This was no town that Jesse rode into. If there had been folks living there, most of them had up and left. The few buildings were weathered to the point of rotting. Pretty near all were missing boards and windows. One had a patch of roof showing a hole that a horse could ride through. Not a single wagon sat anywhere about, which was not exactly a surprise because there wasn’t a usable coach road. People needed a way in and out. What Jesse had followed in was so grown over with tall, scraggly weeds that it barely counted as a path. Any decent folk that might have happened past had likely steered clear of this eyesore. That made it a prime hideout for wanted men.
Three horses stood lazily at the hitch rail outside the one place that was pitching noise into the air. No gray mare, but Tipsy could have hidden his horse. Did these animals belong to the men that rode with him? If so, why not hide them too? Was it bait to reel in Jesse? Tipsy probably figured that either the sheriff or his deputy was trailing him, and killing him certainly would send a strong message to the sheriff. The odds didn’t look good, but he hadn’t ridden this far to turn back now.
He tied the Appaloosa. No sign hung above the door, and the windows were covered in a lifetime of thick grime. It was evident, though, from the lively piano playing that the saloon was still in business. It was hard to tell if Tipsy was holed up in there or in what shape he might find him.
Kate thought she had hit him hard, but Jesse didn’t see any blood spots here. What if she hadn’t?
His finger stroked the trigger on the Winchester. He needed to be ready for anything. Tipsy wasn’t no tinhorn. He’d know every trick, whereas Jesse was just learning. And there might be some edgy fellas in there who didn’t want their whereabouts known, hard cases that wouldn’t appreciate a lawman nosing around, looking for one of their own. Some of them might even be friendly with Tipsy.
Keep a level head. That’s what the sheriff had taught him.
He shoved through the swinging doors. Years of cigar smoke made the air stale. The room was dingy and dark, and in lots of places, the faded wallpaper was cracked or curled up. At a corner table, a few men sat playing a hand of poker. All three wore chaps dusted with trail dirt. Did they work for a cattle outfit somewhere nearby, or were they rustlers—the ones who were working with Tipsy? As Jesse walked by, they paid him no more mind than a brief glance, which was a good sign they weren’t worried about being trailed. Behind the bar, a stout man with a walrus mustache casually looked up as he wiped a glass with a dirty rag and gave a small nod.
Near a window on the other side of the room, a man wearing a dingy and wrinkled suit sat drinking from a bottle of whiskey on the table. A busty whore in a tight-fitting, cherry-red dress plopped onto his lap. Strange place to see such duds, unless a man’s occupation required a certain look of dignity—like a doctor. One other man was in the room, and that was the stubby, Derby-wearing music maker.
“Whiskey.” Jesse slapped a coin on the bar.
The barkeep eyed the star on Jesse’s coat. “Not too many lawmen come through here. Ain’t exactly a good place for a man who wears a badge.” His tone wasn’t threatening. It seemed more like a word of warning. Those big-knuckled fingers of his were spread out on the bar as if to say he wasn’t packing and wanted no trouble. Though he had an edge to him, and Jesse guessed that fella had busted open a head or two in his day.
“I don’t doubt that one bit.” Jesse turned his back and watched the card game. The barkeep tapped a finger, letting him know his drink was poured. Jesse tossed back the rotgut. He wasn’t there for drinking or cards.
Jesse walked over and pulled out a chair, not friendly like. His face was sober. This was business, and he sat facing the doctor.
“I’m looking for Tipsy.” There was nothing pleasant in his tone.
The man’s gaze, the same as the whore’s, lingered on Jesse’s badge.
She slid over into a chair, jerking her head toward the door. “Why don’t you just git outta here?”
The man gulped a shot, then smacked down his glass. “I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m a reputable doctor.”
Jesse caught the mistake and threw back a shitty smirk. By referencing his reputation as a doctor, the fool had insinuated that Tipsy, a wanted man, was less than himself.
“I think you’re a liar.” Jesse was blunt.
The doc stiffened, sitting taller in his chair, arms sliding away from the table.
Jesse gave him a pointed look. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” He swung up the Winchester and slammed the rifle down longways, aimed at the doc’s chest. Jesse’s finger was on the trigger. “I bet you patched him up in one of those rooms upstairs.”
The fiery redhead shot to her feet, smacking her fists to her hips. “Tipsy ain’t up there! He rode out late last night with three other fellas. So you lost your chance, lawman.” She cackled.
Without having a look upstairs, Jesse wasn’t going anywhere. She might have lied. He stood, pushing back his chair.
The doc smirked and broke into laughter. “Yeah, I stitched up Tipsy. He told me Sheriff Crosson got himself a deputy. Where is the sheriff and his little brat so I can tell ’im?”
In one swift move, Jesse swung the Winchester around by the barrel and bashed the doc upside the head with the flat side of the stock. He flew out of the chair and hit the floor, and the whore screamed. Jesse flipped the table, tossing it out of the way, then lunged, grabbing the doc up by the throat and throwing him crashing over chairs.
In two stretching steps, Jesse was over him. His fist smashed the doc’s teeth. His next hit landed square to the man’s jaw. Sometime during the beating, his nose had popped, and blood spewed everywhere. If the doc was hitting back, Jesse wasn’t feeling it.
“Stop it!” The whore yanked on Jesse’s arm.
He pushed away from her, then wiped blood off his lip. The doc must have gotten in a lucky punch, though Jesse wasn’t feeling any pain. Pure meanness had numbed him. Nathanial was only knee-high, a soft-faced babe.
Jesse yanked the man up to stand, holding him by the shirt collar as he wavered, half-conscious. Jesse grabbed his bloody face to keep his head from circling. “Ain’t no one gonna hurt that little boy.”
He dropped the doc, leaving him in a bloody heap on the floor. The whore fell on her knees, and as she gently lifted the doc’s head onto her lap, she cried harder.
Jesse picked up his rifle, then looked at the cowpokes. Their hands were clearly on the table as they watched without breathing, not wanting any of his fight.
Jesse glanced up. There was no one on the balcony. The whore must have told the truth. With all that ruckus, Tipsy likely would have stirred and then plugged a bullet in Jesse while he’d been smacking the shit out of the doc. He turned his back on the moaning scum, eyes rolling in his head, and the sobbing whore and faced the barkeep. “Which way did Tipsy go when he left?”
A small click rang in Jesse’s ears. The barkeep’s eyes widened, and he fast ducked behind the bar. There was a split second when Jesse wasn’t sure what was happening.
He jerked around, knowing he shouldn’t have turned his back. The doc swayed on his feet worse than a frail limb during a bad storm. One of his eyes was a big purple lump, his entire face swollen. With little strength, he was trying to get a bead on Jesse. Only a short ten feet separated them. The man didn’t need much skill to hit him at that many paces.
Flame blasted before Jesse could swing up his rifle and take aim. Bottles of whiskey displayed in a row behind the bar shattered. Jesse squeezed the trigger, and the Winchester boomed inside the room, shaking the windows. The doc’s body jerked back. A great sickening groan erupted as a wide bloodstain spread down his shirt. He dropped to the floor, gasping for a few seconds, and then his eyes glazed over.
Jesse started to breathe again. The whore stood over the doctor’s lifeless body, sobbing into her hands. Then she looked up and hatefully glared at Jesse. “You bastard!”
That could have been Jesse bleeding all over the damn floor. That bitch could go to hell. “Shut up! Tell me where Tipsy is.”
She wiped at her tears, smearing the heavy makeup that painted her face. “I hope he kills you!” She spit at Jesse.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “You tell that piece of crud that Deputy Jesse Adams is lookin’ for him.” He looked over his shoulder at the barkeep. “What direction?”
The fella’s eyes were grotesquely wide, and he stared past Jesse at the bloody mess on the floor. “I ain’t sure.”
Jesse stepped over the dead doctor. When he got to his horse, he drew in a deep breath. He’d seen dull, staring eyes like the doc’s one other time, when he’d rolled Pa and his brothers into their graves. Only, he hadn’t killed them. His hands began to shake. He had just taken a man’s life, shot him dead. The doc wasn’t going to wake up.
He spurred his horse. Not once had he ever thought about what it would be like to end a man’s life, and the doc’s end hadn’t come painlessly—a rifle blast to the chest. Jesse wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. That trash was no good and would have killed him if Jesse hadn’t pulled the trigger. Sheriff Crosson had warned him not to turn his back on Tipsy. It might be that the doc wouldn’t have chanced drawing if Jesse hadn’t first turned away but kept his eyes on the man? Maybe Jesse had just killed when he didn’t have to.
He yanked up reins, leaned out of the saddle, and lost what was in his stomach. After he wiped his sleeve across his mouth, he breathed in a couple of deep breaths to settle his raw nerves. What he needed was to keep his mind focused on Tipsy and try to forget what had just happened, but how could he? Although he’d done exactly what Tipsy would do to Nathanial if Jesse didn’t find him first.
Snow steadily fell, and any trail Tipsy left would have been covered hours ago. No way could he cold trail Tipsy. He wasn’t experienced enough to sniff a hint out of the wind. The cabin would be a sensible place to look since Tipsy had warmed himself there once.
As he rode, that peacefulness that usually floated in the air when snow was quietly falling didn’t touch down around him. The doc had drawn first. Jesse had been in the right to protect himself. He assured himself at least twenty times. The gruesome bloody image of that lifeless body wouldn’t leave Jesse’s mind, which should have been focused on finding Tipsy and not getting shot.
When Jesse rode down off a butte and out of the trees into a familiar valley, the pond and barn in the distance, he was still feeling all stirred up inside about killing and needed to shake it off before he ran into Tipsy and lost his own life.
He trotted Dapple into the yard of Pa’s cabin—Jesse’s cabin—though it still didn’t feel like his. He’d seen from a distance that the sky above the chimney was smokeless. It was doubtful that anyone was inside. He might as well get warm and rest the Appaloosa while he was here.
The barn door swung open and closed in the wind, and a rusty hinge groaned with each pass.
He stalled the gelding, noticing a few loose boards and how in shambles the barn had been left. Dapple began to munch hay. Jesse tossed in some more that didn’t stink of rot. It wasn’t easy to see his childhood home beginning to fall apart. Shorty’s house, that Jesse had seen, and all the outbuildings were real nice. No doubt, the cattleman would keep this place up as well once the sale was final.
Jesse headed toward the house, and the barnyard seemed too quiet. It just wasn’t natural for the corral to be empty, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing it that way.
At the porch, he lifted his hand to knock, then realized his misfortune. No one would ever be there to welcome him. His kin were all dead, just as he had killed the doc. Jesse pushed the door wide open and stared inside. Somehow this was different than the day he’d come tracking Tipsy. On that day, he had a heightened sense of duty and responsibility. His focus had been so narrow that all he’d seen was Tipsy. Today Jesse was met at the door by a dreadful silence.
Most of his life had been spent there on the ranch, but that life was gone, buried forever. His time there would soon be sold off for a price. Any day now, he would scratch his name on a deed and sign away the cabin his folks had built and that he and his brothers were born in.
He didn’t care about the money from the deal with Shorty. He didn’t care much about anything right then. What would Ma have thought of him? He had killed a man.
A strike of wind slammed the door closed behind him. It was too late to turn and run. Already he was picturing family dinners when he was a youngster. Each picture on the mantel held a memory. Pa had crafted the table and chairs that centered the room for his new bride. Jesse would never forget that story. Everywhere there were ghosts of his past. He walked to the cupboard and opened the doors. Ma’s fine dishes sat unused and collecting dust.
Jesse rummaged through the bottom of the cupboard, found the whiskey bottle he was looking for, and popped the cork with his knife. He swallowed long, and the rotgut burned the whole way down. “Dammit.” He cursed his heart pain, then pressed the bottleneck to his lips and threw back another gulp.
He carried the bottle with him to the mantel and stared for a long time at the picture of his folks on their wedding day. Why had they lost those smiles in later years? He knew exactly why, and so did everyone else in the territory. Hank Adams and his boys were a pack of thieving coyotes, hamstringing cattle of all different brands.
Jesse took another drink, thinking of the day Sheriff Crosson had almost hanged him. Pa hadn’t spoken up on Jesse’s behalf, not a single word of his innocence. Even while Jesse had been explaining it to the sheriff, Pa never once opened his big mouth and agreed that he had nothing to do with the rustling of the cattle. Pa would have just let him die. The same as that day when he had ordered George to drag Jesse behind a horse.
After a few more lengthy swallows, he stopped noticing the burn of the whiskey sliding down his throat, and he flopped down in a chair at the table. Worse things than Pa’s hate brewed in Jesse’s mind. Thinking about ending Tipsy for what that savage had done to the boy was easy.
Any old fool could imagine himself having the quicker draw. But Jesse had pulled the trigger, and death had charged from the barrel of his gun. The doctor was dead. Jesse drank from the bottle. He’d done his job and would make no excuses.