Badlanders (14 page)

I
t was well past noon when Beaumont Adams made his way to the saloon and had his first drink of the day at the bar. Half a glass, usually, was enough to jolt him out of any lingering lethargy. No sooner had he set the glass down and turned than Dyson and Stimms came hurrying up. “Trouble?”

“We've got news, boss,” Stimms said.

Nodding, Dyson said, “A cowpoke from the Diamond B is in town. He told Guthrie over to the general store that Alexander Jessup has been killed.”

Beaumont thought of Isolda, and how she would probably have to pack up and head back East. “Who killed him?”

“Not who. What,” Dyson said. “Word is he got thrown by a horse and stomped.”

Stimms nodded. “The cowpoke said he tried to ride a bronc. Why in hell would he do somethin' that stupid?”

“Beats me,” Dyson said, “him bein' from the East and all. He had as much business climbin' on a mustang as I would climbin' on a bear.”

“Why would anybody climb on a bear?” Stimms asked.

“Are you two simpletons done?” Beaumont broke in. “Is that cowpoke still in town or did he leave?”

“I don't rightly know,” Dyson said.

“Go find out. If he's here, ask him if he knows what the ladies will do now that their pa is gone.”

“What if he won't say or doesn't know or tells us to go sit on a cactus?”

“Ask him real polite.”

Dyson and Stimms looked at each other and Stimms said, “Polite? That's a new one. Do we even know how?”

“Go,” Beaumont said. He didn't normally indulge in another glass so soon, but he refilled his and carried it to his reserved table. It was a shame this had to happen. He'd looked forward to getting to know Isolda Jessup a lot better.

“Damn life, anyhow,” Beaumont said to the empty air, and swallowed. He couldn't complain. Things were going better than he'd anticipated. He had half a dozen businesses up and running, in addition to his three saloons. By the end of the year he'd have more. He was well on his way to becoming Whiskey Flats's one and only lord and master.

Normally that cheered him, but the thought of not seeing Isolda again depressed him so much he sat at the table drinking for over an hour. Dyson and Stimms returned to report that the cowpoke had lit out for the ranch.

Beaumont fell into a rare sulk. He told himself it shouldn't matter, that he'd only just met her and could easily forget her. He sat in on a poker game, thinking that would bring him out of himself. It didn't. The cards were in his favor and he won more hands than he lost, but he still couldn't shake his doldrums.

The clock on the wall said it was pushing six when Beaumont gathered up his winnings and strolled outside for a breath of fresh air.

A buckboard was coming down the street. Stumpy, the grizzled old hand from the Diamond B, was driving,
and beside him sat a vision of loveliness in a black dress of mourning but with a parasol over her slender shoulder. Their eyes met at the same instant. She said something to Stumpy and he frowned and brought the buckboard over.

Doffing his hat, Beaumont stepped off the boardwalk. “I'll take this as an omen.”

“A superstitious gambler,” Isolda said, grinning. “Imagine that.” She sobered and said, “My father has died.”

“I've heard, and I'm sorry as can be.”

“I don't need false sympathy. I do need a place to stay. This town doesn't have a hotel yet, does it?”

Beaumont shook his head. “If it's only for the night, I know some nice folks who might put you up.”

“Would they put me up for a year or two?”

“You're not headin' back East?” Beaumont said in surprise.

“What gave you that idea? We have unfinished business, you and I. As a matter of fact, why don't we discuss it over supper? I'm famished, and Ma's is open. What do you say?”

Beaumont couldn't hide his delight. “First that place to stay,” he said, and stepping to the front wheel, he hooked his boot on a spoke and swung up and over into the bed. He almost stepped on one of her bags but agilely jumped over it and hunkered behind the seat. “Go two blocks and turn right.”

Isolda looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “You heard the man.”

Stumpy muttered and flicked the reins.

“Somethin' botherin' you, old-timer?” Beaumont asked.

“It ain't fittin', is all,” Stumpy said.

“He's been grumbling since we left the ranch,” Isolda said. “Apparently it's improper for a single woman to take her destiny into her own hands.”

Stumpy glanced at her and shook his head. “I never
said any such thing. It's just a body has to be careful who they take up with in these parts.”

“He means me,” Beaumont said, chuckling. “You might not have heard, but I'm an unsavory character.”

“I certainly hope so,” Isolda said.

“Now, see?” Stumpy said. “It's talk like that that worries me. Nothin' good will come of this, ma'am. Mark my words.”

“I want to do this and I will,” Isolda declared, “and no number of naysayers will persuade me otherwise.” She put her hand on Stumpy's shoulder. “But I do have a request to make of you.”

Stumpy stared at her hand as if it were a spider that might bite him. “Of me, Miss Jessup?”

“I want you to keep an eye on my sister for me. Whenever you come into town, look me up and let me know how things are going at the ranch.”

Stumpy didn't answer right away. His jaw muscles twitching, he traveled the two blocks and swung into the turn. Finally he said, “Why me?”

“Why not?” Isolda rejoined. “I've spent more time with you than with any of the other hands. We're practically friends.”

“I wouldn't go that far, ma'am,” Stumpy said.

“Why wouldn't you do it? Don't you like me?”

“It's not that,” Stumpy said.

Beaumont leaned forward. “How about if you do it for me? I'll pay you twenty dollars a month to be our eyes and ears out at the Diamond B. Whenever you come into town, look us up and give us the latest news.”

“Twenty a month?” Stumpy blurted, and caught himself. “It doesn't sound proper, me spyin' on them.”

“Who asked you to?” Beaumont said. “All you have to do is report the latest goings-on. That's not spyin'.”

“Please, Stumpy,” Isolda said. “I'd be ever so grateful. She is my sister, after all, and I'd like to keep up with things. Especially after what happened to our father.”

Fidgeting, Stumpy said, “When you put it that way, ma'am, I reckon I can't refuse.”

“Hallelujah,” Beaumont said. He pointed at a house with a yard and a picket fence, a rarity in Whiskey Flats. “Pull up there.”

“Tell me about these people,” Isolda said.

“Their name is Preston. A young couple, with a one-year-old girl. He's a clerk, and comes into the Three Aces now and again. Only ever has one drink, and he might play a little cards but he never lets himself lose big. I struck up his acquaintance and we're friendly enough that I'm sure they won't mind putting you up.”

“I'll stay the night, but by tomorrow night I want you to find something better,” Isolda said. “A place of my own. A house or an apartment. I'm not choosy so long as it's not a dump. If we had a hotel this wouldn't be an issue.”

“I'll start men on building one by the end of the week,” Beaumont said. He had been thinking of erecting one anyway. As the town grew, it would be a steady source of income. Hopping down, he offered his arm.

Isolda graciously took it, and lithely alighted. “You're the perfect gentleman,” she teased.

“For you I am.”

Beaumont ushered her to the front door, saying, “Just a suggestion, my dear, but it would please me greatly if you stayed with me.”

“Why, Mr. Adams,” Isolda said in mock dismay. “Think of how tongues would wag. I'd be the scandal of the territory.”

“If you're seen with me often enough,” Beaumont predicted, “you'll become that anyway.”

“Oh, I intend to do much more than be seen with you,” Isolda said. “But first we lay the ground rules.”

“Mind enlightenin' me on what they are?”

Before she could answer, even before he could knock, the front door opened and Mrs. Preston stepped out
holding her child. She informed them that it would be fine with her to have Isolda stay the night. She'd welcome the company of another female. But she should ask if her husband was all right with it, and he was at work.

“Tell you what, Mrs. Preston,” Beaumont said. “I'll take the lady here for a meal, and by the time we get back, your husband is likely to be home. We can talk to him then, if that's acceptable?”

“We'll be looking for you,” the young woman said.

“In the meantime, is it all right if we leave the lady's bags here?”

“Of course.”

Isolda had Stumpy bring them to the porch. When the last had been deposited and he was climbing onto the buckboard, she plucked at his sleeve and said, “Don't forget our arrangement. You're to report on my sister's activities every time you come to town.”

“I told you I would and I will,” Stumpy said grumpily. Lifting the reins, he frowned down at her. “You've become awful pushy since your pa died.”

“My dear sir,” Isolda said sweetly, “I haven't begun to push.”

“Loco female,” Stumpy muttered. Calling out, “Get along there!” he rattled off, the wheels raising swirls of dust.

“Old fart,” Isolda said.

Beaumont laughed and clasped her arm. “How about that meal?” Without being obvious, he studied her as they walked. He liked everything about her: the fine yet firm set of her face, the unaffected sway of her body, the superb manner in which she carried herself.

“Have a portrait made, why don't you?” Isolda said.

“You can't hardly blame me,” Beaumont said. “This is all so sudden. A whirlwind has been dropped into my lap and I'm tryin' to catch up with it all.”

“Catch up quick,” Isolda said. “I won't have a slow-wit. We have a lot to accomplish together.”

“About that,” Beaumont said. “Why am I so lucky? There are millions of men in this world and out of the blue you decide on me. I'm damned if I can figure out what I did to impress you.”

“Look a gift horse in the mouth, why don't you?” Isolda said with a smile. She stopped and faced him and grew solemn. “Look at me.”

Puzzled, Beaumont did.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me.”

Beaumont grinned and started to joke that he'd have to be crazy not to want a woman like her.

“This is serious,” Isolda said. “Don't diminish it or we'll part ways here and now, forever.”

Checking himself, Beaumont sobered. He looked into those lovely eyes of her, and in some mysterious manner he couldn't fathom, it was like looking into mirror images of his own. He felt drawn into her, as if she was him and he was her. It made no sense but there it was. “I want you,” he said huskily.

“And I, you. I knew you were the one the moment I first saw you. Don't ask me how. Don't ask me why. I just knew. It was as if a part of me that had been missing was in my life where it should be.” Isolda swallowed. “I admit it scared me a little. I couldn't stop thinking of you, of how much I wanted you. You're the one. If you can't see that, if you don't want to be, say so now and there'll be no hard feelings.”

“I just told you I want you,” Beaumont said. He was having difficulty collecting his thoughts. His head was spinning, as if he'd had a bit too much to drink.

“Then we make a pact, here and now. I'm for you and you're for me. No one else. Ever. It's us against the rest of the world from here on out. Agreed?”

“Is this one of those ground rules?”

“The most important of all. What will it be? Yes or no?”

Beaumont leaned in and lightly kissed her on the lips. A mere brush of his against her, yet it sent an electric
shock clear down through his body to his toes. Every sinew in his body seemed to lock up. To speak, he had to force his vocal cords to work. “The answer is yes.”

Isolda was trembling. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I never heard of anything like this in all my born days,” Beaumont remarked.

“People fall in love all the time.”

“Is that what this is?” Beaumont said in genuine puzzlement. If so, the times he'd thought he was in love before weren't any such thing. They were insignificant in comparison.

“It's you and I until death does us part,” Isolda said. “We can do it proper with a minister if you need that. I don't. I don't care if tongues wag. I don't care about anything except you, and us, and taking this town over and making it ours from top to bottom.”

“You are a wonderment,” Beaumont said.

“What I am is starved.” Isolda took his arm and they continued along the street.

“And happier than I can ever remember being.” She laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and cheerfully exclaimed, “Look out, world. Here we come.”

S
car Wratner liked having his own saloon. He liked it a lot.

Scar had never in his life considered running a business. He didn't have a knack for sums and such. The only thing he'd ever had a knack for was pistols. Some folks would say that wasn't a knack at all, that shooting people was a sickness or a sin. He didn't see it as either.

Scar had been born in Maryland, of all places. When he wasn't quite two, his folks moved to Kansas. They'd decided to homestead and have their own farm. The only thing was, his pa was pitiful at it and his ma became sickly from all the dust and pollen. Until he was twelve, Scar spent most days tending to their milk cows and chickens and scratching at the hard earth with a plow or a hoe.

Then coyotes took an interest in their chickens, and his pa traded for an old Colt Dragoon to do in the coyotes. It was the first revolver Scar ever set his hands on, and he took to it like a bear to honey. True, the Dragoon was a cannon, and heavy as hell. But he learned to handle it, two-handed, and the evening he shot one of the
coyotes was the evening he came fully alive for the first time in his life.

Scar remembered waiting, as quiet as could be, on the roof of the coop for the coyotes to show themselves. When one skulked out of the twilight, he'd held the Dragoon as steady as he could, aimed as best he was able, and having already cocked it, squeezed the trigger. Funny thing; he hardly heard the blast, as loud as it was. He was focused on the coyote and saw, as if in slow motion, the slug core its head and blow part of its skull off.

Afterward, he stood over the dead coyote, marveling as the power the Dragoon gave him. He'd taken it to bed with him that night and slept with it under his pillow. From that day on, he was never without a revolver.

When he was thirteen he persuaded his pa to trade for a Smith & Wesson Model 1. Compared to the Dragoon, it was practically lightweight. It didn't have a trigger guard like later models, and the grips weren't that comfortable to the hand, but it was the most beautiful thing Scar had ever seen. He loved that revolver. He practiced every chance he got. To buy ammunition, he worked at neighboring farms, often until late into the night.

When Scar was sixteen, three events occurred that changed his life forever. His ma died of consumption. His pa got into an argument with a drover at the Ellsworth Saloon, where his pa went for a drink from time to time, and the drover pistol-whipped his pa into the floor. Some friends brought his pa home and then sent for the doctor.

Scar's pa, it turned out, had a cracked skull. The doc took Scar aside and said there was nothing he could do, that his pa might linger hours or days, there was no telling.

Scar sat by that bed for ten days. Ten whole days of his pa tossing and groaning and crying now and then. And finally dying.

Scar strapped on the Smith & Wesson, jammed his straw hat on his head, and rode to Ellsworth. Fortune
smiled on him, in that the drover happened to be in the saloon, drinking with a couple of his pards.

Scar marched up to them and announced who he was, and that he'd come to kill the son of a bitch who had killed his pa. The drover had laughed and said he should go away and quit bothering his betters and that he was too young to act so tough.

That was the first time the killing urge came over Scar. The only way to describe it was as a great burning-hot need, like hot water being poured through him. He'd sneered at the drover and called him a yellow cur and said the drover could draw or he'd gun him where he stood.

The drover drew.

Scar shot him before he cleared leather. One of the drover's friends clawed for his hardware and Scar shot him, too.

The acrid smell of gunpowder had tingled his nose, and the gun smoke formed a small cloud.

The third man, his hands out from his sides, said he'd had no part in whatever it was that had provoked Scar and didn't want any trouble.

Scar shot him anyway.

At a nearby table, others rose and put their hands on their revolvers, but Scar whipped around and covered them, saying as how he'd put a window in the skull of the first bastard who tried anything.

That was when the marshal arrived.

Scar told the marshal that all three had gone for their guns. A few witnesses contradicted him, but since no one could deny the first two had, the marshal decided the witnesses might be mistaken. That, and the fact that the marshal knew about Scar's pa and felt sympathy for him, accounted for why Scar wasn't arrested.

Scar went back to the farm only long enough to sell it. He let it go for half of what it was worth, but that was enough to buy a new set of store-bought clothes and a
new hat and boots, plus a better horse, and something he wanted even more.

He'd heard about a gun store in Dodge City, the “best gun store anywhere,” and went to see for himself.

The affray in the saloon had taught him a couple of lessons. One pistol wasn't enough. He'd had five pills in the wheel and used three. If those punchers at the table had resorted to their six-guns, he'd only have been able to shoot two of the five and the rest would have finished his hash, then and there.

He also needed a better, newer model. His old one was fine for plunking targets, but it wasn't designed for an especially quick draw. He wanted a gun that fit his hand as if it were part of him.

The store was everything folks claimed. Scar walked in and thought he'd gone to heaven. Hundreds of firearms were on display, from the latest pistols to the most expensive rifles.

Scar looked at some Colts. He looked at some Remingtons. Some Merwin & Hulberts. Some Bacons. None suited him as much as the Smith & Wessons. He chose a matched pair of the newest, bought boxes of ammunition, and went out and made camp in the prairie. There, he practiced until he could draw both revolvers remarkably quick and hit what he shot at ten times out of ten.

From Dodge, Scar drifted. Because he liked to frequent saloons, and he had a temper, and because there were a lot of drunks who tested that temper, he shot four more men inside of a year. He acquired a reputation. People whispered about him behind his back.

No one called him Scar back then. He was known as Kid Wratner. That changed on a fateful night in Caldwell. He'd sat in on a card game. It was a gambler's turn to deal, and he saw the gambler deal a card from the bottom of the deck. Right away he accused the man of cheating. That was his first mistake. He should have stood and taken a few steps back and then accused him.
When the gambler angrily protested he'd done no such thing, Scar made his second mistake. He bent toward the man to accent a point by jabbing a finger at him.

The gambler exploded out of his chair, whipping a knife out of his sleeve as he rose. Not just any knife, either, but a bowie with an eight-inch blade. The gambler slashed at Scar's face and opened it like a melon.

Scar would never forget the sharp sting and awful pain and the spray of blood. He'd flung himself back and his chair had crashed to the floor. The gambler turned to flee, but Scar, heedless of his terrible wound, had risen with a pistol in each hand and put two slugs into the man before he'd taken two steps. The gambler screamed and tried to crawl and Scar walked up to him, shooting as he went, sending six more slugs into the twitching body, one after the other in a slow beat of thunder and hate.

A sawbones had done the best he could stitching Scar's wound, but it was too big to ever heal right.

At first Scar hated it. Every time he looked in a mirror he wanted to smash the mirror. Then folks took to calling him Scar instead of Kid, and they were more afraid of him than ever. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

Scar had fallen in with Grat about two years ago. Grat was from Tulsa, and had shot a couple of men down Oklahoma way. One was the owner of a horse Grat stole, the other a townsman who refused to hand over his poke when Grat popped out of an alley late one night and demanded it. Grat was small-fry, and not all that likable. He griped about everything and wasn't much shucks with a pistol except up close.

They'd met over a card game in Longmont, Colorado. Another player had recognized Scar. Someone asked if it was true he'd bucked out over a dozen men.

Scar had said it was. Another player had asked if Scar ever had a problem with peckerwoods who figured they could acquire a reputation of their own by gunning him. Scar had answered that now and then he did.

Until that moment Grat had been silent, but then he
piped up with “What you need is a pard to watch your back.”

Scar had jokingly asked if Grat was volunteering, and Grat surprised him by saying he wouldn't mind partnering up if that was what Scar wanted.

Scar couldn't say what made him agree. For all he knew, Grat might want a rep of his own and put lead into his back when he least expected it. It took a couple of months for Scar to accept that Grat was in earnest, and from then on he counted on Grat to watch his back wherever they want.

Scar didn't count on Tuck for anything. Tuck didn't have a thimbleful of brains. He was slower on the draw than a snail. Left on his own, he was next to helpless. The only redeeming trait he had was that he worshipped Scar.

Ever since he was a sprout, Tuck had been fascinated by shootists. He could read, provided he went slow and mouthed the words, and his favorite reading material was those lurid dime novels about gunmen and outlaws. Never mind that they didn't contain a lick of truth. Never mind that the stories were exaggerated potboilers only simpletons would believe. Tuck
was
a simpleton, and he believed them. He could ramble by the hour about the daring exploits of Wild Bill Hickok and Black Bart and a host of shooters of every stripe. But until Tuck met Scar, he'd never come across one in real life.

Scar, to Tuck, was one of his heroes made real.

They'd met in Cheyenne. Tuck came up to Scar's table, hat in hand, and asked if Scar really was who a man at the bar claimed, “the great and wonderful Scar Wratner.” Grat had snickered, but Scar gave him a look, and then asked Tuck what made him so wonderful.

“Why, you're about as famous a man-killer as there is,” Tuck had gushed. “It's an honor for me to meet you.”

His fawning adoration was a new experience for Scar. He hadn't known whether to laugh or rap him on the head with a pistol barrel, so he compromised and invited Tuck to sit at their table.

Grat had scowled, but even he warmed up after Tuck prattled for damn near an hour about every gunny under the sun, and then some. Scar had been amazed at how anyone so dumb could remember so much. On an impulse, when they rose to go, he asked if Tuck wanted to tag along, and you would have thought Scar had offered him his weight in gold from the way Tuck's face lit up and he babbled about how, golly, he'd do anything in the world if he could ride with them. He'd cook Scar's food and polish his boots and wash his clothes and look after his horse and whatever else Scar wanted him to do.

Scar thought for sure that after a few months the luster would wear off and Tuck would drift elsewhere, but no. If anything, Tuck became even more attached to him, especially after Scar bedded down a few sons of bitches who deserved the bedding.

Now here he was, with Grat and Tuck at his back, striding into the saloon he'd been given, as pleased as he could be. Over a week had gone by, and he'd taken to his new role with enthusiasm. So what if he had to give a percentage to Adams, and it was Deitch who handled the books and not him? The Tumbleweed was still his saloon.

On this particular night Scar was halfway to the bar when he sensed something was amiss, and he stopped. The place was too quiet. The regulars at the bar and at the tables had the subdued looks of men who were afraid trouble might break out. Scar glanced over at Deitch, who nodded toward a corner table.

A trio of newcomers were sharing a bottle between them. One look, and Scar recognized them for what they were: curly wolves on the prod. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belts, he ambled over and planted himself where he had a clear view of their hands and arms. “Howdy, gents.”

They were young and had been drinking awhile, which could account for their lack of sense. The wolf in the middle tilted his head and said, “What the hell do you want, ugly?”

“I run this place,” Scar informed him with undisguised pride.

“So?” the same one demanded.

“So I don't want you snot-nosed kids causin' trouble,” Scar replied. He probably could have chosen his words more carefully, but then, he'd never given a good damn about whether he offended people.

The wolf on the left bared his teeth. “You had no call to say that. We're sittin' here mindin' our own business.”

“Think of it as nippin' you in the bud,” Scar said. He could be witty when he wanted to.

The third tough was as prickly as his pards. “What does that even mean, you old goat?”

Scar lost a lot of his good mood. No one had ever called him “old” before. “It means you behave or I have you tossed out on your ears.”

“Why don't you try tossin' us yourself?” the first one said.

“I don't toss,” Scar said. “I shoot.”

“Me, too,” the first one declared. “And if you're not careful, I'll put a slug into you like I did your ceilin'.”

Scar looked up. Sure enough, there was a bullet hole above their table. “Son of a bitch. When did you do that?”

“About ten minutes ago when we came in. I let out a howl and shot to let everyone know they'd best step easy.”

Scar felt a familiar urge come over him, that hot-water feeling he loved so much. “Any gent who will shoot another man's ceilin' doesn't deserve to go on breathin'. Go for your guns, you jackasses.”

“You'd gun us over a hole?” the man on the right said.

“We should break the window while we're at it,” the one on the left said.

The wolf in the middle pushed his chair back and stood. “Didn't you hear this ugly bastard? He's fixin' to try and take us.”