Susan Amarillas - Wyoming Renegade

“Davy Gibson?” the barman replied. He was cleaning a glass with a grimy-looking towel that needed to spend a couple of hours in the company of hot water and soap.

“Yeah, Davy Gibson,” Josh repeated, taking in the new information. “He around?”

The barman seemed more interested in the glass he was wiping than in conversation.

Behind Josh, a round of laughter came from a group of cowboys, and he turned with heart-slamming speed, his hand instinctively resting on his gun. It took a couple of seconds to realize the man was busy telling tall tales to his pals and totally unaware of Josh. He willed his heart rate down to something less than a stampede pace and focused on the bartender, who still hadn’t answered his damn question.

“About Gibson?” he prompted, struggling to keep his anger in check. Lord, he was tired and he wanted to end this—today, if the spirits allowed. He hoped like hell they did.

The barman held up another glass toward the window as though studying it. He talked as he worked. “I know Gibson. What of it?”

“Like I said, he around?”

“How the hell should I know?” He called to a cowboy nearby. “Hey, any you boys seen Gibson from over at the bank?”

“Heard he left town,” one called back.

Like air to a flame, Josh’s temper flared. “Damn.” He fixed the bartender with an icy stare. “You sure he’s gone?” He couldn’t keep the flinty edge out of his voice. At least it was sharp enough that the bartender stopped what he was doing.

“Well—” he put the glass down on the shelf behind the bar “—that’s what the man said, didn’t he, or are you deaf?” He braced both hands on the wood, arms straight, revealing a beer stain on the sleeve of his dingy white shirt.

“But you don’t know for certain,” Josh pressed. He didn’t want maybes, he wanted answers. He wanted the bastard Gibson squared off in front of him in what would be a fair fight—fair as it could be, considering that Josh knew he was faster with a gun than most men.

“Hell, how many times I gotta say it, mister?” The bartender spoke as though he were talking to a child. “I ain’t seen him around.” He made a sweeping gesture. “So… I figure… he must be gone. That clear enough for you?”

Meanness was fast overtaking patience. This guy’s smug attitude was grating on Josh’s nerves and he was beginning to warm to the idea of rearranging the man’s face.

“Well, where the hell did he go?”

“Hey, what am I, his mother? He sure as hell didn’t come in here and say goodbye, if that’s what you mean.” He gave a cocky laugh and started to turn away.

One second Josh was thinking about his sister and the men he’d killed, the man he would kill, and the next second he was reaching over the bar and dragging this grimy weasel toward him.

All sound in the room ceased. Wisely no one moved.

In a voice, deadly cold and hard as a Montana winter, Josh said, “Now, you little runt, you tell me where the hell he went or so help me—” he pulled the squirming barman up a little closer “—I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

The man’s blue eyes bulged in his head. He opened his mouth to speak but the only sound was a gurgling, like a man dangling at the end of a rope.

Josh loosened his grip a fraction, then shook the barman hard enough to make him groan. The man’s beady eyes darted around the room, searching for escape or for help. Neither was an option.

“I…” He pried at Josh’s hands, his dirty fingernails digging into the flesh. Josh hardly noticed. Muscles along his shoulders tensed. Tendons in his back pulled wire tight. His breath came in hard, shallow gulps of smoke-filled air.

“I…” The barman wheezed again. “I don’t…know nothin’.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Check at the bank.”

“What bank, dammit?” His fingers were still twisted in the man’s shirtfront. There was the distinct sound of cotton ripping.

“City Bank o’ course.” The bartender’s hands pried at Josh’s fingers again. “Gibson worked at the damned bank!”

Josh had what he wanted. He released the man so suddenly, he half fell, half staggered back. Wide-eyed, the barman sidestepped away and pushed his crumpled shirt back into place.

“Say, mister, you ain’t got no call to do that,” the barman muttered, sounding a lot less smug than a few minutes ago. He raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “Davy owe you money or somethin’?”

“Or something.” Josh tossed back the whiskey and winced. He threw a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. “For your trouble.”

No one said a word as he strode for the doors.

Outside, standing on the boardwalk, he took a deep breath, then another.

He glanced over his shoulder at the saloon. Damn, Colter, you’re losing it.

Yeah, well, killing did funny things to a man. Lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He hadn’t slept in weeks, or at least it felt that way. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his sister’s bloodied, lifeless body. Even now, if he—

Stop it! You’re doing no one any good like this!

Now there was a truth if he ever heard one.

Okay, so the bastard is gone. You’ll find him.

Hand clutching the rough wood of the porch post, he stood there, letting the sun warm his body through the blue wool of his shirt.

All things in time, he told himself.

Slowly his muscles uncoiled, first in his shoulders, then his back. His heart, like his body, responded to the gentle warmth of the sun. People moved past him. Across the street, two children chased a calico cat. The sights and sounds of everyday life filled in and they, too, calmed him.

He swung down off the walk and went to where his horse was tied. Tossing up the stirrup, he made as though he were checking the cinch while he rested his head against the saddle; the sun-heated leather felt good against his forehead and cheek.

Like a gallows-bound man given a last-minute reprieve, the reality of the situation filtered into his mind. There would be no killing today. How long he stood there, he wasn’t exactly sure. When he lifted his head, he knew he was in control again. He waited another minute, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his horse’s neck as he did, letting the trembling in his fingers cease, taking solace from the touch of another living thing. Death and grief made a man seek out the living, if only to confirm that he, too, was alive.

Lifting his head, he glanced at the horse, which had craned his neck around to stare at his master. Josh managed a ghost of a smile. “Yes, I know. Don’t look so worried.”

The ‘horse shook his head, whether in disgust or agreement, Josh wasn’t sure.

“Well, boy,” he mumbled, dropping the stirrup back in place, hearing the leather creak,’ “let’s go ask a few more questions.” He glanced around and spotted the bank at the end of town, and then his gaze settled on the hotel. “You know, Sundown, I think I’ll get a room for the night. I haven’t slept in a bed since I left the ranch.”

A buckboard rattled past, a man and a young boy perched on the seat, the boy loudly asking if he could have a licorice whip at the mercantile.

It all seemed so normal, so easy, so safe. Josh smiled: for the first time in days, weeks, probably, he smiled. It felt good, human. He dragged in a deep breath and swung up onto the saddle. A sage-scented breeze ruffled his hair along his collar and he adjusted his hat more comfortably on his head.

He glanced over at the hotel again as though it were a sanctuary, and he was suddenly anxious for a refuge. Business first, though, he told himself as he reined over and headed for the bank.