiah didn’t stop there. He quickly grasped the big man’s wrist with a hearty grip, then twisted the wrist under, straightened the arm, and pulled the barkeep forward. One wrong move, since Josiah had swung up his other arm to meet the man’s elbow, and he would snap the barkeep’s arm like it was a weak piece of kindling.
“You move another inch,” Josiah sneered, “and I’ll break your arm, then I’ll feed your mouth my elbow for lunch, mister. Now, what’s it going to be? Lemonade, or I knock your teeth out? I got just as much of a right to a drink here as any other man. Maybe more, since I find your hatred of Rangers distasteful.”
Josiah could feel his heart racing, could feel the adrenaline pushing through his veins, numbing his body and focusing his mind directly on the threat before him . . . and at the other end of the bar. He hadn’t lost sight of the two men sitting at the bar. They were now on their feet, hands reaching for their guns.
He only had seconds to succeed at restraining the barkeep and getting him to see things his way.
The barkeep’s face was beet red, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Rage
was building up from the man’s toes, along with the pain as Josiah pressured the weakest part of the barkeep’s arm.
Any hold he had on the man was only going to last a second or two longer. The barkeep was a big man, a stronger man than Josiah could ever hope to be, and when that volcano of fury erupted, there wasn’t going to be any place to run or hide.
The cock of a gun can get a man’s attention real quick, along with a snarling bull barely held back by a weaker man.
Josiah had no choice but to act, to save his own hide.
He thrust his one arm forward, and with as much force as he could pulled the barkeep’s arm back with the other, snapping the man’s forearm cleanly as he struggled against the pressure of Josiah’s elbow. The barkeep’s own attempt to escape the grasp and position Josiah had him in had worked against him as he tried to escape.
The skills of hand-to-hand combat revisited Josiah like a comfortable ghost that had lingered in a cemetery, awaiting a visit from a loved one. His time in the Texas Brigade and the War Between the States, and the skills he gained there, never left him, even though sometimes he wished they would.
The snap of the bone was ten times louder than the cock of the man’s gun at the other end of the bar and was quickly followed by an agonizing scream as Josiah let go of the barkeep and followed up with his promise.
He flung his elbow into the big German man’s mouth with as much force and rage as he could muster.
Teeth, soft and rotted, shot out the side of the barkeep’s mouth like lead balls loaded with an extra tap of gunpowder, quickly followed by an explosion of sinewy blood.
The barkeep tumbled backward, crashing into a counter that held a thick inventory of liquor bottles. The mirror rattled and threatened to tip forward, but it was attached to the wall too securely for that to happen. Forethought on someone’s part was obvious. Fights in saloons were as common as flies on a horse’s ass.
Josiah spun around and gripped his Peacemaker, pointing it forward—one of the advantages of wearing a swivel rig was not having to unholster the gun when it was needed; there was a hole to fire through at the end of the swivel holster.
“You want to meet the same fate as this fella, or worse,” Josiah yelled, “then go right ahead. One of you is going to fall before I do. Do we need to go any further with this conversation?”
Both men were standing at the other end of the bar, almost like twins, mirror images of each other, with their weapons drawn and Josiah in their sights, each with a finger on a trigger. Something behind Josiah caught the skinny man’s attention.
If there was going to be a time to shoot, it would be now, but Josiah restrained himself. He’d already hurt the barkeep worse than he’d intended, let his anger get away from him. There was no way he could justify killing one of the two men, or both of them if it came to that, and he knew it. The previous two killings, and the trouble that followed, had put a hitch in his trigger finger, and at that moment, that second of hesitation would likely get him killed, and he knew it.
Josiah took half a breath, just as a gunshot exploded behind him.
CHAPTER 20
Out of instinct, Josiah spun around just enough to see who was behind him, all the while keeping the two men, with their guns trained on him, in his peripheral vision.
A tall man stood just outside the door that led into the kitchen. He was holding a rifle, with a thin whisp of smoke trailing upward.
Josiah glanced up at the ceiling, saw more than one bullet hole there, and focused back on the man he knew to be Brogdon Caine.
He was wholly grateful that the bullet had found a place in the ceiling and not in his back, but he was certain that his troubles weren’t over. Three guns to one didn’t offer him any favors in unknown territory. Josiah was aware that every breath he took could be his last.
“Back it down, boys. Ain’t gonna be no more killin’ in this place,” Caine demanded. He had a hint of a Yankee accent, enough for Josiah to know that the man wasn’t a born-and-raised Texan, but hard and stern enough for any fool to take him seriously.
The barkeep staggered up from behind the bar, pulling himself up on the counter like a man who’d been pushed over a cliff. His face was twisted in pain, and he was hanging onto his arm in search of comfort, or release of pain. There was no way that he’d find either any time soon. The bones were completely snapped.
“That son-of-a-bitchin’ Ranger broke my arm, Mr. Caine.” The barkeep’s words were a little slurred, and a spot of drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth as he bit and fidgeted his tongue, trying to ward off and stomach the pain as much as he could. His face was as pale as a white sheet soaked in lye.
“Boys, take William over to see Doc Handley. Lock the door behind you. Ain’t gonna be no business to be had while you’re gone.”
The skinny man started to protest, but thought better of it. He broke Caine’s gaze with a defeated exhale and put away his Colt. “Ain’t right what he did there, Mr. Caine.”
Brogdon Caine stood his ground, didn’t act like he heard a word the man said.
Caine had a thick head of black hair and skin that didn’t look like it had been touched by the sun in years. He looked Scottish to Josiah, and it was perhaps that accent he had heard in the man’s voice, a hint of the Highlands and not the East, like he’d originally thought. Or it could have been both for all he knew. Caine’s eyes were dark, too, and he was just as faded and worn as the rest of the Easy Nickel was. Maybe more. The pants he wore were stitched and patched in a few places, and both legs rose off his scruffy boots just a little higher than most men wore them. He kind of looked like a teenager who’d had a quick growing spurt and his ma couldn’t keep up with the mending, but in reality Caine was an older man, maybe twenty years older than Josiah.
“You leave Ranger Wolfe to me. Go on now. Get,” Brogdon Caine said. “I can handle myself better than most. You know that.”
The two men didn’t protest any further. Instead, they moved with quick obedience to William the barkeep’s side and directed him out the door, one man on each side of him, giving support.
Josiah stood there facing Caine, his hand still gripped on his Peacemaker.
“They’ll be no need for shootin’, Wolfe. You can lower your weapon.”
“How do I know I can trust you, Caine?”
“The fact that we’re standin’ here havin’ this conversation should be a fine startin’ point for you. I coulda just shot you dead, if I thought you was vermin. Would’ve had a right, too, considerin’ the hurt you just put on William. The man’s a bull. I’m surprised he didn’t tear your head off.”
“He tried.”
“If it wasn’t for that, I’da shot you. Good thing as it was I recognized you.”
“You’d shoot a man in the back?” Josiah relaxed a bit. He didn’t trust Caine, wasn’t sure what the man was up to, or why he hadn’t shot him when he’d more than had the chance.
“If I thought it necessary,” Caine said as he set the rifle down, a Winchester ’73, and propped it against the doorjamb. “There’s a sign of trust for you.”
Josiah took a deep breath and let go of his gun, spinning it downward.
The door locked behind him as the two men ushered William outside.
He eyed Caine curiously, still not sure what was going on or what the owner of the Easy Nickel was up to. “I didn’t intend to break William’s arm. He came at me pretty quick.”
“I’m sure he had reason. You provoke him, Wolfe?”
Truth be told, the answer would have been yes. Josiah knew he’d provoked the man to attack him, but it had been easier than he’d thought it would be. The barkeep had been on tenderfoot standing more than Josiah had anticipated.
“Well, I suppose I might’ve taken a little more offense to not being served than I might normally have.”
&
nbsp; One of Caine’s eyes, the left one, was a little lazy, slower to catch up with the other one when he looked away or right at somebody. It kind of unnerved Josiah. He didn’t want to stare, and he didn’t know how to look the man straight in the eye . . . so he just focused on the right one.
Caine eased behind the bar and stopped to look at the mess William had made. When he’d stumbled back, the big barkeep had knocked a couple of bottles of good whiskey to the floor, shattering them.
“What’re you doin’ here, Wolfe? Don’t you have Ranger business to tend to?”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a man say that.”
“I’d be glad of it if I was you.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But this is not as good a business as you might ’spect it to be. Who’s the girl?”
Josiah’s hand was still within a quick reach of the Peacemaker’s trigger, and he wasn’t about to sit down. He stood about a foot from the bar, plenty of room in between him and Caine.
He was uncomfortable. The danger, at least as far as he could tell, was past, unless there was a gun under the bar—and Josiah knew there was—or a man lurking in the shadows somewhere in the building that he didn’t know about. That was possible, but didn’t seem likely. Caine and his boys had had more than a clear chance to kill him if they’d wanted to.
His skin prickled, his every sense was open and alert, as he answered Caine’s question. “Girl’s name is Myra Lynn. Myra Lynn Elliot as far as I know. I don’t know that that’s the name she goes by, either, but it’s all I got.”
Caine shook his head no as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, putting them on the bar in between him and Josiah. “I don’t know no girl named Myra Lynn. What she look like?”
Josiah took a deep breath. That was a good question. He’d never met Scrap’s sister, and he hadn’t thought to ask Scrap to describe her. He didn’t know if she was tall or short, skinny or fat . . . Scrap was on the skinny side himself, all muscle no fat, but he was young, always on the move. There’d never been much discussion between them about the girl, other than the fact that she was a nun, and that had turned out to be a lie.
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