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CARTER GALLOPED INTO Silver Creek and swung around to pass the marshal’s office. The body of Rufus had gone, so he rode to the Hot Silver saloon, where he dismounted, tethered his horse and hurried inside.
In a barrage of orders and oaths, he pushed the saloon folk aside until he cleared a path to the bar. At the bar, he picked up a glass. He slammed it on the bar, and then maintained a continuous rhythm of slamming it down. When all conversation in the saloon died, he slid the glass down the bar and faced the room with his hands on his hips.
“I’m rounding up a posse,” he said.
“Why in tarnation is a ranch hand rounding up a posse?” Silas Malt called out.
“I’m Deputy Carter Lyle now. Marshal Brown has been killed, but just before he died he deputized me. So as I’m the nearest Silver Creek has to a lawman, I’m looking to round up some men to bring his killer to justice.”
Silas stepped forward and then another man, and with a wave of nodding and shrugging, several other men joined the group.
“Have you got any idea who killed him?” Silas asked.
“It was Abe Mountain.”
A pronounced series of gulps sounded.
“It can’t be. Abe is dead.”
“You aren’t the first man to make that mistake, but with your help he’ll be in custody by sundown.”
Silas snorted. “We aren’t heading out with you to chase ghosts.”
From behind Silas, Brady Perkins pushed back from the bar. Brady wended through several other men who, until yesterday, were also Alistair Marriott’s ranch hands, but were now trying to drink the saloon dry.
“Carter is right,” he said, his speech slurred. He barged into the clear space in front of Carter and waved his whiskey glass in the air. “Abe is back, and he isn’t in a good mood.”
Brady staggered around to face the line of potential posse volunteers. He mimed firing in all directions, sloshing his whiskey about him. A few moments later Silas edged back into the crowd of saloon folk and, one by one, his fellow volunteers edged back to melt into the crowd, too.
“You can’t do that,” Carter said. “We have to get Abe.”
“We don’t have to face Abe,” Brady said. He turned to Carter and knocked back the remains of his whiskey. “Not when we enjoy living so much.”
“You aren’t letting one man scare you, are you?”
“I am when that one man is Abe Mountain.” Brady rolled to the bar and banged his empty whiskey glass on it. “I reckon staying here and supping whiskey is the best place any man can be when Abe is around. I suggest you do the same.”
“I’m not. I’m walking out of here now to get him.”
“Then I hope you’ve got plenty of luck.” Brady laughed. “Or a fast horse, to get away as fast as possible when he turns on you.”
“I don’t need luck or a fast horse; I just need a posse.” Carter raised his voice so that it echoed through the saloon. “Any man that doesn’t come with me is a yellow-belly.”
When the row of Marriott ranch hands all snorted, Carter set his hands on his hips. Nobody met his eye, but he still turned and walked to the batwings as slowly as possible. In the doorway, he hung on to the doors for a moment, and then pushed through to stand on the boardwalk with his arms folded.
For long moments he stood, balancing up and down on his heels as he waited, hoping that someone would follow him out. Inside there was subdued conversation, but nobody emerged. So with a snort, he turned back to the saloon. Inside, Brady and the other drinkers were ordering more whiskey.
“You’re all yellow-bellies!” Carter shouted.
The drinkers hunched over the bar, studiously ignoring him. Carter slammed his fist against his thigh and then stepped off the boardwalk. He mounted his horse and swung it around. He patted a fistful of bunched reins into his other hand four times. Then, with a last sneer at the Hot Silver saloon, he galloped out of town, heading for the Wayne ranch.