Oklahoma kiss (27 page)

      
"And if I did?"

      
Adam stroked his chin for a moment, then with a serious gleam in his eye, he said, "I'd probably tell you to kiss my butt and come calling on her regardless of what you said. But since you are my friend, I would rather do the courting with your permission."

      
Warren t' rew back his head and laughed boisterously. "If that's the case, I don't see how I can refuse . . . that is, if it's all right with Blair."

      
"I think she can be persuaded." He added to himself, I hope so anyway.

      
Warren reached out and clasped Adam's hand in a hearty shake. "I just hope that girl has more sense than I've given her credit for. Now, what's this you were saying about riding into Doughtery tonight?"

      
He flashed him an easy smile. "We had already progressed beyond that part. You were about to agree to loan me a horse."

      
"I was?"

      
"Yep."

      
"Oh, hell, go take your pick . . . except for mine," he quickly added.

      
Adam started from the porch then he stopped. "Warren, I would appreciate a favor from you. I'll probably be too busy to come back out here before the dance, so if you'll tell Blair ..."

      
"You can tell her yourself. I have to come into town in a few days, so I'll just bring her with me. We'll make it a point to look you up. And Adam," his voice softened. "That's a hornet's nest you're walking into, so be careful. It goes without saying, if you need any help, don't hesitate to ask."

      
"Appreciate it, Warren." Adam smiled, touched a finger to the brim of his hat and disappeared into the night.

      
While riding toward Doughtery, Adam thought about Judge Parker's letter and how it seemed to be a blessing in disguise. Now that he had a legitimate reason for not staying at the Bar 4, he would not have to be reminded of the hurt and pain he'd caused Blair by having to see her every day. The judge's letter had bought him some time. That was what he needed the most right now because Blair was the only woman he had ever cared for and he'd be damned before he let her walk out of his life without a fight. He would just have to be patient and try his damnedest to win her love.

      
Turning his thoughts to Doughtery and the problems that lay ahead, Adam started making plans. He felt it was a wise move to go into town tonight instead of tomorrow. As a rule, the upstanding, honest citizens were rarely out after dark in any boom town. A few such men might drift into a saloon for a beer, maybe even a few hands of poker, but they were seldom the cause of trouble unless they had too much to drink or were pulled into it by someone who liked to throw his weight around.

      
The real trouble stemmed from young cowboys whose courage was braced by one too many shots of whiskey, or a notion they were a little faster with a gun than the other man. Then, there were the card sharks, thieves, drunks, and men who v/ere just naturally born mean. Tonight, he'd try to hit the saloons and size up the troublemakers; that way he would know more where he stood and what kind of help he would be needing.

      
First thing in the morning though, he would have to find a gunsmith and order enough guns to supply an arsenal; he figured he would need them. Then he would have to find a building suitable enough to house a jail, and have a sign painted. By that time, the entire population of Doughtery would know they had a U. S. Marshal to contend with; some would be happy, some wouldn't.

      
Doughtery was a sight to behold. Tents and canvas-covered wagons, campfires and lanterns, stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Most of the wagons and tents had been placed side by side, but a few were spread out further as if the owners wanted to be left alone —or, more than likely, because they wanted a frontal vantage point v/hen the gun was fired at noon on April 22, to open the land.

      
Although it was getting late, the streets and most buildings were ablaze with lights and the town showed no signs of calling it a night. Adam, noticed the railroad station immediately upon riding into town. It was a two-storied brick structure standing a few yards back from the street. The station had an overhanging roof on each story which shaded the windows from the sun. He made a mental note to talk to the station master in the morning since in all probability the depot was the most substantial building in town. It would be helpful if the station master agreed to let him use one of the rooms for a jail cell until other arrangements could be made.

      
There were about twenty buildings on the main street, including a hotel, two restaurants, three general stores, a newspaper office, freight office, livery stable, blacksmith's shop, and an assortment of small shops and offices. Adam counted a total of eight saloons, which seemed about the right proportion to the other businesses since this was a boom town—there were always more saloons.

      
Leaving the horse with the hostler at the livery stable, Adam tugged his boots on, tossed his saddle bags across his shoulder, removed the Winchester from its boot and headed for the hotel.

      
Even at that hour, the street was crowded, though some men walked, some staggered. All of the saloons were busy. Piano and banjo music, boisterous laughter, and a constant buzz of voices filled the night air. Adam noticed that most of the buildings were false-fronted, which gave the illusion that the town could be disassembled within a few hours’ time and it would be back as it was before.

      
Shouldering his way past several drunks, Adam pushed open the hotel door and stepped into the lobby. The hotel was a long building of twenty-odd rooms, a large but empty lobby with a moth-eaten buffalo's head on the wall behind the desk, a couple of leather settees and several leather chairs that had seen better days. Behind the desk a man with a green eyeshade and sleeve garters sat, a newspaper covering his face, teetering back in a chair with his feet propped up on the counter.

      
Adam sauntered over to the desk, doubled his fist and banged on the bell. "I’ll like a room. The best you’ve got." Adam wasn't out to impress anyone by asking for the best room. He knew from experience as run-down as this hotel was, less than the best would not be fit for a human to live in.

      
The two front legs of the man's chair thudded loudly against the floor when he awoke with a start. Then a faint sneer appeared on his face as he sized Adam up. "We don't usually cater to cowpokes."

      
"I'd still like a room."

      
The man looked at him again, this time with narrowed eyes. "I have one bed left in a room for three. It'll cost you fifty cents a night — payable in advance."

      
"A room," Adam repeated. "A single room ... alone."

      
"Cost you a dollar," he spoke carelessly, as though expecting him to refuse.

      
Adam placed the dollar on the counter, waited a moment, then said irritably, "Now I want the key."

      
"Don't have any. Folks just pack them off and it's too expensive to keep having them made." He pointed down the narrow hall. "Six doors down on your left. Just put a chair under the doorknob if you figure it's needed."

      
"That depends on you, my friend." Adam pushed another dollar toward the man. "I sleep light, and I'm skittish, but I don't like to be disturbed during the night. I would appreciate your seeing to it that I'm not bothered after I retire." Adam knew he now had the man's undivided attention.

      
Revealing stained teeth, the man grinned and stuck the dollar in his watch pocket. "You plan on claiming some of that free land?" he asked.

      
Adam shrugged indifferently. "Oh, there is no telling what I will eventually decide to do. I do know there's easy money to be made in a town like this though."

      
"That's what I've heard." Then the man leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to take him into his confidence, "It's nothing I can swear to, but I've heard that men are slipping over and staking early claims on the choice sections. There's also rumors floating around that there is a certain man—don't know who he is though, you'll just have to ask around if you're interested — who is willing to pay top dollar for those claims after they've been legally filed on. Of course, it isn't up to me to say what's right or wrong, but it seems to me that would be an easy way for a drifting cowpoke to gain a few extra dollars for his pockets."

      
Adam nodded noncommittally. "Seems that way. Appreciate the information. Now could you tell me Where's the best place in town to eat? It's been a long time since breakfast this morning."

      
"Restaurants should be closed by now, but you might try Shelton's Saloon, it's a few doors down. He usually keeps a pot of beans on the stove, and he might even be able to rustle you up some fixings to go with it if he isn't too busy. Might help if you tell him Ed sent you."

      
When Adam went to his room to wash up, he was relieved that he'd asked for the best room in the hotel. It had seen better days, but it seemed to be reasonably clean. He checked the sheets and saw they were fresh; that was one consolation. He quickly washed his face and hands, slipped the saddle bag into the largest drawer in the bureau and left for Shelton's Saloon.

      
Upon entering, one quick glance told Adam this was exactly the sort of saloon he was looking for. The bar was lined with saddle tramps, and riffraff. There were a few men present whom he could have sworn he'd seen their faces before on wanted posters. The felt-covered tables were all occupied by men intently studying their cards, and there were a few gaudily dressed women just as intent on distracting them. The saloon smelled of stale beer and old tobacco smoke, and there were many stains on the floor where men had missed the cuspidors. Still, he was hungry and the desk clerk said he could probably get something to eat here; besides, he had eaten in worse places.

      
"Are you Shelton?" Adam asked when the bar keeper came over to where he was leaning against the bar.

      
"Yeah, that's what most folks call me."

      
Adam motioned with his head. "Ed, from over at the hotel told me a fellow could probably get a bowl of beans here, maybe something to go along with them if I mentioned his name."

      
"This isn't a restaurant, but I might be able to scrape together some boiled eggs, cheese, sourdough bread, and there might even be some cold roast beef in the back."

      
"Sounds good to me. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

      
Shelton wiped his hands on his apron. "All right, I'll fix you a plate, but I don't make my living selling food. What do you want to drink?"

      
Adam braced both hands against the bar and slowly raised his eyes to meet the barkeeper's. "Shelton, this is how it is: I don't like trouble, and will do my best to avoid it because in my opinion, trouble is bad for the digestion. To be honest though, I've never cared much for the taste of whiskey, and I don't like to drink beer when I eat beans and boiled eggs —I like to drink milk. But, like you said, you don't make your living selling food, so I'll be happy to buy you a drink. And make sure you pour it from the good bottle you keep underneath the bar."

      
A glimmer of a smile touched Shelton's lips as he eyed Adam up and down, taking special notice of his gun grips. They were worn smooth from use. He knew immediately that this man was no ordinary cowpoke or gunslinger and it would be wise to leave well enough alone. "How do you know I keep special bottles underneath the bar?"

      
"You'd be the first barkeeper I've ever seen who didn't."

      
He laughed and returned a short time later carrying a tray piled high with food. Adam noticed a tall glass of chilled milk on the tray and nodded his appreciation.

      
The bar keep had just filled a shot glass with whiskey and settled back on a stool when a young man wearing brand new clothes and a cheap gun-belt strapped low on his hip shouldered in beside Adam and tossed his hat on the bar, which knocked the glass of milk over.

      
The young man grabbed his hat and began wiping the milk off with his shirt sleeve. It was obvious he'd had too much to drink when he muttered in a slurred voice, "
Milk!
Who in the hell is drinking milk?"

      
Adam smiled tolerantly. "I’m drinking it ... or I was, but no harm done. Shelton, another glass, please."

      
Although the kid clutched the bar for support, he still reeled unsteadily and his voiced slurred from a thick tongue, "No harm done, hell! It wasn't your new hat that got ruined!"

      
When Adam first put on a marshal's badge, he'd learned only the meanest and the toughest survived, and the speed of a fast draw did not necessarily prove who was the best. If necessary and if the situation warranted it, he used his guns; he was good with them. But he also knew there was always someone out there faster, so he devised a scheme that commanded most men's respect without it becoming a life or death situation.

      
Whenever he arrived in a strange town, he always selected the toughest man with prowess in his fists instead of the speed of his draw, and picked a fight with him. Adam had more than a passing knowledge of fist fighting; most of the time he won, but even the times he lost, he had proven he wasn't afraid to go up against anyone. It saved a lot of piddling trouble, and that had been his goal all along.