Jerry’s eyes darted over to the other chair. “I’m running a special today.”
“What’s that?”
“Hot towels for an extra ten cents. They soften the whiskers and are mighty relaxing.”
“I don’t want anything over my face,” Pescaterro said.
Reaching for a wide metal box, Jerry pulled a lever that opened the lid to allow a gout of steam to rise from within. “Are you sure? It’ll make you feel like a new man.”
Pescaterro shifted in his seat contentedly. “To hell with yer special and to hell with that squaw sweeper of yers.”
Jerry winced and eased the lid back down onto the box. “All right. Just thought I’d ask.” After that, he whipped up a mug full of lather using a brush with long, soft bristles and began applying it to Pescaterro’s face. At the same time, Nate peeled away the towels that had been piled onto his face and eased himself toward the edge of his chair.
Nate’s boots had barely touched the floor when Pescaterro glanced over in his direction. The instant Pescaterro spotted him, Nate placed his hand on the grip of his holstered Remington and said, “You should’ve taken the special, Dog Ear. Would have been a nice treat before heading back to jail.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Pescaterro grunted. “Some goddamn bounty hunter?”
“He’s a lawman,” Jerry said. “The best thing for you is to—”
In a swift set of movements, Pescaterro grabbed hold of Jerry’s white jacket, pulled him between the two barber chairs and then swung him at Nate as if he were wielding a blackjack.
Nate had been expecting some sort of attack, but not this one. When he was thumped by the hapless barber, Nate rolled over the top of his chair to drop awkwardly onto the floor behind it. Sure enough, Pescaterro followed up with something much deadlier than his first attempt and a gunshot exploded in the little shop.
“I been waiting for someone like you to come along!” Pescaterro roared before sending another pair of rounds into the chair. “After nailing that sheriff up north to that tree, I was gettin’ mighty bored.”
Nate didn’t know what Dog Ear was talking about, but assumed there was some poor lawman still rotting on a tree somewhere. “You got one chance to go quietly, Pescaterro,” Nate said from behind his cover. “This is it.”
“Yeah? How about you give me a second to consider that?”
A half second later, sounds of rending metal and screws being torn through the boards where they’d been mounted filled the air. Nate glanced around his chair to see Pescaterro’s boots and the base of the larger chair just before it was ripped up from the floor. That chair was then lifted high and sent crashing down again.
The chair’s backrest slammed against the portion of Nate’s chair meant to support his feet. He tried to roll away from the collision, but Nate hit a wall before getting far enough away to clear. Not only did the uprooted chair fall toward him, but the chair that Nate had been sitting in also began tilting his way. The quickest method for him to avoid being buried under all of that padded metal was to crawl toward the side of the shop where the barber kept his tools and other wares in a series of small drawers.
“That’s what I like to see!” Pescaterro said. “Crawl for me, little piggie! I’ll have you squealin’ in no time!”
Nate started climbing to his feet out of reflex. Before he got one leg beneath him, he dropped back down again to press his chest flat against the floor. In the space of a heartbeat, a gunshot blasted through the shop to blast a piece from the cabinets where Nate would have been if he’d lifted his head any farther. Now that he’d gotten his bearings again, Nate lay on his side and drew the Remington. He sighted along the barrel for less than a second before squeezing his trigger. The pistol barked twice. One of those bullets sparked against what remained of the wide metal post where the larger chair had been moored and the other got Dog Ear hopping backward.
“Hooo-wee!” Pescaterro wailed. “Yer a nasty little bastard!”
Keeping his arm steady, Nate took careful aim and waited for another clear opportunity. As soon as he saw Pescaterro’s feet shuffle into sight, he fired at them. Bits of leather tore from Dog Ear’s boot, accompanied by a spray of blood. Pescaterro’s only reaction was another wild howl. Instead of trying to find cover or get out of the barbershop altogether, the outlaw rushed around to the second chair to face Nate directly. If he felt any pain from getting hit, he wasn’t about to show it.
Nate steeled himself with a deep breath and clambered to his feet. As soon as he could, he crouched down low and circled around the upended chair so there was still something solid between him and Pescaterro. Dog Ear’s shots came in a series of rapid pops. One after another, each round came within inches of putting Nate down. One of them scraped across Nate’s back like a set of molten claws and was immediately followed by the metallic slap of a hammer against the back of an empty casing.
Nate stood up while firing a shot of his own. It was a rushed attempt, only meant to buy him another second or two. If he were facing someone who cared about life or death, it might have done just that. Against Pescaterro, however, it was simply a wasted bullet.
Dog Ear’s face was covered with a sloppy, ear-to-ear grin. Charging forward, he stretched out one arm while cocking the other back. His fingertips slapped against the Remington’s still-warm barrel to push it to one side so he could swing the straight razor he’d grabbed with his other hand. Nate barely had enough time to lean back and turn his head to one side before his face was sheared off the front of his skull. The blade sliced through the air in front of him, sending a cold chill raking down his spine.
“Not in here!” Jerry protested loudly from somewhere outside of Nate’s sight.
When Nate tried to aim the Remington, he realized he couldn’t move that entire arm. Pescaterro had clamped a solid grip around it and was holding it at a prime distance for his next swing with the razor. Before he could be eviscerated, Nate kicked Dog Ear anywhere he could. His boot pounded against his shin and even stomped down on the outlaw’s feet, which only put a slight wince onto Pescaterro’s face.
“I should’a gone for the special, huh?” the outlaw grunted as he pulled Nate in closer and butted heads with him. “That’s funny.”
Normally, Nate tried to avoid head butts simply because they only worked for animals with horns. For anyone else, it was generally a losing prospect no matter which end of it you were on. By the time Nate realized his arm had been released, Dog Ear’s meaty hand had clamped around his throat.
“How long you been chasing me, bounty hunter?” Pescaterro asked as he pinned Nate against one of the large mirrors hanging on the wall. “Someone from that mining camp steer you my way?”
“It was . . . Keyes,” Nate said desperately. “He told . . .”
“Uh-uh,” Pescaterro grunted as he brought the razor down toward the side of Nate’s head. “Keyes may be a lot of things, but he ain’t no backstabber.”
“I swear! He—”
“Go on and keep screamin’ if you like. I sure like it.”
Instead of trying to talk his way out of his current predicament, Nate brought his knee up into a series of powerful blows. The first few thumped against what felt like a wall made of smoked ham hocks. Pescaterro didn’t seem to feel much pain from the shots he’d taken and those knees hurt him even less. He was at least jostled enough for the razor to move a few inches away from its intended target. The next time, Nate drove his knee straight into Pescaterro’s groin.
Dog Ear’s eyes widened a bit and his lips curled into a reflexive snarl. That was the problem with trying to crack a man in the jewels. If he didn’t drop right away, he’d just become a lot madder than when he’d started. Before Nate could try to follow up with another knee to the same spot, he was heaved to one side like a hay bale being tossed toward the back end of a barn. Nate’s hip and leg knocked against something solid an
d the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. Suddenly, he knew where he was.
Too angered to form words, Pescaterro slashed with the razor. Nate twisted away while reaching out to grab whatever he could. As his hand closed around a tall jar, Nate felt a jab of pain in his face followed by the warm rush of blood. The razor had cut him and was so sharp that he’d barely noticed. He grabbed the hand that was still gripping his throat and dug his thumb as far as he could into Pescaterro’s wrist.
“Slimy little fuck!” Dog Ear said through clenched teeth.
Nate swung his other hand around, smashing the jar against Dog Ear’s shoulder.
“No!” Jerry hollered as if the jar had been broken against the side of his grandmother’s head.
The air reeked of rosewater. Judging by the barber’s continued mourning for the loss of his jar, it was fairly expensive rosewater. All Nate cared about was that the jar had indeed broken. Jagged portions of glass bit into his fingers and palm, which did nothing to keep him from hanging on tightly so he could drive the broken jar into Pescaterro’s shoulder.
“Son of a bastard!” the outlaw roared as Nate twisted the broken shard of glass into his fresh wound.
The instant the grip around Nate’s throat loosened enough for him to draw a breath, Nate pulled away and jumped down from atop the counter where Pescaterro had tossed him. He tightened his grip on the broken jar while frantically looking for the pistol he’d dropped somewhere along the way.
He found it, but it was closer to Pescaterro’s boot than his own.
Dog Ear straightened up to his full height, which put the top of his head within a scant couple inches of the ceiling. Reaching over one shoulder, he let out a throaty grunt which ended with a long exhale. “That’s better,” he said while showing Nate the wide shard of glass he’d dug from his flesh.
Nate couldn’t help looking at the jar in his hand. Sure enough, he’d broken off a sizeable portion while stabbing Pescaterro. Suddenly, the remaining piece of bloody glass in his hand didn’t seem so formidable. Pescaterro’s eyes glazed over as he gleefully rushed toward Nate with his arms opened wide. Even if he’d seen the gun lying on the floor so close to him, it was doubtful he’d take the time to pick it up. Dog Ear was known for killing men in many ways, but standing and shooting like a regular murderer wasn’t one of them.
Panic was a rare thing for Nate Sathow. This, however, was one time when he could feel it nipping at his heels and climbing up his spine with its icy little fingers. Rather than give in to it, he grabbed the first thing he could from one of the nearby tables. His hopes rose when he realized he’d stumbled upon the spot where Jerry kept his more practical tools. As Pescaterro charged at him, Nate hopped aside and picked up a pair of long, narrow scissors. Pescaterro stopped short of slamming face-first into the wall and, before he could wheel around, Nate brought his fist down like a hammer.
The scissors dug deep into a meaty portion of Pescaterro’s back near the shoulder. He’d been aiming for the fresh wound put there by the broken bottle and nearly hit his mark. Enraged, Pescaterro turned around while lashing out with a savage backfist. Not only did he thump Nate in the chest, but he did it so quickly that Nate dropped the scissors as he fell back.
“You’re ruining my shop!” Jerry wailed from the corner in which he was huddled. “At least take this outside!”
Pescaterro turned toward the barber and said, “I know you set this up! You’re dead as soon as I finish with this one here!”
Jerry shut his mouth and hunkered down in his corner.
When Pescaterro shifted his focus back to Nate, he got an eyeful of soapy water which was the next closest thing that Nate could grab. The outlaw howled as the soap stung his eyes. Balling up his fists, he stampeded in Nate’s direction. At the last second, Nate dove aside so Pescaterro ran face-first into another set of low shelves. Nate stepped up to deliver a series of short, chopping punches to Dog Ear’s ribs. His fists pounded into the same spot, tenderizing Pescaterro’s side until the outlaw turned to take another swipe at him. Still partially blinded by the lather, he punched a hole into the barber’s wall and sent his other fist crashing down onto a metal bin used to keep the day’s special good and hot.
“Owwww!” Pescaterro cried as he scaled his hand with the metal container full of hot towels. The outlaw then wiped furiously at his face to clear his eyes.
Recognizing an advantage when he saw one, Nate looked around for something else he could put to use. There was another jar of clear liquid in an open cabinet. He picked it up, sniffed its contents and recognized the pungent scent of pure alcohol that was probably used to clean scissors and razor blades. He waited for Pescaterro to make some progress with the soap and when the outlaw finally spotted him, Nate tossed the alcohol into his face.
Since Pescaterro’s eyes had been open wide, he got a full dose of the bitter liquid. He may have been mad before, but now he lost whatever was left of his mind. Clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth against the burning pain, Pescaterro lunged forward to get his hands on the man who’d sent him over the edge. Nate was lucky to step out of the way and hurried over to the length of wood that Jerry kept to use against unruly customers.
Before Nate could get a solid grip on the club, the barber grumbled into his hands. It had probably just been a complaint about the state of his shop, but the words were just loud enough to be heard. Pescaterro spun toward the sound of the rasping voice and stomped toward it while growling, “Found you, you bastard!”
“What?” Jerry squeaked. He couldn’t get another word out before Pescaterro picked him up by one arm and the collar of his shirt. Squinting through a haze of pain and rage, the outlaw pivoted on both feet to throw Jerry out the front window.
Glass shattered loudly, and the barber let out a pained cry as he landed on the boardwalk outside. Passersby spoke in surprised voices and a few ladies screamed at the sight before them. Jerry pulled himself up on all fours, cut and bleeding in several places by glass that he’d broken with his body.
“I got you now,” Pescaterro snarled as he wiped his eyes and stepped outside through the broken window. For a moment, he just stood there blinking furiously while using his sleeves to sop up as much of the alcohol and soap as he could. Half the time, he was clearing his eyes and the rest of the time he was wiping the mess back into them. When he was finally able to see again, he looked down at the barber in dazed confusion. “Where the hell is the bounty hunter?” he grunted.
Nate answered by cracking the barber’s club against the back of Pescaterro’s head. The outlaw staggered and turned around while collecting himself for a renewed attack. Rather than wait around for the fight to commence again, Nate drew back the club and swung it with all his might. Some of the impact was dulled by the mess of hair sprouting from Pescaterro’s scalp as well as the general thickness of his skull, but that second knock combined with the first were enough to drop the outlaw to the ground.
The people who’d witnessed Jerry’s exit through the window now stood to gawk at Nate and Pescaterro in silence. Nate looked around just long enough to satisfy himself that none of the locals were about to enter the fray on Dog Ear’s behalf. Then, he propped the length of wood on his shoulder and walked back into the barbershop to retrieve his pistol. When he returned, he found a familiar face among the astonished crowd outside.
“You sure took your sweet time in getting here!” Nate said to Frank.
“I was having a word with Grey,” the preacher said. “What on earth happened here?”
“I’ll explain it while we work. Now help me get this lunatic shackled good and tight.”
29
The offices of Anstel & Joyner were located in the newer section of Joplin’s business district. They were housed in a wide building with three floors, which made them slightly larger than the bank which was directly across the street. Black carriages were lined up in front of the b
uilding, tended by drivers who knew better than to say a word to the well-dressed men who walked in and out of the offices. They scowled at Deaugrey as he passed them, however. When he saw that, Deaugrey tipped his hat and ambled toward the front door.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the barrel-chested man who greeted Deaugrey almost immediately upon entering the building.
“I certainly do,” Deaugrey announced. “And I’d hate to be late for it because of a well-meaning but troublesome lackey.”
The man was somewhere in his thirties, had short brown hair, spectacles and a narrow, bushy beard that was reminiscent of a goat’s. He raised one eyebrow and replied, “That’d be better than being late because you got tossed into the street and kicked beneath a set of wagon wheels.”
After giving that a moment’s consideration, Deaugrey said, “I suppose you’re right. The name’s Deaugrey Scott.”
There was a set of stairs nearby. Two men stood there. The one who descended them first had a solid build and was slightly taller than average. His round face was smiling at the moment but had the potential for something much darker. Salt and pepper whiskers covered his chin and most everything below the neck was covered in an expensive dark blue suit. “There he is!” he declared. “I was hoping you’d arrive.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Deaugrey replied.
“I realize my invitation wasn’t exactly traditional.”
“The most recent invitation was fairly straightforward.” Looking past the first man toward the top of the stairs where Abraham Keyes stood, Deaugrey added, “It was the earlier introduction that left something to be desired.”
Keyes smirked without saying anything.
“Yes,” the man in the dark blue suit said. “But, considering the company you keep, you must understand why I’d be somewhat skeptical that you’d pay me a visit of your own accord.”
Deaugrey opened his arms wide as if he meant to embrace the well-dressed man who was now walking toward him. “Well, here I am. See how far a man can get just by asking nicely?”
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