Cottonmouth, page 6
Pritchard’s daily practice regimen consisted of at least twenty minutes of drawing and dry-firing his unloaded guns, taking aim at a coin affixed to the wall in his room. He was deliberate about his training, and at least once a week rode Rusty out of town into the country and conducted the same practice regimen with live ammunition.
Ditch, who’d grown up with Pritchard and been with him from the beginning of his introduction to the martial use of the one-handed gun, had witnessed Pritchard’s daily practice routine countless times. He was the only person, besides Pritchard, who knew the secret of his friend’s phenomenal speed and accuracy with revolvers: years of focus, effort, and discipline. Everyone else who’d witnessed Pritchard’s extraordinary skill as a pistoleer was either dead or believed he possessed a Herculean, natural aptitude imbued by either God or the devil. Few would have guessed it was merely consistent training, coupled with religious practice and hard work.
After practice and cleaning his weapons, Pritchard used what was left of the afternoon to polish his boots, belt, and holsters. He also got in a shave, haircut, and a bath at the barbershop. While Tater went across the street to the diner to obtain Count Strobl’s evening meal, Pritchard ironed his only white shirt and put on a string tie.
Pritchard belted on his pistols, and was pinning on his star, when Tater returned carrying the prisoner’s supper.
“Jumpin’ July jackrabbits, Marshal Pritchard!” Tater exclaimed when he saw Pritchard. “Why’re you all duded up? You goin’ to a weddin’, or a funeral?”
“Just having dinner at the hotel, Tater,” Pritchard said, “with Ditch and Idelle.”
“You sure it’s just them two you’re gonna be dinin’ with?” Tater grinned. “I saw you talkin’ in the street earlier today with that red-haired vixen who came into town on the train.”
“She might be in attendance,” Pritchard admitted. “That don’t give you cause to draw inferences, you nosy old coot.”
“I ain’t drawin’ no inferences, Marshal,” Tater said innocently. “I just ain’t never seen you get a haircut and a bath on the same day, and certainly not before eatin’ a meal with Ditch and your sister. Today you done both.”
Pritchard pulled down Tater’s hat over his eyes. “I can’t get nothin’ by you, can I?” he laughed.
“If you two imbeciles are both finished with your juvenile banter,” Count Strobl said from within his cell, “I await my dinner.”
“What’s an imbecile?” Tater asked.
“He just called us stupid,” Pritchard said.
“That’s mighty rude,” Tater said, squinting at Strobl. “Tell me, Your Lordship, iffen I’m so stupid, how’s come I’m on the outside, and you’re on the inside, of that there cage?”
“Doesn’t seem too sage to me,” Pritchard added, “insulting the man whose job it is to feed you before he actually feeds you.”
“I’ll say,” Tater said. “I knowed a feller once who insulted the waiter at a chophouse in Kansas City while he was orderin’ his dinner. Guess what was in his stew when it was finally brung to his table?”
“I don’t want to know,” Strobl said, rolling his eyes, “but I am certain you will tell me anyway.”
“You guessed it,” Tater said triumphantly. “Beef and boogers.”
“I have suddenly,” Strobl said, his accented voice dripping with sarcasm, “just lost my appetite.”
“That’s too bad, Your Highness,” Tater said. “Your dinner tonight was meat loaf, taters with gravy, and baked beans. It’s as good a batch of meat loaf as Dady’s ever made. I already sampled some, myself.”
“This fact does not bewilder me,” Strobl said. “Frankly, I’m surprised my own dinner made it to the jail uneaten.”
“You sure you don’t want your supper?” Tater asked.
“Positive,” Strobl said, slumping to his bunk and putting his face in his hands.
“Can’t let a good meal like this go to waste,” Tater said, stuffing a napkin into his collar.
Pritchard made his exit, leaving a gleeful Tater devouring his second dinner of the evening, and went off to meet Ditch and his sister.
“Look who’s got himself dressed up,” Ditch said to Idelle as Pritchard greeted them. “I’m starting to suspect our town marshal is trying to impress someone.”
Idelle leaned in and sniffed. “You’re right,” she said. “He took a bath, too. It’s a bad sign.”
“Can’t a feller clean himself up once in a while?”
“That question,” Ditch said, “is mighty comical comin’ from a man who’d rather sleep on the prairie, or in the stable with his horse.”
“It surely is,” Idelle said. “I’ve got my eye on you, big brother.” The trio entered the hotel and made their way across the lobby to the restaurant.
“You two act like I’m gonna marry the woman,” Pritchard said. “Hell, I never saw her before yesterday, and only just met her last night. Just how gullible do you think I am?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Idelle said.
“I can handle myself,” he insisted.
“You can handle yourself with your fists,” Ditch began, “and certainly with your guns. Your heart, my friend, is another thing altogether. You haven’t encountered a critter like Eudora Chilton before. She’s a helluva lot of woman. I’d watch out, iffen I was you.”
“He’s right,” Idelle continued. “She’s out of your league. Not to mention, at least five years older than you. And by the looks of her, she’s been around some. Who knows how many men have sampled her charms?”
“Legions,” a feminine voice said from behind them. “I’ve been with so many paramours I keep a corral in my bedroom to park their horses.”
They turned and found Eudora Chilton had again walked up unnoticed behind them. Idelle’s face instantly went crimson. Ditch suppressed a grin. Pritchard didn’t.
She was wearing her hair up and was clad in an elegant, shoulderless, low-cut, blue dress. She also wore a radiant smile. Every man in the place was staring at her.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Chilton,” Idelle said, “I didn’t realize—”
“Forget it,” Eudora cut off her apology. “In your shoes, I’d think the same of me. I believe it’s admirable how you look out for your brother. He’s lucky to have a sister who is so forthright. Shall we be seated?”
A waiter led them to a reserved table with candles already lit. “I took the liberty of ordering wine,” Eudora said as Pritchard pulled out her chair.
“I only drink whiskey and beer,” Pritchard said. “Me, too,” agreed Ditch.
“That just means more wine for Idelle and me,” Eudora said. The waiter, familiar with Ditch and Pritchard, had already taken the liberty of placing a shot of rye and a beer for each man on the table.
“I’ve never had wine before,” Idelle said. “Nor drank anything with alcohol in it.”
“That’s perfect,” Eudora said, pouring a glass of red wine for Idelle and herself. “Then this shall be a night of firsts.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to new friends.”
Pritchard and Ditch raised their shot glasses, and Idelle timidly raised her wineglass. Her cheeks were still red with embarrassment. They all clinked their glasses together and drank.
“It tastes sweet and sour at the same time,” Idelle said, puckering her lips. “Mama told me that about wine once. Now I know what she meant.”
“Your mother is an insightful woman,” Eudora said. “Will I get to meet her?”
“She’s dead,” Ditch spoke up, to spare Idelle from having to answer. He knew the topic of her mother’s death was still raw with his fiancée. “She passed last summer, here in town.”
“She didn’t pass,” Idelle corrected him. Her eyes began to mist. “She was murdered, like our father, by the same evil man; Burnell Shipley.”
“I’m sorry,” Eudora said, “I didn’t mean to—”
“No apology is necessary,” Idelle said. “It is I who should beg your forgiveness, for the awful things I said about you earlier. My mother taught me better manners. I shamed her, and myself, when I spoke so thoughtlessly.”
Eudora put her hand over Idelle’s. “You have nothing to be ashamed about, and if your mother were here she couldn’t be anything but proud of you. Any words spoken before are forgotten.” She looked into the younger woman’s eyes and smiled. “I meant what I said during our toast about making new friends. I want to be yours.”
The waiter came and took their orders. Idelle chose chicken, Eudora veal, and Pritchard and Ditch slabs of rare beef.
“I must say,” Eudora said, taking another sip of wine, “the Pritchard family has done well in Atherton. You’re the mayor, your brother is the town marshal and sheriff, and your fiancé, a wealthy cattleman, I hear, is hoping to take over the mayor’s job from you.”
“We’re doing all right,” Idelle said. “But we’re simply trying to put this town back together after a long, dark spell. We’d be a lot better off if the name Burnell Shipley had never graced the town of Atherton.”
“I keep hearing his name,” Eudora said. “I gather yours is not the only family whose loved ones he killed and whose property he plundered?”
“He was a vile man,” Idelle said. “That’s the best that can be said about him.”
“I understand he’s dead, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Ditch said, setting down his beer and wiping his lip on his sleeve. “Deader than Abraham Lincoln. He’s buried up yonder, near the church cemetery overlooking the town. We wouldn’t plant him alongside decent folk. I go up there every once in a while, after I’ve had a drink or two, and piss on his grave.”
“Ditch!” Idelle said. “That’s appalling!” She turned to Pritchard. “Did you know about this?”
“I go with him,” Pritchard said. “We have pissin’ contests over Shipley’s marker.”
Eudora laughed, while Idelle looked aghast. Eventually she started laughing, too.
“Tell us about yourself,” Pritchard said to Eudora.
“Not much to tell,” she said. “I was born and raised in Kansas. I got married young and was hoping to raise crops and children, like my parents. Then the war came along.”
“The war,” Pritchard said.
“That damn war,” Ditch said.
“Like so many women,” Eudora went on, “the war claimed my husband, but I didn’t know it. After the surrender, I heard no word, so I went off in search of him. I discovered he’d died of eruptive fever while in captivity at Rock Island.”
“It must have been very hard for you,” Idelle said.
“Me, and everybody else,” Eudora said. “You may remember the days after the surrender were particularly difficult for those who’d fought on the side of the Confederacy.”
“I remember,” Pritchard said.
“I wasn’t much older than you are now, Idelle, when I found myself far from home, broke, and alone. I had only three things in my possession: my looks, my wits, and my will to survive. I found work in a Little Rock saloon. From there I moved up to different towns, and bigger and better saloons. By the time I got to Memphis, nearly ten years later, I’d learned the saloon business and made myself a pile of money.”
“How’d you end up in Atherton?” Ditch asked.
“I’d grown tired of big cities. I missed the quiet life of my childhood. I packed my things and took the rail line from Memphis to Saint Louis. From there I intended to go to Kansas City, and on home to Kansas. But when I heard about Atherton, and learned there was no saloon in operation here, I couldn’t help checking it out for myself.”
“What did you hear?” Idelle asked.
“I struck up a conversation with a newspaperman who got on the train in Saint Louis. He evidently traveled frequently between there and Kansas City. He told me a little about Atherton and what had happened here last year. Somewhere in the conversation, he mentioned that the local saloon had been closed down. Fate took care of the rest.”
“So, what do you think of our little town,” Ditch asked, “now that you’ve seen it?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Do you really think you’d enjoy living in a place like Atherton after all your years in the big city?” Idelle asked.
“You have no idea,” Eudora said, draining her glass. “All I want is to open a small saloon, settle down into running it, and spend my remaining days in peace and quiet.”
“Here’s to peace and quiet,” Pritchard said, refilling Idelle’s and Eudora’s glasses and raising his beer.
“To peace and quiet,” Ditch repeated, lifting his mug.
“Hear! Hear!” Eudora said, raising her wineglass. Idelle followed suit, and once again four glasses clinked together as one.
Chapter 13
“That was a lovely meal,” Eudora said. “Would you care to join me in the hotel bar for an after-dinner drink?”
“Why don’t we have our drinks in the restaurant?” Idelle said. “It’s more intimate here.”
“Exactly why I want to go to the bar,” Eudora said. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”
“We’d be glad to have a drink with you,” Ditch said before Idelle could protest further.
The quartet was led to the hotel’s small bar, which was heavily congested since it was the only place in town to buy a drink. Their waiter guided them through the elbow-to-elbow crowd in search of an open table, but none were available.
“Not being a drinker—” Idelle began, speaking loudly to be heard.
“—before tonight,” Eudora cut in with a wink.
“—before tonight,” Idelle agreed, “I guess I never really noticed how overcrowded the Atherton Arms’ lounge can get in the evening.”
“This little bar is packed every night,” Ditch said. “There’s no other place in town to wet your whistle.”
“What this town needs,” Eudora said, winking at Idelle and offering a conspiratorial smile, “is a saloon.”
“You’ve made your point,” Idelle said with a laugh. “You win, Eudora. Not only are you charming, and make a very persuasive argument, you’ve made me realize I can’t let my own personal reservations affect what the people want. I’ve decided to let you reopen the Sidewinder.”
Pritchard smiled, and Ditch let out a rebel yell.
“You won’t regret it,” Eudora said. “Besides,” she said, stepping in close to Pritchard and running a hand along his bicep, “I’m sure the marshal will keep me in line.”
“This calls for a drink,” Ditch said, scanning the throng for a waitress to no avail.
“I’ll go to the bar,” Pritchard offered. “You folks wait here.”
Pritchard squeezed his massive frame through the congregation. “Two beers and two glasses of red wine,” he said to the bartender, as he scrambled to fill drinks.
“It’ll be a few minutes, Marshal,” the harried bartender answered. “I’m a little behind.”
“No hurry,” Pritchard said.
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, Marshal?” a voice said from behind Pritchard. He turned around and found a short, squat man wearing a tied-down holster facing him. Due to the teeming crowd, the man was very close. He suddenly tossed a shot of whiskey in Pritchard’s face and went for his holstered revolver.
The instant Pritchard saw the man, whose expression and body language belied his intentions, he recognized the imminent threat. He also realized his short assailant had tossed the whiskey in an attempt to blind and distract him while he simultaneously drew his gun.
Pritchard turned his head just in time and caught the hurled liquid in the side of his face and neck instead of his eyes. In the same motion, he reached down with his left hand and snatched the long barrel of the man’s Colt revolver as it cleared the holster. He sidestepped, and levered the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel toward the floor.
The revolver fired, and someone at the bar cried out. A split second later, Pritchard had his own Colt revolver out. Before his attacker could cock his weapon and fire again, Pritchard placed his own gun barrel under the man’s chin, pointed upward, and fired.
The short gunman’s hat, and a portion of the top of his head, flew off. He sank to the floor, dead before he arrived.
The twin gunshots silenced everyone in the room. With all eyes on him, Pritchard scanned the vicinity for any other threats. He holstered his gun only after being satisfied his attacker had no associates with him.
Pritchard set the gunman’s revolver on the bar and wrung his left hand, which was stinging from diverting the gun barrel as it discharged. A quick glance assured him there was no injury to his fingers other than a coating of powder soot.
“I’m hit,” a man said. He held his calf, which seeped blood through his fingers, and allowed his two companions to lower him to the floor. All three looked to be cattlemen. Ditch elbowed his way toward them, with Idelle and Eudora appearing behind him.
“Samuel,” Idelle said, rushing into her brother’s arms. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” Pritchard said. He nudged the body at his feet with the toe of his boot. “Can’t say the same for this feller.”
“Thank heaven you’re unhurt,” Eudora said. “You sure know how to worry a gal.”
“How bad is it?” Pritchard asked those attending to the injured patron.
“It don’t look too bad,” said one of the men examining the wound. “Just grazed him, really.”
“I’m all right,” the wounded man said, letting his friend bandage his leg with a bar towel. “Given how jam-packed it is in here, I guess we should count ourselves fortunate I’m the only injured bystander. Just my luck it had to be me.”
“Could’ve been a lot worse,” the bartender agreed. “Nice shootin’, Marshal. Pluggin’ him upward through the noggin likely saved somebody else a hole.”
“Go get Dr. Mauldin,” Pritchard ordered a patron. To another patron, he said, “Fetch Simon Tilley.” To the bartender he said, “Get this injured man a bottle of whatever he’s drinkin’, on me. And while you’re at it, pour a round for the house.”
“The marshal’s buyin’!” somebody called out. A series of hoots and yells erupted, and a mob of thirsty patrons charged the bar.
