Chapter Three
A piercing shriek rent the early morning air before descending into a drawn-out wail that faded only briefly before repeating itself all over again. Chris Larabee threw back the wool horse blanket that he had pulled over his head sometime in the night and slowly opened one eye. Damned rooster! He'd shoot the thing if he could find it. He knew no one would hold it against him. The blasted bird already had a bounty on its head to rival Tanner's. The rooster, a half-wild Black Giant that had been dubbed "Black Jack" by the residents of the lower end, had escaped Gloria Potter's coop a few days shy of his scheduled execution. Much to the dismay of Nathan and Yosemite, he had taken up residence in the rafters of the Livery and Grain Exchange, where he faithfully announced the arrival of each new day at approximately 4:45 a.m.
It was not unusual to hear the cock's crow followed immediately by a blast of gunfire, either from Yosemite's shotgun , or the guns of whatever unfortunates that happened to be trying to catch a night's sleep in the hay loft. At the moment, the particular unfortunate happened to be him, and as he lay there in the hay and horse blankets with the cry of the rooster taunting him, he found himself sorely tempted to reach for his own weapon. Instead, he made a mental note to speak to JD about going a bit easier on those who did unload their guns on the blasted bird. The rooster squawked again and he grinned to himself. Maybe he ought to talk to Mary about printing up a wanted poster for the critter while he was at it.
Cheered somewhat by the thought, he flipped back the blankets and rolled to a sitting position. Being a naturally early riser, he rose quickly, pulling on his boots and brushing the bits of hay from his hair and clothes with a bright eyed alertness that most men could not achieve without the benefit of several cups of coffee. He shook the straw from his blankets and refolded them, tossing them back down to his saddle below, before scaling quickly down the ladder from the loft. A soft nicker greeted him, and he reached across the gate to rub the nose of his black stallion. Job regarded him patiently, his large dark brown eyes calm and expectant.
"Yeah, I know what you're after," Larabee chuckled, reaching for the pitchfork. He tossed several forkfuls of hay into Job's manger, then proceeded on down the line to the other four inquisitive heads that poked out into the alleyway. He spared time to scratch Peso, sidestepped Chaucer's flashing teeth and finished forking hay to Nathan and JD's mounts, who waited more patiently. He left the pitchfork by the door as he exited. The rest of the horses he would leave for Yosemite, but the situation being what it was, he'd rather their own animals were ready if needed.
Taking in the length of the street with a swift glance, he saw that Tanner had vacated the chair which he had pulled out onto the Saloon boardwalk the night before. Either he had finally called it a night or he was about somewhere, patrolling the back streets and alleys. Larabee was not concerned. The town wasn't that big. He'd find him soon enough.
His first stop was the jail, where he looked in to see both prisoners asleep in their bunks. The wounded man was curled in a tight ball and still sleeping deeply from the laudanum Nathan had given him. Larabee shook his head as he stared down at the prisoner with a grim faced amusement. He could almost feel sorry for the man …almost.
JD was sprawled and snoring in the chair behind his desk. Larabee shook his head, half amazed. The kid's bones had to be made out of rubber. He could sleep in just about any position and spring awake without so much as a creaky neck. Larabee had lost that particular ability himself many years ago. Now if he spent more than a few nights out on rough ground he felt more stove up than old man Watson. As it was, one night in the hay loft and he was already missing his bunk in the claim shack.
He frowned as he shifted his glance back to the prisoners. No doubt that stiff-necked army Major would miss them before long. Best that he collected Vin and rode out to talk to the man before the whole damned army came into town looking for them. Tension had been growing between the soldiers and the civilian population in the last few days. Most of it was due to the fact that the payroll wagon was late, and the soldiers had been issued army script rather than government currency with which to cover their expenses. Had they been on a regular army post, furnished with sutlers and storekeepers who did regular business with the military, it would not have been an issue. Here in Four Corners, though, the merchants were less than trusting of the odd looking paper bills. He didn't figure as it would be much longer before things would come to a head, but right now he was just too damned tired to deal with it. That was tomorrow's problem. He hand enough on his plate for today.
None of these musings did anything to brighten Chris's mood as he crossed the street to the saloon. Reilly was going to blow his stack when he found out that two of his men were under lock and key in the local jail.
He heard the soft mutter of voices as he climbed the steps to the boardwalk and crossed the threshold of the tavern. To his surprise, he found that it was Standish who sat with Tanner, drinking coffee and staring towards the rising sun with bloodshot and bleary eyes. Judging from the faint glaze to their expressions, he would guess that neither one of them had slept, though he knew damned well Standish had headed off to bed immediately after he and Mary had departed for the night.
He noted the grim set to the gambler's jaw and the faint tremble to the hand as Ezra reached to refill his coffee cup. Nightmares, Chris thought. He recognized the signs. He'd lived with his own long enough to know.
"You boys are up early," he said mildly, stepping into the room.
"Couldn't sleep," Vin allowed, and Chris saw in the tracker's eyes that Tanner was not necessarily speaking of himself.
"Me either," Larabee sighed. "Damned rooster. You'd think one of these times Yosemite would manage to hit that bird."
"Coffee?" Standish asked, tipping the pot in the direction of Tanner's cup. The Texan shoved it closer, allowing the steaming black liquid to flow into it.
"Sure," Larabee said.
The Southerner tipped his head towards the back of the room. "Inez keeps the cups behind the bar," he said.
Chris retrieved one and returned to the table, dropping into a chair across from the two men. Ezra emptied the last of the pot into the cup, careful to avoid spilling too many of the loose grounds in with it. Just as carefully, Chris tested the brew, more than a little leery of his colleague's coffee making abilities. To his surprise, it was good.
Vin slouched back in his chair, his blue eyes intent upon Larabee. "How long you plannin' on holdin' them fellas?"
Chris shrugged. "It depends," he said finally.
"On what?" Ezra asked.
The soft creak of a floorboard came from somewhere above them, and Larabee's eyes swiveled to the balcony and the small, wraithlike figure of the woman who looked down upon them.
"On Inez." He said quietly.