He didn’t expect anything lasting to come from it, anyway. Scratch had never been the sort to settle down. If such thoughts even began to crop up in his head, he tended to skedaddle as quickly as possible.
Now, however, Scratch stood up and, holding his hat in front of him, went over to the counter. He smiled at the woman and said, “Ma’am, I just wanted to tell you that was the best meal I’ve had in a month of Sundays.”
She returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Mister…?”
“Morton, ma’am. They call me Scratch.”
“Well, thank you again, Mr. Morton, but I can’t take credit for the food. My brother is the cook.”
“If you’d pass along my compliments to him, I’d sure appreciate it. And I can promise you, my partner and I will be back to eat here again.”
“I hope so. Are you planning to be in Mankiller for long?”
“Depends on how we do once we start prospectin’.”
The woman’s smile went away. “You came here looking for gold?”
“Yes, ma’am. We read all about the big strike.” Scratch saw something like disapproval lurking in her eyes. “You don’t like the gold strike, ma’am? Seems like it’d help your business a lot.”
“Of course it does,” she said, “and I don’t begrudge anyone who wants to seek their fortune. But I’d like to see more people come here who’d like to put down roots and help the town grow once this boom is over, as sooner or later it will be.”
Scratch nodded. “I reckon you’re right about that, ma’am. My partner and me, we ain’t really the putting-down-roots sort of hombres, though.”
“I see. Well, you’re welcome here while you’re in town, Mr. Morton, however long that may be.”
“Thank you most kindly, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name…?”
“It’s Mrs. Bonner.” For a second it seemed like that was all she was going to give him. Then she relented a little and added, “Lucinda Bonner.”
“That’s a mighty pretty name, Mrs. Bonner. It suits you.”
Bo figured he’d let Scratch flirt with the woman long enough. He came up to the counter as well and asked, “How much do we owe you for the coffee and two specials, ma’am?” The price wasn’t written on the chalkboard.
She turned to look at Bo. “That’ll be ten dollars.”
The eyes of both Texans widened in surprise. Scratch’s shock overcame his interest in Lucinda Bonner, and he blurted, “Ten bucks? Ain’t that kinda steep?”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “But in Mankiller, five dollars isn’t bad for a meal like that. You can go over to the hash house and get a bowl of greasy stew that isn’t nearly as good, and it will set you back four dollars.”
“Why are the prices so high?”
“Because the price of supplies is so high. I promise you, Mr. Morton, we’re not gouging our customers. Even charging what we do, the café is barely getting by, if you want to know.”
Bo said, “It’s a boomtown. Supply and demand. Demand is high, and supplies are limited. We’ve seen it before, Scratch.”
“Yeah, I reckon so.” Scratch shook his head. “Still, it’s mighty dear.”
Bo slid a half-eagle across the counter to Lucinda Bonner. He kept a few coins in his pocket, and so did Scratch, but the rest of their stake was split up between a pair of money belts, one worn by each of them.
“There you go, ma’am,” he told her. As he touched a finger to the brim of his black hat, he added, “Best of luck to you and your daughters and brother.”
“Thank you.” Her hand moved, and the coin disappeared.
Bo and Scratch left the café. As they paused outside, Bo said, “I’ve got a feeling that if you intended to court that woman, Scratch, you may have ruined those plans by accusing her of overcharging us for those meals.”
“Now, that ain’t exactly what I said,” Scratch protested.
“Close enough.”
Scratch sighed. “You may be right about that, Bo. I was just surprised, that’s all, and you know sometimes my talkin’ is a few steps ahead of my thinkin’. I should’ve knowed better. We’ve been in enough boomtowns to know how it is.”
“Yeah, we sure have.” Bo untied the reins of his dun and the packhorse from the hitch rail. “I hope we can find room in a stable for these animals.”
They led the horses along the street and were turned away at a couple of livery stables that were already full up. When they came to a ramshackle barn with a crudely lettered sign that read EDGAR’S LIVERY, Bo shrugged and said, “This may be the best we can do.”
“Or maybe we ain’t hit bottom yet,” Scratch said. “Reckon all we can do is go in and ask.”
They found the liveryman inside, mucking out a stall. That brought back unpleasant memories of Socorro and Johnny Burford.
“Are you Edgar?” Bo asked the thickset proprietor.
“That’s right. You boys lookin’ for a place to stable them cayuses?”
“Do you have room for them?”
The man nodded. “Yeah, I do. Be four dollars a day for each of ’em.”
Scratch let out a whistle. “There’s nothin’ cheap in this town, is there?”
“Not right now there ain’t,” Edgar agreed. “Not in the middle of a gold boom.” He rubbed at his grizzled jaw. “Tell you want I’ll do, though…you got three hosses, so we’ll call it ten bucks a day for all three. How’s that sound?”
“Still a mite like highway robbery,” Scratch grumbled.
“But we’ll take it,” Bo added. “Thanks.”
He handed over a double eagle to pay for two days. At the rate their money was going, he hoped they would be able to find gold soon. Otherwise their stake would be gone and they’d have to move on.
Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad thing. They had gambled before and lost, and the good thing about being drifters was they could always ride away and leave those troubles behind them, as long as they had enough money left for a few supplies.
Edgar showed them the empty stalls. As they were unsaddling their mounts, Bo asked the liveryman, “Do you know a family named Devery?”
Edgar looked surprised. “Yeah, I know ’em. Why do you ask?”
Scratch said, “We had a run-in with a couple of ’em at the bridge leadin’ into town.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Had to pull iron on ’em.”
Bo said, “Sheriff O’Brien told us the Devery family owns a lot of the land hereabouts.”
Edgar laughed. “Still seems strange to me that ol’ Biscuits wears a law badge now. Wasn’t that long ago he was the one bein’ locked up all the time.” The liveryman lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Biscuits drinks a mite, you know.”
Bo nodded. “We got that idea. We don’t want any hard feelings with the Deverys. We just didn’t think they had any right to charge us a toll. From what the sheriff said, though, maybe we should have paid.”
“It was mighty high,” Scratch put in, “but then, so’s everything else around here.”
“You know where we can find them?” Bo asked.
Edgar stroked his chin and nodded. “When you rode in, did you see that big ol’ house up at the head o’ Main Street?”
“We did.”
“Well, that’s the old Devery house. Jackson Devery—Pa Devery, some call him—lives there with his brood. You don’t need to go all the way up there to see Luke and Thad, though.”
“Why not?” Scratch asked, but Bo had already tumbled to something his partner hadn’t.
“We didn’t mention their names,” he snapped as he started to reach for his gun.
It was too late. With a rush of footsteps, several people charged them from behind. The Texans tried to turn and draw their guns, but before they could manage that, crashing blows fell on their heads. They were driven forward, tackled, brought down on the hard-packed dirt of the barn’s center aisle. Fists and booted feet and, for all they knew, gun butts thudded into them. Bo and Scratch struggled to throw off their attackers and get up, but there was too much weight pinning them down. Their heads spun wildly from blow after vicious blow.