Mankiller, Colorado Page 6

  The brown-haired waitress smiled at them. “I sure will,” she promised. “Be right back with your cups.”

  Scratch watched her walk back to the counter to turn in the order. “Mighty friendly folks in this place,” he commented.

  “In the café, you mean,” Bo said. “The rest of the town didn’t strike me as being all that friendly.”

  “Well, no, I reckon not.” Scratch paused. “You think those Devery boys will really come after us?”

  Bo shrugged. “The sheriff seemed to think so. I’m not sure how reliable he is, but Luke and Thad didn’t seem to be the sort who’d give up a grudge easily.”

  “In other words, we may be in for trouble.” Scratch chuckled. “It’s not like that’ll be a big change for us, will it?”

  Bo shook his head. Unfortunately, what Scratch said was true. All they wanted was peace and quiet, and in this case, the opportunity to do a little prospecting. It seemed that those things might be denied to them, at least for a while.

  But for the time being, they had a good meal to look forward to, so they pushed those other thoughts away. Neither of them had been the sort to let worry consume them. They took things as they came.

  The waitress came back a couple of minutes later, expertly balancing two cups and saucers and a coffeepot, the handle of which she held with a thick leather pad. She set the cups down, filled them, and said, “Your food will be along in just a few minutes, gents.”

  “Thanks, miss,” Bo told her. He had been looking back and forth between the waitress and the woman at the counter and had noted the resemblance between them. “Begging your pardon if I’m too nosy, but is that your mother behind the counter?”

  The waitress smiled. “That’s right. And the other waitress is my sister.”

  “Family business, is it?” Scratch asked. “Is your pa back in the kitchen doin’ the cookin’?”

  The young woman’s smile went away. “No, I’m afraid not. I wish he was. He passed away a while back.”

  Scratch instantly looked apologetic. “I’m sure sorry, miss,” he said. “Didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

  “No, that’s all right. You didn’t know. But to answer your question, my Uncle Charley is the cook.” She smiled again. “And he’s a really good one.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Bo said. He took a sip of the strong black coffee. “He brews a good cup of coffee, too.”

  Customers at other tables were clamoring for attention. The waitress gave Bo and Scratch a friendly nod, then went back to work.

  Scratch sighed. “It’s downright amazin’ how far in my mouth I can shove this big ol’ foot of mine sometimes.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bo said. “Like the girl told you, you didn’t know about her pa.”

  Scratch cast an interested look at the counter and the woman working behind it. “That means the lady’s a widow. Wonder exactly how long it’s been since her husband passed on.” There was nothing Scratch found more intriguing than a good-looking widow lady.

  Bo laughed. “I get a feeling that if we wind up staying in Mankiller for very long, we’ll be eating here a lot.”

  “We might be,” Scratch said. “We just might be.”

  If they did, the quality of the food would justify it, Bo discovered as their meals arrived a few minutes later, delivered by the same waitress. The roast beef was tender, bursting with juices and flavor, and the rest of the food was almost as good. The biscuits were light and fluffy, a far cry from what a fella could cook on the trail. The apple pie topped off the meal perfectly, with its sweet filling and light, flaky crust. All of it was washed down with several cups of coffee, which the pretty brunette kept refilling.

  The lunch rush died down a little while the Texans were eating. By the time they were finished, only about half the tables were occupied, and there were a few empty stools at the counter. The woman working there, the mother of the two waitresses, was able to pause and catch her breath. She pushed back a strand of brown hair that had come loose and fallen over her forehead. There were some threads of gray in that hair, but not many, Bo noted. He had to agree with what he knew Scratch was thinking…the woman had a mature beauty that made her very attractive.

  In all their years of traveling together, the two of them had seldom if ever paid court to the same woman. One always deferred to the other out of the deep friendship they had developed. Since Scratch had expressed an interest in this lady first, Bo didn’t intend to interfere.

  He didn’t expect anything lasting to come from it, anyway. Scratch had never been the sort to settle down. If such thoughts even began to crop up in his head, he tended to skedaddle as quickly as possible.

  Now, however, Scratch stood up and, holding his hat in front of him, went over to the counter. He smiled at the woman and said, “Ma’am, I just wanted to tell you that was the best meal I’ve had in a month of Sundays.”

  She returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Mister…?”

  “Morton, ma’am. They call me Scratch.”

  “Well, thank you again, Mr. Morton, but I can’t take credit for the food. My brother is the cook.”

  “If you’d pass along my compliments to him, I’d sure appreciate it. And I can promise you, my partner and I will be back to eat here again.”

  “I hope so. Are you planning to be in Mankiller for long?”

  “Depends on how we do once we start prospectin’.”

  The woman’s smile went away. “You came here looking for gold?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We read all about the big strike.” Scratch saw something like disapproval lurking in her eyes. “You don’t like the gold strike, ma’am? Seems like it’d help your business a lot.”

  “Of course it does,” she said, “and I don’t begrudge anyone who wants to seek their fortune. But I’d like to see more people come here who’d like to put down roots and help the town grow once this boom is over, as sooner or later it will be.”

  Scratch nodded. “I reckon you’re right about that, ma’am. My partner and me, we ain’t really the putting-down-roots sort of hombres, though.”

  “I see. Well, you’re welcome here while you’re in town, Mr. Morton, however long that may be.”

  “Thank you most kindly, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name…?”

  “It’s Mrs. Bonner.” For a second it seemed like that was all she was going to give him. Then she relented a little and added, “Lucinda Bonner.”

  “That’s a mighty pretty name, Mrs. Bonner. It suits you.”

  Bo figured he’d let Scratch flirt with the woman long enough. He came up to the counter as well and asked, “How much do we owe you for the coffee and two specials, ma’am?” The price wasn’t written on the chalkboard.

  She turned to look at Bo. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

  The eyes of both Texans widened in surprise. Scratch’s shock overcame his interest in Lucinda Bonner, and he blurted, “Ten bucks? Ain’t that kinda steep?”

  “Of course it is,” she replied. “But in Mankiller, five dollars isn’t bad for a meal like that. You can go over to the hash house and get a bowl of greasy stew that isn’t nearly as good, and it will set you back four dollars.”

  “Why are the prices so high?”

  “Because the price of supplies is so high. I promise you, Mr. Morton, we’re not gouging our customers. Even charging what we do, the café is barely getting by, if you want to know.”

  Bo said, “It’s a boomtown. Supply and demand. Demand is high, and supplies are limited. We’ve seen it before, Scratch.”

  “Yeah, I reckon so.” Scratch shook his head. “Still, it’s mighty dear.”

  Bo slid a half-eagle across the counter to Lucinda Bonner. He kept a few coins in his pocket, and so did Scratch, but the rest of their stake was split up between a pair of money belts, one worn by each of them.

  “There you go, ma’am,” he told her. As he touched a finger to the brim of his black hat, he added, “Best of luck to you and your daught
ers and brother.”

  “Thank you.” Her hand moved, and the coin disappeared.

  Bo and Scratch left the café. As they paused outside, Bo said, “I’ve got a feeling that if you intended to court that woman, Scratch, you may have ruined those plans by accusing her of overcharging us for those meals.”

  “Now, that ain’t exactly what I said,” Scratch protested.

  “Close enough.”

  Scratch sighed. “You may be right about that, Bo. I was just surprised, that’s all, and you know sometimes my talkin’ is a few steps ahead of my thinkin’. I should’ve knowed better. We’ve been in enough boomtowns to know how it is.”

  “Yeah, we sure have.” Bo untied the reins of his dun and the packhorse from the hitch rail. “I hope we can find room in a stable for these animals.”

  They led the horses along the street and were turned away at a couple of livery stables that were already full up. When they came to a ramshackle barn with a crudely lettered sign that read EDGAR’S LIVERY, Bo shrugged and said, “This may be the best we can do.”

  “Or maybe we ain’t hit bottom yet,” Scratch said. “Reckon all we can do is go in and ask.”

  They found the liveryman inside, mucking out a stall. That brought back unpleasant memories of Socorro and Johnny Burford.

  “Are you Edgar?” Bo asked the thickset proprietor.

  “That’s right. You boys lookin’ for a place to stable them cayuses?”

  “Do you have room for them?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, I do. Be four dollars a day for each of ’em.”

  Scratch let out a whistle. “There’s nothin’ cheap in this town, is there?”

  “Not right now there ain’t,” Edgar agreed. “Not in the middle of a gold boom.” He rubbed at his grizzled jaw. “Tell you want I’ll do, though…you got three hosses, so we’ll call it ten bucks a day for all three. How’s that sound?”

  “Still a mite like highway robbery,” Scratch grumbled.

  “But we’ll take it,” Bo added. “Thanks.”

  He handed over a double eagle to pay for two days. At the rate their money was going, he hoped they would be able to find gold soon. Otherwise their stake would be gone and they’d have to move on.

  Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad thing. They had gambled before and lost, and the good thing about being drifters was they could always ride away and leave those troubles behind them, as long as they had enough money left for a few supplies.

  Edgar showed them the empty stalls. As they were unsaddling their mounts, Bo asked the liveryman, “Do you know a family named Devery?”

  Edgar looked surprised. “Yeah, I know ’em. Why do you ask?”

  Scratch said, “We had a run-in with a couple of ’em at the bridge leadin’ into town.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Had to pull iron on ’em.”

  Bo said, “Sheriff O’Brien told us the Devery family owns a lot of the land hereabouts.”

  Edgar laughed. “Still seems strange to me that ol’ Biscuits wears a law badge now. Wasn’t that long ago he was the one bein’ locked up all the time.” The liveryman lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Biscuits drinks a mite, you know.”

  Bo nodded. “We got that idea. We don’t want any hard feelings with the Deverys. We just didn’t think they had any right to charge us a toll. From what the sheriff said, though, maybe we should have paid.”

  “It was mighty high,” Scratch put in, “but then, so’s everything else around here.”

  “You know where we can find them?” Bo asked.

  Edgar stroked his chin and nodded. “When you rode in, did you see that big ol’ house up at the head o’ Main Street?”

  “We did.”

  “Well, that’s the old Devery house. Jackson Devery—Pa Devery, some call him—lives there with his brood. You don’t need to go all the way up there to see Luke and Thad, though.”

  “Why not?” Scratch asked, but Bo had already tumbled to something his partner hadn’t.

  “We didn’t mention their names,” he snapped as he started to reach for his gun.

  It was too late. With a rush of footsteps, several people charged them from behind. The Texans tried to turn and draw their guns, but before they could manage that, crashing blows fell on their heads. They were driven forward, tackled, brought down on the hard-packed dirt of the barn’s center aisle. Fists and booted feet and, for all they knew, gun butts thudded into them. Bo and Scratch struggled to throw off their attackers and get up, but there was too much weight pinning them down. Their heads spun wildly from blow after vicious blow.

  Bo didn’t know who lost consciousness first, him or Scratch, and it didn’t matter one damned bit, anyway.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Shit! Wake up, Bo, wake up!”

  As awareness seeped back into Bo’s brain, he recognized Scratch’s voice as the silver-haired Texan spoke urgently to him. A terrible stench filled his nostrils, and he wondered if that stink was what prompted Scratch’s exclamation. It sure smelled like they were rolling around in some sort of dung.

  Something wet and slobbery prodded his face. Bo forced his eyes open and found himself staring at close range into the beady little eyes of a massive hog. He yelled as he jerked away from the beast. Then someone grabbed his arm and hauled him up and out of a sticky, stinking morass that tried to drag him back down.

  As he staggered to his feet, he looked over and saw that it was Scratch who had hold of him. At least, he thought it was Scratch. He couldn’t be sure, because the hombre appeared to have been smeared from head to foot with a mixture of mud and other foul substances. Bo wondered suddenly if he looked the same way. He considered the likelihood to be pretty strong.

  His eyesight was blurry because of gunk dripping over his eyes. He tried to wipe it away, but his hand was even filthier and just made things worse. Scratch tugged at his arm and said, “They threw us in a damn hog pen! We gotta get outta here ’fore those blasted porkers get us, Bo!”

  Bo knew his friend was right. He saw a number of huge, muddy, bloated shapes around them. A bunch of hogs like that could consume anybody unlucky enough to fall in among them, and nothing would be left of the poor son of a bitch.

  With the mud of the hog wallow dragging at their feet, Bo and Scratch fought their way toward the pole fence that surrounded the pen. They didn’t know where they were, other than in a heap of trouble, but they could figure that out later, after they made it over that fence, away from the hogs. They reached it and began climbing, a task made more difficult by the slippery mud that coated their hands, and everything else.

  Hogs snuffling hungrily around their legs added urgency to their actions. They struggled to the top of the fence and swung over it, but both Texans lost their grip as they did so and fell hard to the ground on the outside of the pen. At least now they were where the hogs couldn’t get at them, so they were able to lie there and catch their breath for a few moments.

  Not that they wanted to breathe much of that stinking air. Bo coughed and gasped and tried not to think about how much of the mud must have gotten in his mouth. As he and Scratch pushed themselves to their hands and knees and began to crawl away from the pen, both of them started spitting as hard as they could.

  They made it about twenty yards before they collapsed. That was far enough so that the smell wasn’t quite so bad. They could still smell themselves, though, and that was a terrible reek.

  “We gotta…we gotta find some place to wash off,” Scratch said.

  Bo lifted his head to look around. He heard the bubbling, chuckling sound of running water, and after a moment he located what appeared to be the Animas River. He and Scratch were lying on a hillside. The stream was at the bottom of the slope, about fifty yards away.

  Bo’s eyes followed the river back along its course. He saw the sturdy wooden bridge in the distance, maybe a quarter of a mile way. That meant they weren’t far out of Mankiller. They could walk back t
o the settlement.

  But not looking and smelling like this. They had to clean themselves up first. Then they could take stock of the situation and figure out what to do next.

  “Let’s see if we can…make it to the river,” he suggested to Scratch.

  They fought their way to their feet and began stumbling down the hill. The rocky banks of the Animas were about eight feet high, but they weren’t so steep that the Texans couldn’t slide down them. That’s what they did, coming to a stop on a narrow strip of grass at the edge of the water.

  They were about to lean forward and plunge their mud-caked heads into the chilly, fast-flowing stream, when a rifle shot blasted somewhere nearby and a bullet kicked up dirt and gravel just a few feet away. As Bo and Scratch froze, a voice ordered harshly, “Don’t move, you filthy bastards!”

  Bo turned his head and saw a man coming toward them along the riverbank. He was a little below medium height and seemed to be almost as wide as he was tall. He wasn’t fat, though. Instead, he bulged with muscle all over. A derby was pushed down on his bald head, and a red handlebar mustache curled over his mouth. He had a short, black cigar clenched between his teeth in one corner of that mouth.

  He kept Bo and Scratch covered with the Spencer repeating carbine he had fired a moment earlier. He jerked the barrel a little and said, “Get away from that water!”

  “Mister, we just want to clean up,” Bo said.

  “I know what you want to do. My claim’s downstream, and I don’t want you fouling the water with all that pig shit.”

  “You can’t expect us to just stay like this!” Scratch protested.

  The man shrugged wide shoulders. “It’ll dry and crack off after a while.”

  “By then we’ll be dead from the stink!”

  “Yeah, well, you should count yourself lucky that you’re not filling up the belly of some hog by now.” The man’s face became even more grim. “You wouldn’t be the first fellas to wind up disappearing in the Devery hog pen.”

  “The Deverys own those hogs, do they?” Bo asked. Somehow that idea didn’t come as any surprise to him.