by Paul Bagdon
“I no remember the coffeepot,” Carlos said in greeting. “But thees kettle coffee is no so bad. You’ll ’ave a mug?”
“No thanks. I’ve had a gallon at the café today. Everything quiet here?”
“As quiet as it weel get until after thees ees over. Slick ees used to his stall. Ees a good thing we brought heem here yesterday.”
The nicker from Slick’s stall brought a smile to Lee’s face. She walked over to the horse. The window near him had been boarded over, but a lantern hanging from a rafter provided all the light she needed. She stroked his muzzle, looking deep into his eyes. Slick shifted, extending his neck over the stall gate a bit farther, nuzzling at Lee for a treat. She gently but firmly pushed his face away.
“What a mistake it was to give Slick that sugar! He’s still looking for more,” she called to Carlos.
“Maybe I gotta teach you somethin’ ’bout horses, Lee. You let a smart one like thees get away with anything once, and he weel never let you forget it.”
“I know,” Lee said, laughing. She stepped into the stall, pulling the gate closed behind her. Then she stood at Slick’s shoulder, facing in the opposite direction, and picked up his left front hoof.
She looked at the hoof, admiring the work of Angelo, the Burnt Rock blacksmith. He’d shod cavalry mounts and officers’ horses throughout the war, once even shoeing General Grant’s stallion. The new shoes he’d nailed onto Slick’s hooves were fitted perfectly, and the clinches were tight, each precisely the same size as the others. The new steel glinted where Angelo’s rasp had scraped away the surface metal. Lee went from hoof to hoof, inspecting each carefully.
“What do you think about contracting with Angelo to come to the ranch every few weeks to work on our best horses, Carlos?”
Carlos chuckled. “Ees no need,” he said. “I already deed—every three weeks, no? To trim an’ reset an’ new shoes for those who need them. I’m very old to ’ave the horses sit on my shoulder while I try to feet them right.”
“And too fat too,” Lee observed, goading her friend.
“Ees all muscle. An’ should I tell Maria, ‘I can eat no more of what you made for me?’ No. You tell her that an’ she run you out of the house.”
Lee left the stall and locked the gate. “Well, he looks beautiful,” she said. “If I lose tomorrow, it won’t be Slick’s fault.”
“You won’ lose. Jus’ remember—the race ees not won going out, ees won on the way back. You save Slick an’ he’ll bring you home ahead of Pirate. Thees I know.”
“I’ll do my best. I guess I’ll have to run the race as I see it.” She paused. “Any word on who’s riding for Botts tomorrow?”
“Don’ matter. I heard some boy who did some racing las’ fall in the South. Like I say, it don’ matter. You an’ Slick, you weel win.” His eyes held hers for a moment. “I’ll go to Ben now, wearing thees.” He pinned on the brass star of a deputy marshall that Ben had given him almost a year ago at another time when he’d needed a dependable man with him. “Ben says the oath is steel good.” He grinned. “But I ride with Ben Flood, oath or no oath.”
“Be careful, Carlos.”
“An’ you, my friend. You be careful too.”
Janice was asleep when Lee returned to the hotel. Lee pulled a chair close to the open window and stared out into the night. The moon was almost full, but the sky was clogged with dark clouds. Snake tongues of lightning flickered in the distance, although she heard no thunder. And what breeze there had been earlier in the evening had died down; the Harvest Days banner hung limply, sagging toward its center.
The tinkling chords of Zach’s piano at the Drovers’ Inn reached Lee, as did bursts of strident laughter. With no wind to dissipate the noise, curse words were clear in the yells and shouts from the saloon. She lowered the window, then opened it again within ten minutes, surprised at how stifling the room had become in such a short time.
After she opened the window, she prayed for guidance and for the skill to ride Slick wisely. She prayed for the Lord to bring peace to Burnt Rock and to rest his hand on Ben Flood’s shoulder as he faced the chaos that was sure to come the next day.
Wade Stuart stood next to the man on the piano bench, glaring at him, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were reddened and crusty, and several days’ growth of stubble darkened his face. His hat was gone, and his blond hair was knotted and greasy and lay against his skull as if glued there. His shirt stuck to the sweat on his back and chest, and both his shirt and pants held bits of sawdust from the floor in the Drovers’ Inn.
Alcohol now controlled Wade—alcohol and hatred. In the past, he’d ride into a town, run a scam, and ride on with money in his pockets, perhaps with a fresh notch in the grip of his Colt. But now rage boiled.
He leaned closer to Zach. “I’m real sick of the junk you play,” he snarled. “You don’t know nothin’ but that Union trash.”
“ ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’ is a Confederate tune,” Zach protested, “and I just played that.”
“Union crybaby junk’s what it is—and don’t you smart mouth me!” Wade let his hands drop to his sides. He touched the grips of his Colt with his right index finger, as if to assure himself that the weapon was right where it was supposed to be. “I want you to play ‘Dixie,’ and I want you to sing it too.”
Zach stopped his playing and brought his hands to his lap. The silence from the piano didn’t make a difference in the racket of the bar; the noise level hadn’t changed at all. Zach turned his body on the piano bench to face Wade and spoke loud enough to be heard, and not a bit louder. “I won’t do that. Make another request, please.”
“You call me ‘sir’ when you speak to me!” Wade bellowed. His face was now red, and bits of dry spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth.
“President Lincoln promised me a few years ago that I’d never have to call another man ‘sir’ unless I felt he deserved that designation. You don’t.” Zach turned back to his piano and fingered the beginning of a dance tune.
Wade drew his Colt and nudged the barrel into Zach’s left ear. “Here’s what you’re gonna do: You’re gonna play an’ sing ‘Dixie,’ an’ then you’re gonna call me ‘sir.’ Understand that?” He drew back the hammer.
Zach swallowed hard, but when he spoke, his voice was clear and free of emotion. “All that was killed and buried twice already—once by Abe Lincoln and again at Appomattox.”
Wade stumbled back a half step as if he’d been shoved by an invisible hand. His lips moved slightly, but no words were audible. Easing the hammer of his pistol down, he stood with the gun hanging loosely from his hand. The hot scent of potential violence and bloodshed caught the attention of the crowd. Heads in the saloon began to turn toward the two men.
In a heartbeat, the numbness left Wade’s face, which became a twisted mask of loathing. His right hand struck out, smashing his pistol across the upper part of Zach’s face. The grinding snap of cartilage in Zach’s nose was as loud as the impact of the steel against flesh. He flew to the floor, blood gushing from both nostrils and from a deep cut above his right eye.
Dazed, he sat up and began to bring his hand to his face when Wade dragged him to his feet, turned him toward the front of the saloon, and shoved him hard. “Get outta here! Next time I see you, I’ll kill you!”
Zach lumbered ahead a couple of steps, blinded by blood and barely conscious. Wade jammed his Colt into its holster and grabbed the back of a man’s chair, hauling it out from under him and dropping him to the floor. He swung the chair for momentum and then threw it at the retreating Zach, missing him by a foot. The chair continued onward, exploding through the large front window facing Main Street.
Ben had his key in his hand and was fitting it to the lock on his office door when a chair struck the front window of the Drovers’ Inn. Carlos, a step behind him, reacted just as he had: He began running toward the source of the sound. A moment later as Ben came into pistol range, Wade bulled through the b
atwings and stood on the wooden sidewalk, his hand hovering near the grips of his pistol.
“Don’t do it, Stuart!” Ben bellowed.
Carlos stopped slightly behind and to the right of the lawman, his shotgun barrel sweeping over Wade and the other men who’d rushed out into the street after him.
Wade spread his boots a bit farther apart, facing Ben over the twenty feet that separated them.
“Don’t even think about it,” Ben said. “This doesn’t have to go any further. Grab your horse and ride on. Burnt Rock has had enough of you.”
The drunks and gamblers tripped over one another getting out of the line of fire, their eyes hot with anticipation of the gunfight. One gambler quickly offered even odds, and another upped that with two for one in favor of Wade.
“I’m not leaving, Flood. Your badge doesn’t scare me, and your fancy girlfriend with her stinkin’ ranch doesn’t either. I’m better than you’ve ever been. You’re gonna die here in the street, lawman.”
Ben’s mouth was dry. He swallowed to generate saliva before he spoke. “There’s no reason for anyone to die over a bar fight. Get your horse and point him out of my town.”
“You fought with the Union, didn’t you, Flood? That’s another real good reason for me to shoot you down like a cowardly dog.”
“It doesn’t matter who I fought with. The war is over. I’m not gonna tell you again what I want you to do.”
“What you want me to do? I don’t take orders from a yellowbellied Union soldier boy!”
Ben watched the slits of Wade’s eyes. The light from inside the saloon put an eerie glint in the gunslinger’s unblinking stare. Ben knew that a person’s eyes would change the slightest bit the instant before he made his move. The time for talking was over.
Curving slightly inward, his fingertips touched the grip of his Colt as tenderly as a butterfly lands on a flower. Wade mirrored his stance.
“You’re goin’ down, Flood,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And I’ll tell you this before you die . . .”
It was an old trick, and often a deadly one in other towns and Western streets. Distract the opponent the smallest bit and then draw—put a bullet in the other man while he tried to absorb what was being said.
Ben’s Colt cleared leather as Wade’s hand slapped the grips of his weapon. The horse trainer’s barrel was rising to spit death. Ben fired twice, the reports blurring together and sounding as one shot. The impact of the two slugs—one in the right shoulder, the other just above the elbow on the same side—hurled Wade back against the frame of the batwing doors. His face showed first surprise and then flashed with hatred.
Amazingly, he hadn’t lost his Colt. It hung limply from his right hand, blood from his wounds sluicing past it to pool on the dust and dried wood of the sidewalk.
Ben saw what was coming, but his mind refused to accept it. No one in his right mind would try a border shuffle when he already has a gun trained on his heart!
“Don’t, Stuart!” Ben snapped. “Don’t do—”
Wade launched his pistol toward his waiting left hand. It wasn’t a perfect pass, but it worked. He squeezed the trigger as he raised the barrel, but two more slugs from Ben’s Colt punched him in the chest before his own pistol fired the single round that hissed off into the darkness.
Wade, this time thrown directly at the batwings, crashed through the doors and into the saloon.
Carlos and Ben rushed in after him. Carlos roughly grabbed a gambler by the shoulder and shouted at him, “Get Doc—and be quick about it! I know your face—you don’ bring Doc, then I come an’ look for you, no?”
The man stumbled from his seat and hurried out of the room. After he left, the silence in the Drovers’ Inn was thick and threatening. Ben could smell the metallic scent of fresh blood. He crouched next to Wade, placing his fingertips first at the man’s throat and then at his wrist. There was no pulse. He stood and saw that Zach was sitting up near the door of the saloon. Carlos was hunkered down next to him.
“Carlos,” Ben said, and nodded to the shotgun. Carlos tossed it to him. Ben turned and surveyed the saloon.
Botts and his men had two tables side by side at the back of the room, guarded by three or four others. A hand-lettered sign nailed to the wall behind the tables stated:
4 TO 1 FOR PIRATE
BEST ODDS IN TOWN!!!
A metal strongbox the size of a suitcase was open in front of Botts, and it was filled with money and handwritten slips carrying names and amounts.
Ben waited a long moment before speaking. “This place is closed for the night. Everyone get out.”
A murmur started and quickly became louder. Ben leveled the shotgun at the tiers of whiskey bottles behind the bar and pulled the trigger. The blast of the twelve-gauge in the confined space was like that of an artillery piece. The bits of shot tore through the bottles, filling the air first with shards and splinters of glass, then with the acrid stench of whiskey.
“Move,” Ben said. “Now!”
Reluctantly, the Drovers’ Inn emptied its collection of depravity into the street.
The children—busy with chasing one another around the booths and displays along Main Street—seemed to be the only ones who didn’t look up at the leaden gray sky. It was the children too who were best at ignoring the stifling heaviness of the air and the temperature that was high enough to wet a man’s shirt even if he was standing still.
The farmers were no doubt the first to notice the flickering of lightning to the north and west and the dark clouds beginning to roil and churn. Perpetual sky watchers, the farmers knew cloud formations and the taste of the air as well as they knew their own families—and if they were successful farmers, perhaps better. They noticed how the ownerless dogs of Burnt Rock were acting, and that bothered them as much as the sky.
The homeless dogs skulked around corners, tongues lolling as if cringing from a raised hand. They sought shelter rather than food scraps dropped by adults or treats offered by children. Those hiding under the bandstand had to be forcibly evicted when two of them began yowling at the music of an elderly flautist. She herself delivered a solid kick to the rear of one of the animals’ scurrying hindquarters before continuing her number.
There were fewer tables offering cold sarsaparilla and lemonade this year; O’Keefe’s Café not only didn’t have a stand, but the restaurant itself was closed for the duration of the festival. Still, vendors strolled about, selling apples and hard candy and small American flags on sticks, and the scent of a roasting steer helped whet appetites.
Just as they did every year, the grizzled old buffalo hunters dominated the target shooting contest with their Sharp’s rifles. There was some grumbling when the marshall cancelled the pistol contest, limiting the shooting to long guns only, but grumbling citizens were the very least of the lawman’s problems.
The crowd was radically different from those of earlier Harvest Days Festivals in the town. Holstered pistols hung on the hips of the majority of the men, and there were several uniformed Union officers—horse buyers—generally older gentlemen with wide girths and polished boots.
Ben and Carlos seemed to be everywhere at once, and both showed the strain of a sleepless night. The knuckles on Carlos’s right hand were abraded and bleeding as the result of a run-in with a belligerent drunk who didn’t care to spend the day in jail, and the deputy’s badge that was pinned to his shirt had a drop of dried blood on it. Ben’s face was a hard mask, and his eyes moved rapidly over the people in the streets. He’d allowed the Drovers’ Inn to reopen that morning solely because he believed the crowd of red-eyed gamblers and gunmen would cause less trouble inside the saloon than they would out on the streets.
Close to noon, people began assembling on the sides of Main Street, awaiting the start of the race. The gamblers, however, weren’t interested in the start of the race; it was the finish that was important to them. They lined the bar and filled the tables in the Drovers’ Inn. Only one of Botts’s men was still
taking bets, and he was doing very little business. Anyone wagering had already done so.
Lee stood in a shadow at the rear of the barn, her Stetson pulled low on her face and her eyes closed. Her hair was tucked into the collar of the chambray work shirt she wore. Her denim trousers were still stiff and felt like slabs of wood on her legs. She knew there’d be talk about the pants, but decided the talk was easier to disregard than the thorns and brambles she was liable to encounter.
Botts’s rider, Juan, stood outside Pirate’s stall, smoking a cigarette he’d just rolled. He was a short man—approximately five feet, three inches—and looked like he weighed less than a good bale of hay. His hair reached the middle of his back, and his face was narrow and tanned. A riding crop was attached to his right wrist with a leather thong, and the rowels of his spurs were made for punishment, not guidance. Lee immediately disliked him.
She stepped into the lantern light. Rafe stood in front of Slick’s stall, his rifle cradled in his arms. She smiled at him, and he quickly but nervously returned a smile of his own. He didn’t offer to help her as she saddled Slick, and for that she was glad.
Mounting in a barn was a greenhorn move, Lee knew. Nevertheless, she led Slick to a point twenty feet behind Pirate and Juan, who waited at the still-closed barn door, and swung into her saddle. Juan was already up, looking straight ahead, apparently staring at nothing.
The blacksmith slid the huge door along its track, and Juan rode out into the street. Lee gave him a few moments and then followed, keeping a tight rein on Slick. The stallion stopped just outside the barn door, startled by all the people and smells and noise. He snorted and shook his head, but Lee easily quieted him.
She wondered how many of the townspeople recognized her in her cowhand gear. Her eyes found Carlos’s grinning face halfway to the banner, and she managed a smile. Then her eyes rested on Ben, who was standing at the starting line, and for a moment they locked gazes.
The two stallions had ignored one another until they were brought close together, and then they began to assert themselves. Slick reached over for a bite of hide, and Pirate reared and snorted, wanting to strike back with his front hooves. Juan reined Pirate into a tight circle and held him in position. Lee settled Slick and held him in check. A whistling scream of challenge rose from deep in her horse’s chest, and his muscles quivered under her, his neck as hard as marble with the tension.