Desperate Hearts (2 page)

So why didn’t he feel better about it? It
didn’t bother him the slightest bit that he’d killed Clark. He’d
assumed that might happen, depending on the circumstances. Without
a second thought he’d killed other men, men with black hearts and
no consciences. But this evening he felt a strange emptiness.

He had thought he would buy a saloon girl
for the entire night, maybe get good and drunk. Well, he supposed
he could get started on that. He let his hand drift down the side
of the whiskey bottle. A stiff drink might do the trick—and shut
off the questions bumping around in his head.

Tomorrow he’d cross into Oregon and head for
Misfortune. He owed it to Travis to let him know that Celia’s
killer, the man he had spent five years in jail for, was dead. Then
. . . what?

As if he could see the future in its clear
amber depths, he studied the full shot glass on the table. He
supposed he would go back to the job he’d been doing for ten years,
the one that had earned him a reputation that generally made men
think twice about crossing him. He had craved their nervous respect
to make up for those years when no one had respected him at
all.

But winter was coming again. It got damned
cold up here, and every year seemed colder than the last. He
hunched forward, with his elbows on the table and the shot glass
between them. Maybe this year he’d go to California or
Arizona—there were just as many wanted posters down there, and the
weather was kinder. The more he thought about it, the more it
appealed. He had nothing holding him here now—no kin, no friends,
no grudges left to satisfy.

Just then, a drove of loud, braying miners
burst into the saloon to disturb the funereal hush that hung over
the waning autumn afternoon. They whooped and hollered like cowboys
just in from three months on the trail, and they smelled a hundred
times worse.

Rankin looked up, irritated. He couldn’t
even sit here and drink in peace. And with their arrival he felt a
subtle shift in the tension in the barroom.

Six or seven strong, the miners brought with
them a cloud of dust and dragged along a scrawny kid Rankin figured
was no older than fifteen or sixteen. Strung out in a line along
the gouged pine bar, the rowdies ordered whiskey and beer.

“
Come on, sonny,” the
loudest of them directed, “we’d better give you a
real
drink and wean you
off that sody water you were pullin’ at outside.” The miner’s
coarse, bearded face bore a scar that looked to be a souvenir of a
knife fight.

“
I don’t want any,” the boy
snarled, trying to twist away. “Let me go, you stinkin’,
shovel-pushin’ ox, and give me back my gun!” The kid’s words
sounded tough, but his voice thinned out to a soprano twang,
betraying his fear. His hat was knocked off in the tussle,
revealing a head of fire-colored hair that grazed the tops of his
thin shoulders. Rankin took note of the empty holster on the kid’s
right thigh.

“
You mean this gun?”
Scar-Face dangled a blue-barreled revolver in front of the boy’s
face. “You’re pretty young to be carryin’ a weapon like this.
You’ll have to prove you’re a man to earn it back. What’s your
name, boy?”

“
None of your damned
business.” The youngster pulled harder against the grip that
Scar-Face had on the back of his collar, but he couldn’t break
away.

Unseen at his corner table, Rankin leaned
back in his chair and watched the proceedings. He saw ice-cold
terror in the kid’s eyes as a whiskey glass was forced to his
mouth. His only choice was to drink or drown. The boy coughed and
sputtered, trying to catch his breath. The rest of the miners
roared in amusement, and one clapped him on the back, nearly
knocking him off his feet.

Bullies, Rankin thought. He hated bullies.
As a kid he’d had more than his share of misery from them. He
unhooked his boot heel and sat up.

“
Let me go, you mangy
bastard!” The youngster struggled like a wet cat.

"By God, you’re a smart-mouthed little snot,
aintcha," one of the other miners remarked with a booming laugh.
“Full of piss and vinegar. Must be that red hair that gives you so
much sass.”

Behind the bar, Chester Sparks cleared his
throat. “Clem, maybe you ought to let the boy go. I’d like to
finish the day without any more fuss.”

“
You just stick to sellin’
your beer, Sparks, and there won’t
be
any fuss,” the scar-faced Clem
warned, pointing his finger in Chester’s face. “We found this
young’un hangin’ around outside, all curiouslike. We aim to oblige
him and show him what a man does in a saloon.”

“
I told you I was waitin’
for someone,” the kid protested. Clem tightened his hold on the
back of the boy’s shirt and shook him the way a dog would a rag
doll.

“
Hell, if you want to stick
with that story, son, that’s fine. We was all greenhorns once
ourselves. Time you learned about life. Here, have another drink.”
Clem grabbed the whiskey bottle from the bar, sloshed another shot
into the youngster’s glass, and repeated the force feeding. Half
the liquor dribbled down the front of the kid’s shirt.

“
Now, let’s see if one of
Chester’s girls don’t have time to make you a man proper. You’re
such a little spud, she’ll probably let you dip for honey cheap.
Anyway, it ain’t good for a man not to get a leg across a gal now
and then.”

Clem scanned the barroom and spotted a
saloon girl. “Gracie! Hey, Gracie! Look what we brung you!”

Rankin recognized the long-limbed painted
female who had occupied Sawyer Clark’s lap earlier. Seeing the
youngster, she disentangled herself from her chair and sashayed
over.

“
Hi there, boys. Where’d
you get this little rabbit?”

“
You got a few minutes for
him, don’t you, Gracie?”

“
Well, sure. I like ’em
young. They’re more polite. And they’re quick." She flipped her
shawl over her shoulder and surveyed her prospective customer.
“This one looks a mite scared, but we’ll get along just fine.” She
took his hand to pull him along.

The boy renewed his efforts to get away,
kicking over a spittoon in the process. But the miners only laughed
again and pushed him toward the stairs. Gracie stopped to take his
face between her hands, and leaned in to kiss him.

This had gone far enough, in Rankin’s
opinion. Disgusted, he scanned the saloon. While the customers in
the Magnolia watched with ardent interest, no one appeared inclined
to break this up. The two drunks who had been watching him from the
corner looked on with guarded interest but didn’t move. Damned
cowards, all of them. Obviously, Clem and his gang were just
fearsome enough to keep the men in this place from defending a
scared, unarmed kid. When the miners passed Rankin’s table, he
pushed back his chair and stood.

“
Let the boy
go.”

Gracie turned toward Rankin and uttered a
squeak. She looked at the boy again, as if really seeing him for
the first time. She dropped his hand and backed away.

Clem pushed his battered hat farther down on
his big, square head. “You’d best mind your own bidness, stranger.
We’re just having some fun with the little feller.”

Rankin considered the youth. His face was
the color of chalk. “He doesn’t seem like he’s having fun. Find
someone closer to your own size to push around.”

Clem looked him up and down. A sour, knowing
grin split his scarred face, revealing rotten teeth. “I guess that
wouldn’t be you, either, would it, runt?”

Like the wind sighing around the corners of
a house, a quiet, wordless moan rolled through the spectators. At
the surrounding tables, Rankin was aware of people rising and
inching toward the door before profound silence blanketed the
saloon. Sawyer Clark’s smirk flashed through his mind.

He stepped closer, staring unblinkingly into
the miner’s ugly face. Clem didn’t blink either.

Rankin heard Chester clear
his throat again, harshly, as though he had a quail egg stuck in
it. “Clem, this here is Jace Rankin—you know, the
bounty hunter
. He killed
a man in here today.”

Rankin felt all eyes focus on him, though
his own gaze remained fixed on the miner.

“
I ain’t scairt of no
son-of-a-bitchin’ bounty hunter,” Clem declared, but his eyelids
twitched.

“
You should be,” Rankin
whispered, and smiled slightly. Before the slow-moving Clem could
react, he drew his revolver and nudged the miner’s bearded chin
with its point.

It took all of Rankin’s willpower to keep
from backing up; the miner’s breath smelled as bad as an outhouse
in July. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the other miners
reaching for a long blade at his belt.

“
If your friend doesn’t let
go of the hilt of his knife, you’ll lose what’s left of your bottom
teeth when I blow off your jaw. I think Chester here will tell you
that I mean it.”

Chester nodded emphatically.

“
Now let the boy
go.”

The color seemed to drain from Clem’s face.
"Well . . . who gives a damn about this wet-tailed little pup,
anyway?" He turned the boy loose with a hard push. "Get the hell
out of here and go back to your mama.”

“
His gun?” Rankin reminded
him.

Clem nodded impatiently at one of his
cronies, who handed the boy his revolver. The kid grabbed it and
scrambled to pick up his hat.

Rankin stepped back and
holstered his own gun. "I hope you
gentlemen
won’t be giving Chester
any more trouble.” He glanced at the bartender, who watched with
wide eyes and a frozen expression. “He’s had a bad day.”

“
Come on, Clem,” one of
them mumbled. “This ain’t no fun anymore.”

“
No, it sure ain’t,” Clem
groused, scratching his chin where the gunpoint had pressed. “Let’s
go down to the China Doll. They don’t let kids hang around there to
pester people.” As a group, they turned and shuffled through the
swinging doors.

Following them to the door, Rankin watched
until they were far down the street, then he walked back to the
bar. Cutting a wide path around him, the customers finally returned
to their chairs.

The boy breathed a long, shaky sigh. His
eyes were red with choked-back tears. He dropped his head and
brushed at them impatiently. “Thanks,” he mumbled to Rankin. Then
with more vigor, “But I wasn’t scared! I coulda handled them.”

Rankin stared pointedly at the wet liquor
stain on the boy’s shirt, a memento of his ability to “handle” the
miners. He didn’t bother with a reply, but stepped around the slime
from the capsized spittoon and brushed past him.

He reached into his pocket and flipped a
silver dollar to Chester Sparks before walking back to the table to
retrieve his duster, his rifle, and the bottle of whiskey.

“
Y-you already paid me for
the whiskey, Mr. Rankin.” Chester held out the dollar as Rankin
walked past the bar.

“
Keep it. I’m going to the
hotel. Your place attracts too much trouble to suit me.”

Rankin stepped out into the lengthening
shadows on the sidewalk and lit a cheroot. The sun had dropped
behind the Owyhee Mountains but the street was still busy with
mules, wagons, teamsters, and miners, all headed, it seemed, to the
saloons and sporting houses here on Jordan Street. He leaned
against an upright, scanning the shadows around him and the faces
of approaching riders. Looking right and left was something he did
partly out of habit—a bounty hunter was always a target for
someone’s revenge. And partly because he felt directionless
tonight. He wasn’t sure which way to turn. Right now, he was
certain only that he wanted a clean bed and a quiet room. He headed
down the sidewalk toward the hotel. So much for celebrating.

“
Hey, Mr. Rankin, wait
up!”

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the same
pest he’d just left behind in the Magnolia. The boy’s tangle with
the miners apparently hadn’t taught him to leave well enough alone.
Rankin didn’t stop.

The boy jogged up alongside him in the
street, leading a good-looking dun. “Hey, wait a minute!” Out here
in the twilight, it was even more obvious there wasn’t much to the
kid. He had bones like a bird and no muscle to speak of—even Gracie
might have bested him. His clothes hung on him, and beneath the
dirt his face was smooth as a cue ball. Hell, his voice had barely
even changed. He looked he had probably always been the butt of
harassment and torment from older, bigger kids.

Rankin could empathize with that.

“
Shouldn’t you quit while
you’re ahead, kid?” grumbled. He glanced ahead at the hotel in the
distance, where yellow lamplight gleamed from the windows, and he
kept walking. The boy trotted to keep up with the pace Rankin
set.

“
My
name
is Kyle Springer. And I’ve got
business you. You’re the reason I was waitin’ outside the Magnolia
in the first place. I’ve been lookin’ for you for more than a
month.”

Oh, damn it, Rankin thought, consumed with
bitter weariness. He’d probably just saved the kid’s skinny neck so
that he could challenge him to a draw here in the street.

It didn’t happen often, but once in a while
some hothead got a yen for the kind of reputation that outgunning
Jace Rankin would bring. And this one was just a drip of a boy,
with pale skin and a few freckles to go with that red hair. Well,
he had to hand it to him—the kid might not have common sense, or
the brawn to make up for its lack, but he had grit.