Hunter had ordered extra kegs of beer and extra crates of bottled beer and whiskey. Franklin had dug a barbecue pit off beside his store, and smoke was currently pouring from it and the savory smell of roasting pork was filling the air.
The stretch of dirt between Hunter’s saloon and the hotel was filled with people. Most of them were afoot, but riders were also trying to make their way through to Old Jeb’s livery so they could deposit their horses for the night. These riders were cowhands from ranches in the surrounding area, and they knew they would probably be staying the night. It was Friday, and even though they had been paid the Saturday before, many had held onto their wages for this weekend. Their evening would begin at Hunter’s and then work its way over to Miss Alisha’s, and then they would bunk either in the livery or camp outside of town, and begin it all again Saturday evening.
Aunt Ginny sat on the boardwalk in front of Hunter’s. She had brought a wooden kitchen chair with her. She was in a dress with a high collar, and a pill box hat was pinned to her hair. Bree stood beside her, looking wide-eyed at all the excitement before her. She had left her levis home and was also in a dress. Hers was a sky blue with a neckline of white lace. She wore no hat and her hair wrapped on her head in a fashion she had seen in a magazine from St. Louis. Or as close as she could approximate it with Temperance’s help.
A cowhand rode past Hunter’s, and reared his horse and fired his pistol into the air. A man with a beer bottle in one hand raised in the air and screamed out like he was on the warpath. People on foot scurried past.
“Oh, Aunt Ginny,” Bree said with a smile of wonder. “Isn’t it all so grand?”
Ginny smiled. “I don’t know if that’s the word I would use for it.”
Hunter stood on the boardwalk in front of his doorway. His arms were folded over his barrel chest, and his thickly bearded face was breaking into a wide smile. Across the crowd, on a porch built onto the front of the hotel, Frank Shapleigh stood. He was a long, thin man, and a derby covered his head. He normally wore a string tie, but at the moment his shirt collar was open.
He looked over at Hunter, and they exchanged a smile. All of these people meant money would be flowing. Or at least credit would be. And these people were good for the money they owed. One thing about a community like this – it survived on honesty. And besides, you knew where everyone lived.
Hunter raised a hand in a wave, and Shapleigh returned it with a big smile.
Dusty stepped out of the doorway and around Hunter to stand beside him. Dusty was in a white shirt and a black string tie. His levis were clean, and his Peacemaker was tied down to his right side. He held a mug of beer in one hand.
“Gonna be a wild night,” Dusty said.
“That’s right,” Hunter said. “This is your first Fourth of July in this town.”
Dusty nodded. “Last year at this time, Josh and I were on the trail, tracking those raiders.”
“I missed it, too. Zack and Fred and I were right behind you on the trail. Franklin tried to handle the saloon for me, but when I got back the door was off the hinges.”
Dusty nodded with a laughing smile. He remembered.
Hunter said, “This night and tomorrow are gonna be the two wildest nights of the year. Wilder than the wildest Saturday night. We have more people in the area than we did last year. There are prospectors in the hills a few miles west of here. There’s a gulch a bunch of ‘em are working.”
Dusty said, “I’ve heard. They’re calling it William’s Gulch. I’m not really sure why.”
“And there’s a ranch, the Bar W. Their men used to ride clear into Bozeman, but we’re a little closer, and more and more of ‘em are riding in here to let loose. I expect. I would sure appreciate it if you and your brothers could be around tonight.”
Josh had ridden in from the line cabin the night before. There was still work to be done, but he didn’t want to miss the Fourth of July in McCabe Gap. He had missed it the year before, and didn’t intend to miss it again. He had given the men with him the weekend off, too.
Temperance had been the first to greet him. As he had been riding toward the house, she charged down the stairs and ran toward him. He scooped her up from the ground and pulled her onto the back of the horse with him and held her in a long kiss.
“Miss me?” he said.
She smiled. “Maybe a little.”
He now walked arm-in-arm with her. Her hair was done up under a hat that sort of reminded Dusty of a canoe. She was in a gingham dress, and about her neck was a chain and small diamond locket Aunt Ginny had given her for Christmas. Josh was in a flat-brimmed sombrero, and his hair was pulled back in a tail, like Pa’s. He was in a white shirt and string tie, and his pistol was at his side.
They strolled like a couple in love, aware only of each other. People pushed past, and the cowboy on the horse fired his gun in the air again, but it was like they didn’t even here.
Hunter said, “When’s that boy going to ask her to marry him?”
“Been kinda wondering that myself.”
Out beyond the hotel and Franklin’s General Store was a large outcropping of bedrock, and it was on this that some tin cans had been placed.
Johnny McCabe stood fifty feet away. In his hand was the Colt Peacemaker Charlie Franklin had been holding for him. The gunbelt that went with it was buckled on, and the single holster was tied down to his leg. On the ground at his feet was the gunbelt he normally wore, with the twin Remingtons.
Johnny brought the gun out to arm’s length, cocking it as he moved, and squeezed off a shot. One can jumped away.
Franklin was standing at one side of him, and Zack Johnson at the other. Zack stood just a foot or two back, because experience had taught him if you do this, then the noise of the gun won’t hurt your ears as much. He didn’t understand the science behind it and he didn’t care to. He only knew it worked. Franklin had never discovered this, and stood immediately beside Johnny and was holding his ears as the gun went off.
“Slight pull to the left,” Johnny said.
“That can be corrected,” Franklin said. He was, among other things, a fairly adept gunsmith.
“Not necessary. I can compensate. Never met a gun that was exactly perfect. My Sharps pulls a little to the left.”
Johnny snapped a sudden shot, and a can flew away. Franklin couldn’t get his hands up to his ears in time, and winced as his ears protested.
Johnny was in a range shirt, but he had taken the time to put on a string tie. He wore his buckskin vest, and his brown sombrero was pulled down to his temples.
Zack said, “Let’s see how fast you can clear leather with that, old man.”
“I bet I’m faster with this new gun than you are with that old rusty one on your belt.”
In the holster tied down to Zack’s leg was a Remington .44. Not unlike those Johnny normally wore. And not unlike Johnny’s, it was well-oiled and in good firing order. But Johnny and Zack never missed an opportunity to needle each other over anything at all.
“It’s no older than those two you normally swagger around with.”
“Of course,” Johnny said, “I hope it’s not lost on you that I’m looking at a newer gun.”
“Are you saying yours are old and rusty?”
Others had gathered. Whenever Johnny McCabe or Zack Johnson were willing to put on a shooting display, people gathered to watch. These two were almost legendary, and you didn’t miss a chance to watch someone like this showing off their shooting.
“Come on,” Zack said. “Let’s see how you can handle that new shootin’ iron. Five dollars says you can’t get five cans with five shots.”
Johnny said, “How about six cans?”
“Six cans with six shots? Making it even harder on yourself.”
“How about six cans with five shots?”
Zack rubbed his chin. “Five dollars? I hate to take your cash that way.”
Franklin turned to the people behind him. Eight or ten had gathered. Mostly c
owhands. Wide sombreros and loose fitting pants tucked into high riding boots. Pistols worn at their hips. There were a couple with narrower-brimmed hats and boots that laced up. Franklin didn’t know them. Probably prospectors from over at William’s Gulch.
“Five dollars!” Franklin called out. “Who’s willin’ to put up five dollars to say Mister McCabe can get six cans with five shots?”
One man called out, “Five says he can’t.”
Another said, “Ten says he can.”
Zack said to Johnny, “So, now he’s a bookie too?”
Johnny nodded and snorted a chuckle. “He’s a roofer and a gunsmith and a barber and a store keeper. I suppose out here you have to be a little bit of everything.”
While Franklin was collecting the money as the new self-appointed bookie of McCabe Gap, Johnny flipped open the loading gate of the pistol and dropped out the empties, and then loaded five new cartridges.
“Damn, but this is convenient,” he said.
“Sure does load faster than these Remingtons. I bet it’ll seem strange not to carry two guns, though.”
Johnny snapped the loading gate shut. “Been carrying two guns ever since I was seventeen years old. Over twenty years now.”
“Closer to twenty-five.”
Johnny shot him a side-ways glance. The old joke that Johnny was getting old, made by a man who was a year younger. “Not that much closer.”
“Close enough. Just lookin’ at all those gray hairs you got.”
Johnny said, “You want to try your hand at shooting those cans?”
“Oh, not me. I let you do all the fancy shooting. That way when the young bucks come looking to make a name, they’ll look right past me.”
“Scared?”
“Smart.”
Johnny cracked a half smile.
Zack said, “All right, old man. Let’s see what you got.”
Johnny wasn’t going to try a quick draw. He had been wearing this holster not even ten minutes. With the gun already in his hand, he brought his arm out to full extension, cocking the hammer as he did so, and let loose with five shots. Four cans leaped away from the fence as though they had a life of their own. The fifth can spun, as the bullet had grazed it, and then in its spin hit the sixth can and both fell to the ground.
A chorus of hoots and cheers rose from the crowd. Those who had won their bets. A few foul words rose from those who had lost.
Johnny looked at Zack. “Did you really think I couldn’t get all six?”
Zack reached into his vest for his wallet. “I just wanted to see you do it. That’s all. Bet you can’t do it again.”
“And you think you can?”
Zack handed him five ones. “All right, old man. You and me and a rail full of cans. Ten dollars. Whoever has the fastest draw and gets all five cans wins. Franklin can be the judge.”
Franklin held out both hands. “Oh, no. Not me.”
But men were slapping him on the back and cheering his name, the way a man will do when he has a little too much beer in him. Hunter had begun serving early in the day.
Johnny reloaded the Peacemaker and slapped it in the holster. “You know, I’ve never really practiced drawing with this gun, in this holster.”
“So, you’re saying you want to back out?”
Johnny grinned. “Not a chance.”
Zack looked over at Franklin. “Oh, Franklin, Johnny will buy the gun. That is, if he has any cash left.”
Ten cans were stood on the fence while bets were made in the crowd behind Johnny and Zack. The crowd had now grown to more than twenty. A young man in a black jacket and shirt and a white collar, the town minister, said, “I’ll put five on Mister McCabe.”
Franklin turned to look at him with surprise. “Parson?”
“Well, it’s for the church.”
Johnny said to Zack, “Who goes first?”
“I say we both go at once, so Franklin can more accurately judge.”
Franklin said, “Look, I don’t really think I should be doing this.”
One man called out behind him, “You better get this right, Franklin.”
Johnny and Zack both squared away at the fence. Johnny said, “All right, Franklin. On the count of three.”
Franklin’s voice shook a little as he called out, “One...two..,”
The crowd of men behind them shouted out, “Three!”
Jack had ridden out early that morning to the lake, and the section of land Harding had reluctantly set aside as his. The tent was set up, and the wagon was beside it. Jack had brought a buckboard from the ranch so Nina and her mother could ride. Jack found Harding had set out that morning on foot, angry at the world about him and announcing he wasn’t going to the festivities in town.
Nina said, “He’s so angry, Jack. I’ve never seen him like this before.”
Again Jack considered telling her what he knew, but then decided against it. Not now, as they were heading into town for what was supposed to be a good day.
They sat up in the shade, beside Hunter’s. They had brought wooden kitchen chairs in their wagon from Vermont, and Jack had tossed them in the buckboard. Emily Harding had wanted four, in case Carter should show up.
Jack lifted the chairs out of the wagon and set them on the ground, trying to find as level a spot as he could. Mrs. Harding was looking off into the crowd, and Jack knew she was hoping beyond hope she would find her husband, having a change of heart and deciding to join them. Jack hoped he never caused Nina the kind of pain Harlan Carter was causing his wife.
With the women sitting comfortably, he took the team to the livery and then fetched a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses from the hotel. Shapleigh didn’t have cold beer to offer like Hunter did, but his wife put together some of the best lemonade Jack had tasted.
What Jack really wanted was a cold beer, but he knew from things Nina had said that her mother was a strict Baptist, as were the Brewsters and Fords. The Baptists Jack had known considered beer to be a drink of evil. Pa had said before that nothing is really evil. Beer or guns or anything else. It is what you do with them can be defined as evil or not. But Jack decided now was not the time for a philosophical debate with Nina’s mother, so the lemonade would suffice for now.
Jack navigated his way through the crowd, and rejoined Nina and her mother.
There was a roar of gunfire from the other side of the town. Mrs. Harding said, “It sounds like there’s a war going on over there.”
Jack said, “Target practice. Probably Pa and Zack. It usually comes down to them.”
“Oh,” Nina said. “Would you like to go watch?”
Her ankle was still bound tightly in a splint, and Jack knew it would be nearly impossible for her to make it that far.
“No,” he said with a smile. “I don’t want to spend a minute out of your company.”
That got a smile from her. The kind of smile a woman reserves for the man she loves.
After a time, Jack saw Hunter step out of his saloon. He stood on the boardwalk in front of the doorway and searched with his eyes through the crowd like he was looking for someone in particular. Then he saw Jack sitting with Nina and Emily, and walked over.
“Ladies,” he said. He wore no hat, but he bowed his head slightly toward each.
“Mister Hunter,” Nina said.
“Now, what have I told you? It ain’t mister. Just Hunter.”
Nina smiled with a little embarrassment, even at being playfully admonished. “Hunter.”
Hunter fixed his gaze on Jack. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
“Sure.” Jack got to his feet. “If you ladies would excuse me?”
Jack had removed his sombrero while he was sitting with Nina and her mother. He now pulled it on down over his head, and followed Hunter back up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
Hunter said, “We got a problem. In there.”
Jack stepped into the barroom. In one corner was Harlan Carter. He was sitting at a table in one corner, h
is back to the wall. In front of him was a bottle and a glass. Even sitting, he was a tall man. He was leaning on his elbows and his gaze was fixed on the bottle in front of him, but Jack knew he was missing nothing going on in this room.
Jack left his hat in place as he crossed the room to stand in front of the table.
“Leave me alone, boy,” Carter said. He barely moved his mouth when he spoke, but his voice carried.
Jack said, “Since when do Baptists drink whiskey?”
“I said leave me alone.”
“Or what? Are you going to gun me down? Like you threatened to do with my father back when we were on the trail.”
Hunter was looking at Dusty with a look that said you gotta be kidding me. Someone threatening to shoot Johnny McCabe wasn’t usually still walking around afterward.
“I meant what I said. I told him to keep you away from my daughter. But there you are, outside with her and my wife.”
“Well, someone had to bring them into town. You were too busy storming off by yourself, and coming in here to drink whiskey, so someone had to do it.”
“Don’t push me, boy.”
Jack felt his father’s temper rising inside him. For a moment he had a visual of his fist connecting with this man’s face, and it made him feel mighty good, but that would be the wrong thing. For Nina. So he drew a breath in slowly and forced himself to be calm.
“We could fight, if that’s what you want. But either way, no matter who wins, Nina will be hurt.”
“You been talkin’ to Brewster? He said the same thing.”
“And he was right. Look, Mister Harding, you don’t have to like me. But I love your daughter.”
“Love?” He chuckled bitterly. “What do you know of love?”
“What do you know of it?”
Harding glared at him. “I know more of it than you think I do. I know enough about it to know I’d die before I’d let harm come to my daughter.”
“And yet you sit in here, drinking whiskey, and wanting to fight me. It’s purely by charity that my father didn’t take you down that night.”
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 28