Slater Bros: Apache Summer Part 17

The town of Wiltshire was not a little hole-in the-wall, Jamie decided as he rode down the main street. It was really quite sophisticated, with rows and rows of Victorian houses with their cupolas and gingerbread lining the roads that ran off the main street. Along the main street were any number of businesses--two different mercantiles, a barbershop, a corset shop, a men's wear shop, a cooper, a photographer, a mortician, a pharmacy, a doctor, two lawyers, a boardinghouse for young ladies and an inn that boasted a sign, "Perry McCarthy's Shady Rest Hotel--Stop Here and Dine! We've a Restaurant for Any Respectable Traveler, Gentleman, Lady or Child."

He wondered how well Perry McCarthy was doing. The streets were very quiet.

In front of the barbershop a few men sat around and puffed on pipes.

One was missing an arm, another was minus his left foot. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind him.

The men looked at Jamie as he rode by. The 125 war, Jamie thought. These men had fought in the war.

Southerners, like he'd been. Even if Miss. Stuart was insisting upon calling him a Yank. Well, he was a Yank. h.e.l.l, they were all Yanks now.

Because the d.a.m.n Yanks had won the war.

"Howdy," he called out to the group.

The fellow with the stump for an arm nodded.

"Stranger in these parts, aren't you, mister."

"Yes, sir, I am. But it seems to be a nice enough place."

"Used to be," the man minus the foot said, spitting on the ground.

"Used to be. But then the varmints started coming in and taking over.

You know how that is. You don't hail from these parts, but I don't think that's any Chicago accent you got on you, boy. Where you from?"

"Missouri," Jamie said.

"Missouri," the footless man repeated. He stroked his graying beard with a smile and settled back.

"Well, now, I hope you stay a while."

"I was planning on it. I thought I'd buy some land."

"Don't think you're going to be able to, not good land.

Oh, there's some land up to the north for sale, but it's pure desert.

You don't want that, boy."

"Well, I'll look around. I heard that Joe Stuart was killed. Maybe I can get my hands on some of his land."

The man without the arm was up in a minute.

"Don't you go looking around to be a vulture after Joe's place. You'll wind up dead yourself, young man."

"Maybe you'd better shut up, Carter," the other fellow muttered.

Jamie leaned down, smiling.

"Fellows, Joe's niece is alive and well and kicking, I can tell you."

"Miss. Tess!" The one named Carter gasped with pleasure.

"Why, that's the best news I've heard since '61! You telling the truth there, boy?"

"Sir, I'm over thirty," Jamie politely told him.

"And I think I count. double time for the war, my friends, so that makes me pretty darned old, and n.o.body's boy."

"Sorry there, Carter and me, we didn't mean to offend."

"No offense taken. My name is Jamie Slater. I'm look- hag to buy land.

You hear of anything, you let me know."

"We'll do that. But you aren't going to get the Smart ranch. Von Heusen wants that. He wants it bad."

"But he doesn't want that other land. That's interesting," Jamie mused.

"Hope you stay a while," Carter said.

"Thanks. I intend to."

"My name's Jeremiah Miller, you need any more information, bo--young man, you look me up. h.e.l.l, anybody younger'n me is a boy, son!"

Jamie laughed and urged his mount on. He could see the saloon ahead.

He reined in before it, tossed his reins over the tethering bar and entered through the swinging doors. He paused for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness and the smoke. There was a piano player in the rear. A singer with a short mauve shirt that barely covered rich black petticoats and stockings perched on the piano. Her voice was as smoky as the atmosphere.

There was a bar to his right, running the length of the establishment.

Two heavyset bartenders ha white ap.r.o.ns leaned against the mahogany bar talking to customers. There were a number of patrons at the twenty or so tables in the place. Some were well-dressed small-town merchants, others were ranch men, wearing denim pants and spurs and tall, dusty hats.

Their spurred boots were sometimes up on chairs or tables. It was a lazy crowd, it seemed, an interesting one.

The crowd went silent the minute Jamie entered the room. The singer forgot the lyrics to her song. The piano player swung around and stared, too.

"Howdy," Jamie said casually.

People stared. Then the brunette hopped off the piano and walked forward.

"h.e.l.lo, there," she said, frowning at the others, offering Jamie a broad smile.

"What's the matter with you all! We've a stranger in town. Let's not make him think we haven't a single wit of manners between the lot of us!"

"Sure thing, Sherry, honey? one of the cowboys called out. He let his feet fall to the floor.

"Howdy, there, stranger.

Welcome to Wiltshire. We ain't rude. We're just surprised. Strangers just don't come here very often very more." "Why is that?" Jamie asked.

The cowboy shrugged, but not before looking around the room. In one corner, a few men in suits were playing cards.

"It ain't a good gamble, that's why," a tall, thin man with heavy iron-gray whiskers called out.

"But you're here now, so come on in. Hardy!" He called to the bartender.

"Give the stranger a whiskey, on me." "Thank you kindly," Jamie said. He strode into the room. Sherry brought his whiskey. He sat across from the man who had invited him, next to a small, nervous man with wir~rimmed spectacles.

"My haree's Edward Clancy," the bewhiskered man said, offering Jamie a hand.

"I'm the editor of the Wiltshire Sun."

Jamie nearly betrayed his surprise. He kept a firm smile plastered to his face.

"The Sun, huh? The newspaper?" "The gossip rag," the man said flatly.

"That's all I dare print, and I'm careful about that. Oh, well, I write up some articles about President Grant and about the Indians. But not much else."

"Why?"

'"Cause I like living," Edward Clancy said flatly.

"We're playing poker. You in?"

Jamie pushed back his hair and reached into his pocket for money.

"Sure, I'm in. I like to gamble."

"Then you're in the right town, mister. You're surely in the right towm What's your name?"

"Jamie. Jamie Slater."

Clancy smiled slowly.

"I've heard of you. You're one of the Slater brothers. Why, I heard that you can hit a fly in the clouds with that " Rumor," Jamie interrupted him.

"Rumor, that's something I'd just as soon keep quiet for the time being."

"It's quiet. It's quiet." Clancy stared at him hard, then grinned again.

"That's Dec Martin. He was one of Joe Stuart's best friends. We'll keep things quiet. Whatever you say."

"Thanks."

"We'll help you any way that we can," Dec volunteered. "Information is what I need now," Jamie said, leaning closer.

"Why does this yon Heusen want the Stuart property so d.a.m.n bad?"

"You know, we haven't figured that one out yet. We just haven't figured it out. But he does want it badly."

"Badly enough to kill?"

"h.e.l.l, yes, I think so. Why, if the Indians hadn't gotten old Joe ..."

His voice trailed away as he stared at Jamie.

"It wasn't a tribe of Indians that came after him, was it?"

"Not according to Tess."

"Tess! She's alive!"

Jamie nodded. The look of pure, unadulterated joy on the man's face was somewhat irritating. The sun-honey blond seemed to be a golden angel around these parts. Edward Clancy leaned so far across the table that he was nearly on top of it. His voice was soft; his features were knotted up and tense.

"If Tess says it was von Heusen, it was von Heusen all right. Are you--are you going to stay around and fight him?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

He didn't guess so. He was committed, and he knew it. He had been committed since he'd first seen Tess's face.

He just hadn't known it right away.

"h.e.l.l! Don't look now," Dec muttered suddenly. "What?" Jamie demanded.

"Some of von Heusen's boys. The four fellows who just came in. The mean-looking ones."

They were a mean-looking group, Jamie decided. Lanky- haired, glitter-eyed.

Two were light, two were dark-haired.

One chewed tobacco incessantly.

The dark-haired man who chewed tobacco seemed to be the spokesman for the group. He slammed his fist on the bar, rattling all the gla.s.ses on it. He shouted to the bartender, who couldn't seem to move swiftly enough to the end of the bar.

"Hardy! What's the matter with you, ya getting' old?" one of the men demanded.

"Whiskey. And not the rotgut you serve the local swine. Give us the best in the house." Hardy set a bottle on the bar. The man grasped him by the shirt collar and nearly pulled him over the bar. Hardy was starting to turn purple, and his attacker was laughing like a hyena.

"That's enough."

Jamie was on his feet. Once again, everyone went silent. Von Heusen's men were silent, too. The four of them stared at him with astonishment.

Then they began to smile. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" asked the dark-haired brute.

"That doesn't matter. Let Hardy alone."