Anger still boiling within him kept Sam Heller’s lips a thin, straight line. He had pushed the horses harder than necessary, taking out his anger and frustration on them. The quiet voice in the back of his mind, nagging that they didn’t deserve that, only heightened and maintained his anger.
The large corral behind the livery barn in Mariposa stood open and ready. He hazed the horses into it, then swung down and shut the gate. The hostler ambled out as he turned to lead his horse into the stable. ‘Puttin’ ’em up overnight?’
Sam resisted the urge to say, ‘No, I just wanted to practice corralling them.’ Instead he asked, ‘How much?’
‘Ten cents a head, unless you want ’em grained.’
‘Just hay’ll be enough. There’s twenty one of ’em. I’ll be wantin’ this one grained and rubbed down, though.’
The hostler totted up the sum in his head. ‘That’ll come to two fifty.’
The hostler shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Just as well,’ Sam said, reaching past the belt of his chaps to dig the money from his pants pocket. He counted out the money that disappeared into the hostler’s pocket. ‘I’ll likely be pullin’ out about first light.’
‘I bed in the room at the back. Whistle if you need anything.’
Without answering, Sam strode out the front door of the livery barn and headed down the main street of Mariposa. He wouldn’t have needed to stop over in town on his way, but it was one night he wouldn’t need to keep the small remuda together while he tried to catch what sleep he could.
He stepped through the front door of the Lucky Lady Saloon and stopped dead in his tracks. It looked at first as if some sideshow from a traveling circus had come to town. Everyone at both the bar and the various gaming tables had stopped what they were doing. Every eye was fixed on the entertainment at the bar.
Several of Ben Grede’s private security force were lounging near the bar, grinning broadly. One of their own was loudly mocking Bart Spalding’s stutter. The son of the H Bar V rancher stood red-faced with anger. His fists knotted and unknotted at his side. Once in a while he glanced at the half-circle of his antagonist’s friends, as if weighing his chances against the lot of them.
The burly leader of the mockery leered at the hesitant cowboy. ‘Wh-wh-wh-what’s the m-m-m-matter, B-BB-B-Bartholomew? The c-c-c-cat got your t-t-t-t-tongue?’
Something exploded in Sam’s head. Anger and frustration had been boiling inside him every since he had words with Kate, gathered his horses and left. Helplessness and lack of understanding of what had even led to the quarrel had only deepened his dark mood. The loneliness he refused to admit feeling already brought that mood to a boiling point. Seeing the arrogance of the burly bouncer mocking the Spalding boy’s speech problem released the trigger. Sam snapped.
Without a word he strode forward. With no hesitation or warning, his left fist slammed into the burly man’s mouth. Teeth escaped their roots, two of them flying clear into the back of the man’s throat, causing him to swallow them instantly; blood flew from his face as if a ripe tomato had been smashed. The left to the mouth was followed instantly by a right hook to his left ear that guaranteed he would sport a cauliflow-ered ear the rest of his life. A left uppercut knocked his chin upward just in time for the right that followed it to connect solidly with the point of his chin. The big man toppled backward, unconscious, to sprawl in the sawdust that covered the floor.
There was an instant of incredulous calm, then the half-circle of his friends rushed forward as one to overwhelm this newcomer who had dared to attack one of their own.
Years of frustration and anger had been building in Bartholomew Spalding; Sam’s wordless actions seemed to release a spring within him as well. As the friends of the downed bouncer rushed forward, the first three were met by a huge arm, swinging with the size and force of a tree limb. All three were swept backward. Their feet were well above their heads by the time their heads contacted the sawdust that cradled their friend. At least two chairs from nearby tables were reduced to kindling beneath them.
Before they hit the floor, Sam had already stepped forward and met the closest of his attackers with a swift knee to the groin, followed by another knee to the face that lowered accommodatingly as the man doubled forward in pain. To enforce the second knee’s impact, Sam had grabbed a handful of hair and helped the head propel itself into his rising knee. Like the first man, he was unconscious before he crumpled on the floor.
With a roar of released rage, Bart grabbed the belt of another of the attackers and hauled him off his feet. Swinging him in a circle high above his head, he threw him like a rag doll into the mass of bodies surging forward. Four men were carried backward by the weight and force of more than two hundred pounds of flesh and bone hurtling into them. A table and two more chairs fell victim to the burden they were not built to bear.
Unseen, with the first noise of the brawl, Ben Grede rushed out of the door of his office. He stepped to the back end of the bar and engaged in a hurried conversation with the bartender. Grede held out his hand to the bartender, who reached under the bar and retrieved a sawn-off double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun.
Others of Grede’s security force from every quarter of the saloon and gambling hall were already rushing to their fellows’ aid. Fighting fiercely side by side, it was obvious that Sam and Bart would soon be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. The only thing that had delayed that inevitable event this long, was the difficulty the bouncers’ reinforcements were having stepping over and around the growing pile of their downed friends.
Over and above the din of the raging battle, the roar of the twelve gauge echoed from the ceiling and walls, making the chandeliers quiver. The noise level dropped abruptly but not entirely. A second round from the shotgun, fired into the floor, brought everything to a sudden halt. All eyes turned to the owner, glaring over the cigar clamped tightly in the corner of his mouth.
Grede jabbed a finger at one of his men closest to him. ‘You! Frank! Get a couple of these idiots to help you, and haul Lyle out of here and throw him in a horse tank. When you get him woke up, tell him I said to turn in his time and get out of town. I hire you boys to keep things quiet and peaceable around here, not to start fights.’
He waited a pregnant moment to let his words soak in, then continued. ‘The rest of you, give a listen.’
He pointed to Bart Spalding. ‘This boy is welcome in this place any time he wants to stop in, and there’s a free drink waiting for him any time he does. And the first one of you I hear makin’ fun of him will answer to me.’
Again he glared at his crew of enforcers, giving his words time to penetrate even the thickest of skulls. Then he addressed the chagrined group again. ‘Do you all understand that?’
Nobody responded. They all studied their boots intently.
Grede’s voice raised an octave, as did the volume of his question. ‘I said, Do you all understand that?’
Instantly his words were met by a chorus of mumbled compliance and nodding heads.
Whirling, Grede tossed the now empty shotgun back to the bartender and disappeared into his office.
Deathly silence descended on the entire establishment. It was the bartender who spoke up. ‘Well, what are you all waiting for? The show’s over. Go back to what you were doing.’
He turned to Sam and Bart. ‘What can I get for you boys? It’s on the house.’
Bart studied the blood on his skinned up knuckles, as he had never seen them in that state before. He looked at Sam, then at the bartender. ‘Uh, yeah. Yeah. I could use a drink.’
Sam grinned at him. ‘You give a pretty good account of yourself for a kid,’ he offered.
Bart grinned back, suddenly feeling euphoric and not understanding why. ‘I ain’t never done nothin’ about folks makin’ fun of me before. That felt good. That felt plumb good!’
Sam refrained from commenting that the young man had made the statement without any hint of a stutter.
Over the next hour they talked. Mostly, Sam talked to drown out the echo of Kate’s words that ripped his guts apart every time he remembered them. Every time the conversation lagged, the words repeated themselves in his mind. ‘I don’t need you, Sam Heller, and I don’t need sympathy! Billy and I will manage just fine. Now get off my place!’
Even in his mind, he couldn’t stand to listen. To silence their unbearable pain, he talked to Bart. Sam told him about the ranch he worked for in the Indian Nation, its location, the crew, how it felt to work there, and experiences he had doing so. He had no idea the conversation would affect the rest of his life.