Crossing the Line (9 page)

Sadie's generous breasts swayed beneath the single layer of cotton and the cool morning air made her nipples stand erect against the material. The bright sunlight even shone through her gown when she stood in just the right spot, allowing Clint to see a hint of her full, rounded hips.

“You don't seem too concerned with what happened,” Clint said.

She set down the cups and kettle to pick up a dented pail. “If they come back, we'll figure out a way to deal with them. If someone different comes around, we'll deal with them too. Whether all of that happens or none of it, no good will come from us carrying on about it.”

“I suppose that's true enough.”

“You want some coffee?”

“That'd be—”

“Then go get some water from the pump,” Sadie cut in. Before Clint could get a word in, she was pushing the pail into his hands. “No free meals around here, mister. Go on.”

The tone in Sadie's voice left no room for discussion, so Clint hurried outside with the pail in his hand. Not only did he spot the pump, but he also found Carl out there with an old Army model pistol in his hand. “What've you got there, Carl?” he asked as he approached the pump and hung the pail off the spout.

Carl rolled the cylinder against his palm and studied the pistol carefully. “Just seeing if I can still remember the old lessons.”

“Someone taught you to shoot?”

“Yes, but it was a long time ago.”

Working the pump, Clint asked, “Was it your father? Maybe your uncle?”

Carl had a faraway look in his eyes as he slowly shook his head. Finally, he straightened his arm and fired off a shot. “He was a soldier by the name of Abrey. Fell along with plenty of other good men at Ream's Station.”

Allowing the pail to fill, Clint squinted and chewed on what he'd just heard. “Ream's Station. Isn't that in Virginia?”

“Yes, sir,” Carl replied as he fired off another shot.

The pistol sounded like it was fairly well cared for, but more as a keepsake than an effective weapon. Clint's ear picked up little creaks in the mechanism and subtle crackles and such within the shot that would have slipped past anyone who wasn't proficient with repairing guns of all makes and models. The pistol was old and had seen plenty of use. Scorching along the barrel and the general wear along the trigger guard and hammer told Clint that it had been put through its paces and may have even seen some serious action.

“Wait a minute,” Clint said as he leaned forward to get a better look at the gun in Carl's hand. “Ream's Station. Wasn't there a battle there during the war?”

“Yes, sir. Brigadier General August Kautz and his men were cut off and forced to retreat into Petersburg by the damn Confederates.” Pausing to sight along the top of the barrel, Carl glared at the tin can he'd set up as if he were looking into the eyes of the devil himself. He fired a shot that clipped the can just well enough to send it spinning off the post.

“That was back in sixty-three?” Clint asked.

“Sixty-four. June twenty-ninth.”

Now Clint looked at Carl with even more scrutiny than he'd used to study the gun. “But you don't even look as old as me. How would you know about a battle like that?”

“ 'Cause I was there.”

“I don't think so.”

Carl turned toward Clint, and, for a moment, it seemed he might take a swing at him. “I was there, Mister Adams. Don't try to tell me any different.”

“So . . . that'd make you . . . thirty-five? Forty years old? Either you've got one hell of a baby face or General Kautz mustered up some awfully young soldiers.”

Slowly, Carl's stern expression shifted to one of tired resignation. “Mind that pail.”

Clint spun around to see water flowing over the side of the pail and spilling onto the ground. As he stopped pumping to place the pail onto the ground, Clint heard another shot crack through the air.

“I wasn't a soldier,” Carl explained. “I was a stupid kid who wanted to do anything he could to help the soldiers that got me, my aunt, and my uncle out of Georgia and into Virginia. My uncle said we had to lay low, but I saw a group of General Kautz's men march by one day and I tagged along.

“I don't know how I managed it,” he said with a shake of his head, “but I talked fast enough to convince them to keep me on as a drummer. Some of the officers must have thought I was with one of the cooks and some of the other men must have thought I was an orphan with nowhere else to go. However I managed to stay on, I did, and I was so proud. Had something of a uniform and everything.”

“So you marched with the men into battle?” Clint asked.

“Not on the front lines, of course. I stayed with the bugler and watched the flags wave as the regiment moved along. I used to think I was making all those feet stomp on account of my drum. Seems foolish now, but I was doing my part the best I could.”

Clint had plenty more he wanted to ask, but couldn't help noticing the haunted look in the other man's eyes. He may have only been a boy at the time, but Carl had still seen the war firsthand. The subject wasn't something to be discussed in the same way someone might reminisce about a hard summer.

Those thoughts were in Clint's mind as he brought himself back to the present. Knowing that little bit of history made him even angrier that a loudmouthed idiot like George would try to put Carl through even more hell just because he thought he could get away with it.

“So your soldier friend taught you how to use that pistol?” Clint asked.

“He taught me how to use it without shooting my own toe off,” Carl replied. “I'm no gunfighter, but I suppose I should be ready to stand up for myself and Sadie if those men come back after the tournament and all.”

“You've got two more shots left,” Clint said. “See if you can pop that tin can into the air.”

“How'd you know how many shots I have?”

“Whenever you use a gun, you always need to know how many shots you have. Always. If other men are firing, you should count their shots as well. It steadies your nerves by giving you something simple to do and gives you an idea of where you stand during a fight. Even if someone like George is shooting off something other than his mouth, you need to know what you're up against. Odds are, when the shooting starts, most anyone will be too flustered to keep track of something as simple as that. If you do, you'll be one up on them.”

“Why are you telling me all of this now?” Carl asked.

“Because you're a good man and you shouldn't have to flinch whenever an asshole like George and his bootlickers look in your direction. I won't teach you to be a killer, but I'll tell you a few things that should make George think twice before giving you so much grief.”

Carl smiled and nodded. “All right then. Let's get to work.”

The next round of the tournament wasn't set to start until that evening, which gave Clint some time to put Carl through his paces. It wasn't nearly enough time to pass on a lifetime of experience in living by the gun, but it allowed Clint to try and set Carl on the right path. They fired off several rounds and Clint even used some tools from the shed to make some adjustments to the old Army model pistol. The single-action sidearm was a relic compared to Clint's modified Colt, but it held up well over the past twenty years or so.

After having some coffee and oatmeal, Clint and Carl went straight back outside to set up a row of bottles and cans in a makeshift shooting gallery. Not long after that, the calm morning air was shattered by the sounds of gunshots and shattering glass.

Carl had a good eye and listened to everything Clint told him. After a few hours, he was able to pick out targets and hit them well enough to make his mark. But there were things he needed to know that were much more important than why he should squeeze a trigger rather than pull.

“I hope George does come around here again,” Carl said anxiously. “I bet I could send him running away like a scalded dog.”

“Probably, but you might not have to let things get that far.”

Carl shook his head and fired another shot. “You've seen him, Clint. He's not the type to lose interest once he sinks his teeth in.”

“He's a coward and a blowhard. I may not live around here, but I've never seen him make a move when he wasn't surrounded by other people to back his play.”

“What about that first night you were here?” Carl asked. “He came at me on his own then.”

“And he backed off real quick. I'd wager he either thought one of his friends was nearby or that someone else in Pace's would come to his aid. Either way, I know why he keeps coming after you.”

“Yeah,” Carl growled. “He knows any black man will be strung up before a white man will be scolded for beating him down.”

“That may be the case, but it's simpler than that,” Clint said. “George is like any other dumb animal. He comes after anyone he thinks is weak, and you might as well carry a sign around your neck that tells the entire world that's what you are.”

Carl turned with a fire in his eyes that Clint had only seen there once before. He gripped the old pistol in his hand and looked damn close to using it. “What did you just call me?”

“I didn't call you weak. I said that's what you're showing to everyone else.” Although there was a slight change in Carl's eyes, Clint knew the spark was still there.

As if sensing the anger in her brother, Sadie stepped outside to check on them. Almost immediately, she asked, “Are you all right, Carl?”

“See how you're looking at me now?” Clint asked. “The way you're standing. The way you've got your shoulders thrown back. All of it's a hell of a lot different than the way you skulk about town. I can tell the difference right away, and so can your sister.”

“I sure can,” Sadie replied. “Maybe you should hand that gun over.”

“No,” Carl snapped. Collecting himself right away, he spoke to his sister in a gentler tone when he added, “Mister Adams is just proving a point. Go back inside.”

Clint waited until Sadie was headed for the cabin, then said, “You don't have to strut like the cock of the walk. I understand if you'd rather not draw so much attention to yourself, but you can't scurry with your head down and your shoulders hunched as if you're expecting to be kicked. When men like George see that, they'll just want to kick you.”

“A man that looks like I do can't afford to challenge anyone.”

“I'm not talking about challenging anyone,” Clint told him. “I'm talking about holding your head up and meeting people's eyes. You don't have to stare anyone down, but you don't have to look away from the slightest glance. You can be quiet without muzzling yourself.”

“I guess I never thought of it like that,” Carl admitted. “I just wanted to keep to myself and go about my own business. I've never been one to give a damn as to what folks think of me.”

“And you don't have to give a damn about it. I'm talking about what you think of yourself. If you think you're weak and defenseless, that'll show. No man can afford to let something like that show. This country doesn't tolerate a man that doesn't have the spine to stand up straight.”

Carl nodded and stood up straight. Unlike the other times when he'd pulled himself up that way, it seemed he wouldn't go back to slouching anytime soon.

Once again, Pace's Emporium was filling up. This time, the players were in their seats well ahead of time and none were playing their own side games. They sat around, buying each other drinks and talking about the highs and lows of the night before. At least, that's what they were doing on the surface. The real story was in the way their hands never drifted from their chips and their eyes never stopped sizing up the other men at their table. Each one of them waited for a reason to lunge at the man across from them.

Under any other circumstances, it would have seemed wise to disarm so many gamblers. Then again, the fact that every last one of them had their weapons at their side kept everyone in check. If one of them got too anxious or tried to make the wrong move, all hell would break loose.

It was the most sociable standoff Clint had ever been a part of.

Carl sat at his station next to Delilah, but even she could tell there was a difference in him. Every so often, she would look over and ask him something. Carl responded with a few words and a comforting smile, which only served to confuse her even more. Sitting behind his chips, Clint merely shrugged when he got the questioning look from her.

So far, George was nowhere to be found.

Mister Pace announced the start of the next round with all the usual fanfare. He then stepped back and let the cards be dealt. Even though almost half the gamblers had been eliminated, all of them remained to watch the tournament. In fact, Pace's was even more crowded since the theater had shut down for the night to let its audience watch the winner rake in the final pot. The tournament may not have been the biggest Clint had seen, but it was the only show in Trickle Creek.

“I'll knock you out of this thing, Adams,” Mack said from across the table. “Sooner rather than later.”

Clint chuckled and gathered up the cards he'd been dealt. “The only way you could knock me out is with a shovel. Even then, I wouldn't recommend you try it.”

The whole table laughed at that as the betting commenced. Mack was taking no prisoners this time around, and quickly caught Bull in a clumsy bluff. The big fellow was eliminated and Wendell was next to go. Play was halted for a few minutes so the tables could be rearranged so there were no more empty seats. Amid all that shuffling, Clint almost didn't hear the front door slam open.