Chapter Six
Jess
The town of Forest Hill was bursting at the seams on a Friday night. The Chisholm Trail cutting through brought in cattlemen, and wild-eyed cow pushers on holiday from the drive, causing it to boom in population and commerce. The saloons, however, had yet to catch up with the growth. There were three of them down the main street, and there could easily be double that to accommodate the number of customers on a weekend. Each establishment was filled to capacity, with barely enough room to shoulder in for a drink at the bar.
Jess rode up to the one called The Canteen just after dark and patted the rump of a handsome buckskin with a B Bar brand to make room for Midnight's reins at the hitching post. The smell of vast herds of cattle bedded down for the night in the near distance wafted over the town. The scent was overpowered, though, by the aroma of liquor so close to the saloon. Loud laughter, discordant piano playing, and raucous shouts drifted through the batwings, and he took a minute or two to drink it all in and focus his mind on the upcoming task. Muttering a soft prayer beneath his breath, he slid the pistol in and out of its holster out of habit, stepped onto the boardwalk, and then through the swinging doors to be bathed in false light upon entering.
He slid a little to the right of the entrance, hat brim low, and scanned the room. The lively, wild bar might have been appealing a year ago, but the only space that beckoned these days was the Big Open and the solitude and freedom it promised. The place was an assault to the senses: loud noises, the bright, jarring colors of revealing dresses, the smell of sweat, smoke that burns the eyes, and most potently, the reek of alcohol, fresh and old.
Through the haze of smoke, at the back of the room, seated around a green-felt, circular table, he spied the men for whom he looked. Two of them were recognizable, and the other three he didn't know. A girl hung over the shoulders of one; another sat in the lap of the tall, lanky gun hand he recognized as Utah Black. The man managed to have swagger and look dangerous even while draped in a chair.
Casting a glance toward the clock above the bar, Jess decided to ease toward the crowded space and order a drink. It was too early to make his presence known just yet.
"Beer," he called when the barkeep finally made his way over. He nursed the frothy glass, relishing the taste of the dark, golden liquid sliding down his dry throat. The man to his right was loud and drunk, giving him an occasional jostle, but he ignored it and glanced at the clock once more as his glass emptied.
"Hey there, handsome." The rehearsed-sounding greeting was right in his ear, shrill against the loud hub of background noise. The provocative address came from a girl in a black-fringed, red dress that looked as though it managed to keep her chest covered only by a wing and a prayer. She dropped a pale, sculpted arm over his shoulder and leaned in on him. Her perfume was strong and heady. "Buy me a drink, honey?"
"Maybe some other time," Jess said noncommittally and more gruffly than intended. He glanced at himself in the mirror situated above and behind the bar. The face that looked back was haunted and drawn, dark, in contrast to the fair-skinned, painted dove hanging around his neck.
"Suit yourself," she whined, clearly miffed that he turned her down. "You're nothing but a no-good, broke cowpoke, anyway, just like the rest of the lousy two-bits in here." She stalked off to find another two-bit to prey on, and at a glance back up at the mirror; his eyes went wide with surprise.
"Hello, Jess. I knew ya saw me soon as you walked in. Weren't you even gonna say howdy?"
Utah Black. The man wedged himself up against the bar beside him.
"You sure got fast feet," Jess greeted, thinking that he must remember to play it smart and safe with the man. Utah never did let anything get past him. He should have known the gun hand spotted him as soon as he stepped in the door. "I was workin' my way up to looking at your ugly face, Utah.'' He bared his teeth in a smile. "A man needs a drink in his system before he can face sumthin like that."
"Hah!" The tall man laughed, setting his glass on the bar and dropping a long arm over Jess's shoulders before giving them a friendly pat. "I've missed you, Jess boy. Thought you was in lock-up at the Territorial, though? Heard they gave you a solid chunk of time for putting to good use that lightning gun hand of yours."
"Just got out,"
"Kinda early, ain't it?"
"Yep, finally had a witness come forward and say it wasn't me that drew first," Jess lied with practiced ease. His hand dropped to his gun butt and toyed with the polished handle. "Wasted, Utah. I can't never get back what they stole from me in that place." Bitterness dripped from his tongue; there was no lie or act about that.
Utah eased back a little and studied the face of the man he once knew well. "Yeah, I heard about that gunfight. The man you killed was a big shot, rich man's kid. So, I knew then you'd go down for the killin', though I know you better than to think it was nothing less than a fair fight. Didn't surprise me none, hearing you got hit with some heavy time of the hard labor variety."
"I didn't go willin', that's for dadgum sure."
"I don't doubt that," Utah snorted, "like tryin' to cage a wildcat." But his expression turned to put-on concern. "You're lookin' a mite peaked, pal. A bit worse for wear, Jess. Yer gut-shrunk, for sure."
"It weren't eight months layin' in a bed of rose petals; I can tell ya that," Jess rasped.
"The boss man was none-to-happy with you pulling out like you did, you know?"
Jess studied the nicks and grooves in the stained wood of the bar. "Sure," he said slowly, "I know it."
"Then what in blazes are you doing back here?"
"Didn't have no other job prospects. It's slim pickens for an ex-convict fresh as me. Any chance he'd take me back on as a gun, or even just a cowhand? I hear the spread has grown some, doubled in size, even. Thought maybe there might be work for me. That is if Huddleston ain't itchin' to nail my hide to the wall. Is he, Utah? Is he that burned up about me pullin' out back then? The man and his loyalty…." he trailed off.
Utah gave a slow smile that creased his handsome face. He was about five years older than Jess and one of Huddleston's top hands.
Both sets of eyes darted up, though, and they turned to face the entrance. The din in the room quieted to a low hum of what it was before. The sheriff, standing straight and potbellied, had just walked into the room backed by two deputies that fanned out on either side of him like a peacock spreading out its tail feathers.
Right on time, Jess thought, sizing up Sheriff Jake Talbott to form an opinion. The loosely-built, shabby-looking officer of the law was no Milo Malone. But Milo trusted the man, and that was enough for Jess to know he could trust him as well.
"Should'a checked that weapon at the sheriff's office, Jess," Utah whispered down and gave him a mean grin that promised trouble before slapping his hollowed-out stomach amiably.
Jess let out an apprehensive groan, "You could'a told me a dadburn minute sooner," he hissed, shifting his hat down a little lower. He turned back and bellied up closer to the bar, trying to move his body, so the pistol was hidden a bit behind Utah's leg. The man accommodated him by scooting his long chaps-clad leg a little closer.
It seemed that the sheriff and his men were just checking the place out because, like schoolmarms scowling down at their pupils on test day, they strolled from table to table, making everyone nervous.
Jess grimaced while watching through the mirror as a deputy hauled a man to his feet and dragged him out the door for wearing a gun at the hip.
"Uh oh. Yer done for, compadre. You just thought you was finished staring at iron bars," Utah said, with a teasing laugh in his voice.
Jess groaned again, "Glad you think it's funny," and buried his face in his hands, elbows propped on the bar. It was then that a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, and his head climbed up in dread that wasn't necessarily false to see the sheriff standing behind him. He felt the gun at his side lifted from its holster.
"You won't be needing this, cowboy," the man said and used that heavy hand to spin him around so that his back was against the wooden edge of the counter. Jess reacted with anger and shoved the hand aside. "Lay off, lawman!" The words came out in a loud, threatening growl and drew the attention of those nearest.
A relaxed Utah, clearly enjoying the distress of his old friend, still smiled infuriatingly beside him. "Take it easy, Jess. Seems you still got that temper and knack for trouble," he said, lifting his hands and backing away like he was washing his hands of any involvement with the volatile cowboy.
But Jess had his attention on the sheriff who had the gun he just took leveled at his stomach.
"We don't cotton much to trouble makers in this town, son, nor those who can't read. Didn't you take notice of the sign that says 'Check your gun at my office before entering a drinking establishment?'"
Jess did not have time to form an answer or excuse before Talbott said, "Say... don't I know you from someplace?"
"Reckon not," Jess hurried out, head ducked, so the hat hid his face.
The sheriff looked doubtful and seemed as though he was trying to pin down how he knew him.
"Where'd you say you were from, cowboy?"
"I didn't,' came the short reply.
A moment of clarity widened the lawman's eyes. "Hands where I can see 'em, boy. Carl!" He yelled to the remaining deputy. "Better make your way over here!"
Complying, Jess raised his hands, and all of a sudden, there was a wide berth around him as everyone nearby cleared the space. Much of the attention in the saloon was directed toward him then. Heart thudding against the cage of his ribs, he could not help the fatalistic feeling creeping up inside, even though he knew better than to let it take hold. This was all just an act. Talbott was doing a convincing job playing his part, and it felt too real, making Jess skittish.
Carl, the deputy, made it over, coming to a wary halt beside the sheriff.
"Care to try that again, son?"
"What's that, sheriff?" Jess drawled, sounding much less concerned than he felt.
"The part where you tell me that I don't know you from any place."
Jess chewed on his lip, looked evasive, and responded, "That part, huh?"
"Yeah, that part, lame brain. Because if I'm not mistaken, I've seen your scowlin' face before. You better start wagging that tongue of yours, pronto, 'cause I for dang sure know you ain't no outstandin' citizen."
"You're awful fast at jumpin' to bad conclusions, lawman," Jess growled but then let out a sigh of something like defeat. His thumbs started their nervous dance. "Maybe on some old wanted poster, someplace," he finally admitted in a low, bit-off breath.
A murmur of voices cascaded amongst those nearest in the room, and the deputy drew his gun, too.
"That's what I thought." It was the sheriff's turn to drawl. "Jess Harper, is it?"
Jess nodded in quilty acquiescence and flashed eyes at Utah standing nearby, watching the scene unfold with interest and infuriating amusement. "Look, all that's over and done with. I've done my time, see? Paid for it in sweat, if yer wantin' to know. They let me out of the Territorial a week ago. I ain't wanted anymore."
"I'd like to see some proof of that, Mr. Jess Harper."
Jess made a move toward his right-side back pocket but stopped halfway there as the sheriff hammered his gun and warned, "Easy!"
"Just reaching for that proof you asked me for, Sheriff. I ain't got a derringer stashed up under my petticoat or nothing."
A few quiet chuckles made their way through the bystanders at that.
Not to be outmatched, the older man said, "Glad to hear that, pal. Now, finish what you started there, but take it slow and easy."
The sheriff grabbed the proffered proof from him and shook out the creases and folds in the paper. The man's eyebrows drew down, middle-aged eyes squinting as he read the "official" document, forged and provided for the ruse by Milo Malone. Finishing, he cleared his throat. His voice resonated loudly for all those near to hear as he said, "Alright, looks like you're in the clear, Harper. You've done your time. I sure wouldn't envy being you walking around, scaring the good citizens with a face that folks will recognize from outdated wanted posters."
"Now that I ain't worth my weight in silver dollars to ya, can I put my hands down, Sheriff?" Jess mocked and started to drop them.
"Nope."
So, Jess stayed frozen and exhaled a frustrated hiss.
"It's a thirty dollar fine for walking into one of our fine saloons here in Forest Hill, wearing a gun. You can pay-up here or back at the office, your choice."
"What kinda town is this, anyway? Fine ya ten dollars just for spitting upwind. Come on, Sheriff, can't ya cut me some slack here?" Jess pleaded. "Told you I got outta prison a week ago. Thirty dollars is about twenty more than I got, and I ain't even had a square meal yet," he continued to grumble convincingly.
"Seems an iron cage is the most fittin' home for you, then, boy. You'll spend the rest of the weekend dustin' my jail bunk with the seat of your britches. That is, unless you've got friends kind enough to front you thirty and bail your worthless carcass out of a couple days in my fine establishment. Now go on! Get a move. Lead the way," the sheriff gestured toward the door with the pistol.
"If yer a sample of the law in this place, I'll just pass up the invite. Much obliged," Jess barked obstinately, planting his legs wide, playing his role to perfection.
"Shut up and get moving, you worthless piece of trail dirt," the sheriff retorted, grabbing an arm and giving Jess a hard shove.
"Out and out bushwacking," Jess hissed, moving reluctantly, with a diffused sense of hostility. He muttered a curse while walking toward the door as directed. "Bet you gotta wear'a barrel hoop for a belt around that middle, deputy," he sassed the ample-bellied Deputy Carl he angrily shouldered past. Comment largely ignored by the experienced officer, Jess moved to push open the swinging doors and cast a look over at Utah. "Talk to the boss for me, Utah, will ya? Please."
Utah's cocky and amused smile still held as he stood with his arms dangling over the shoulders and down the front of the girl that earlier sat on his lap, "Sure thing, Jess," he flashed straight teeth, but it sounded more like a taunt than a promise.
The deputy stayed behind in the saloon, and once Jess and the sheriff were on the boardwalk in the murky light of evening, the older man quietly said, "Jake Talbott, Mr. Harper, good to finally meet you, son. Think we pulled it off in there? Think he'll talk to Huddleston and get you back in?"
"You were plenty dadgum convincing," Jess responded sincerely. "I was sweatin' bullets even though I know'd better. And I'm pleased to meet you just the same. Though I can't say I'm anxious to see the inside of your jailhouse."
They crossed the street with the sheriff still walking behind, making their arrangement look official, although it was all for show.
"Not to worry, boy. I'll make you plenty comfortable."
It was dark, and he walked a few paces ahead, but Jess was certain the sheriff smiled with good-natured humor at his back through that comment.
"Oh, sure," Jess sighed resignedly. "I'll bet it'll be real fine accommodations. Though, I'm well-used to the kinda comforts yer offerin' me. Dadgum, I sure as blazes hope our song and dance did the trick back there."
"Me, too, son. My hands are full, keeping the peace in this town. We're busting at the seams these days, and it seems the drovers and pushers comin' through get wilder each weekend that passes. But I'm behind Milo and the calvary platoon he's in cahoots with, all the way. I'd sure like to see him succeed in puttin' a stop to Huddleston's murderin' and thievin' ways. It's been nigh impossible to pin anything on the man, though everyone plain as day knows it's him and his outfit. Thinks of himself as some kinda cattle baron. He just keeps gettin' richer, and more powerful. He's strong-arming and murdering his way into gaining more and more land, but nobody can prove a bit of it… not yet, anyway. I'd sure like to see you make good on this deal Milo's got worked out for ya."
"I'll second that, Sheriff," was the emphatic reply from Jess as he trudged forward, dreading his destination.
Forest Hill's Jailhouse was a busy place: each cell overflowing with drunks and rowdy cowboys. Jess spent the night in a cell with two others, without another opportunity to speak to the sheriff. When morning came, the waiting game began. The all-too familiar, panicked feelings of being locked in a cage wanted to run rampant in him, even though this particular arrangement was temporary. But what made his nerves dance was the wait to find out whether Utah took the bait and would offer him a job. Whether this mission to take down Huddleston could even get its feet off the ground was largely contingent on that happening.
A couple of long hours after breakfast, the door to the cramped, overcrowded cellblock opened, and a deputy called out, "Harper! You've got someone here payin' yer fine."
Amidst taunts and whistles from the occupants of the block, Jess wasted no time squeezing through the open cell door to leave the cage and its smells of urine and vomit behind.
Utah stood in the office leaning against the wall, a casual foot propped back against its scuffed surface. He greeted Jess with a big, slow smile. "'Mornin', sunshine."
In return, Jess rubbed at his blurry eyes before giving his own wry half-smile. "You, huh? I ought to've known you'd not leave me in the lurch. Took ya long enough, though."
"Now that's what I call gratitude," Utah continued to prod, clearly enjoying the other's misery.
Their banter was interrupted by the deputy handing Jess his gunbelt and boot knife before telling him to skedaddle and stay out of trouble.
The air was heavy with humidity as they stepped outside into the busy street beneath a cloudy sky.
To anyone who might have noticed them as they exited the law office, the two looked like a dangerous pair with their low-hung weapons, the confident grace in their strides, and their menacing, handsome looks. One was tall and full of swagger. The other was dark, lithe, and deadly looking. They resembled two lethal predator cats taking a break from stalking prey.
"You owe me thirty, Jess," but this was said with a cocky confidence, intended to prod, not berate.
"You know I'm good for it. Didn't expect for you, nor anybody else, to bail me outta there, but I'm beholden to you." Jess stopped in his tracks. "Dadgum! Looks like you paid the livery fee, too," he said excitedly, seeing Midnight tied to the post right off the porch steps. She whinnied upon seeing him. "Any chance?" He began hopefully. "Well… I'm hopin' I owe you for speakin' to Huddleston on my behalf, too?" He raised a questioning eyebrow as he turned to the man.
"Boss always did have a soft spot for you, Jess. That, and the particular interest he's got in your talents with that piece'a hardware strapped to your thigh."
"No foolin'? He'll take me back on?"
Despite a well-mannered, "Mornin' ma'am" and tip of the hat from Jess, a mother clutching the hands of her young son, gave the two of them a wide, hurried berth on the boardwalk as she passed.
"Look at you, scarin' the good citizens of the town, Jess. Must be them devilish good looks of yours," Utah laughed, then added, "Bossman said he still thinks you're the fastest he's ever seen." He smiled, and it was a vicious look on him. "I didn't argue, though I know there's one better,"
"That'd be you; you're thinkin' of, I reckon?"
Utah gave a short chuckle, wordlessly acknowledging the question as fact."I told him you just got out of Territorial, and you're hard up for cash and a job. He says I'm to bring you back to the ranch straight away."
"Thanks, Utah. I'm plenty obliged to ya. Hope you ain't plannin' to charge interest on all I'm owing you,'' he smiled and leaped onto Midnight's back.
"No more than what a crooked banker'd charge," Utah grinned as he mounted his horse
"That figures," Jess gave a good-humored scowl as he followed Utah's lead in laying spurs to the horse beneath him as though Comanches were making chase. They tore dangerously down the street, with shoppers and passersby darting out of the way and coughing out the devils of dust they left behind.
Milo Malone watched the whirlwind exit from a hotel window across the street and prayed for safety and success. Jess Harper was on his way into the den of wolves, accompanied by one of its most vicious alphas.