Squint and his new partner waited around Deer Creek for eight more days before a detachment of thirty troopers arrived from Fort Reno to escort some army supply wagons back. While they waited, Squint spent the time hunting for fresh meat, some of which he shared with the folks in the other wagons. Most of them were immigrants, just in from back East, and fascinated with the opportunity to meet a real mountain man. Squint got real comfortable with the situation right away because some settler and his wife were always ready to offer coffee and a bite of something to eat in exchange for some genuine frontier stories. And Squint had plenty of stories to tell, most of which he fabricated from whole cloth. By the time the soldiers arrived, most of the people in the wagon train called him by name.
All of Squint’s time wasn’t spent hunting meat and spinning yarns, however. Most evenings found him and Waddie leaning on the bar at Mott’s. When all was said and done, Squint really wasn’t much of a drinking man. He’d have one or two just to feel the burn in his belly, but he never cared much for the sickness that usually followed a night of real hard drinking. In addition to that, he didn’t like the idea of letting whiskey dull his senses to the point where he couldn’t control his reflexes. In an untamed country, where a man’s scalp was in peril half the time, he thought it best to keep his wits sharp all the time. Now, Waddie Bodkin was of a different religion. As long as he was on his feet and there was whiskey left in the bottle, he had room for one more drink. He had seen the bottom of his stomach many a morning and still it didn’t dull his taste for the spirits. Squint wasn’t a man to tell another what he should or shouldn’t do, but he began to wonder if his role in their partnership was mainly to carry Waddie back to the wagon at night.
* * *
The day had been a hot one and about the middle of the afternoon the thunderclouds began piling up on top of each other. The clouds darkened and the wind picked up, cooling the sunbaked clay around Mott’s. After seeing to the stock and making sure the wagon was closed up tight, Squint and Waddie stood outside Mott’s store enjoying the freshness of the approaching storm. Off in the distance the first rumblings of thunder caused the leaves in the cottonwoods to tremble on the far bank of the river. Squint stood facing the breeze and smelling the damp sweetness of the coming rain. He always enjoyed a summer storm when there was shelter at hand and this one promised to be a stout one. In a matter of minutes, the storm walked across the prairie and the first huge drops of rain began pelting the bare ground around them.
The two men backed up against the side of the building under the eaves, reluctant to leave the sacrament of the storm until forced inside. As they watched, two riders emerged from the stand of cottonwoods on the far bank and forded the river. They were riding hard, trying to outrun the storm, judging by the way they whipped their horses. The lead horse stumbled and went to its knees trying to scramble up the riverbank. Its rider flogged the poor animal unmercifully until it regained its feet and galloped on into Mott’s. This was enough to tell Squint that he had no use for the man. The two riders pulled up to the hitching rail and tied up, leaving the horses and the two pack mules they were leading standing in the rain. They barely glanced at the two men standing under the eaves as they stormed into Mott’s store. Squint and Waddie decided it was time to go inside too. The rain was driving up against the building by then.
Even a blind man could tell the two riders were buffalo hunters. There was a stench that followed most of this breed that Squint learned to identify long ago, and the fact that they were soaking wet didn’t help to ease their pungent aroma. They made no effort to step aside when Squint and Waddie entered the store. Squint had seen their kind before, half wild and mean as a grizzly. But they paid no attention to Squint and Waddie. Instead, they seemed intent on leering at Mrs. Mott who had just then come in from the storeroom. Not a word was said for a few minutes. The two hunters stood there, the dripping water from the fringes of their long buckskin coats forming puddles on the dirt floor. Squint heard only the first of the conversation as he and Waddie passed on through to the saloon.
“It’s a right miserable day out there. I might have got me a chill.” It was the big one who spoke. “I need me a little somethin’ to warm me up.”
His partner, a short, round man wearing a grimy bowler hat, piped up. “Yeah, I could use a little somethin’ myself.” He grinned and winked at the larger man.
“I told you before, I ain’t got nothin’ to help you, Kroll. If you want somethin’ to warm you up, you can go buy some whiskey from Mott.” Squint could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn’t have any patience for the likes of them. He couldn’t hear any more of the talk because he and Waddie were in the saloon and Mott’s loud and cordial greeting drowned out the rest.
“Howdy, boys. What’ll it be?”
They ordered a beer apiece and moved down to the far end of the bar. Squint took a long drink from the mug before speaking. “Looks like Mrs. Mott has got some mean-looking customers in there.”
Mott walked over to the curtain and peered through at the two men in the store. “Kroll and Moody,” he announced. “I was hoping the Injuns had got them two by now.” He let the blanket fall back in place and turned back to Squint and Waddie. “They’re ornery all right, and good for nothing too. The big ugly one is Kroll. He’ll slit your throat just for something to do. The little fat one, that’s Moody. He’s pretty much harmless unless your back is turned. The missus can handle ’em though.”
Since Mott didn’t appear to be overly concerned about the two foul-smelling visitors, Squint figured he wasn’t going to be worried about it either. He didn’t like their looks and he figured he was obligated to alert Mott to their presence. Beyond that, it wasn’t his business.
Waddie seemed not to be concerned about anything other than the glass of beer he had already finished. He shoved the empty glass across toward Mott and said, “Weather like this makes a man thirsty.” He watched as Mott filled the glass, then added, “Maybe you better pour me a shot of that coyote piss too. I don’t want to catch me death of cold.”
Squint laughed. Any kind of weather made Waddie thirsty. Mott held the bottle poised over the glass and looked quizzically at Squint. Squint shook his head no. His glass was still half full. “I reckon I’ll just stay with this for a while yet.” He didn’t let on to Mott or Waddie, but he had a feeling that he needed to keep his head clear. The two buffalo hunters were still arguing in the other part of the store. Although he could not hear their words, he recognized the tone of their voices and he knew that whatever the conversation with Mrs. Mott, things were not going their way. He had a pretty good idea what they were trying to buy from her. Squint had spent almost twenty years around men like those two, part of that time as a lawman. Over the stench of buffalo guts and sweat, there was a distinct odor of trouble. As was his custom, Squint would try to avoid trouble. He’d just stay down at the end of the bar and mind his own business and wait to see what happened. He didn’t have to wait long.
Kroll pulled a blanket aside and peered into the saloon. He fixed a cold eye on each of the three men in the room, coming back to the formidable figure in buckskins at the far end of the bar. Squint met his gaze and their eyes locked for a long moment as each measured the other. Squint noted the heavy cavalry pistol stuck in the man’s belt, the handle right over his belly button, and the long skinning knife strapped to his side. He took just a half step out from the end of the bar so Kroll would be sure to note that he had a heavy pistol stuck in his own belt, just in case the man was already getting any ideas. The measuring over, Kroll suddenly ripped the blanket down as if it had somehow offended him. He threw it on the floor and roared at Mott behind the bar.
“Give me a bottle of whiskey, old man.” He glanced back at Squint to see if there was any reaction from that corner. The man had evidently spent most of his life intimidating people. Refusing to be baited, Squint pretended not to notice and turned to talk to Waddie as if unaware of the presence of the two hunters.
Mott reached under the counter and produced a bottle. He glanced at Moody, standing behind Kroll, and asked coldly, “Will that be two glasses?”
“We don’t need no damn glasses,” Kroll roared and snatched the bottle from Mott’s hand. He uncorked it and tilted it back, pouring a huge drink down his throat. Mott’s whiskey didn’t back down to any man, even a buffalo hunter as mean as Kroll. He swallowed twice but he couldn’t take a third one and had to pull the bottle back down, banging it down hard on the counter. “Damn you, old man,” he swore, trying hard to hold back the tears. “You been cutting that damn whiskey with kerosene!”
Moody laughed, reaching for the bottle. “Lemme give ’er a try.” He tilted the bottle back and poured a mouthful down his throat. When he could speak again, he grinned from ear to ear and said, “Burns like fire but it’s pretty good, Kroll.”
Kroll, not about to be jollied up by his partner, snatched the bottle back and took another drink. This time he was ready for the fire and he held back the tears while the searing liquid seeped down into his gut. Then he turned and threw the bottle against the log wall of the saloon. It smashed, throwing whiskey all over the floor and the wall. “You old fart,” he growled. “I ain’t paying for no damn Injun whiskey.”
Mott had remained stony calm throughout Kroll’s tirade. His expression showed not the slightest hint of panic when he spoke. “I don’t make it. I just sell it. And a bottle of whiskey’s gonna cost you the same, whether you drink it or wash the wall with it. All the same to me.”
“The hell you say . . .” Kroll started but was interrupted when Mott calmly pulled a hog-legg from under the bar and laid it on the counter, its muzzle looking right at Kroll’s belly. Kroll backed away a step. “Why, you old son of a bitch,” he growled, “you better mind who you pull a gun on.” His face, twisted with anger, slowly transformed into an evil grin. “You pull that trigger and Moody here will put more holes in you than you got fingers to plug.” Moody, recognizing his cue, stepped over away from Kroll and let his hand rest on the handle of his pistol, his face mirroring the nasty smile of his partner’s.
“I reckon Mr. Moody might have a hard time pulling that damn pistol with his ass cut in half.”
Startled, both men jerked their heads to the side to discover Squint’s huge forty-four staring at them.
“This ain’t none of your concern,” Kroll countered. “You best keep your nose clear of it.”
The two of them were beginning to get on Squint’s nerves. This was his last night before starting on the trail and all he wanted was a quiet glass of beer before going to bed. He cocked the hammer back on the forty-four and spoke. “My nose has had enough of the stink of you two. Now I think it’s time you two little darlin’s said good night—as soon as you pay what you owe for that bottle.”
Moody backed away toward the door but Kroll stiffened. “You’re making one helluva big mistake, mister.” Squint could see the fury welling up in the man. He glared at Squint for a long time, then he seemed to relax momentarily. “What are you gonna do if I don’t wanna go? Shoot me?” He continued to glare at Squint. “I don’t believe you got the sand.”
Squint didn’t believe in standoffs. His finger tightened on the trigger. In the tense atmosphere of the saloon, the explosion of the forty-four split the air and startled everyone else in the room. Kroll, almost deafened by the muzzle blast, stumbled backward into Moody, the two of them landing on the dirt floor. Unaware that he was hit at first, Kroll suddenly felt the pain on the side of his head and grabbed for his ear. He shrieked in horror when he felt the neat half moon where, moments before, a piece of ear had been. Furious, he made a move toward his pistol but thought better of it when Squint cocked his weapon again and stood with the barrel aimed right between Kroll’s eyes.
“You got a choice.” Squint almost whispered it, his voice cold as ice. “You and that other scum can drag your sorry behinds outta here or I can spill your blood all over the floor right now.”
Kroll scowled defiantly but he wasn’t fool enough to think he could get his pistol out before Squint’s bullet spilled his brains. The tension in the little saloon was explosive as the two big men locked eyeballs. Finally Kroll conceded. “All right, you son of a bitch, you got the upper hand this time but there’ll be other times.”
Moody, having picked himself up and backed up to the blankets separating the two areas of the store, could not believe what he was witnessing. He had never seen anyone get the best of Kroll. And here was Kroll, down on the floor with a piece of his ear shot off. Now it appeared the man was going to get away with it and he and Kroll were supposed to slink off like whipped dogs. He couldn’t believe it. As Moody stood there transfixed, seemingly not a part of what was taking place, he realized that all eyes were on Kroll on the floor. Nobody was watching him. Very slowly he reached his hand across his round belly to the butt of his pistol and gently began to ease it out of his belt.
“That’d be the dumbest thing you could do, Moody.”
Moody’s hand froze when he felt Mrs. Mott’s double-barreled shotgun nudge the small of his back. As slowly as he had reached for the gun, he withdrew his hand. “All right, all right,” he replied, his voice trembling. “Just be careful with that dang thing, lady.” He reached down to give his partner a hand up. “Come on, Kroll, let’s get out of here.”
“You ain’t paid for that bottle yet,” Squint reminded him.
“No, and I ain’t gonna,” was Kroll’s terse reply.
Moody took one look into Squint’s eyes and was quick to blurt out, “Here, here’s the money. I’ll pay for the whiskey!” He grabbed Kroll’s sleeve and pulled him toward the door.
The three of them, Mott, Squint and Mrs. Mott, all held their guns on Kroll and Moody as they walked them outside and onto their horses. Kroll remained silent until he was in the saddle but his eyes blazed with his rage. “This ain’t the end of this, stranger.” He directed this at Squint. “Next time it’ll be different.”
“I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” was Squint’s only reply as he watched the two gallop off into the approaching night. When they had at last vanished from sight, he turned to Mott and said, “I should have shot him while I had the chance.”
“I reckon,” Mott replied.
Satisfied that they would see no more of Kroll and Moody that night, they returned to the saloon to find Waddie still standing at the end of the bar. He smiled at them and greeted Mott with, “Ahhh, Mr. Mott, I was wondering if I was going to die of thirst before you came back to save me.”
Squint could only shake his head, amazed. “Waddie, I hope this little ruckus didn’t disturb your drinking.”
“Not a’tall, not a’tall,” Waddie assured him. He turned to Mott, his empty glass outstretched. “Now, Mr. Mott, if you please.”
Squint permitted his little friend to imbibe a few more rounds before he grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him out of the saloon. The wagons were pulling out in the morning at sunup and he wanted Waddie to be able to drive his mules without falling off the seat. They said good-bye to the Motts and as they walked out the door, Mott put his hand on Squint’s arm and spoke.
“Squint, we’re obliged to you for pitching in back there. You best watch your back, my friend. That Kroll’s a mean one and he ain’t the kind to take a besting like you give him and not look for a way to get even. You watch your back.” He stood in the doorway as they walked toward the wagons. “And hang on to your scalps.”