Straw Men (2 page)

“Hold on, hold on!” the barkeep pleaded.

Neither George nor the rider seemed to hear a word coming from the bartender's mouth. Instead, George was fumbling for his gun while the rider took a few steps back to put some space between herself and the man she'd just punched.

George's draw wasn't quick and it wasn't pretty, but it got the job done. By the time he pulled the rusty .44 from its holster, George was muttering, “I ain't one for hurting a woman, but no bitch is gonna smack me around like that.”

Lunging forward to close the distance between them, the rider said, “If you talk to all ladies like that, I'm surprised you don't get smacked around more often.”

Although George had his gun in hand, he hadn't brought it up to aim it at her just yet. He shook his head and took a step back while raising his arm. He took half a step before stopping. George's eyes widened to the size of saucers and his gun hand froze a few inches shy of taking proper aim. Although the rider was still directly in front of him, George wasn't looking at her. Instead, he pulled in a slow breath and slowly shifted his eyes downward until he got a good look at what was happening below his belt.

The rider's hand was down there and it was wrapped around the handle of a hunting knife. The blade of that knife was wedged between George's legs so the sharpened steel was just making contact with him.

Grinning, the rider asked, “You ready to take back what you called me?”

At the moment, George was barely able to form a word. When he felt another hand drop heavily onto his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I'd suggest you make amends, George,” Clint Adams said as he stepped around while keeping his hand upon the man's shoulder. “From where I'm standing, it looks like she's got you where it counts.”

George wasn't about to move a muscle. When he twitched his eyes to look over at Clint, he muttered, “God damn you, Adams. If this…”

Suddenly, George felt a bit more pressure as the blade pressed against his crotch.

Gulping loudly and nodding to the rider, George said, “If this
lady
didn't have that knife on me, you wouldn't be talking so loud.”

Clint stepped around George and leaned over to make a show of taking in the sight in front of him. When he got a good look at the knife being held between George's legs, Clint pulled in a dramatic breath and winced. “I didn't have anything to do with this lady or where she decided to put her knife, but from my experience I'd say you probably had it coming.”

“There ain't no need for this,” George said as he lowered his gun and then dropped it into its holster. “See? I don't even have my gun no more. Any harm comes to me and it'll be criminal.”

“It'll be a favor to clip a piece of manure like you,” the rider snarled.

Clint raised an eyebrow and nodded. “I'd have to agree. What did you do to deserve this, anyway?”

“I was…lookin' for you, Adams,” George grumbled.

“What for?” Clint asked. “Was it about that three hundred dollars?”

“Hell…yes, it was.”

Although he'd been able to get a quick look at the rider, Clint took a few seconds to look at her again. Her buckskins were obviously well worn and contoured to her body, which told him that she was in them more often than not. He could also see enough of her curves to get a good idea of what might be under those buckskins. Her face was dirty, but became a whole lot prettier when she showed him a quick smile.

“What's your name, ma'am?” Clint asked.

The rider might have held Clint's gaze longer if she hadn't been so concerned about taking her eyes off George. “Abigail,” she replied.

“I'm Clint Adams. Now that we're on friendlier terms, why don't we have a more civilized talk?”

“Fine with me. This asshole was the one who made things get nasty.”

“George is just upset because he's been on a losing streak. I'm sure he's had a minute to calm down. Haven't you, George?”

“Yeah,” George grunted as he forced himself to nod. “My business ain't with her anyways.”

“So if Abigail puts her knife away, you won't step out of line?” Clint asked.

“She can go to hell, for all I care.”

Clint stepped between Abigail and George so he could reach out with his left hand to ease her arm down. Although she resisted at first, Abigail allowed her arm to be lowered until the knife blade was no longer between George's legs. From there, she stepped back and planted her feet so she could still square her shoulders to both men.

“There now,” Clint said as he put himself directly in front of George. “Your business is with me, so let's hear it.”

“You know what I'm gonna say,” George snapped. “You cheated me outta three hundred dollars and I want it back.”

“You bet two hundred dollars on a pair of sixes,” Clint replied. “I just raised you. There's no law against that.”

“There's a law against cheatin'. How the hell did you know what I was holdin'?”

“Because you're a terrible cardplayer,” Clint replied without taking so much as a second to think it over. “Considering how many gamblers have come to town for this game, I'd think you were lucky to get out after losing only three hundred. Take your losses like anyone else and don't make it any worse on yourself.”

George shook his head slowly and then faster until he seemed close to twisting it clean off his shoulders. “Oh, no. To hell with this and to hell with the both of you! First this bitch here thinks she can push me around and then you wanna keep what you took from me?”

“Don't push it, George,” Clint said in a steady tone. “I'm warning you.”

By now, several men from the game in the back of the room as well as the rest of the patrons in the saloon were watching what was happening at the bar. Some of the faces were amused by George's predicament, while several seemed to be more concerned with what would happen to Clint.

“You gonna hand back my three hundred?” George asked.

“No,” Clint said. “But I'll give you a chance to win it back in a game between you and me. No buy-in necessary. How's that?”

“How's that? I'll tell you how's that! If there's gonna be a game between you and me, this is the only game I want!” With that, George clamped his hand around his gun and pulled it once more from its holster. He moved quicker this time and his eyes were set upon his target, but he still wasn't fast enough.

Clint snapped his hand down and drew his own modified Colt from the holster at his side in a flicker of motion. He cleared leather before George could even touch his trigger. “You already made enough bad moves today, George,” Clint warned. “Don't make this one your last.”

Although George wasn't moving, every muscle in his body twitched anxiously. His teeth ground together. His lips turned white as they drew into a pair of tight lines. His fingers tightened around the grip of his .44 and his chest strained with his next breath.

Sensing the dilemma within the man, Clint narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side in a simple gesture that said more than enough. The moment George took his eyes off him to glance at the rest of the men in the saloon, Clint knew the fight was over.

“Keep yer damn money,” George grunted. “You'll probably just cheat me again anyways.”

“You sure about that, George?” Clint asked.

Picking up on the meaning of Clint's question, George shook his head and eased his gun back into its holster. “Or…maybe you didn't cheat. It was only a pair of goddamned sixes.”

Clint nodded. “Happens to the best of us.”

“You'd best be leaving, George,” the bartender said. “Sleep off that whiskey.”

The saloon was quiet for a few more seconds until George finally let out his breath and took his hand away from his holster. As if picking up on George's defeat, the players got back to their games and the locals got back to their drinks. If George had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs as he scurried out of the saloon.

When Clint looked back at Abigail, he tipped his hat and said, “Hope you don't mind me stepping in like that. Things looked like they were about to get messy.”

“They were,” she said. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

“Are you in town for the Evans game?”

“I'm here looking for someone.” Stepping up a little closer, she added, “Looking for you, Mister Adams.”

Clint leaned against the bar. “Well now, it seems my day's looking up.”

The bartender walked over to the table Clint had chosen and set down a pair of mugs filled with beer. When Clint went to his pocket for money, the bartender waved it off. “These two are on the house,” he said. “Seeing as how you kept a fight from happening in my place. Those wind up being pretty expensive for the man that's got to replace all them broken chairs and such.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. He then picked up his mug and held it up to Abigail. She picked hers up and returned Clint's salute before tipping the mug back.

After letting out a grateful sigh, she said, “That's the best thing I've tasted in a while.”

“It must have been a long ride getting here,” Clint said quietly. “I've seen river water with less silt in it than this beer.”

“It's been a long ride through rough country. You're a hard man to find.”

“That's funny. I'm not exactly hiding out here.”

Abigail set her drink down and took off her hat. She tousled her hair a bit, which set free a pair of braids that had previously been tucked under her collar. The braids were slightly cleaner than the hair that had been outside of the hat, but there was more than enough dust in there to create a gritty cloud around her head as she continued to muss her hair. “You don't have to hide,” she said. “There's just plenty of men who are willing to drop your name for any number of reasons.”

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Clint said as he furrowed his brow.

“Not as such. Most of it's just a bunch of bragging drunks that nobody believes anyway. Still, a few more drunks spread the word and someone a few towns over thinks the Gunsmith is nearby. I got to the genuine article quickly enough.”

“I hope you're not disappointed.”

“Not yet,” Abigail replied with a wry grin.

Clint chuckled and forced down another sip of beer. “So what puts someone like you on my trail?”

“I've got a message from Colonel Farelli. You know of him?”

“Yeah,” Clint said with a slow nod. “What's he want?”

“He's been having some Injun troubles and he needed to get word to you as quickly as he could.”

“Word about what?”

Abigail shrugged and removed a folded envelope from the pocket of her fringed jacket. “You'll have to read the message for yourself. It's not meant for me.”

“You know about the Indian troubles,” Clint pointed out.

“Sure, but that's because I had to ride through a range of hills being overrun by Navajo. Some young chief out that way's got his feathers ruffled and he's been sending out raiding parties to attack what ever they can find.”

“I've heard about that. Pretty ugly attacks, if I recall.”

“You got that right,” Abigail said. “Most of the times, the raiders don't even bother stealing anything. They just leave a whole lot of blood so anyone and everyone can see that Tolfox means business.”

“Tolfox?”

Nodding once, Abigail said, “Chief Tolfox.”

“That's a strange name for a Navajo.”

“All their names sound strange to me,” she replied with a shrug. “All I know is that riding through that stretch of trail was like running through hell with the devil nipping at my heels. Sitting down to sip from some sandy beer is awfully nice in comparison.”

Clint chuckled and took another sip from his own mug. “I know what you mean. After playing cards for days on end without a wink of sleep, I guess I lost some perspective. Are you a friend of Farelli's?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering why he'd send anyone on their own through such dangerous country.”

“You mean why he'd send a woman?”

Clint shrugged, but kept his eyes on her. “No offense meant, but it sounds like it would be a tough ride for anyone on their own. I would think an Army man would have plenty of scouts or messengers he could send.”

“He sent me because I'm the best for the job,” Abigail snapped. “And you don't have to like it.”

“Like I said,” Clint stated, “there was no offense meant.”

Slowly, Abigail nodded and then got back to her beer. She'd set the envelope on the table and now acted as if she could no longer even see it. When Clint reached for the rumpled paper, she recoiled as if she'd been expecting a punch. As soon as she saw what he was doing, she let out a breath and allowed her features to soften. “You were just making conversation,” she said. “I shouldn't have bitten yer head off.”

“Don't worry about it.” When he saw her down the rest of her beer and then push her chair away from the table, Clint added, “You can stay. I could use a bite to eat and you're welcome to join me.”

“That's a kind offer, but I think I'll get a room for myself. I saw another saloon down the street had rooms to rent. It'd be the first night I haven't slept on the ground for over a week, so I don't want to risk missing out.”

“Maybe later, then,” Clint offered.

Abigail smiled and nodded. “Sure. I'd like that.”

“What about a late supper?”

“You are a bold one, ain't you?”

“You don't strike me as the sort of woman who'll stay in one place for very long,” Clint told her. “And this just happens to be one of the few instances when I can afford to take some time away from the card table.”

Having started to walk away from the table, Abigail stopped and turned around so she could look at Clint and say, “Tell you what. If you can track me down later, I wouldn't mind having some supper. I may not have much of an appetite, though.”

“I'm a gambling man. I'll take my chances.”