Risk
By Doc
Part Two
Daylight faded; Johnny wandered past peeling store fronts, wondering how he could come up with ten bucks, quick. Even if he found Lester tonight and got hired on right now, he wouldn't have ten dollars in his pocket by noon tomorrow. Nothing he carried with him was worth more than a few pennies.…
Should he steal something to pawn? Naw; for sure he'd get caught. Besides, he'd just gotten out of the pokey. Didn't want to go back so soon. Pick someone's pocket? He was good at that, but he kinda left that behind when he became a gunfighter. He kicked at a clump of dirt. The pain when he twisted made him wish he hadn't.
It might be easier to think if he didn't hurt so bad. Damn. He'd managed to stay one job ahead of being broke, until now.
A hint of evening coolness passed over him. He shuddered a little as he studied the plate glass window in front of him. Big fancy gold letters taunted him to "Buy, Sell, Trade". Rubbing his hand over his face, he waited for a better idea than the one that came to mind first.
Nope, nothing. He heaved a big sigh and pushed the door open.
The store was clean—a switch from the usual pawnshop. There were some other folks looking around and two burly men in collars and ties watching him, squinty-eyed. Johnny made for the gun cabinet and pretended to be looking at pistols. His Colt weighed heavy on his thigh, nestled in the holster he'd softened up just right. The rig was a part of him now. It was well used, and he kept it in good shape.
Someone cleared his throat and Johnny looked up.
"I'm closing soon. You want me to show you something?" The man behind the counter looked kindly with his silver hair and pressed apron. Johnny knew better.
Slowly, reluctantly, he unbuckled the rig and handed it across the top of the cabinet. He'd taken the Colt off a dead man in a bar and primed it into a good working gun. He'd made the gun belt himself from scraps he'd stumbled across working in liveries. The pawnbroker took it casually and turned it around once.
"Eight."
Johnny reached to grab it back. "I was hoping to hear a bigger number."
The fellow didn't let go. "Hope all you like. The offer is eight."
Johnny chewed his lip, considering. "Make it twelve fifty." Then he'd have enough to eat something tonight, maybe find a place to sleep that didn't include livestock.
"I tell you what. I'll give you ten."
That would cover the hat. Johnny started to nod. "Interest?"
"Fifteen percent. Thirty days."
"Well now, that's pretty steep, isn't it?"
"Take it or leave it."
The money would clear him with Junior, and he'd still have a month to find work. He could get the rig back as soon as he raised the money. He tried not to think about the kind of work he'd have to find, or how he'd manage to earn ten dollars, plus interest, in just a month without his gun.
Still, it was the best deal he was going to get. Hell, it was the only deal he was going to get.
He opened his mouth to say yes but blood started rushing in his ears. The edge of his vision turned dark. He spread his hands on the glass countertop to stop the world spinning. Words wouldn't come.
What the hell was he doing? He earned his living with his gun. Hocking the tools of his trade made no sense, no sense at all. It was this gun that got him off the starving streets he lived in after his mama died. Without it he wasn't Johnny Madrid. Without it he was just Johnny, the no-account half breed.
Jesus, maybe Junior was right. Maybe he did have more guts than brains. Imagine strolling down the street, flush with ten dollars, and hearing a challenge from behind. What good would that money do him if he was dead?
Johnny's hand nearly shook as he grabbed his rig back. He strapped it on as fast as he could. "I changed my mind."
The proprietor mocked him with a grin. "I can't go any higher."
"I don't expect you to."
He stumbled out of the store in a hurry, shook up by what he'd nearly done. What kind of a gunfighter pawns his gun? Johnny dropped onto a bench next door to the pawn shop and rested his head in his hands.
What now? He still needed ten dollars by noon tomorrow.
Running away was looking pretty good. Who would know?
He would.
And so would Junior with the mustache. Word would get out that Johnny Madrid had run away from a ten-dollar debt. If that wasn't a reputation killer, nothing was. He shouldn't have given his name.
It was fully dark now. His stomach growled. How had he let himself get flat broke? Where could he find something to eat? He was going to have to sleep on the bare ground tonight. Maybe he should get arrested. At least there'd be a cot. And food.
As he sat there feeling sorry for himself, the quiet sounds of a town turning in for the night shattered. A knot of brawling cowboys spilled through the broken window of a saloon a couple doors down. More men ran out, piled on to roll in the dirt. They blocked the boardwalk and part of the street.
Johnny stood up to move away from the fighting, but before he took a step, a crazy idea grabbed him. Switching direction he moved toward the action. Ignoring his pain, he plowed into the fight. He didn't bother to figure who was fighting who; he ducked and hit out whenever someone was close. Face to face with a red-headed cowboy, he jabbed a quick right to the guy's jaw. The stranger went to his knees and couldn't find the ground to stand back up. Johnny grinned at the fellow's unfocused eyes as he reached out to help him to his feet.
"Sorry, friend. Didn't see it was you. I didn't mean to hit you." As he pulled him up Johnny slipped his hand into the guy's jacket pocket. Yep, there was a money clip. Johnny palmed it and dropped it into his own pocket before he helped his new friend back into the bar. The brouhaha was dying down, and the fighters were regrouping. Someone saw him supporting the red-head and waved him over.
"I didn't know it was him when I hit him. Here, you can have him back." With an ingratiating smile Johnny handed the red-head over to his friends; then he faded into the confusion of chairs and tables being turned upright. By the time he was outside again, the evening was quiet.
Whistling quietly, he strolled away from the saloon. He stopped in the light of the lantern hanging outside an alley to see how much money he had. Pretending to light a smoke, he counted thirteen dollars.
Hot dang! He felt like the richest man in town.
Johnny nestled in the dingy sheets of a lumpy hotel bed, blinking at the sun high enough to brighten the room. He'd slept long and hard, and it had done him good. The face staring back at him through the cloud in the mirror still had a bruised eye, but the swelling was down. His ribs weren't near as sore as they had been yesterday. He had enough time and money for a hot bath and a big lunch, and 'round about noon he headed back to the Water Hole.
Today he found the place right away. Johnny pushed aside the buffalo hide. The room was no brighter, and the only man inside was the bartender.
"I was here yesterday."
The barkeep nodded, his eyes hooded. "Yup."
Johnny smiled an innocent smile. "Got myself in a pickle, I guess."
"I guess."
"When do you expect my friend with the mustache today?"
"Friend, huh? You got a funny idea of friendship, boy."
Johnny bit back a smart remark. "Yeah, he sure got the better of me, didn't he? Who is he? Junior…"
The bartender nodded slowly. "Butterick. Junior's daddy owns the mine."
Oh, shit. What was a Butterick doing drinking in a dive like this?
"You pay your debt to Junior Butterick and get the hell out of town. That way you might live to see next week." A light flickered in the barkeep's eyes. "You know, you could leave that ten bucks with me. I'll see that Junior gets it, and you can get a head start out of here."
Johnny laughed. "Well, thanks, but I think I'll pass. What time do you figure on Junior Butterick coming back today?"
"Dunno."
Johnny sucked in some air, looked around the room, and wondered how long Junior would keep him waiting. "I'll just have a seat, barkeep. Bring me a beer when you get the time." He flipped a nickel on the bar and took a seat to watch the door.
The beer didn't last long. A few drinkers came and went. No one talked much. There was no free lunch in the Water Hole, that was for sure. The most interesting thing in the room was the water seeping down the wall. It didn't come in from anywhere special—just showed up about a foot from the ceiling as a damp spot that got wider as it got lower. Every now and then the dampness ran together to form a little drop, and the drop would wiggle its way down the stone wall. Sometimes it ran into another drop from a different damp spot to make a bigger drop that finally fell off the wall where a piece of rock stuck out far enough to act like a cliff. Johnny watched the drops form and stuck his fingertip on the cliff to keep them from falling off.
It was long past noon. The barman shushed him when he spun the rowels of his spurs just for something to do. Johnny swept his hand around the empty room and glared back. "You gotta be kidding me." But he stopped the noise and started bouncing his legs up and down, trying to relieve the boredom.
Junior Butterick finally showed up. He was alone. He limped past the bar, ignoring the bartender and pretending not to see Johnny, either. Johnny layered his hands one on top of the other and stayed still as Junior made his way to the same table as yesterday. The bartender hurried a bottle and a glass to him.
Junior wore a hat on his head today, a Stetson that had seen better days. His hands shook some when he poured himself a drink. He tossed down a quick shot and poured himself another. Johnny walked over, threw ten dollars on the table, and stood there until Junior looked up.
"You tell whoever asks that Johnny Madrid makes good on his debts."
He turned to leave.
"I'm not done with you yet, Madrid."
The short rope on Johnny's nerves frayed clean away. He spun back around to face Junior. "What the hell do you mean? I played your game. You got your money. We're square."
His hand hovered over his gun. "Unless you want to take it outside? Because I'm more than ready to blow your sorry ass away."
Junior glared at him. "If you'd just shut up I'd tell you about a job."
A trickle of sweat itched its way between Johnny's shoulder blades. "What job?"
"A job. Work You need work, don't you?"
Johnny took a deep breath. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. Go on."
Junior took a slow sip of his drink. "Sandoval Freight over on Camino del Este is looking for guns. The Apache been hitting some ore shipments. The company's so hard up they might hire even you." Junior poured more rye into his glass. "Mention my name." His eyes narrowed. "After that I want nothing to do with you, you got that? We don't know each other."
Junior doing him a favor? Was this a set up? Still, a job was a job…Johnny nodded his thanks and ducked out the door.
TBC