Black Hills (9781101559116) (33 page)

Cormac smiled back. “Been in that boat a time or two myself. I'll buy you a couple and when you get the chance, you can pass it on to someone else like us. How long since your stomach's seen any food?”

“You a mind reader? I stopped at a ranch that set a mighty fine spread, and when I left, the lady gave me a couple sandwiches to take with me, but I polished them off two days ago.”

“Been through that, too. I was just wondering what an establishment like this would have to offer in the way of food; I'm almost afraid to ask. It's my birthday, and I just got paid three months wages. I figure to have me a good dinner and a good night's bed sleep in a real bed at the hotel. How 'bout we have another drink, and then see can we scare us up something to eat, on me?”

His new friend showed no hesitation, and they selected a beautifully made table with colored inlays that, upon closer inspection, was marred by initials carved in two places. What a shame. Three cowhands walked in the door, looking around with the same astounded look that Cormac probably was wearing when he had walked in. It came to him that he didn't know pardner's name, and that was fine. It was likely they would never see each other again anyway, for tonight he could just be pardner.

The three newcomers passed by them and went to one of the larger tables, sitting down facing the door as if awaiting something, or somebody. Likewise, Cormac had chosen a chair with his back to a partition allowing him to watch the door and keep the rest of the room under surveillance.

The three newcomers hadn't long to wait. Their ordered drinks hadn't had time to arrive yet when four men and three ladies entered and joined them. The new group must have been there before; they walked past Cormac's table, looking neither right nor left, going straight to the first group's table.

They were all dressed in the style of the day, the men in three-piece woolen suits with ties and bowler hats, the women with high-neck long-skirted dark dresses with hats to match. All three carrying matching handbags, one had a parasol over her arm. Obviously ladies and gentlemen looking somewhat out of place in such an establishment, looking more like they just stepped off the pages of a magazine advertisement.

It occurred to Cormac that all of the patrons were playing the same game. Whenever anyone walked in the door, all eyes watched expectantly for their reaction. A few more people straggled in singly or in pairs while Cormac and pardner were eating. Most reacted in the same manner.

The food was mighty tasty. After eating his own trail cooking, most anything prepared in a real pan would have been a treat, but the steak was thick, tender, done to a tee and served under a layer of cooked onions along with a large helping of beans with a south-of-the-border taste on man-sized plates: the cook knew something of cowboys' appetites. They took their first bites suspiciously, smiled at each other, then relaxed and settled down to do some eatin'.

No words passed; they concentrated on the task at hand. When the last bite of beef and the last bean had been swallowed, they both wiped their plates clean with the last of the fresh-made bread they had been given and cleaned up the crumbs. If it had been a food-eating race, they would have finished in a dead heat, washing down the last bites with the last of their whiskey. Cormac motioned for a couple of cups of coffee. He thought they had both had enough alcohol for the night.

“This is what I call living high on the hog.” The cowboy sighed contentedly.

“Sure is,” Cormac agreed. “That is, without doubt, the best eatin' I've had in a long time,” Cormac told him. “I used to know a couple women up in Dakota Territory that could cook like this. They coulda made boot-leather soup taste good, and then serve it with biscuits smothered in some kind of German gravy and doughnuts in case you weren't already stuffed like a plump chicken. Man, could they cook.”

Pardner nodded agreeably. “I've a met one or two like that over the years, but they usually leave a lot to be desired in the looks or attitude department.”

“Well, you're part right,” Cormac agreed. “These two were mother and daughter. The mother didn't look so great but once you got to know her, you didn't notice. The other was her adopted daughter and one look at her causes most men to start thinkin' maybe being married ain't such a bad idea; that is if they can get their brains to start working again.”

They leaned back and dug out their makin's and just as they finished rolling their quirlies, all hell broke loose.

“Wait, please!”

One of the first cowboys to sit at the larger table had knocked his chair over backward getting up and was backing, unarmed, away from the table with his two hands held up in front of him, palms outward. Two of the men in the group that had joined them, along with one of the women whom Cormac had considered to be ladies, were rising and all three began shooting into him. Cormac would have to adjust his thinking on the definition of a lady.

Three armed shooters against one unarmed man wasn't Cormac's idea of a fair fight, but it was no real concern of his as long as their guns didn't start pointin' in his direction. The thought gave him a sense of guilt. Why? Who said he had to be his brother's keeper, as he once heard a preacher say? Had there been any warning, he might have felt the need to try to stop it, but it was over and done before anyone realized what was happening so why was it any of his concern? Keeping an eye on the shooters, he lit his cigarette and held the match over for pardner. Cormac was startled at his expression. Pardner's eyes were wide and panicked.

The two friends of the recently deceased had done nothing, and were still doing it. They moved only their hands, placing them palm down on the table at arm's length. The men shooters holstered their guns; the woman returned hers to her bag, and then the four men and three women turned to leave. Cormac downgraded his opinion from three ladies to three women. Ladies that he had known didn't go around shooting unarmed men, or armed men either, for that matter.

Although pardner was tensed, as if expecting something, he was keeping his head down and his hands were nowhere near his gun; Cormac didn't like it. This thing wasn't over, not by a damned sight, and the group would have to pass by their table on the way out. They had almost made it when one, slightly in the lead, suddenly pointed at pardner.

“That's another one!” he exclaimed. “Get him!” They all turned and started to draw, the woman shooter jamming her hand into her bag.

Cormac swore, “Ah, hell!”

Why couldn't they just leave? He had already removed the hammer thongs from his guns and hooked his foot under the rungs of the chair next to him. His quirlie still dangling from his mouth and his flat-topped black hat back on his head, he kicked the chair into them while unloading up and out of his chair to begin firing with both guns as he stood up. He didn't like using the Colt for close work indoors because the large amount of smoke from the magnesium, saltpeter, and sulphur gunpowder mix made visibility difficult and the sulphur would leave a long-lasting stench, but he had no time to be choosy. The woman was the quicker; her hand was coming out of the bag with a pistol in it and turning. She was looking cruelly into his eyes, thoroughly enjoying what she was about to do.

Cormac shot her first. Her eyes widened and her soft, lovely shaped mouth uttered a surprised, “Oh!” She looked down at the two holes in the center of her chest, then again into his eyes as it sunk in that she was dying. “You . . .” she started in a bitter accusing tone as her legs gave up the ghost, and she was left with nothing to support her and collapsed.

Well, if she could go around shooting people, people could sure as hell shoot back.

Both guns hammering, Cormac had already picked his target order. After the “lady,” the little one looked to be the fastest, and was; the big one looked to be a very close second, and was. Cormac took them in order and the other two last as their guns were clearing leather. The big one and the little one had surprised looks on their faces too, as if they never thought it could happen to them. Hell, it could happen to anybody, even Cormac, and would if he got careless. He knew he would meet somebody faster someday and he would go down in some dusty dirty street or some saloon, to nobody's surprise.

What difference would it make to anybody, anyway? He had a few friends and acquaintances who would admit to their friends and their acquaintances that they knew it was going to happen someday, and then what? When the Denver bank got the news, someone would take his money and his horses and property to Lainey, who would probably refuse them. And that would be the end of Cormac Lynch and the John Lynch chain of descendants.

Turning to the two remaining ladies, he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and continue to think of them as ladies since they weren't shootin' at him and wouldn't. They were statues with eyes wide as saucers.

“My God!” pardner exclaimed finally, staring at Cormac in disbelief. “My good God!”

There was a whole saloon full of witnesses to keep the sheriff happy, and staying overnight in this town no longer held the appeal it once had. After accepting an abundant amount of thanks from pardner and an offer to explain what had happened to cause the incident—an offer Cormac declined, it was more than he needed to know. He hadn't known pardner's name, didn't need to. It was suppose to be his birthday celebration. He had just wanted to relax with a drink and a good steak. He wasn't looking for trouble. He wasn't making any trouble, and then, all at once, strangers were ready to kill him. For what? Just because he was sitting there? And then he had to shoot them just to keep himself from getting shot. He had never seen them before, didn't know anything about them, and didn't want to know anything about them. To hell with them. If they didn't want to die, they should have just left him the hell alone.

Cormac gave pardner a few dollars to tide him over, left enough money on the table to cover the food, drinks, and the chair that he had broken, and rode out. He had seen some interesting sights, had a few good drinks, and his belly was full of a great steak.

“I guess that's it for our celebration,” he told the horses disgustedly. “Happy Birthday.” Leaving town was the order of the day.

Realizing they had never introduced themselves, pardner watched Cormac ride away from the livery. He didn't even know his savior's name. Wanting to know to whom he was indebted and remembering being told that his benefactor had registered at the hotel, he went there and explained to the clerk what had happened and asked to see the register.

Cormac Lynch, known to many as Mack, had signed-in simply as Mack L. A bystander, listening when pardner explained to the sheriff what had happened, heard the name as Mackle. The name would be repeated frequently in other saloons and around campfires as the many witnesses told and re-told their stories of the Mackle guns. They were unbelievably fast and deadly . . . and they didn't miss.

It would also be told that he had shot a woman. The fact that she had just finished helping to kill an unarmed man and was pulling a gun out of her purse with which to kill yet another, not to mention Cormac, would be dropped from the story as it was passed around, but the message went out: “Stay the hell away from the Mackle guns.”

T
oo upset at the turn of events to sleep, Cormac pointed their little group at a high peak silhouetted by the distant moon and rode half the night before calling it a day. Some coyotes yapping on the other side of a nearby hill woke him mid-morning. Strangely, he wasn't hungry and settled on some coffee and cigarettes for breakfast while he thought about the previous day. It was unsettling.

Sitting on a flat-top stone, he removed both six-guns from their holsters and placed them on the stone beside him, staring at them while he lit yet another smoke. Maybe Lainey's attitude was right. She didn't like the killing. But what else could he have done? He had killed men, but only in self-defense, or the defense of others. Would it be better to live in some city where everybody is protected by law officers? No more galloping over the prairies with Horse and Lop Ear? No more searching for whatever was on the other side of the hill? No. He wouldn't be fenced in. He and Horse and Lop Ear needed room to breathe.

Cormac poured himself another cup of horseshoe coffee and slowly and methodically dismantled, cleaned, and oiled each gun. He wished they weren't needed but he did enjoy the feel of them in his hands. The smooth, hand-worn, wooden grips were comforting in his hands. Belatedly, he realized that they had left town traveling west when previously they had been going in a southerly direction. No matter. One direction was as good as another. What was to the west? Utah . . . or Idaho, maybe? No matter either. He had never been to either of them.

Still in Colorado, he stopped in Leadville. The sign wasn't much and neither was the town, but it had a lot going on. Having found himself on a trail going through the mountains, Cormac hadn't expected much, but the place was bustling with people. Turned out there was a traveling judge in town and a fellow named Sanderson was being tried for shooting a guy in the back.

Under a sign bragging that the crossing streets were named Third Street and Harrison Avenue was a cheerful fella being called Soapy making bets with passersby as to whether they could tell which of three shells was hiding a little pea after he had moved them. While the game was being demonstrated to new prospective players, Cormac noticed finding the pea was an easy feat, but somehow, once someone had placed a bet, the pea was nowhere to be found. He elected not to wager. His pa had warned him to never play the other man's game.

The trial was being conducted in a saloon with entertaining lawyers striding around the “courtroom” waving their arms and quoting the bible. It was claimed that Sanderson, a tall, gruff, and cocky gunslinger with the unshaven look of a thug, had killed somebody by shooting them in the back.