Chapter 27
As night fell, Lucky walked down a trail with Tempest by his side, disarmed and outgunned. Behind them, the outlaw led their horses and kept his six-shooter trained on their backs.
Lucky felt like every kind of fool. He’d promised to keep Tempest safe, but he’d let a man get the drop on them. He could blame being distracted by her and that was the truth, but it was no excuse.
When Tempest clasped his hand, he squeezed in encouragement. They’d get out of this mess, even if the outlaw did have their guns tucked in his belt. At least they were being taken where they wanted to go. As far as he knew, the only people Burnt Boggy didn’t welcome were lawmen.
The outlaw directed them down several twists and turns that skirted along the swift-running Boggy River. Finally, they turned away from the water, walked down several smaller trails, and stepped into a clearing that was camouflaged by thick undergrowth. In the center stood a big, white tent with the four corners tied down with ropes to ground posts. Inside, yellow lantern light illuminated dark male silhouettes. The chatter of rough voices, the clink of glasses, and the shuffle of cards filled the area.
“What the hell is that?” Lucky gazed dumbstruck at the tent and the rough-hewn hitching posts where an assortment of fine horseflesh stomped hooves and swished tails. He turned to watch the outlaw loop the reins of their horses over a post.
“Burnt Boggy Saloon. What else?”
“It’s a nice tent,” Tempest said.
“Nice!” The outlaw hawked and spit to the side.
“Last time I was here, New Boggy Saloon had two rooms with a dogtrot.” Lucky shook his head in disappointment.
“And afore it, Boggy Saloon was full chisel, too. We about broke our backs puttin’ in a fancy rock fireplace.” The outlaw looked at Tempest and scowled. “G’hals! Don’t get no notion ’bout burnin’ down the tent.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Lady Gone Bad started a brawl that burned down Boggy. We rebuilt the place. I’ll be hornswoggled if the Black Widow didn’t come along and start a brawl that burned down New Boggy.”
“You got to admit Lady made the Boggy Saloon famous in her ballad about the fight and fire.”
“Balderdash! That ballad’s nothin’ but trouble. We got reporters and tenderfoots out here tryin’ to find the saloon. We got to keep runnin’ ’em off and pullin’ up stakes. Bad for trade.”
“I can see how it would be,” Lucky agreed.
“Now you sidewinders show up.” The outlaw hawked and spit again. “Fort Smith Gazette? Dallas Chronicle? We got nothin’ to say and you got nothin’ to write.”
“We’re not reporters,” Lucky said. “We’re here to see the artist.”
“Mercy?” The outlaw raised his eyebrows as he looked from one to the other as if they were out of their minds.
“His name is Mercy?” Tempest asked.
“Yep. Got that moniker ’cause it’s a mercy that tenderfoot is still alive.”
“Is there a problem with him?” Lucky asked. “We saw the bar he carved in the Red River Saloon in the Bend. Fine work.”
“We saw it, too. That’s why he’s carvin’ us a bar. But he won’t take no direction. Says it’s his vision, whatever in tarnation that means. That, and he’s drinkin’ us out of house and home.”
Lucky glanced at Tempest. She raised a shoulder in a shrug. If they couldn’t get the artist to do what they wanted for the Bend, it’d be a big problem. But he’d wait till he met the artist to form an opinion about him.
A man with a bushy black beard and red suspenders stuck his head out between the tent’s flaps. “Slim, what are you jawin’ about out here?”
“Thought I’d caught me a couple of reporters.”
“Red Dog,” Lucky called, recognizing the bartender. “I’m not real pleased to be disarmed.”
The man stepped outside, a big grin splitting his face. “Lucky, you ornery cuss. Where’ve you been hiding out?” He lumbered over and clasped Lucky on the shoulder. “And who’s the lovely lady?”
“She’s trouble,” Slim said. “I had to disarm her, too.”
“Give them back their guns.” Red Dog shook his head. “Come on inside.”
“They’re here for our artist,” Slim said.
“You want Mercy? I’m about ready to give him away.”
“We’d like to talk with him,” Lucky said.
Slim grumbled as he handed over the guns.
Lucky was glad to slip his S&W back in its holster. He’d felt naked without it, particularly around a bunch of outlaws with a mind to brawl, women or no women.
When they reached the tent flap, the men stepped back to allow Tempest to enter first. She hesitated, walked inside, and stopped. Lucky eased her to one side so the other men could get in the saloon.
He put an arm around her waist for reassurance because most likely she was uncomfortable at the sight of so many tough men. The place was doing a brisk trade. A long slab of wood balanced on sawhorses took up one side of the tent. Tree trunks for stools were in front of the bar. Outlaws in hats, boots, and guns sat on benches around rough-hewn tables. They had cards, drinks, and cigarettes in their hands. Smoke clouded the air in a white haze.
One by one, the outlaws noticed the presence of a lady. They stopped, stared, and gradually grew quiet until all was silent and still in the saloon.
“Is that—” an outlaw started to say, squinting to get a better look.
“I’m not sure,” another interrupted him.
“Yes it is!” an outlaw called out, standing up and pointing. “She’s got violet eyes!”
Red Dog leaned down, peering at Tempest’s eyes. “Are you Temperance Tempest?”
She nodded, sighing.
“Hornswoggle!” Slim said. “We got us another big bug. That means big trouble.”
“Little lady, you’re mighty welcome at Burnt Boggy.” Red Dog stepped toward the tables, and then gestured at Tempest. “B’hoys, look lively. The famous Temperance Tempest is with us tonight!”
The outlaws swept off their hats, stomped their boots, and gave appreciate whistles.
“Did you chop Lulu in half?” an outlaw called out.
“I’m afraid it’s true. I sort of, without realizing what I was really doing, chopped Lulu right across her belly button.” Tempest lifted her hands as if in supplication. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Savagerous!” an outlaw called out.
“Temperance Tempest is a huckleberry above a persimmon, ain’t she?”
“Toughest female west of the Mississippi.”
“Exceptin’ Lady Gone Bad.”
“And the Black Widow.”
“Where’s your hatchet?” another outlaw called to her. “You gonna chop our bar, too?”
“She certainly is not!” A slurred voice came from behind the bar as a tall, slim man stood up, a little unsteady on his feet. “I’m guarding my work with my life from the likes of an art-killer like her.” He brandished a paring knife in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.
Lucky groaned. All thoughts of drawings or paintings flew right out the window. As if things weren’t bad enough, the artist looked like he’d be challenged to sit a horse all the way back to the Bend, much less create a masterpiece.
He glanced at Tempest. She appeared surprised, but then she got a determined look in her eyes and straightened her back. Her reaction was more worrisome than the drunken artist. For some reason, she seemed to come alive in a saloon. It was a scary thought.
“I gave up my hatchet to the TSPT,” Tempest announced. “I’m here on a mission to right my wrong to the Red River Saloon.”
Murmurs filled the saloon as if the outlaws were trying to figure out what she was talking about.
“Delaware Bend sent me here to obtain the services of Mercy to repair their famous bar.” Tempest turned toward the artist. “Sir, please get ready to ride back to the Bend tonight. Lulu needs you. And there’s a gold eagle in it for you, too.”
“No!” an outlaw called out, jumping to his feet. “Mercy’s here to cut us a bar that’ll outshine the one in the Red River.”
“Sin to Crockett, our bar comes first!”
“Red River gets him not one minute afore Boggy’s done with him.”
Another outlaw slapped leather. “Acknowledge the corn. He’s our artist till we say he ain’t.”
Tempest turned toward the outlaws and put her hand on the ivory grip of her .32. “Gentlemen, I’m taking this artist and not one of you is going to stop me.”
Lucky groaned and dropped his hand to his S&W. How the hell he was going to get Tempest out of Burnt Boggy in one piece?