Too Soon to Die, page 2
Denny admired her for that, but Denny’s main interest in the race was winning it. She knew she could do it if she rode the black stallion called Rocket.
Louis went to Melanie and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right. The most important thing is our wedding.” He gave Denny a warning glance. “So we don’t want any big arguments spoiling everything.”
“There won’t be any argument,” she said. “I’ve thought about it, just now, and you’re right, Louis. This is a special day for you and Melanie. I don’t want anything taking away from it. There’ll be other races I can ride in.”
A surprised frown creased Louis’s forehead. “Really?”
Brad said, “You’re not going to ride after all?” He sounded disappointed.
“Not this time,” Denny said.
“Well . . . thank you,” Louis told her. “I know Mother will be relieved.”
“I’m sure she will.” Denny turned away before Louis could see the sly smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He was always a mite gullible while we were growing up, she thought. It was true that she didn’t want to ruin their wedding day, and honestly, she didn’t want to upset her mother, either.
But what none of them knew . . . until it was all over but the shouting . . . wouldn’t hurt them, now would it?
CHAPTER 3
Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, Big Rock
The battered old hat was tipped far back on the man’s rumpled thatch of rusty hair. All his clothes, from the old boots to the patched jeans to the faded blue shirt and brown vest, showed signs of long, hard wear. The gun belt strapped around his lean hips had been gouged and torn in places by thorny brush. The Colt .45 that rode in the attached holster was clean and well cared for, though.
Steve Markham picked up the glass from the bar in front of him and threw back the shot. The whiskey burned all the way down his gullet. The Brown Dirt Cowboy was popular with range riders in the area because the who-hit-John sold there was cheap and packed a punch, not because it was smooth as silk going down.
Steve stood there for a moment, letting the booze kindle a fire in his belly, before he followed it with a healthy swallow of foamy, bitter beer from the mug next to the empty shot glass.
One of the bartenders ambled over, nodded toward the glass, and asked, “Another?”
“I’m all right for now,” replied Steve. Still holding the mug, he turned so his back was to the bar and leaned on it, hooking his elbows on the hardwood as he surveyed the smoky, noisy room.
The saloon was packed. Men stood two deep at the bar in places, and every table was full. Gals with painted faces and wearing short, spangled dresses carried trays and made their way through the crowd delivering drinks to the tables. They were pawed almost nonstop, but there was no way to avoid those groping hands.
And truth to tell, most of them looked like they didn’t mind all that much. From time to time, a customer would pull one of them down to lean over a table, whisper something in her ear, and then the two of them would adjourn to an upstairs room to complete the transaction.
Steve smiled faintly as he observed one of the saloon girls leading a nervous-looking youngster up the stairs. It had been a while since he had enjoyed any female company himself, but he wasn’t in the mood for a soiled dove. He had other things on his mind tonight.
Turning his head to look at the big, florid-faced man on his left, Steve said, “The whole town looked fit to bust when I was ridin’ in. Is it always this crowded?”
“What? No.” The man shook his head. He was no cowboy, might have been a blacksmith or a freight handler. “Naw, Big Rock’s busy sometimes, but not like this. A lot of folks have come into town for the big shindig tomorrow.”
“There’s a celebration here in town? It’s not the Fourth of July yet. Or is it? I haven’t been payin’ a lot of attention to the calendar, bein’ on the drift like I have been.”
“No, no, the shindig’s not here in town. It’s out at the Sugarloaf. You know, Smoke Jensen’s spread.”
Steve arched an eyebrow and said, “Smoke Jensen? The gunfighter and outlaw?”
The man glared at Steve. “Watch your mouth, mister. Smoke’s no outlaw. Yeah, there might’ve been some reward dodgers out on him years ago, but those were fake, put out by some fellas who had a grudge against him. He’s always been a law-abiding sort. Well, other than going ahead and killing a bunch of lowdown skunks who needed killin’, without waiting for the law to do it.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve said. “I didn’t mean no offense. And I notice you didn’t find any fault with me callin’ him a gunfighter.”
“Well, it’d be plumb foolish to argue about that. There’s never been anybody slicker on the draw than Smoke Jensen.”
Steve swallowed some more of the beer and asked, “Why’s he throwin’ a party?”
“Say, you did just ride in, didn’t you? Smoke’s son is getting married. There’s gonna be a big feast and a baile afterward, and kickin’ things off in the morning before the ceremony, they’re gonna have a horse race.”
Steve’s interest visibly perked up. “Is that so? I’ve never been much for dancin’, so I’m not sure I’d be welcome at any baile, but I’ve got a fast hoss.”
The red-faced man laughed. “If you’re thinkin’ about entering, friend, I’d advise against it. The fastest horses in the state will be in this race. I don’t reckon some saddle tramp’s nag would stand much of a chance.”
Steve drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but it was hard not to in the face of a comment like that. Keeping a tight rein on his words, he told the man, “My horse ain’t no nag—”
Before he could continue defending his mount, someone bumped heavily against his shoulder. The impact was enough to make Steve take a staggering step to his left. The mug in his hand tipped, and the beer that was still in it splashed over the feet of the big, red-faced man.
“What the hell!” he roared, but the noise level in the room was already so high, the shout was less deafening than it might have been. “What in blazes do you think you’re doin’, stranger?”
If the man wanted an apology, he wasn’t going to get one. Steve jerked his head toward the man who’d bumped into him and said, “It’s not my fault. It was this jasper who’s to blame for bein’ so damn clumsy.”
The offender was tall and kind of skinny. Steve probably outweighed him, but the man had broad shoulders, long arms, and big, knobby-knuckled hands. “What’re you talkin’ about? I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“The hell you didn’t. You bumped into me and made me spill beer on this hombre.”
“I barely touched you,” the tall man said. “If you can’t hold your liquor and start stumblin’ around, it ain’t my fault.”
The red-faced man took hold of Steve’s left shoulder and half-turned him. “I didn’t see anybody run into you. You just up and dumped beer on my feet, probably because I called your horse a nag!”
For a second, Steve wondered if these two were working together, trying to provoke a fight for some reason that was beyond him. When he glanced back and forth between them, however, he didn’t see any sign of such a conspiracy in their faces. They both looked genuinely angry and upset.
“I’m the only one who lost out here,” he snapped. “I lost part of a beer, but it’s not worth fightin’ over, so let’s just forget it.”
“The hell we will,” said the red-faced man. “I’m gonna have to get these boots shined before I go out to the Sugarloaf in the morning. That ain’t gonna be free, you know.”
Steve set the empty mug on the bar and inclined his head toward the tall man again. “Talk to him. It was his fault, like I told you. I’m gonna go find some friendlier place to drink.” He stepped away from the bar, toward the saloon’s batwinged entrance.
Both men caught hold of him, a hand on each shoulder, and jerked him back.
The tall man said, “The hell you are,” and the red-faced man declared, “You ain’t goin’ anywhere!”
CHAPTER 4
They shouldn’t have done that, thought Steve. And then he didn’t think anymore. Instinct took over.
He lashed out with his right arm, holding that hand stiff so that the fingers dug deep under the tall man’s ribs and forced the air out of his lungs. As the man gasped, turned pale, and bent forward a little, his hand slipped off Steve’s shoulder.
The red-faced man yanked hard on him. Steve made use of that and allowed the sharp tug to turn him. He lowered his head as he came around and then bulled forward, ramming his right shoulder against the man’s barrel chest. Steve balled his fists and slammed a left and a right into the man’s thick belly.
Unfortunately, the layer of fat soaked up most of the power from those punches. The man roared again and threw a punch of his own. Steve jerked aside so the blow missed his face, but he took it on his left shoulder and it landed with enough force to make that arm go numb for several seconds. The impact also knocked Steve backward, and his feet slipped on the sawdust-littered floor. He sat down hard as the crowd along the bar quickly scurried back to give the combatants room.
“Fight! Fight!” The inevitable shouts echoed from the high ceiling.
The red-faced man charged at Steve, evidently intending to stomp him into the floor. Steve recovered quickly and rolled aside, thrusting a leg between the red-faced man’s calves and tripping him. With a startled yell, the man went down face-first and landed hard enough to stun him.
Steve didn’t get any break, though. The tall man had recovered from having the breath knocked out of him and grabbed Steve’s empty mug off the bar. He swung it at Steve’s head.
Steve ducked under the sweeping blow and dived at the tall man’s legs, tackling him around the knees. That should have knocked the man down, but the crowd still pressed in closely on that side, and several men caught him and shoved him back up.
Steve got one hand on the brass rail and reached up with the other to grab the front edge of the bar. He pulled himself to his feet just in time for the tall man to crash both clubbed hands down on his back. The brutal blow drove Steve’s chest against the bar. The tall man raised his arms, intending to strike again from behind.
Steve pushed off the bar, lurched back, and rammed his right elbow into the man’s midsection before the blow could fall. That knocked the tall man back a step. Steve whirled and hooked a right to the man’s jaw. Steve was fairly tall himself and his punch landed cleanly, followed with a left to the body. He had his opponent backing up, giving ground, and was confident that he could continue boring in until he put the man on the floor.
He might have succeeded if the red-faced man hadn’t recovered enough to reach out, grab Steve’s ankle, and jerk his leg out from under him.
Steve windmilled his arms but couldn’t keep his balance. As he toppled to the floor, the red-faced man clambered up onto his feet and the tall man stopped backpedaling. He shook out the cobwebs from the battering Steve had given him and clenched his fists again so the big knuckles stuck out prominently.
Steve was sprawled in the sawdust. He pushed himself into a sitting position and saw the two men stalking toward him from different directions. A snarl twisted his face and his hand started toward the holstered gun on his hip. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot his way out of there, but he was sick and tired of those hombres whaling away on him for something that wasn’t even his fault.
His hand had not yet touched the Colt’s grips when the batwings slammed open and a loud, commanding voice said, “Everybody step back! Step back, damn it, and clear a path!”
The Brown Dirt Cowboy’s customers, who had been yelling encouragement to the battlers, fell silent and pushed back to give the newcomer room. Steve looked in that direction and saw a solidly built man in a white shirt with a string tie and black trousers and vest standing just inside the entrance cradling a double-barreled shotgun in obviously capable hands. His gray hair was still thick under the black Stetson he wore. His lined, weathered face showed his age, but clearly, the man was still a ways away from being ready for a rocking chair.
The star pinned to his vest proclaimed him to be a lawman. Steve would have known that even without the badge. He had seen plenty of star packers in his time.
The lawman walked toward Steve and the two men with whom he’d been trading punches. Steve moved his hand farther away from his gun butt and made sure to keep it there. He didn’t want to give the new-comer any excuse to get antsy with that scattergun. The sheriff, marshal, whatever he was, still had plenty of bark on him, that was plain to see.
Addressing the stocky, red-faced man, he demanded, “Hiram, what the devil are you doing?”
Looking a little embarrassed, the man called Hiram cleared his throat and said, “Uh, sorry, Sheriff. This fella here”—a thick finger poked toward Steve—“spilled beer on me and then wouldn’t even say he was sorry.”
Steve said, “I didn’t say I was sorry because it wasn’t my fault. This long-stretched galoot bumped into me and caused the whole thing.”
The sheriff looked at the tall man. “That true, Parry?”
“Well, uh . . . it’s mighty crowded in here, Sheriff Carson. You know, on account of so many folks being in town for Smoke’s boy’s wedding. I might’ve jostled this fella a little, but I don’t think it was enough to have caused all this ruckus.”
Steve stood up and slapped sawdust off the seat of his pants. “You can see how it is, Sheriff. I got caught in the middle here, and then these two decided they’d both try to whip me.”
“Looked like they were on their way to doing it,” the lawman commented dryly.
“No, sir,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “It might’ve looked that way, but that ain’t how the hand would’ve played out.”
“Well, the hand’s over now,” said Sheriff Carson. “Emmett Brown!”
A slick-haired gent in a tweed suit stepped out of the crowd. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“You’ve got men working for you who are supposed to keep the peace. They need to do a better job of it. I know the town’s crowded and everybody’s in high spirits because of the fandango at the Sugarloaf tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean the lid’s coming off tonight.”
Emmett Brown, the proprietor of the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. There won’t be any more trouble.”
“Better not be,” growled the lawman. He had lowered the shotgun’s twin barrels to point at the floor. As he tucked the weapon under his left arm, he jerked his right thumb at Steve. “You be on your way.”
“I told you, I didn’t do anything,” Steve insisted.
“And I believe you. But you staying here is like an ember in a fire. It’s liable to flare up again after a while.”
“You’re not making them other two leave,” Steve said sullenly.
“Yes, I am, as soon as you’ve had a few minutes to drift. Parry, you go back home to your wife. Hiram, you head for that boardinghouse where you live. No more ruckuses tonight, and for damn sure, none out at the Sugarloaf tomorrow.” Sheriff Carson narrowed his eyes at Steve. “That is, if you’re planning to go out there, which I wouldn’t recommend.”
Steve drew in a breath and calmed his raging emotions again. Quietly, he said, “Unless that’s an order, Sheriff, I was sort of thinking about it. I heard there’s gonna be a horse race.”
“That’s right.”
“Can anybody enter?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, then, I think my horse might just have a chance.”
“It’s a free country,” the sheriff said. “As long as you’re not causing trouble . . . which I really wouldn’t recommend if you’re on the Sugarloaf.”
“Why’s that?”
Sheriff Carson smiled. “Because then you’d have Smoke Jensen to deal with, instead of me.”
Steve shrugged and didn’t say anything else as he allowed the lawman to usher him out of the saloon. But as Steve untied his horse from the hitch rack and led the buckskin away into the night, the thought came to him that meeting Smoke Jensen might be exactly what he needed to do.
CHAPTER 5
The Sugarloaf
The Pitchfork line camp got its name from a peculiar rock formation atop the ridge that loomed over the grassy bench where the camp was located. Three fingers of rock, all roughly the same height, thrust up and looked like the tines of a pitchfork, especially from a distance where it wasn’t so obvious how gnarled they were. Neither Joe Bob Stanton nor Harley Briggs knew who had first called the camp by that name, and they didn’t care. They were inside the shack, pleasantly full of stew and coffee, and were playing poker for matchsticks.
“Call,” Stanton said as he pushed five more matchsticks into the pot.
“Two pair, jacks and sevens,” Briggs announced as he laid his cards on the rough-hewn table between them.
Stanton laughed. “Three treys,” he said as he revealed his hand. “Threes have always been lucky for me.”
Briggs shook his head glumly. “If we was lucky, we’d be down at the main ranch so’s we could enjoy all the big doin’s tomorrow, instead of stuck up here in this high pasture mindin’ the summer graze.”
“It was our turn. That’s only fair. If Smoke had given us a break, somebody else would’ve had to take our place, and then they’d be grousin’ about missin’ out.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” Briggs brightened a little as he added, “And Cal did promise me that when Andy Sawyer and Tex Bell come up next week with our supplies, Miss Sally’s gonna send along a mess of bear sign.”
Stanton grinned. “That ain’t as good as gettin’ to dance with all the pretty gals who are gonna be there for the party tomorrow, but it’s somethin’, anyway. Shuffle up those cards and deal ’em again.”
