Risk

By Doc

Part One

Johnny grabbed the pitch fork and stabbed a pile of wet straw. Somebody, probably the boss, had moved the horses into the corral and filled the trough with water, but the stalls looked—and smelled—like they hadn't been cleaned in a week.

Which was about how long he'd been in jail.

Swallowing a groan, he tossed the mess into the wheelbarrow. He wasn't sure how long he'd hold up. At least there was a slimy bucket of water in the next stall; no dipper, but he could dunk his cupped hands in and drink that way. It helped a little.

Even though he didn't fill the wheelbarrow anywhere near as full as usual, it was still a struggle to roll it to the manure pile behind the barn. He stopped to catch his breath before he upended it.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Johnny looked around, and the boss whistled. "That's quite a shiner you got there, boy."

"Yeah." Pride kicked in; Johnny strong-armed the contents of the barrow into the pile.

"So what are you doing here?"

Johnny licked his lips. "Workin'."

The livery owner shook his head. "You don't work here anymore. I can't use a boy who don't show up."

"Look, Mr. Jessop, I'd have been here if I could." Johnny kept his head down. I can't lose this job. I can't lose this one.

"That don't feed the stock and you know it."

Nodding made his head throb, but he did it anyway. "I know. They wouldn't let me send word."

"You in jail all this time?"

"Just got out."

"Looks like they worked you over pretty good."

Was there a hint of sympathy in the man's voice? Jessop blew out a bunch of air. "Up to now you been real reliable. But I just can't have it."

"I know. I know. But honest, I need this job." Johnny kicked at some horse shit that had fallen out of the barrow.

The boss peered closely at him. "I don't hear you say it won't happen again."

Johnny's temper flared. He raised his chin to meet the man's eyes straight on. "It was a fair fight. I didn't go looking for it, but I won't run if someone brings it to me."

"Now, see, that's the trouble, son. Kids like you always say that. It's gonna get you killed someday, you know that, don't ya?" Mr. Jessop reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it to Johnny. "Here. You earned this last week when you still worked here. Now get out."

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Johnny caught the coin and stared at it, wondering if there was anything he could say to change the man's mind.

Nope. He wouldn't beg. Screw Jessop. He spat on the ground and walked away.

҉҉҉҉҉

Jessop's coin bought him a couple shots of rye on the Mexican side of town, and those shots of rye snagged him the free lunch. Pickled eggs, sliced beef, onions, salted peanuts, celery—Johnny loaded it all on his plate, skipping anything he couldn't put a name to.

On his second trip the barman, balancing a tray of on his arm, sniffed. "You got a hollow leg, there, boy? Damned if I can't figure out where you're putting it all." Johnny studied the new dishes the man set on the board. When he put more meat and pickles on his plate, the fellow motioned with his elbow. "Try the oysters."

"Which ones are oysters?"

The bartender pointed to a pan of something coated in a batter and fried in butter. Johnny scooped up a couple and added them to his plate. One careful bite and he was sold; he added a spoonful more.

"A feller might think you don't know where your next meal is comin' from." The barkeep grinned on his way back to the kitchen.

And wasn't that the truth. Johnny ate until he was fit to bust. Then he took the change from his drinks and headed for the faro game in the back.

He hit on his very first round; suddenly he didn't hurt so bad. Johnny moved his chips to a different card for the next round, and almost whooped when he won again. He'd doubled his money. Maybe his luck was about to change.

But when he glanced across the faro table he recognized the guys who'd beat him up last night—the big guy who'd knocked him against the bars and the little shit in the adjoining cell who managed to grab hold of his wrists behind his back, through the bars. Johnny had pulled his knees up to kick the big guy where it counted, but that only made him mad. By the time the deputy showed up and moved the bastard to another cell, Johnny lay in a heap on the floor.

Johnny pulled his hat back on and tugged the brim as low as he could. He wasn't sure why they'd targeted him last night, but he could do without a repeat performance. He tried to be invisible when he reached out to move his chips to his new bet.

Except the dealer turned the next two cards before he did and he lost it all.

When things go to hell, move to another town; maybe his mama had been on to something. Johnny used to hate moving, but now it seemed to be the best solution to a bad situation. But god, he hated walking. His ribs and his black eye throbbed with every step. The burlap bag he kept his gear in scratched where it rubbed against his arm; the afternoon sun was already heading for the mountains; and he was a good four miles from the next town. He'd be sleeping on the ground tonight.

Or maybe not. The clippity clop of little hooves sounded behind him just before a donkey trotted by, pulling a cart driven by a shriveled up old man. Johnny waved him down.

"Hola, señor. Any chance I can catch a lift?"

The old man stared at him, stone-faced, while the glare he got from the donkey made him want to apologize to it. Finally the old man nodded.

"Gracias, amigo. Muchas gracias." Johnny hopped into the cart as the driver slapped the donkey with a stick. The donkey tossed his head in a definite "fuck you" that made Johnny smile.

An hour or so later he hopped off the cart with an "oof" and waved his thanks to the driver. The old man hadn't said a word on the journey, but he raised his stick in salute and continued on his way.

҉҉҉҉҉

Johnny walked a few blocks, working the soreness out of his muscles, before he found the bars and bawdy houses. Since he started hiring his gun—nearly a whole year, now—his best leads came from whores and bartenders. But how could he approach a barkeep when he couldn't even buy himself a beer? And he sure as hell couldn't afford a whore.

So, what did he have to lose? Squaring his shoulders, he pushed into the first saloon he came to. He stood inside the door checking the men drinking and playing cards; then he walked up to the bar with as much of a swagger as he could manage. The gringo bartender raised his eyebrows high and planted his hands on the bar.

"What happened to you?"

Damn the black eye. Kind of hard to present yourself as a gunfighter when your eye was nearly swollen shut.

"I walked into a door. Listen, I'm looking for the man interested in hiring my gun. I'm Johnny Madrid."

No one answered, but the man behind the bar straightened up.

"It was that fella who lives near the edge of town, you know the one who's been having some trouble lately." Shooting in the dark now, Johnny boy. Nothing to lose.

The bartender's mouth twitched a little. "You mean Lester?"

Bullseye. "Yeah, that's the guy. Lester. He been asking for me?"

The barkeeper's eyes narrowed. "No. Lester drinks at the Water Hole."

Johnny snapped his fingers. "That's the place. The Water Hole. Sorry to bother you. Thank you kindly." He tried to look like he knew where he was going as he walked out.

The late afternoon streets were packed with wagons and horses. The general stores advertised picks and shovels. There was more than one land office, and the biggest building on the main street was topped with a huge sign that bent around the corner. The side Johnny was on read "…ing Company Store". The other side was the beginning of the sign. "Butterick Min…." So this was a mining town, and Butterick Mining Company was the big dog.

Working in a mine had always been Johnny's idea of hell. His stepfather had done some mining when he was young, and his stories of days spent digging underground convinced Johnny he could never work in a mine. Neither could Papa, it turned out. He quit mining for farming.

Johnny finally had to ask where The Water Hole was. Turns out he'd walked past it once without seeing it there on the edge of town. It was nothing but a hole in the wall—a cave carved into wall of rock, with the name scratched above it, hardly visible. There wasn't a door, just a matted, smelly buffalo hide hanging in an opening.

Johnny hesitated to touch the pelt, but he moved it aside and stepped in. He had to wait a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. What little light there was came from flickering oil lamps on tables lined up against the far wall.

No one was there except three men flicking cards into an upturned hat. They'd moved the lantern to make room for the hat, so it was hard to make out their faces. The man closest to Johnny sported a mustache with the ends waxed up in a twirl. He was fleshier than the others, looked older than them and less like a working man. They all stared at Johnny without missing a toss of their cards.

"Any of you gents name of Lester?"

The snap of the cards stopped. The man with the mustache pushed his chair back a little. "Who wants to know?"

"I do."

Johnny paused to make his next words to count, but Mustache plowed over him. "What happened to your eye?"

"Ran into a door." Damn Mustache for ruining his big announcement. "I asked about Lester. I heard he was looking to hire a gun. I'm Johnny Madrid."

Mustache sniffed. "Lester's hiring guns now?"

"Maybe. You know where I can find him?"

Mustache's eyes narrowed into a hard, knowing look. The clicking sound Johnny heard might have been the hammer of a gun being cocked under the table.

Johnny stepped back, raising his hands away from his own gun. "Easy, mister. I just asked a question."

Mustache stood up and limped out from behind the table, pistol in hand. "Don't you know who I am, boy?"

Shaking his head, Johnny backed up all the way to the opening in the wall, thinking he'd be lucky to get out of this in one piece.

"I'm one of the men Lester is disputing with. And if you're the best he can do for a gunfighter, I reckon we've got nothin' to worry about."

One of the other fellas snickered. "Good one, Junior."

Johnny summoned up a soft laugh. "Well, I guess you're entitled to your opinion."

He reached behind him with his left hand, catching the buffalo hide to lift it on his way out. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Junior turning back to his friends at the table, smirking and lowering his gun. In that heartbeat Johnny spun as he pulled his own Colt, shot the hat full of cards off the table, and holstered his weapon before the men had time to react.

"Wanna reconsider?" Johnny tried not to grin, but he couldn't help it. Cards fluttered down over the floor. When one caught in the bartender's hair he slapped it away, cursing.

Junior and his friends gaped. "Damn, boy, that was stupid." Junior limped over to the foot of the bar to pick up the hat. He waggled his finger through the bullet hole.

"This is my ten-dollar hat. You damn well better have ten bucks to replace it, 'cause if you don't I'm gonna take it out of your hide."

Ten dollars? What was a loser named Junior doing with a ten-dollar hat? Then again, as broke as Johnny was it might as well have been a hundred.

Johnny stood up straight. "No, friend, I don't have it just now. But I came to this town for a job, and since I haven't found Lester yet, I can work for you in this fracas. First two days will cover the ten dollars for the hat. After that we can talk."

Junior laughed. "You got more guts than brains, and that's the truth. You owe me ten dollars, so you go do whatever you got to do to come up with the money." He leaned unsteadily toward Johnny and jabbed a finger in the air. "You've got til tomorrow, at noon, right here. And if you're not here with the money, like I said…I'll take it out of your hide. I know everybody in this town, and there's nowhere for you to run. Now get out of my sight."

Junior turned away, and Johnny backed out of the bar, cursing to himself. Stop showing off, Madrid. Now some pendejo named Junior is watching everything you do because of a ten-dollar hat.

TBC