Harper's Blood
Chapter One
His spurs jangled and clinked as the pair of boots that they were fastened to moved steadily along the boardwalk in a direct aim toward the hotel. He wasn't familiar with the town, as it was just another spot on a map of Wyoming Territory, but at least for the night, it would provide for him a bed. The door creaked on a rusty hinge as he entered, bringing a set of spectacled eyes to rest on his frame as he stepped forward, keeping him fully in sight as he stopped in front of the register. Aside from a decent layer of trail dust that clung to him from head to foot, he knew the scrutiny coming from the opposite side of the counter was taking note of his features, the dark hair that curled slightly underneath the rim of his hat, his lean, yet muscular frame, the color of his eyes and the shape of his jaw. With a request for a back room, as they were often the most quiet, the clerk pushed an inkwell in his direction and as he took the pen in hand, he signed his name, without flourish or flair, but using his given handle, J. Harper.
There wasn't much in the stuffy room to keep his interest, so with a brief look in the mirror as he ran his hand over the stubble that would get shaved off before he flattened himself on the floral printed bedding once it became a darkened hour, he left the hotel room and his feet found the dirt again that belonged to the street. He stretched a few kinks loose in his back up to his shoulders and then with a sweeping glance up and down the boardwalk he picked the nearest saloon, as the town boasted two similar ramshackle establishments, to head for. With a friendly pat to his mount as he passed by where the faithful horse was tied to a hitching post, his spurs began to clank once more as he hurried his pace to where the enticing smell of booze wafted from.
He paused at the swinging doors and looked around the interior of the room, a necessary inspection that came naturally for him to do to before stepping all of the way inside similar buildings, and then entered. He slapped a coin on the bar with a black gloved hand, keeping it covered longer than deemed necessary, perhaps in a gesture that seemed to say that he was reluctant to part with the money, yet the fiery liquid would merit the loss of what jingled the loudest on his body, what was in his pocket. The glass was emptied with a pinched face and a shudder and as he fought the desire to have another, he turned around to lean his back against the bar, his eyes being drawn to a corner table where a group of men were fully engaged in a poker game. Intrigued, he stepped closer, his hand wrapping around the meager supply of money that remained in his possession, debating its fate that might become multiplied, or fully depleted.
He'd learned to play, and cheat, in his Texas homeland and had been touted as one of the best at the game, but he'd let the skill wane the past few years as life took several different turns. He knew he could still win, and there was a taste for winning in his mouth, or perhaps it was only the remnant of the whiskey that he'd downed, but it was there, and it took him to the empty chair where he was welcomed and quickly dealt in. Poker players liked fresh blood, mostly the money that came with the newcomer, but never a cheater, and there was definitely one in their midst, and this time, it wasn't him.
It was the fifth hand and he was down to his final coin, but he didn't sweat over its landing on the growing pile in the middle of the table. If there were beads of moisture on his face, and there were several dots sprinkling his forehead, they were formed by the tension that hung around him, and nothing else. He knew he would win because he'd been dealt three aces, one from the top, two from the bottom, not to mention the double fives that were slid alongside the highest rank. If the dealer was making a mistake or just liked his tenacious game face and wished to see it alight with a smile, he didn't know and wasn't about to ask. A good poker player learned to never toss a question on top of the pot when it was all on the line, especially when he wasn't the only one that had gone all in.
When the final man in the circle of players gave an assertive nod, it seemed as if everyone was holding their breath as one by one, each man revealed a handful of cards. Across from him there were two ladies together with two tens. The next man in the sequence around the table had long since folded, but kept a sharp gaze trained on the hand that was nearest, the one to the hopeful winner's right, his biggest threat. The revealing brought a flush, from the hand, and in the cheeks as it was thought that his palms would become filled with the large lot in the table's center, but it wouldn't beat his full house. When his own cards were displayed amidst a few groans, his eyes went to the man to his left, who slapped a pair of kings roughly down in disgust, the intense facial expression that was set in place clearly indicated that somehow he'd been duped. In that moment it was realized that the three aces that had made him the now despised winner had been meant for the man with the king duo. It wasn't the first time an attempt at cheating had been flubbed, after all, this wasn't a town the size of Abilene or Laredo where experts abounded, but a smaller than average town that would only gain interest in amateurs. Either way, he'd take it, and he stood to gather his winnings.
"You cheated, Mister," this came from the unnamed man who'd held the lonely set of kings.
"How?" His voice was quite sharp for uttering a single word.
"I don't know," the accusing man abruptly pushed his chair back, the legs squeaking against the dingy saloon floor and then he stood, "but I'm aiming to find out."
"He dealt 'em," his head nodded toward the dealer as he chased the last three coins across the table and dropped them in his pocket.
"Are you saying I don't know how to deal?"
He wanted to say it, but he didn't. A cheater that didn't know how to properly cheat, leaving his partner in crime a sore loser, but making a stranger all the more richer, he didn't need to point out the obvious for the entire room to see. With a smile he tipped his hat, ready to leave, but when a rush of air was exhaled from the amateurish dealer, his instincts kicked into high gear and his hand came to rest in a close direction with his gun. His eyes, ones that he knew could turn into the steeliest of blue shot first as they made contact with a gaping gaze across from him, showing he was ready for the challenge and he could clearly see that it wouldn't be accepted. His professional stance could strike fear into the most seasoned outlaw and as it was already established in his mind that this other man was something akin to being incompetent, the back down happened immediately, but the partner might be something altogether different.
He stepped backward, gun still all the ready, yet fully intending on exiting the saloon without firing the weapon, that is, if everyone else did the same. He knew he garnered the entire room's attention, it wasn't just in their stares but in the murmurs that started in no particular corner, all aiming in his direction. The whispers heightened as he turned and moved away, but all he could make out amongst the hushed tones were three words, strangely hitting on an accurate descriptive of the type of man he really was, a cowboy, a gunman, and a scoundrel. The result of their musings wasn't going to let him find natural daylight anytime soon.
"Hold it."
The command from behind him brought a bristle to his spine and without reluctance, he stopped and turned around. Avoiding violence wasn't going to happen after all, especially now that a man that had been wronged was bound to create a fight, one that he wasn't afraid to enter. He was ready for the draw, as he could say he hadn't set aside the preparedness on his short walk toward the saloon door and he was ready to win, never willing to lose. But in all gunfights, there would always have to be one of both. He knew he was fast, sometimes too fast, and this time it was no different. His gun was aimed and fired before the opposing pistol even fully broke free from its holster, but when the bullet pierced man dropped face down on the floor, the trigger would be pulled again.
Reflexes, it was often said his were impeccable, but this time as he fired another round, he'd taken the impulse too quickly from a flinch of a different hand. There was a glass of whiskey left untouched on the table nearest him and he brought it to his lips to chase down the bitterness that settled in his mouth as it did every time he was forced to take a life. The moment he swallowed, he'd known what he'd done as his eyes, supposedly just as experienced as his gun hand, saw something that they'd missed before. The unprofessional card dealer was unarmed and was now on the floor, nothing left to call him but a dead man.
Just for a moment he stood in stunned stillness, the reality of what literally lay before him sending a chill down his backbone. He'd killed two men. With the exception of friends and relations that would mourn a loss, the man that had been dropped in self defense wouldn't be the one that was remembered in as much significance as the other, for it was the unarmed man where the attention would be centered. His death was plain and simply described as murder and he had been the one to pull the trigger, which would make him plain and simply described as the murderer. And nothing about it had been done in secrecy.
That was when he made the choice to run. Not a man that remained in the saloon had the fortitude to take on his fast gun after what had just been witnessed, so his feet were free to move without dodging heroic bullets as he fled the scene, bursting through the saloon doors and out into the street in a rush. His hands gripped the reins of his horse as his foot touched the stirrup, the animal sent into motion before his backside even touched the saddle. As the hooves kicked up clouds of dust underneath him in his harried escape, he glanced behind at the town that wouldn't be forgetting him anytime soon, for he'd left more than just a couple of bodies to bury there. He'd left part of himself, too. People had seen his face, heard his voice, and the most identifying factor remained permanently etched at the hotel where he'd signed his name, at least with an initial in front of his last. It was all more than enough to get a wanted poster printed with his details on it. That fact didn't disturb him, at least not much, for at different times, both his name and face had been found on posters before.