Though unaware of Tucker’s unique abilities, Duke’s instinct told him Tucker could succeed where others had failed, and his only regret was not searching him out sooner. Standing at his mirror and buttoning his shirt, he could feel himself holding his breath waiting for Tucker’s report. Was Spring Junction able to be saved?
Taking a breath, he nodded at his reflection. He’d finally brought Tucker Prescott in, and that was the main thing, but as he headed from his room to join Maude and Dolly at the breakfast table, he knew he’d have a tough time focusing on anything until Tucker knocked on his door and gave him the answer.
A short time later, he discovered Maude and Dolly shared his anxiety. They were unusually quiet, and as Betsy brought in a fresh pot of coffee, Duke realized he needed to talk about it.
“We’ll know soon enough if Prescott can help us,” he declared, “and in the meantime, stewin’ about it isn’t gonna do us much good.”
“You’re the one who’s stewing,” Dolly remarked. “You have those funny lines between your eyes. You only get them when you’re stewing.”
“You’re right,” he sighed, knowing he couldn’t lie to his daughter, “I am, but I’m stewin’ for the both of you, so you don’t have to.”
“I don’t see how that works,” Dolly frowned, “but thank you anyway.”
“How did he seem to you, Maude?” Duke asked. “Was he hopeful? What did he say?”
“He was a real gentleman, but he did make it very clear no one was to be near the cabin, or even in the area. He said it was because he didn’t want to worry about protecting us if there was trouble, but I got the impression there was more to it than that. Whatever he’s up to, he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“Like you said, father, we’ll know soon enough,” Dolly piped up, “but I wish I could spend some time in town so I could see what was going on. I don’t mean the crime. I mean when Tucker starts doing whatever it is he does.”
“But you’re stayin’ here,” Duke said sternly, “and if you do go out for a ride, it’ll be in the other direction, up in the hills behind the house, right?”
“Of course,” she said impatiently. “You don’t have to worry. If I do go out, it will be much later today when the sun comes out and all those gray clouds go away.”
Satisfied, Duke went back to eating his breakfast, but he was privately parroting his daughter’s thoughts. He too would love to be a spectator and watch Tucker in action.
* * *
It was early evening, and Tucker had spent his first day becoming acquainted with the two horses Duke had left for him, and having quiet time ruminating. Based on the information Duke had given him, he had formulated a plan before he’d even arrived. Tucker would be calling on the services of an old friend, a character he had used with great success in the past.
Spring Junction had more than the usual motley crew of bad men. The town had been shanghaied by two Irish thugs. Eliminating the McGill brothers would be the first order of business, but there was an advantage to ruthless men like them. When such leaders sprang up in a town, many times the lawless fell into step and joined them. Knocking the McGills out of the picture would probably see most of the town’s bad eggs go down as well.
As the sun began to set, Tucker slowly and methodically began to dress. First he applied salt and pepper bushy eyebrows, then the matching beard and mustache, followed by a wig of curly, slightly out of control, dark gray hair. Adding round spectacles and blotching his face with women’s rouge to give himself a ruddy complexion, the mark of man who liked the bottle, he placed the white collar around his neck, and donning the long black robe, he stared at his reflection. Tucker Prescott was now Father O’Brien, a much older, weathered, and wise catholic priest.
Picking up his purposely tattered leather bag, he tacked up Ranger and headed into town, and as he rode slowly down Main Street, people stopped and stared. There was a church, but it wasn’t catholic, and it was about two miles away. The minister was rarely seen, having learned that the new residents of the town didn’t take kindly to him wandering around and spouting the gospel. He remained in seclusion, counseled only those who arrived at his door, and carried out the desired services: funerals, weddings, and the Sunday sermon. A catholic priest riding through town was an oddity, but on his way to the livery stable, Tucker made it a point to wave to the passersby, and as he hoped they would, they smiled and waved back. As he approached the stable, a tall, muscled, burly man strode forward.
“Father, what brings you to these parts?” he asked, clearly unafraid to speak his curiosity. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a priest here before.”
“I heard there are souls here that need saving,” Tucker replied in a strong Irish brogue.
“More than I care to admit,” the man said soberly, “and you’re sure welcome. Sometimes I think the devil has taken over this town. You plannin’ on settin’ up a church?”
“No, nothing formal like that.”
“I hope you’ll be careful, father. There are some folks around here that are past savin’, and they might not take too kindly to you tryin’.”
“No one is past redemption,” Tucker said solemnly. “I have faith that the Lord will be guiding my step and protecting me, and I believe even those with hate in their heart respect a man of the cloth.”
“You just might be right about that,” the man said thoughtfully. “The evil in a soul can be weakened by the sight of a man of God.”
“Are you a catholic?” Tucker asked.
“No, no, but I am a God-fearin’ man. I take the missus and my son to church every Sunday.”
“The good Lord smiles on all his children,” Tucker said warmly. “I’m Father O’Brien, sorry, I should have said.”
“Frank Barlow,” the livery master replied, extending his hand. “I assume you want me to take care of your horse?”
“Yes, very good care, and I’ll pay extra for the best hay and grain you offer.”
“A buck a day will see him right,” Frank declared, “though I kinda hate chargin’ a priest that much.”
“Worry not. My horse carries me everywhere, and he is worthy of every cent. Can you tell me, Mr. Barlow, which hotel you would suggest?”
“Frank, please, call me Frank. For you, the kindliest place, and also the quietest, is at the end of the street and around the corner. Rose’s Lodge. She serves a good meal, her rooms are clean, and she doesn’t charge a whole bunch. Oh, and one other thing, father, she won’t put up with any nonsense, if you know what I mean. She’ll like having a priest under her roof.”
“That sounds ideal, but is it far? My bones are weary from the ride. I’m not as young as I once was, and I have my bag to carry.”
“It’s not far, but I’ll have Billy take you there and carry it for you. He’s my son.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
The stable owner called into the barn, and a strapping young lad Tucker guessed to be about fifteen hurried forward and greeted him enthusiastically.
“I’ve never met a real priest before,” he exclaimed. “I hope you can get God to bless this place and get rid of—”
“Easy there, son,” his father said, interrupting him. “You know talk like that can get a man in big trouble these days.”
“I’m here to do God’s work,” Tucker said reassuringly, “but your father is right. Keep a low profile. As it says in the bible, there is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak. Your time to speak will come.”
But in spite of his warning, Tucker was impressed with Frank and his son. It was clear there were still citizens in the town who hadn’t given up.
“Billy, take Father O’Brien to Rose’s Lodge and hurry back, and no talkin’ if anyone gives you a hard time!”
“Yes, pa, I’ll be quick.”
Frank unstrapped the battered leather bag from the saddle and handed it off to his son, then talking to Ranger like an old friend, the burly man led him into the barn. As Tucker watched,
he knew his horse was in good hands, and with peace of mind he headed out onto the street with the boy and began a casual conversation.
“What exactly is the problem here? I know these gold-rush towns can bring out the worst in men, but word has it Spring Junction has gone as bad as black pudding left in the sun.”
“What’s black pudding?”
“It’s something we Irish have for breakfast, and it doesn’t last too long after it’s been cooked.”
“I love your accent,” Billy grinned. “I wish I could talk like that.”
“Every country has its own way of speaking, though I’m surprised the tongue of this young nation has changed so much from its English roots. But Billy, you must tell me what’s happening in this town. If I’m going to pray, and if I’m going to talk to people, I need all the information you can give me.”
“Lots of fightin’ and brawlin’, and there’s a gang here,” Billy declared. “They’re takin’ a lotta money from pa. They’re takin’ a lotta money from everybody who has a shop, and the men who run it, they sound like you.”
“You mean they’re from Ireland?”
“Yeah, they’re brothers.”
“How many are in this gang?”
“At first it was just the two of ‘em, Conan and Patrick, they came in by themselves, but it wasn’t long before they had a bunch of others workin’ for ‘em. I guess there’s about a dozen or so now, but it seems like they add more every day. Maybe you can talk to ‘em, bein’ as you come from the same place,” Billy said hopefully.
“Maybe I can at that,” Tucker replied. “Sometimes talking can go a long way if you know what to say.”
“Here we are, this is Rose’s place. She’s a real nice lady. Good cook too.”
“How do you know that?”
“I do odd jobs for her, you know, hammer a nail, hang curtain rods, stuff like that. She’s always changin’ her curtains,” Billy sighed. “That woman changes her curtains as many times as I change my socks.”
“Thanks, Billy,” Tucker said, chuckling at Billy’s short story, and reaching under the sash of his cassock, he fished out a dime. “Here, keep it safe.”
“Thanks a lot, father.”
“Be careful going back,” Tucker said soberly. “Remember, you can’t help anyone if you’re buried in the ground.”
“I will,” the boy nodded, “and if you ever need me, I’ll be happy to help out.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Tucker watched him head off at a jog, then turning back, he knocked on the door. It was opened by a middle-aged trim woman with a severe face, but the moment she spotted his collar and cassock, she broke into a smile.
“Thank the Lord,” she said as she gestured for him to enter, “and I mean that sincerely. I’m not a catholic, but I am very happy to have a man of the church under my roof.”
“Father O’Brien at your service,” Tucker said with a smile and a nod.
“Rose Gillings,” she replied, “and you can call me Rose. Will you be wanting a room for long?”
“Just the night. Duke Baker invited me here, and bless his soul, he’s offered me a cabin just outside of town, but I need a night to recover from my journey before meeting up with him. Would you have something on this floor? My back, it doesn’t do well climbing up steps these days.”
“Duke Baker,” she smiled. “Such a good heart. He’s brought in a few men to try to bring peace to Spring Junction. Hasn’t had much luck though. Is that why you’re here?”
“That’s the idea. Maybe it’s luck of the Irish they were missing.”
“You’re most welcome. The better rooms are upstairs, but there’s a room in the back. It’s not as big or nice as the others though.”
“May I trouble you to see it?”
“Certainly, father, right this way,” she said, starting down the hallway past the staircase. “If you like it, I won’t charge you as much.”
Walking past the kitchen and turning right down a short hallway, she opened a door and gestured for him to enter. Stepping inside, Tucker found himself in a small room with a cot, a narrow dresser offering the obligatory bowl and pitcher with a mirror above it, and most important, a window. It had dark red drapes, but it was cracked open, and Tucker could see it led to the back of the house.
“This will do just fine,” he said gratefully. “Thank you, Rose.”
“It will be a dollar fifty for the night. Is that all right, father?”
“Of course. Let me unpack my bag and I’ll give it to you right away.”
“I’d be much obliged. Are you hungry? I’m getting ready to put dinner on the table. I serve it for my guests every evening at six o’clock, but there are only two other lodgers at the moment. I’m very picky about the people I let stay here.”
“That’s very wise, and yes, thank you, a good meal sounds most appealing, though I confess I can feel a headache coming on. I’ll join you then retire for the night and sleep off my journey.”
“I’ll see you shortly then, and the key is in the lock.”
“Thank you, Rose.”
He closed the door behind him, and moving quickly to the window he stared outside. Not only did it lead into a backyard, there was plenty of shrubbery for cover should it be needed. It was perfect.
Chapter Five
Feigning a terrible headache halfway through dinner, declaring he had a special tonic that would take the pain away and would put him to sleep, Father O’Brien rose unsteadily from the table. As he started to head to the hallway, he stooped over to appear even more frail, and was so convincing that Rose wanted to help him to his room.
“No, no, I’ll be right as rain,” he said, laying on his thick Irish accent. “I just need to sleep it off. It was the journey, I’m sure of it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Moving slowly away, he heard Rose say how pleased she was to have a man of God in her home, then he grinned as the other two guests heartily agreed. Playing the various characters he’d created over the last few years had been enormously satisfying, and Father O’Brien was one of his favorites.
Once inside his room he locked the door, then pulled a small wooden wedge from his bag. He’d made it himself, and carried it wherever he traveled. Jamming it into the narrow space between the floor and the bottom of the door, he moved across to the dresser and carefully peeled off his beard, mustache, and eyebrows, took off his spectacles, then removed his priest’s robe to reveal the pants and blue shirt underneath.
He had ripped off the sleeves and the collar from several of his shirts; the collar so it wouldn’t interfere with the white collar of his disguise, and the sleeves so his muscled arms were clearly visible, making any opponent aware that he was a strong and powerful man. It also gave him a rough and tumble look, and prevented anyone grabbing at his sleeves in the event of a scuffle. Fabric was much easier to clutch than an arm. Hanging up his cassock, he hid the rest of his disguise under the mattress, and placed a bible on the top of the small dresser. If someone did manage to break in, they might not know where he was, but at least it would appear he was the priest he claimed to be.
Slowly pushing up the window, he was relieved it made no sound, and climbing out into the yard, he slid it back down, leaving it open barely an inch so he could lift it back up when he returned. Darting his eyes across to the neighbor’s house, he saw only the top of the frame of its window facing the yard, the window itself covered by a thick bush. His privacy was assured. Finding his way out to the street, he was soon sauntering down the road, blending in with the other people in the bustling town.
During their meeting in San Francisco, Duke Baker had provided Tucker with details about his town, and Tucker knew that Spring Junction had two main saloons: Kitty’s Korner and the Short Branch Saloon. Kitty’s was where the women and music could be found, and the Short Branch Saloon, the gambling, fighting, and heavy drinking. Kitty’s could get raucous, but Duke had told him the woman who owned it had a steel-trap memory, and i
f a man caused too much trouble he’d have a tough time getting back in. The favors of the ladies were too important to risk, so generally the patrons behaved, and that’s where Tucker was heading, Kitty’s Korner. He had no desire to become embroiled in any kind of barroom brawl, and Duke had warned him that fights were a regular event at the Short Branch Saloon. Tucker’s mission was information gathering, and he’d learned that a loose woman could be a loose talker, especially after a drink or two, or while lying next to him with a comfortable pillow under her head.
He noticed there were a few businesses still open in spite of the lateness of the hour, and walking into a store boasting a red sign that read Sam’s Mercantile, he discovered a tidy shop offering a variety of goods, but there was a slovenly-looking man sitting in a chair just inside the door. As Tucker stepped around the various displays, he could feel the man’s eyes on him, and assumed the mean-looking guard was one of the McGill gang. Picking up a sack of hard candy under a sign marked Nickel Bags, Tucker carried it up to the counter, and as he reached into his pocket for the change, the roughneck in the chair stood up and approached him.
“It’s a dime,” he declared, his voice a hoarse rasp.
“The sign says it’s a nickel bag,” Tucker frowned, and as he spoke, he glanced at the shopkeeper. The man looked nervous, and was obviously afraid to interfere.
“You can’t read, mister,” the man said, a threat in his voice. “That bag’s a dime.”
“It’s my mistake,” the shopkeeper said quickly. “It’s supposed to read a dime. I’m sorry.”
Tucker's Justice (Wild West Cowboys Book 1) Page 4