Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Velda Brotherton
Tyra’s Gambler
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Gripping the barrel, she tapped the stranger hard on the back of his noggin. “That’d be enough of that, mister.” The demand didn’t sound threatening, and the man scarcely spared her a look.
“I said leave it be.” Another conk, harder this time, got the guy’s attention.
Continuing to clutch Barney’s shirt, he turned and stared at Tyra, taking her in from flaming red hair to britches to cowboy boots. For a beat, he held Barney down and gave her the eye.
“Aren’t you a purty little thing? But I think you might leave well enough alone. I haven’t never shot me a woman, but that don’t mean I’m not ready to start.”
His eyes were blue, the gaze hard as glass marbles, voice calm and melodious, not threatening at all. As if he weren’t smashing Barney’s face in or threatening an armed woman.
He might be downright handsome, but he wasn’t real smart. Tyra lowered her aim and put a bullet into his calf. The echo of the blast brought everyone to attention, the stench of gunpowder mingling with that of cheap whiskey and filthy spittoons. Her target hollered and turned loose his prey. Some of the drunker patrons laughed, others hid behind tables or ran out the door into the street.
The injured poker player sat on the floor rocking and clutching his bleeding leg. “Damn, that hurts! What the hell you do that for? First time I ever been shot by a woman.”
Praise for Velda Brotherton
Fly With The Mourning Dove, the biography of a distant cousin, was a finalist in the WILLA Literary Awards sponsored by Women Writing the West.
She has been awarded the Distinguished Citizen Award by the Washington County Historical Society.
Over the years she has received numerous writing awards.
Tyra’s Gambler
by
Velda Brotherton
The Victorians, Book Three
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Tyra’s Gambler
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Velda Brotherton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1138-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1139-5
The Victorians, Book Three
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To the Western gang
who keep me seeking out historical facts
that make wonderful stories.
You know who you are.
Chapter One
A tall lanky wrangler in trail-dusted clothing ambled Tyra’s way, grinning like a silly hound. “Buy you a drink, little lady?”
She palmed the butt of her Colt, holstered below the waistband of her britches, and smiled back. “Not today, cowboy.”
He eased close enough she got a whiff of him. A month’s sweat mixed with cow dung on his boots. Too unpleasant.
His face puckered in disappointment. “Aw, just a little one. Who knows, you might like me.”
Without saying more, she let the chair drop forward on its front legs, and by the time it did, the Colt lay on the table in front of her. “Said no. Don’t think you want to irritate me.”
From beyond the swinging doors of the Watering Hole Saloon came a gunshot, quickly followed by a second. Not a soul but the rejected cowboy took any notice. He jerked like she might’ve shot him. After patting his dirty shirt and discovering no holes, he held both palms up in surrender and eased away.
Backed up in the corner of the saloon, Tyra tilted her chair back against the wall and took a sip of the locally brewed beer. Yuk. Would she ever get used to what these Americans called beer? She shook her head like a wet dog. It was said once you drank enough of the stuff, you didn’t mind at all that it tasted like bilge water. Obviously she hadn’t reached that point yet.
Around the dim room men slouched at tables or leaned against the rough planks strung between wooden barrels to form a bar. They just kept on doing what they were doing. Probably had enough of the rot gut to make them deaf and blind.
Blamed yahoos out in the street, no doubt shooting out windows down at Ames’ mercantile again. If Hays City didn’t get itself a permanent lawman soon, there wouldn’t be anything left but broken glass, burned buildings, and dead bodies. There’d been at least a dozen killings and uncountable gunfights that ended with bloody consequences since she’d arrived in Kansas with Wilda and Rowena two years earlier. It was like there was a feud going on between the cowhands, the soldiers from Fort Hays, and the railroad workers, leaving everyone else caught in the middle. Pecker measuring, most of it. Every Saturday night the jail was stuffed to overflowing with drunks put there by whatever city council member they had annoyed.
These were the same folks who refused to hire her to keep the peace ’cause they didn’t have the guts to put a badge on a woman. Said no woman, even one who wore pants and men’s shirts and carried a six-shooter, had any business herding drunken cowboys or breaking up fistfights. Idiots.
She’d’ve cleaned up this wild town by now. Something Wild Bill Hickok hadn’t been able to do before being run off by soldiers of Custer’s Seventh, stationed at Fort Hays. Hickok was shot and killed in Deadwood last summer, and she missed the idea of him still out there riding the plains like a wild man, taking shots at outlaws. She sipped more of the nasty brew. Still not any better. If James didn’t arrive soon, she’d be forced to slug down another of the foul drinks.
She’d no more than set down her glass when Vera Jean, one of the more popular doves working at the saloon, ambled over.
The woman escaped being pretty by a long shot, but she was accommodating, and the men liked her. She had large breasts, tousled copper-colored hair, and a hearty sense of humor. That explained a lot when it came to her popularity.
She grinned at Tyra. “Where’s that young man of yours tonight?”
“Ah, he went out to Wichita to see if he could buy some cattle. Ought to be back by now, though.”
Vera Jean nodded and touched the back of the chair, waiting to be asked to sit.
Tyra pointed her chin in invitation. It would be good to have company. Kept the rowdies from bothering her, with Vera Jean available. They headed toward her
like a hound on the trail of a fox. For some reason men preferred women with ample breasts. Made one wonder just what they did with them. Hers were merely a handful. Perhaps that explained why James and her hadn’t gotten around to that in earnest yet. His lack of interest bothered her just a bit. Didn’t he find her attractive? She’d made it clear that she, like her idol Calamity Jane, was open-minded about such things.
The bartender, a tall, muscular man who went by the single name of Barney, ambled over with another glass, foam dripping down the side. Everyone knew Tyra would buy anyone at her table a drink or two. In fact, she ran a credit at the Watering Hole. Paid of course by Lord Blair Prescott, her guardian. Guardian’s foot. She always had to laugh at that. He’d long ago given up guarding anything where she was concerned. He said go left, she went right, and always had.
“You ladies doing okay this evening?” Barney kept an eye on his favorite customers, especially the women. Never allowed any hassling. Tyra took care of her own hasslers, so he didn’t have to.
He started back toward the bar, weaving through several tables of poker players. Just as he passed by a well-dressed player, a drunk kicked his way out of a chair and knocked Barney into the man, whose cards flew out, face up, across the considerable pot of money, revealing three aces and two tens. Before the bartender could blink, the man sprang to his feet and shoved him backward so that he stumbled and fell, feet tangled in chair legs. The player was on Barney in a minute, beating him across the face with a doubled fist. Unable to kick free of the pile of chairs, the big man was helpless. The attacker bunched Barney’s shirt up under his chin and flailed away at his face till blood splattered onto the floor.
Everything happened so fast most people just backed off and gave them room. Tyra watched for maybe half a minute, saw no one was going to put a stop to the brutal beating, and leaped to her feet, the Colt in one hand. Everyone in town knew she could use it and often did, though she’d almost never shot anyone since a well-aimed miss usually did the trick.
Gripping the barrel, she tapped the stranger hard on the back of his noggin. “That’d be enough of that, mister.” The demand didn’t sound threatening, and the man scarcely spared her a look.
“I said leave it be.” Another conk, harder this time, got the guy’s attention.
Continuing to clutch Barney’s shirt, he turned and stared at Tyra, taking her in from flaming red hair to britches to cowboy boots. For a beat, he held Barney down and gave her the eye.
“Aren’t you a purty little thing? But I think you might leave well enough alone. I haven’t never shot me a woman, but that don’t mean I’m not ready to start.”
His eyes were blue, the gaze hard as glass marbles, voice calm and melodious, not threatening at all. As if he weren’t smashing Barney’s face in or threatening an armed woman.
He might be downright handsome, but he wasn’t real smart. Tyra lowered her aim and put a bullet into his calf. The echo of the blast brought everyone to attention, the stench of gunpowder mingling with that of cheap whiskey and filthy spittoons. Her target hollered and turned loose his prey. Some of the drunker patrons laughed, others hid behind tables or ran out the door into the street.
The injured poker player sat on the floor rocking and clutching his bleeding leg. “Damn, that hurts! What the hell you do that for? First time I ever been shot by a woman.”
“I asked you nice. Now, you try to get up, the next one will blow your guts out.” She stared into the eyes filled with pain. Dang, he was a fine-looking man. Too bad she had to shoot him to get his attention.
After a brief struggle to rise, his face drained to a pasty gray, and he managed four weak words. “Shot by a lady.”
A couple of cowboys ignored him to drag Barney to his feet and support him to an upright chair. Blood poured from his nose, one eye had already begun to swell, and he was spitting blood.
“I ain’t no lady.” Tyra took another look at the guy she’d just shot. A fancy Dan, he didn’t look like much of a brawler in his well-made butt-hugging black britches, white shirt, and striped vest, but it took a heck of a fighter to bring Barney down. She’d seen the bartender take men a lot bigger and rowdier in appearance than this one. This fellow must be quite a scrapper, plus a man who definitely had a burr under his saddle about something.
He had sun-streaked hair the color of fine sand. Lashes the same shade fringed those bright blue eyes. And easy to see he flat couldn’t put his mind around her shooting him. Something in that puzzled gaze went right straight to her gut and tied it in knots. For a moment she was unable to speak. When she finally did, her voice sounded like she’d just swallowed a pint of the local moonshine. First time any man had affected her in such a way.
“Dammit, settle down. Sure sorry I had to shoot you.” She peered around at the crowd of men who had started to chuckle in a way that told her they were pleased not to be a target of her ire. “Who’s got the keys to the jail this week?”
A dirty hand crawled into the air as if its owner really didn’t want to be noticed. Murphy Collins, a railroader for the Kansas Pacific Railway over in Ellis. What the heck was he doing with the jail key? It wasn’t any of her business but still seemed mighty odd. She’d just see this man was locked up till the Ellis County marshal, whoever might have survived this month, showed up to take charge of him.
“Well, git over here and help me haul this yahoo onto his feet. Doc Winters can see him after we get him locked up. He ain’t bleeding too bad. Don’t reckon he’s about to die or anything. I want you all to remember how he was beating the tar out of poor old Barney when I put the bullet in his leg. James would be mighty unhappy to come back and find me in jail.”
Another round of laughter. Someone hollered, “Seems you’re ol’ James’s favoritest client.” Feet shuffled and everyone went back to drinking and playing cards before she could pinpoint who’d said that.
“Lord, Tyra,” Vera Jean said. “Ain’t you afeard of nothing?”
“Can’t think of anything but stupidity.” She slipped the Colt into its holster and took one arm of the wounded man. Under her grip the corded muscles felt like steel cables, and when he leaned into her she gritted her teeth against the warm feel and clean soap smell of him. He’d likely been a customer at Halston’s Bath and Shave parlor just prior to showing up to play poker.
Collins shoved through the crowd and took his other arm. Together they dragged the moaning man out of the saloon and down the street to the jail. His shot leg dragged along, the boot stirring up a tiny trail of dust.
“Aw, shut up that caterwauling. You ain’t dying.” Tyra pulled open one of the unlocked cells and helped Collins drag the man to a cot and drop him there.
When she leaned over, her breasts brushed against his chest. Lightning might as well have struck her. She did her best not to, but couldn’t help glancing down at him. Those incredible eyes were splashed with silver and glittered with amusement despite the pain.
“Put his feet up, and I’ll go get Doc.” She hurried away before she turned plumb silly.
Eyes truly revealed a person’s spirit, and these were talking loud to her. Deep down inside him lurked the kind of man she admired. One who took nothing off nobody, even someone way bigger. Despite the brutality of what she’d just witnessed, something behind that unwavering stare called out to her. A man so touchy a mere bump in the saloon had set him off. One corner of his mouth curled into a smart-alecky grin before he snuggled down as if on a fancy mattress. Made her want to slap him fourteen ways from Sunday.
Outside, she cut across the dusty street to Doc Winters’ office. The small surgery, tucked onto the end of his wife Josephine’s millinery shop, was dark, but Doc and Mrs. Doc lived upstairs. She took the outside wooden steps two at a time, boots thudding loudly over the muffled sounds coming from the row of saloons strung along the dirt road through town. She’d no more than rapped on the door when it swung open to reveal the portly Doc Winters.
The aroma of cornbread and ham wa
fted past her. Made her wish she’d been invited to take supper there. The stew at Carl’s Café had carried a yesterday taste to it.
In the light from inside, Doc studied her face. “Well, gal. Who’d you shoot this time?” Shaggy eyebrows crawled up his forehead toward the shiny bald spot in his narrow fringe of white hair.
“Now, Doc, dammit, I usually miss on purpose. You know that. This was some dandy of a poker player beating the thunder out of Barney. I had to do something.”
Doc shrugged. “I suppose there wasn’t anyone else who could’ve stopped him save a bit of a girl with a big gun? And he probably jumped right in front of the bullet.”
“If there was, they didn’t come forward. You gonna get your bag and come take a look, or what?”
“You mean he ain’t dead?”
“Funny. You know I never have killed anyone.” Before he could say anything, she went on. “Well, except that one time. And it don’t count. You have to admit he deserved to die, after dragging that poor woman out into the street and kicking her to death.”
Mrs. Doc peered at them from across the room, where she stitched quail feathers to one of her latest creations. “Evening, Miss Duncan.” Her voice was soft in comparison to Doc’s and Tyra’s.
“Evening, ma’am. You okay?”
“Tolerable, thank you. Yourself?”
“The same.”
Doc reached to one side of the door and came up with a black satchel. “Enough of this female palavering. Where is this fortunate man whose life you spared?”
“Over at the jailhouse. He’s not locked up, just sleeping in one of the cells. A real fancy man. Could you go on over and take care of him? He ain’t hurt bad. I’m gonna head out and see if I can meet up with James. He ought to’ve been back by now, and I’m getting worried he might’ve run into some trouble. Boy’s sometimes not real bright about cows and guns.”
Doc led her down the steps, making a fanning gesture with one hand. “Oh, by all means, girl, go see if there’s more trouble you can wade right in to. Bring me the survivors, if there are any.”
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