Sidewinders (2 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Sidewinders
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“They'll find out soon enough. There'll be another wagon or a rider come along this trail before the day's over, more than likely. And it's pretty obvious what happened here, don't you think?”
The man who had wanted to search for Chloride shrugged his shoulders. “If you say so.”
“I do say so,” the boss snapped. “It might be better if the driver
is
still alive. Then he can tell what he saw here, and everybody in Deadwood will be even more afraid of us than they are now. We want everybody in this part of the country to know that if you cross paths with the Deadwood Devils . . . you're going straight to hell.”
After what he had seen today, Chloride Coleman didn't doubt it a bit.
CHAPTER 2
“Place has changed quite a bit since the last time we were here,” Scratch Morton said to Bo Creel as the two Texans rode along Deadwood's Main Street.
“What did you expect?” Bo asked. “The place was just a raw mining camp then. It had only been here a couple of months. It's a real town now. Not only that, but I remember hearing something about a big fire they had here a year or so ago that burned down some of the buildings. They've rebuilt since then. The saloon where Bill Hickok was shot isn't even there anymore.”
“Well,
I
recollect we didn't find no gold when we were here before. So what are we doin' here now?”
Bo shrugged. “Everybody's got to be somewhere.”
That was especially true of these two wandering sons of the Lone Star State. Best friends for fifty years, Bo and Scratch had met when they were both youngsters, so long ago Texas had still been part of Mexico . . . but not for much longer. That was during the middle of the Runaway Scrape, when Sam Houston's ragtag army and most of the Texican civilians had been fleeing from the inexorable advance of the dictator Santa Anna's forces. An even smaller and more ragtag group of volunteers had delayed the Mexicans by luring them into a siege of an old mission near San Antonio de Bexar, but a lot of scared people believed that was just postponing the inevitable.
Of course, it hadn't turned out that way. Houston's men, among them the barely-old-enough-to-shave Bo and Scratch, had won a stunning victory at San Jacinto, and Texas had become an independent republic for nine years before joining the Union.
Although they were still friends, Bo and Scratch had gone their separate ways after that monumental battle and might have lived out their lives like that if sickness hadn't claimed the lives of Bo's wife and their young children several years later. Heartbroken by the loss, Bo had wanted to be anywhere but Texas, and his friend Scratch, who hadn't settled down yet, had been glad to go with him.
Somehow or other, they had just kept on drifting ever since then. Through the long decades, they had been almost everywhere west of the Mississippi, had worked at a wide variety of mostly honest jobs, and had managed to stay out of jail except for every now and then when some lawman got overzealous.
Despite the fact that they were now in late middle-age, the rugged lives they had led meant both Texans were still vigorous, active men. Bo, who favored a black Stetson, a long black frock coat, and a string tie, reminded some people of a traveling preacher with his solemn face and graying hair. That is, until they caught a glimpse of the well-worn walnut grips of the Colt he wore holstered on his right hip.
There was no mistaking Scratch for any sort of sky pilot, not with the gaudy, long-barreled, ivory-handled Remington revolvers he carried in fancy holsters. Scratch's big, cream-colored hat and fringed buckskin jacket gave him the look of a dandy. His hair under the hat was pure silver. If he hadn't been clean shaven, folks might have mistaken him for the famous buffalo hunter and showman William F. Cody.
“How are we fixed for dinero, Bo?” Scratch asked as he nodded toward a sign on a business building that said
RED TOP CAFÉ
.
“We have a little left from that poker game in Cheyenne,” Bo replied.
“Enough for a good meal after a long ride?”
“Yeah, but I thought you wanted to start saving up our pesos so we could try to make it south to some place warmer before winter sets in.”
“Well, I did,” Scratch admitted. “It's hard on these old bones of mine to spend the cold months this far north. But I got to thinkin' . . . what are the chances we'll really come up with enough money to do that?”
Bo shook his head. “I don't know. You can't ever tell. We might find something that would make us some money.”
“Yeah, and we might starve to death before then, too,” Scratch pointed out. “So we might as well get us a good meal now and postpone that terrible end.”
Bo laughed. Scratch was a creature of the moment, and he could usually find some way to rationalize giving in to whatever impulse gripped him. And it was true, too, that Bo was hungry and would enjoy an actual hot meal for a change, instead of the skimpy trail grub they'd been making do with.
“All right,” he said as he reined his horse toward the café. “Reckon we might as well.”
They rode over to the hitch rail in front of the café and dismounted. A low boardwalk ran in front of the buildings on this side of the street. The Texans stepped up onto it and were about to enter the place when they heard a commotion coming from inside.
“Blast it!” a man yelled. “I said I was havin' a kiss with my piece of pie, and I meant it!”
Bo and Scratch exchanged a glance. “Maybe we ought to find some other place to eat,” Bo suggested.
“I don't think so,” the silver-haired Texan shot back with a quick, eager grin. Before Bo could stop him or say anything else, Scratch pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Bo was well aware that his old friend had a tendency to rush into trouble. In this case, that was all right, because Bo had to admit he was curious about what was going on inside the Red Top Café, too.
As he came through the door, his gaze flicked back and forth and instantly took in the scene before him. The Red Top was a neatly kept place with a number of tables covered by checkered tablecloths. To the right was a lunch counter with stools along it. Behind the counter, a pass-through was cut into the wall between the dining room and the kitchen. Also on that wall were a blackboard with the day's menu and prices chalked on it and a couple of shelves with several pies and cakes sitting on them. A small wood-burning stove behind the counter kept a pot of coffee warm. Another stove squatted in the rear corner of the dining room, giving off enough heat to keep out the chill from the wind blowing outside.
Since the hour was getting close to the middle of the day, quite a few of the tables were occupied by men eating lunch. Some of the stools at the counter had been until recently, too, judging by the abandoned plates half-full of food and the men he saw standing back along the wall. Some of them were still clutching napkins, as if they had just gotten up and hurried out of harm's way.
“Harm's way” was a good description of the man who stood in front of the counter, glaring across it at the woman behind it. He was tall and broad shouldered, with heavy muscles that bulged the flannel shirt he wore. His thick legs were like the trunks of trees, and the lace-up work boots he wore were some of the biggest Bo had ever seen. The clenched fists at his side reminded Bo of hams. He wasn't sure if either of them would fit in a two-gallon pail. The man was hatless, revealing a tangled thatch of dark hair that fell forward over an ape-like brow. Dark beard stubble grew on the slab-like jaw he thrust out defiantly.
That was the monster Scratch was about to confront.
The giant rumbled, “Come on, Sue Beth. It's not gonna hurt you, and you know it. One kiss, that's all I'm askin'.”
“And it's one more kiss than you're going to get, Reese Bardwell,” the woman behind the counter shot back at him. “I'll sell you pieces of pie all day long if you want, but my kisses are not for sale, sir!”
Bardwell snarled and stepped closer to the counter. He lifted arms that were so long there was no place back there the woman called Sue Beth could avoid their reach.
Scratch's deep, powerful, commanding voice rang out. “Hold it right there, amigo.” He didn't speak loudly, but everybody in the place heard what he said.
Bardwell sure did. The big man stiffened and slowly swung around. The glare on his face was as dark and ominous as a thundercloud.
“Are you talkin' to me, mister?” he demanded.
“You seem to be the only one in the place makin' a jackass of himself, so I reckon I am,” Scratch said.
Bo hated to see it come to this. Bardwell towered over Scratch and probably was thirty years younger, too. But if Scratch hadn't stepped in, Bo would have had to. The blood of Texans flowed in their veins. Neither of them was going to stand by and do nothing while somebody was bothering a woman.
“Mister, you don't have to get mixed up in this,” the woman said quickly. “This is between me and my customer.”
Bardwell shook his shaggy head. “Not any more, it ain't. If this old rooster wants to horn in and start crowin', he's gonna have to pay the price.” He took a step toward Scratch. “You know what happens to an old rooster, mister?”
“Why don't you tell me?” Scratch said coolly.
“He gets his neck wrung!”
The big man lunged at Scratch with surprising speed. Those ham-like hands reached for the silver-haired Texan's throat.
Scratch was pretty fast, too. He jerked to the side and lowered a shoulder, causing Bardwell's attempted grab to miss. He stepped closer to Bardwell. Scratch's right fist whipped up and out in a wicked blow that sank solidly into his opponent's midsection.
Unfortunately, Bardwell didn't even seem to feel it. He brought his right fist hammering down on top of Scratch's head. The big, cream-colored Stetson absorbed some of the blow's force, but it still landed plenty hard enough to drive Scratch to one knee. Bardwell reached down, grabbed Scratch's buckskin jacket, and hauled him up again. Scratch looked a little addled. He could hold his own in most fights and had been doing so for many, many years, but he had bitten off too big a chunk of hell this time.
Knowing that, Bo acted before his friend could get hurt too badly. He slipped his Colt from its holster, pointed it at Bardwell, and eared back the hammer.
That metallic sound was distinctive enough—and menacing enough—to make Bardwell freeze with one hand bunched in Scratch's coat and the other drawn back and clenched to deliver another thunderous blow.
“Let him go,” Bo ordered.
Bardwell turned his head enough to give Bo a baleful stare. “Who're you?”
“His friend,” Bo said. “Also the fella who's going to blow your kneecap apart with a forty-five slug in about two seconds if you don't let go of him and step back.”
For a second Bo thought Bardwell was going to be stubborn enough that he'd have to go through with that threat. But then the hand holding up Scratch opened, and the Texan slumped against the counter. The woman reached across it to take hold of his arm and steady him while he got his feet under himself again.
“This was none of your business,” Bardwell said, “but you made it that way. You'd best remember that.”
“I'm not likely to forget,” Bo said. “Have you paid the lady for whatever you ate?”
“I'm not gonna—”
Bo's voice cut across the angry protest. “Have you paid the lady?”
“He doesn't owe me anything,” the woman said.
Bo nodded. “Then I'd suggest you mosey on out of here, friend.”
“I ain't your friend,” Bardwell said. “You'd better remember that.”
“I can live with that . . . as long as you leave.”
Bo stepped back to cover Bardwell as the giant stomped past him and out of the café. He moved to the door and watched as Bardwell moved off down Main Street. Bo didn't pouch his iron until he felt fairly sure Bardwell wasn't coming back.
He turned as he slid the gun into leather. Scratch had regained his wits and had his hat in his hands, pushing it back into shape where Bardwell's fist had partially flattened it.
Scratch's face was set in an accusing frown. “You didn't have to do that, Bo,” he said. “I had things under control. I was about to give that big varmint his needin's.”
“I know that,” Bo said. “I just didn't want you to have all the fun by yourself.”
The woman behind the counter said, “That's your idea of fun? If I didn't already know it from your accents, I'd know you were Texans from your sheer knuckleheadedness!”
“You're welcome,” Scratch said. “We were glad to step in and help you, ma'am.”
“You mean stick your interfering noses in where they weren't needed, don't you?” She gestured toward the stove and the coffeepot. “I was about to give Reese a faceful of hot coffee. He'd have behaved himself after that, I can promise you!”
She was in her thirties, Bo estimated, with work-roughened hands and enough lines in her face to show that life hadn't always treated her kindly. Thick auburn hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head and pinned into place.
Bo thumbed his hat back and said, “Sorry if we added to the problem, ma'am. We were just trying to help.”
Her expression softened a little. “Oh, I know that. And I suppose I appreciate it. It's just that this isn't the first time Reese has gotten a mite frisky. He's troublesome at times, but he's not really a bad sort. I've always been able to handle him. I just hope this doesn't make him turn really mean.”

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