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.