emerged, lifting lazily in bawdy song. He liked her voice, liked her looks, and, judging from the expanse of creamy flesh exposed to the gazes of every one of the saloon’s occupants, she’d likely take his government money and lead him upstairs to a room.
That would be a good idea. He should definitely do that.
Still, he hesitated over tossing back the rest of his drink.
“Hey,” slurred the voice at his back again. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” A finger poked sharply into his shoulder. “Turn around, turncoat.”
Del froze, whiskey and woman forgotten, not facing his patently drunk accuser. “Careful what you say, friend.”
A snort. “I ain’t your friend. ’Cause I know who you are.” The words came out tauntingly singsong. “So turn ’round, damn it.” He hiccupped.
Turning on the stool was easy, Del having left his long coat at the boardinghouse due to the warm evening Red Creek was enjoying. It afforded him quicker, cleaner access to the gun at his hip, which might come in handy. Especially if this fool brought up the word turncoat again. “Can I help you?”
“Not unless—” The drunk paused to let a low belch escape out the side of his mouth. “Not unless you’re leaving town.”
“’Fraid not. Not today, anyway.”
The man was fairly short, but stocky to the point where Del couldn’t discern if he had a neck between his balding head and his wide shoulders. His clothes were worn and gray, and a bright red handkerchief peeked messily out of the placket of his shirt, between two buttons. With a craggy face, dark, squinted eyes and pale skin, he looked much as Del assumed a miner to look. The man probably swung heavy tools for hours per day—his thick musculature certainly hinted so.
Good thing Del had his pistol. Just in case things got complicated.
The drunk lifted a mug of some dark beverage to his mouth and took a long, sloppy gulp. “Read about you, y’know. In the papers. You fuckin’ ran away after Sherman slaughtered your men. All but you.”
Del’s body felt strange. Tense and stiff. “I know what happened.” This fool didn’t.
But the man appeared not to hear him. “Your company…” He made a wet sound with his tongue, probably meant to simulate the ugly squish of death. “And it wasn’t even winter yet, right? Fuckin’ war didn’t end ’til May, deserter.”
Teeth clenched, Del fought for control over his flexing fists. “You fight for the Confederate Army, friend ?”
The miner swayed where he stood as he shook his head. “Nah. Came out here for gold and missed the whole damn thing. But”—another hiccup—“it don’t matter if I’d worn blue or gray. Deserters still rank lower than cow shit. And then to…” He swayed again but managed to square his shoulders somehow and firm his jaw, unaware of the rage he was inspiring. “And then to start doing the Yankees’ bidding ’bout them savages?” He spat at Del’s boots.
Del snapped. All thoughts of using his gun faded as he lunged for the shorter, drunker man. His fist flew, connecting solidly with the miner’s cheekbone, but the man shook off the blow and grabbed for Del’s waist. The momentum took them both to the floor, Del landing squarely on his back as the man fell heavily atop him.
Scrambling to his knees, the miner backhanded him, snapping Del’s head to the side, and before he could bring his elbows up to jab his opponent’s vulnerable kidneys, the man’s ale mug smashed down on Del’s temple. Glass sliced into his skin, and he felt the hot slide of blood as it trickled down his cheek.
Thinking himself victorious, the man struggled to his feet with a rowdy yell, and that was his last mistake of the evening. Del dove forward to yank the miner’s legs out from under him, and as the miner fell with an “Oof!” to his back, Del knelt over him and gripped the front of his shirt, delivering one brain-scrambling punch, then another.
Just before the third, he yanked the man’s
That would be a good idea. He should definitely do that.
Still, he hesitated over tossing back the rest of his drink.
“Hey,” slurred the voice at his back again. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” A finger poked sharply into his shoulder. “Turn around, turncoat.”
Del froze, whiskey and woman forgotten, not facing his patently drunk accuser. “Careful what you say, friend.”
A snort. “I ain’t your friend. ’Cause I know who you are.” The words came out tauntingly singsong. “So turn ’round, damn it.” He hiccupped.
Turning on the stool was easy, Del having left his long coat at the boardinghouse due to the warm evening Red Creek was enjoying. It afforded him quicker, cleaner access to the gun at his hip, which might come in handy. Especially if this fool brought up the word turncoat again. “Can I help you?”
“Not unless—” The drunk paused to let a low belch escape out the side of his mouth. “Not unless you’re leaving town.”
“’Fraid not. Not today, anyway.”
The man was fairly short, but stocky to the point where Del couldn’t discern if he had a neck between his balding head and his wide shoulders. His clothes were worn and gray, and a bright red handkerchief peeked messily out of the placket of his shirt, between two buttons. With a craggy face, dark, squinted eyes and pale skin, he looked much as Del assumed a miner to look. The man probably swung heavy tools for hours per day—his thick musculature certainly hinted so.
Good thing Del had his pistol. Just in case things got complicated.
The drunk lifted a mug of some dark beverage to his mouth and took a long, sloppy gulp. “Read about you, y’know. In the papers. You fuckin’ ran away after Sherman slaughtered your men. All but you.”
Del’s body felt strange. Tense and stiff. “I know what happened.” This fool didn’t.
But the man appeared not to hear him. “Your company…” He made a wet sound with his tongue, probably meant to simulate the ugly squish of death. “And it wasn’t even winter yet, right? Fuckin’ war didn’t end ’til May, deserter.”
Teeth clenched, Del fought for control over his flexing fists. “You fight for the Confederate Army, friend ?”
The miner swayed where he stood as he shook his head. “Nah. Came out here for gold and missed the whole damn thing. But”—another hiccup—“it don’t matter if I’d worn blue or gray. Deserters still rank lower than cow shit. And then to…” He swayed again but managed to square his shoulders somehow and firm his jaw, unaware of the rage he was inspiring. “And then to start doing the Yankees’ bidding ’bout them savages?” He spat at Del’s boots.
Del snapped. All thoughts of using his gun faded as he lunged for the shorter, drunker man. His fist flew, connecting solidly with the miner’s cheekbone, but the man shook off the blow and grabbed for Del’s waist. The momentum took them both to the floor, Del landing squarely on his back as the man fell heavily atop him.
Scrambling to his knees, the miner backhanded him, snapping Del’s head to the side, and before he could bring his elbows up to jab his opponent’s vulnerable kidneys, the man’s ale mug smashed down on Del’s temple. Glass sliced into his skin, and he felt the hot slide of blood as it trickled down his cheek.
Thinking himself victorious, the man struggled to his feet with a rowdy yell, and that was his last mistake of the evening. Del dove forward to yank the miner’s legs out from under him, and as the miner fell with an “Oof!” to his back, Del knelt over him and gripped the front of his shirt, delivering one brain-scrambling punch, then another.
Just before the third, he yanked the man’s
Similar Books
