Too soon to die, p.8
Too Soon to Die, page 8
Youngsters organized games or just chased each other around, squealing happily, while the grown-ups sat at the tables or stood in the shade under the trees as they caught up with their friends on everything that had happened since the last time they had seen each other. Births, deaths, other marriages, good roundups and bad, all were topics of great interest.
Clouds of pipe and cigar smoke filled the air above some of the groups as the men hashed out the country’s problems and what the government ought to do about them. The weather was also a popular subject. It had been good lately, mighty good, but everybody figured that couldn’t last. It was probably going to be a hot, dry summer.
By the middle of the afternoon, some of the kids had gotten sleepy and crawled into the backs of wagons to take naps. More than one adult stifled a yawn and wished that he or she could follow the example of those young’uns. A siesta sounded like a mighty good idea.
Smoke, Sally, Louis, and Melanie sat in cane-bottom chairs on the front porch. Later, Louis and Melanie would be leaving in a buggy bound for town, where they would spend their wedding night at the Big Rock Hotel before catching a train for Chicago the next morning. Their plans called for them to spend a couple of weeks on a wedding trip that would also include visits to Philadelphia and New York. Brad would remain on the Sugarloaf while they were gone.
In the late afternoon, ranch hands under Cal’s direction began hanging lanterns from tree limbs and along the awning over the porch that ran around three sides of the main house. Fiddle players rosined up their bows, and guitar pickers tuned and tightened strings. The sleepy respite was ending, and the buzz of anticipation for the evening’s festivities began rising. Louis and Melanie would have the first dance, of course, but then they would slip away and everyone else would join in.
Smoke left the others on the porch to go talk to Cal and Pearlie. He told them, “Keep your eyes open this evening. I imagine there’ll be some cowboys passing around flasks, and I don’t want things to get out of hand.”
“You’re right about that,” said Pearlie. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if some of the boys are a mite snockered already from sneakin’ sips of that Who-hit-John.”
“As long as they don’t get carried away, that’s fine,” Smoke said. “I just don’t want any brawls breaking out.”
“We’ll keep the lid on, Smoke, don’t worry about that,” Cal promised.
“Say, earlier I told that fella Markham to talk to you about a riding job.”
“Do you want me to hire him?” asked Cal.
Smoke said, “That’s up to you. Yeah, he helped Denny when she’d gotten herself in trouble, but that doesn’t mean he’d make a good hand. I trust your judgment, Cal. If you think there’s anything off about him, just tell him that we’re not hiring anybody right now.”
“Speakin’ of that . . .” Pearlie began.
Smoke looked at his old friend. “What is it?”
“You know that young fella rode back in with me from Elephant Butte. After I caught that Rocket hoss, I started back in this direction and came across him trudgin’ along and leadin’ his horse. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to let him ride double with me.”
Smoke nodded, knowing that Pearlie had to proceed at his own rate in revealing whatever he was thinking.
“Well, we talked some, of course, and he seemed like a mighty friendly sort. Wanted me to tell him some about Miss Denny, but I sorta steered clear of that. Didn’t want to talk out of turn, you know.”
Cal didn’t have the same sort of patience that Smoke did. “Are you getting to a point here, Pearlie? Was there something about Markham you didn’t like?”
“Nope, not at all,” Pearlie answered without hesitation. “Seems like a plumb friendly fella. It’s just that somehow he looks familiar to me. I’m pretty darned sure we ain’t ever met before, but when I look at him, it seems like he oughta be somebody I know. He ain’t, though.”
“He’s not that distinctive,” Smoke said with a shrug. “Just another young cowboy.”
“Yeah, I reckon. It just struck me as sorta odd, and I ain’t been able to shake the feelin’.”
Cal nodded and said, “I’ll keep that in mind when I talk to him tomorrow. Maybe ask him a few questions and see if I get straight answers.”
Smoke clapped a hand on the foreman’s shoulder. “That sounds like a good idea. Let me know what you decide about him, Cal.”
As Smoke headed back toward the house, he saw the very man they’d been talking about. Steve Markham was walking toward the trees, and he looked like a man on a mission.
* * *
“I’ve come to claim that dance, Miss Denny.”
She turned around, not the least bit surprised to see Steve Markham standing there. At least he’d been polite enough to take his hat off before he spoke to her, but he still had that cocky grin on his face.
Denny had been talking to a few girls from Big Rock with whom she was acquainted. They laughed at Markham’s forthright proclamation, and one of them said, “We’ll see you later, Denny.”
“Wait!” she said. “You don’t have to—”
It was too late. They were already walking away, laughing and talking among themselves.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, Denny turned back to Markham and said, “The dancing hasn’t even started yet. It won’t until my brother and his wife have had their first dance together. And I don’t recall promising you a dance at all, Mr. Markham.”
“Call me Steve,” he suggested. “And I reckon you’ll find that I’m a persistent cuss, Miss Denny. As soon as I laid eyes on you . . . well, as soon as I figured out you was a gal, anyway, and not some cowhand . . . I said to myself that there was a gal I’d plumb admire to have a dance with, even though, like I’ve said, I ain’t much of a dancer. Or more ’n one dance, even. I’d fill up your dance card if I could, but if I did that, your feet ’d probably be pretty sore from gettin’ stepped on before the evenin’ was over. I’m hopin’ I can make these ol’ clodhoppers of mine do like they’re supposed to for one dance. I’ll do my dead level best, I can promise you that.”
Denny narrowed her eyes at him. “I was starting to wonder how long you could go on without taking a breath.”
His grin took on a sheepish cast. “I do ramble a mite sometimes, don’t I? I reckon that comes from ridin’ by myself so much. If I didn’t talk, I wouldn’t have nobody to listen to.”
Denny looked at him for a moment and then finally nodded. “One dance. Will that satisfy you?”
“Well, I don’t know about satisfied”—he held up a hand quickly when her look started to turn to a glare—“but I reckon I can make do just fine, thanks. And I really do appreciate your kindness.”
“The dancing should be starting soon. You can have the first one with me—”
“It’s a plumb honor, that’s what it is.”
“And we can get this over with,” Denny finished. When she saw the slightly crestfallen look on his face, she thought maybe she was being a little too harsh. But he was so sure of himself that he annoyed her, whether that was his intention or not.
Markham hung around, yammering about things that Denny barely paid attention to as the light in the sky faded and the warm yellow glow from the lanterns grew stronger. A quartet of cowboy musicians climbed onto the porch and warmed up for a while.
Smoke greeted them and said, “Len, Bob, Tim, Hugh, are you boys ready?”
“We sure are, Smoke,” one of the young punchers answered. He looked at the others and grinned. “Hit it, boys.”
The music welled up as Louis took Melanie’s hand and led her down the steps. Taking her in his arms, they began sweeping gracefully around the open area in front of the house while everyone looked on in respectful silence. After a few minutes, they paused and Louis lifted an arm to wave the crowd forward as he called, “Friends, please, join us!”
Over under the trees, Markham said to Denny, “Dang, that’s sweet. It’s gettin’ me all misty-eyed.”
Denny took his big, rough hand and said, “Oh, come on. If you’re determined to dance with me.”
“I durned sure am,” he said as he clapped his hat on with his other hand and they joined the crowd filling up the open ground.
Despite what Markham had said about being clumsy, he was actually a decent dancer, Denny found. He moved well, had no trouble leading, and after a few wary moments, she wasn’t really worried about her toes getting stepped on.
“You’re doing all right,” she said grudgingly.
“That must be because I got the best dance partner there ever was.”
“You don’t have to keep flattering me, you know. I’m already dancing with you.”
“It ain’t flattery. I’m just tellin’ it the way it seems to me. Between that good music them boys are playin’, and havin’ you in my arms to inspire me, Miss Denny, this is the best I ever danced, I promise you.”
Surprised to hear the words come out of her mouth, she said, “You don’t have to call me Miss Denny. You can just call me Denny.”
The big grin lit up his face. “Does that mean you’ll call me Steve?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, this is turnin’ into an even better night than I expected!”
“Don’t get carried away,” she warned him. “It’s one dance. And calling each other by our first names doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s a start,” Steve Markham said.
Maybe he was right, thought Denny . . . and for some reason, that idea was vaguely troubling to her.
CHAPTER 17
Black Hawk, Colorado
Black Hawk was a town on the decline, thought Brice Rogers as he rode slowly past some empty cattle pens and then along its main street. A decade earlier, the settlement and nearby Central City had been boomtowns, crowded with men determined to wrest a fortune in gold from the steep, thickly timbered slopes surrounding the communities. The would-be mining magnates had brought with them all the things that followed a strike—honest businesses, sure, but also an abundance of saloons, gamblers, and soiled doves.
With the mines beginning to play out, the gold-seekers were drifting away, heading for new fields where the hoped-for riches might materialize. The brick buildings to Brice’s right, with a slope rising close behind them, were starting to look seedy and run-down. Some were empty and abandoned. A mercantile with dirty windows was still open for business, but it had the look of an enterprise with few customers. The same was true of a blacksmith shop, a gunsmith, and a saddlemaker. Something about each of the places said that it, too, would be gone in a matter of months or even weeks.
Brice felt sorry for the people whose businesses were failing, but his business—chasing down men who had broken the law—was all too good, and that was what had brought him to Black Hawk, in the mountains west of Denver.
The deputy U.S. marshal was a young man in his mid-twenties, compactly built but stronger than his slim build would indicate. He already had laugh lines around his eyes, a testament to his normally good humor. The light brown hair under his high-crowned hat had a slight wave to it. His clothes weren’t fancy; he was dressed like a drifting cowpuncher. The Colt. 45 holstered on his right hip had plain walnut grips. Most people wouldn’t look twice at him . . . which was a good quality for a lawman to have.
The last building in the block to his right was the Casa de Oro Saloon. Its batwinged entrance was on the corner, and judging by the number of horses tied at the hitch racks in front, it was just about the only place in Black Hawk still doing a brisk business. Brice reined in, swung down from the saddle, and found a place at the rack to tie the reins of his sorrel. He patted the horse’s shoulder and then stepped up onto the boardwalk.
Before he could reach the batwings, several men pushed through them and out of the saloon. The one in the lead stumbled a little as he turned toward Brice. Brice tried to move aside to let them pass, but the unsteady gent knocked his left shoulder pretty heavily against Brice’s right.
The man jerked back and exclaimed, “Watch where you’re goin’, you little pissant!”
“Take it easy, mister,” Brice said in a calm, steady voice. “You’re the one who ran into me, but there’s no harm done.”
“No harm? I’m the one who . . . who’ll say whether there’s any harm done, by God!”
All three men looked like miners. The fact that they’d been in the Casa de Oro drinking in the middle of the day told Brice that they were probably out of work and spending what few coins they had left on booze.
He was there to do a job and didn’t want any trouble, so he just muttered, “Sorry,” and tried to step around them.
One of the other men said, “You gonna let him get away with that, Clegg?” His slightly gleeful tone indicated that he was egging on his drunken friend, hoping to see some excitement.
It worked. The miner called Clegg put a big hand in the middle of Brice’s chest and stopped him short. “Where the h-hell do you think you’re g-goin’?”
Brice shook his head slowly and, with his voice still level, said, “You don’t want to do this, friend.”
“I ain’t your friend, you little—” The obscenities that spilled out of Clegg’s mouth then, accompanied by raw whiskey fumes almost strong enough to get a bystander drunk, would have had most men reaching for a gun.
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Brice put up with it for a long moment, hoping Clegg would either run out of steam or pass out from the booze and fall down.
He did neither of those things, continuing to cuss as he shoved Brice up against the wall of the building. Although a couple of inches taller and at least forty pounds heavier than Brice, Clegg couldn’t have had any idea what was going to happen next.
When Brice finally lost his temper, it was like a bundle of dynamite exploded on Clegg’s jaw. The punch knocked him across the boardwalk. His back hit the railing along the edge, and he flipped up and over it, landing on his face in the street with his arms and legs spraddled out. He didn’t move and clearly was out cold.
The other two miners gaped at Brice for a second, then one of them snarled, reached under his coat, and pulled out a heavy-bladed knife. “You can’t—”
“Reckon I can,” drawled Brice. The Colt had appeared in his hand as if by magic. He held it rock-steady, its barrel pointed at the knife-wielder’s belly. At that range, Brice couldn’t miss, and the slug would tear a fatal hole in the miner’s guts.
“Hold on,” the third man said hastily. The things that had happened in the past few seconds seemed to have chased the drunkenness out of him. He sounded relatively sober as he hurried on. “There’s no need for any shootin’. Jeff, put that knife away.”
Jeff looked like he wanted to argue, but at the same time, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the dark muzzle of Brice’s revolver. After a few heartbeats, he growled, “Who the hell are you?”
“A fella who doesn’t like being pushed around,” Brice answered. “But one who’s not looking for trouble, either. Wouldn’t have been any if you hadn’t goaded your friend into it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff muttered. He sighed and slipped the knife back into the hidden sheath under his coat. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“You just thought watching your pard bust me up would be some cheap entertainment, didn’t you?”
Jeff didn’t say anything, but the answer to that question was obvious.
The third man said, “That was one hell of a punch, mister. I never saw anybody knock Clegg out like that. Would’ve bet that it wasn’t even possible!”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .’” Brice let the quote trail off and jerked his head toward the man sprawled in the street. “You’d best pick him up and take him back wherever you three came from. You two had your fun whether he enjoyed it or not.”
The third man chuckled “Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. Come on, Jeff.”
The two of them stepped down from the boardwalk, got on either side of Clegg, who was starting to groan and move around, and helped him to his feet. They weaved away, half-supporting, half-dragging Clegg, who kept shaking his head groggily.
Brice slipped his Colt back into its holster and turned toward the saloon’s entrance again, only to stop as he saw a man leaning against the wall next to the batwings with an insolent smile on his face.
The hombre patted his hands together in mock applause. “That was impressive, even if Clegg was drunk as a skunk. It takes a pretty good punch just to move that much bulk.”
“Well, I got lucky,” Brice said.
“That didn’t look like luck to me,” the stranger insisted. “Come on in. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“And I’ll be obliged,” Brice said.
“By the way,” the man added over his shoulder, “my name’s Harding. Al Harding.”
That comment he’d made about being lucky was true enough, thought Brice.
Al Harding was exactly the man he had come to Black Hawk to find.
CHAPTER 18
Brice followed Al Harding into the Casa de Oro. The saloon was busy, with a good number of men at the bar and most of the tables. More than half the customers were miners, Brice estimated, but there were quite a few cowboys on hand, too, from the ranches in the valleys between the mountains. Because of that, Brice sensed an uneasy truce in the air. Miners and cowhands often didn’t get along, but at the moment they were more interested in drinking than fighting.
Despite the number of men in the saloon, only one bartender was behind the hardwood. A couple of tired-looking doves delivered drinks to the tables. A single frock-coated gambler dealt cards in a poker game, and a woman spun a roulette wheel. The Casa de Oro might be the most successful business still in Black Hawk, but obviously the saloon wasn’t making money hand over fist or more employees would have been working.
Harding led Brice to the bar and crooked a finger at the apron. When the bartender came over, Harding looked at Brice and asked, “What are you drinking?”
