think she’s probably got more important things to worry about, like that younger son of hers. He’s liable to get himself killed one of these days, hanging around with varmints like Angus and Culley. Not to mention the trouble with Rutledge wanting to run her out of business, and those owlhoots lurking out there the other side of Hell Creek, waiting to hold up another stagecoach.”
Scratch laughed. “Yeah, I reckon we’ve waltzed right into a heap o’ trouble again. Outlaws on one side, Rutledge’s hired guns on the other…You know what we need?”
“Some sense pounded into our heads?”
“No, what we need is for those two young fellas we ran into over in Colorado to come ridin’ into town so they could give us a hand.”
“You mean Bodine and Two Wolves?” Bo shook his head. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. Those two are probably off somewhere getting into some devilment of their own.”
“Yeah, they kinda reminded me o’ somebody—you an’ me about thirty years ago.”
There was some truth to that, although Bo and Scratch had never developed the same sort of reputation as gunfighters and troubleshooters as Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves had. All four of them shared the same restless nature, though, and the tendency to have trouble follow them around.
“We’ll have to handle this chore ourselves,” Bo went on as they neared a good-sized building marked by its batwing doors and the tinny music coming from inside it as a saloon. In the fading light of dusk, a sign hanging from the awning over the boardwalk identified it as Sharkey’s, the place Gil Sutherland had mentioned.
“What say we take a look?” Scratch suggested. “I could use a beer.”
Dave and Angus and Culley might be in there; probably were, if what Gil had said was correct. That could lead to another confrontation and even more trouble.
But there was a fine line between being prudent and running away from a fight, and Bo didn’t intend to cross that line. He nodded and said, “I’m a mite thirsty myself.”
CHAPTER 6
The Texans pushed through the batwings and entered a saloon much like scores of others they had visited during their long years of wandering the frontier. A long bar of polished hardwood ran down the right-hand wall of the place. Behind it were shelves filled with liquor bottles, and above the bottles, displayed prominently, was a long, somewhat amateurishly executed painting of a nude woman whose endowments went beyond generous. She wore a coy smile on her face as she artfully concealed the most vital areas of her anatomy with her arms.
Scratch did some studying on the painting for a few moments. He’d always had a great appreciation for art, as he would be glad to tell you. Bo turned his attention to the rest of the room, which included a dozen or so tables where the customers could sit and drink, a couple of felt-covered tables for poker and other card games, a faro layout, and a roulette wheel. Stairs on the left led up to a balcony and several rooms where the girls who worked here delivering drinks could ply the other part of their trade, and below the balcony was a tiny raised stage with a piano on it and an open area where folks could dance if they were of a mind to. Potbellied stoves stood in three corners of the room, but at this time of year no fires burned in their bellies. In fact, the air in the big room was already hot and still and laden with tobacco smoke and a mixture of unwholesome smells.
“Ah,” Scratch said, “always feels like comin’ home again when you walk into a place like this.”
“Your home maybe,” Bo said. “Not mine.”
Scratch grinned. “You ain’t foolin’ me, Bo Creel. You miss the night life just as much as I do when we been out on the trail for a while.”
Bo didn’t argue the point. He was busy looking for Dave Sutherland and the two bullies, Angus and Culley.
He spotted them sitting at one of the tables. Angus’s face was dotted with red, puffy places where cactus needles had stuck him. Culley wore a dull frown, probably not that much different from his usual expression. Both of them glared at Bo and Scratch. Dave just glanced at the drifters, then tossed off the drink he had in front of him.
None of the three at the table seemed to be in any mood to resume hostilities. They just passed around a bottle and refilled their glasses.
Bo and Scratch angled toward the bar. They didn’t much like turning their backs to the trio they’d clashed with earlier, but they were relying on their battle-honed instincts to warn them if any trouble cropped up. It would have been handy if there’d been a mirror above the backbar instead of that painting of a naked woman, but you couldn’t have everything.
“Couple of beers,” Scratch said to the aproned, slick-haired drink juggler behind the hardwood. He dropped a coin on the bar to pay for the drinks. He and Bo were running a mite low on funds, and since they wouldn’t be drawing any wages from Abigail Sutherland, at least not right away, they would have to be careful with their drinking money and make it last as long as possible.
The bartender drew the beers, filling a couple of mugs and placing them in front of Bo and Scratch. The coin disappeared into a cash box. “You gents are new in town, ain’t you?” the man asked.
Bo nodded. “That’s right.” He took a sip of the beer. It was barely cool, but at least it was wet.
Bo would have left his answer to the bartender’s question at that, but Scratch was more talkative. “We’re gonna be workin’ for Miz Sutherland over at the stage line,” he said.
The bartender’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Is that so? I heard that the stage got held up between here and Chino Valley again. Say, are you boys the fellas who came along and ran off Rance Judson and his gang?”
“That’s right,” Scratch replied, and he didn’t bother trying to keep the pride out of his voice. “Those owlhoots took off with their tails betwixt their legs when they saw us comin’ with all guns blazin’.”
“It wasn’t quite that dramatic,” Bo said, but Scratch was getting wound up and just talked right over his words.
“Yes, sir, the air was plumb filled with bullets for a while, but we didn’t get even a nick! When them bandits saw what they was up against, they thought better o’ tryin’ to stop that stage.”
“I hear that ol’ Ponderosa Pine got himself shot during the robbery. Is that old pelican gonna live?”
“He’s just got a flesh wound in his shoulder,” Bo said. “He’ll be all right.”
“But he won’t be able to work as no shotgun guard for a while,” Scratch added. “That’s why Miz Sutherland asked us to give her a hand. We said yes, o’course. We got us a downright hate for owlhoots, don’t we, Bo? That’s why we’re gonna clean up that Judson hombre and his gang.”
Bo just sipped his beer and didn’t say anything. Scratch didn’t need any help spouting off.
The boisterous discussion was drawing some attention from the other men in the room. Several of them turned to listen to Scratch talk. Bo glanced over his shoulder, saw that Dave, Angus, and Culley were still seated at the table. They were watching the scene at the bar, too, but not making any move to get up.
One
