Chapter Three
By the time the Flemings had reached The Golden Nugget again, the big doors were open. When the men entered, they found that they were evidently the first customers of the day.
Moving up to the long, clean, wooden bar, they were greeted by a tall, lanky, brown-haired man in his late thirties.
"What can I get for you fellas?" he asked in a cordial tone. The smile he gave the two men, who had just entered his establishment, was genuine.
Al Laufler was a friendly man by nature, the perfect person to spend his time dealing with all kinds of people who, once they had had too much to drink, were not always easy to contend with.
"Two beers," Roger said, as he turned and led the way to a table on the left side of the room.
Neither brother spoke at first but just sat in silence and waited to be served.
Roger studied the barkeeper, as he approached with two foaming mugs of beer. It seemed that the girls who worked the saloon didn't come in this early, so he took care of both the bar and the tables himself.
"Here you go, fellas," Al said amiably, as he bent over slightly to set a mug down in front of each man. Straightening up, he asked, "Anything else I can get for you? The kitchen's not open yet, but I can rustle up some sandwiches if you'd like." The smile was still firmly in place.
"We're fine," Roger replied in a neutral tone, as he picked up his mug and took a long swallow, wiping the foam off of his lips with a shirt sleeve.
"Name's Al. Just holler if you change your mind or want more beer." Then he turned and went back to his task of polishing the already gleaming wood of the bar.
Slightly impatient, Danny asked, "Why not ask him about Madrid? Barkeeps are s'posed to know everybody in a town. Right? Jackson back in Turner sure did."
"Well, Turner ain't much bigger'n Green River's main street fer one thing," Roger replied somewhat sarcastically.
"As fer this guy..." Roger didn't finish the sentence but just shook his head. There was something in Al's manner that had warned him off. "He's too friendly. Seems like he might jest be a might too friendly with the sheriff 'round here an' I told you we can't stir up folks' curiosity."
Danny frowned at his brother. "Well, how're we gonna know who to ask then?"
It was a fair question, but still Roger looked at Danny like he didn't have half a brain in his head, which was pretty close to being factual. Roger himself was a bit smarter, but not by much.
"I reckon someone will come along we kin ask. We'll just bide our time."
It was almost half an hour and two more beers later before a man entered the saloon that caught Roger's eye and held it.
The answer to their dilemma might well have just walked through the door.
Roger Fleming studied the man, who had just sauntered up to the bar, in the same way he had studied the barkeeper earlier.
The man was dressed all in black. He even had black hair. The only contrasting color was a red bandanna he wore tied around his neck. His face was stern and devoid of any hint of congeniality. A low-slung gun belt was worn on his right hip. He looked the part of a gunfighter, or as close to one as Roger Fleming had ever imagined.
The elder red head decided that maybe the man in black was the one to ask about Madrid. Maybe, if Madrid really was dead, this guy could take his place in the Flemings' rise to fame.
Telling Danny to stay put, and emphasizing his words with a pointed forefinger, Roger moved over to the table the new saloon customer now occupied. "Mind if I join ya?"
The man looked up and scowled at Roger. In an annoyed voice that bordered on disdain, he said, "You already got a table and someone to drink with. I don't need any company."
Roger regarded the cold stare but wasn't willing to give up on his quest for information just yet. Eagerness outweighed any sense of caution the oldest Fleming might have had that this man could easily turn on him.
"D' you live here abouts?"
"None of your business, boy," the stranger growled, stressing hte last word. By the look of him, he was a good ten years older than Roger. He narrowed his eyes into a scowl that was enough to send a smarter man on his way.
Trying not to stammer, Roger tried one last time. "I was hopin' to find a man named Johnny Madrid. Thought maybe...maybe you could help me, us, find him."
The man scoffed. "You? Lookin' for Johnny Madrid? You must be plumb loco. Either that or you're looking to find an early grave."
The man downed the whiskey Al had brought him and signaled for another one to be brought over to him.
Roger, not wanting Al to overhear the conversation, waited until the barkeeper had served the man his second whiskey and gone back to whatever task he was now engaged in. Then, he barreled on, seeming not to have heard the man's previous comment. "I just heard he may live 'round here or might be buried here. Me an' my brother over there," he indicated Danny with a jerk of his head, "just wanna pay our respects."
A mirthless laugh came from deep in the stranger's throat. "I repeat. You must be loco." He regarded Roger a long moment before saying, "Just why would you two be wantin' to pay your respects to a dead gunfighter?"
"He's famous!"
"And, that impresses you?" the man in black asked. His tone of disdain hadn't changed one bit during the entire conversation.
"Sure it does." Roger glanced down at the man's gun. "You look like you could be one, too, meybe. Are you famous?"
Not answering the rather bold question, the man instead said, "Well, Madrid ain't' buried here, nor any place else." He took another swallow of his whiskey.
It took a few seconds for the meaning of the man's words to sink into Roger's head. "He's alive then?" The delight on his face was unmistakable.
"He don't hire out any more. Gave up a great career as one of the best gunhawks around and went all respectable," the man sneered, clearly indicating his opinion of respectability. "Part owner of a ranch near here. Got himself a family now, too."
This was just the information that the Flemings were looking for. Roger got even more excited, not believing how lucky he and Danny had just gotten. So, Johnny Madrid was in Green River. Well, nearby, at least.
The man in black looked at Roger with a steady gaze, then he turned and stared at Danny, sitting two tables away and nursing his beer. He thought about warning the two men off of their quest, but then gave himself a shrug. What they chose to do was none of his business. He'd enjoy watching Johnny Madrid take these fools down. And then, if no one interfered, things might just work to his own advantage, and it would be his turn to do the same to Madrid.
He hadn't come into town with the notion of calling Madrid out. But, if Johnny did face these two, he'd surely kill them both and then, he knew from his own experience, Johnny would be hyped up from the killings. It was the perfect time to take a gunfighter down, when he wasn't at his most focused. Yes, he thought, Madrid just might be his before long. Maybe, before the day was out.
Roger was starting to ask another question when the man in black jerked his thoughts away from what might become his best day as a gunfighter and back to the redhead sitting at his table.
"Do ya know if'n Johnny Madrid happens ta be in town right now?" There was almost a pleading in Roger's voice that begged for the answer to be yes.
"I saw him just before I came in here," the stranger replied, barely able to contain a cold smile.
Roger's eyes lit up. "Yeah, where was he?"
"He was loading a wagon in front of the general store."
Instantly, Roger remembered the two men he and Danny had talked to earlier. They had been in a wagon in front of a building that he recognized as having the same letters on a store-front sign as the one in Turner he knew to be the general store.
"What does he look like?"
"Go to the door and take a look for yourself. I'm sure he's still there." The man was sure Johnny couldn't load a wagon full of supplies in such a short time, especially considering the wagon had barely been half full when he had seen it a few minutes earlier.
Roger jumped up and rushed to the door, grabbing Danny's arm and pulling him along. They stood just inside the batwing doors, craning their necks forward, so they could look down the street toward the wagon.
Having just completed his business at the bank, Scott made his way back to the general store, sitting almost empty right where he had left it.
Johnny walked out of the store with a sack of flour over his right shoulder. "'Bout time you showed up, Boston. The bank give you any trouble?"
"No. No trouble. Mr. Talbot just had to look up some things in his ledger books. He could take a lesson from Murdoch on that score. Murdoch can put his finger on any entry in a matter of seconds."
"Ain't that the truth," Johnny agreed with a fond grin.
Changing subjects, Scott continued, "Besides, I didn't want to take all the pleasure of loading all those supplies away from you too soon. You do enjoy it so."
"Very funny, Scott. How about you join in with some of that pleasure before it gets too hot." He emphasized his words by looking up toward the blazing sun and than wiping his sweaty face with his left sleeve.
Laughing, Scott stepped up onto the boardwalk and gave Johnny's left shoulder a friendly slap, as he passed him and entered the store.
The interior was already too warm, and now the outside heat seemed to followed Scott in, giving him only a small bit of relief, though any relief at all from the direct sun was welcome.
The blond sighed as he looked at the pile of sacks and boxes in front of the counter. He shook his head. If he hadn't seen that the wagon already had a few supplies in it, he would have thought that Johnny had been sitting around waiting for him to do most of the work.
"Hello, Scott."
"Hello, Matt," Scott responded, as the store's young helper deposited another sack on the floor near its companions.
Scratching his head, Scott asked, "Did Johnny ask you to save all these for me?"
Matt broke out in a laugh. "Oh, I think there's plenty for the both of you." He turned and headed for the back again, his chuckles fading as he moved behind the burlap curtain that hung across the doorway separating the rear storage area from the main store.
Scott picked up a large sack of sugar in both arms, then turned to go add that to what his brother had already built up in the wagon.
"Thanks, Johnny," Scott threw over his shoulder, as he passed his brother, who was just entering.
Johnny frowned. "For what?"
Scott was out of earshot and didn't hear the question. However, down the street, there were two pairs of eyes that had just put him in their sights. The Flemings had spotted their quarry. They stared at each other with mouths wide open.
"He was one of them fellers we talked to earlier," Roger declared.
"Well, don't that beat all?" Danny declared in turn. "He never told us who he was." The young man's tone was one of shock, mixed with a touch of indignation. "You s'pose he was scared to tell us?"
Having no idea that the Flemings were looking at the wrong man, the stranger in black let out a loud hoot of laughter. "You boys really are loco. Johnny Madrid ain't scared of nobody."
Whispering so the man in black couldn't hear, Danny asked somewhat tentively, "He don't wear his gun very low. He must really be good."
"Well, ain't that why we want to face him?" Roger asked without taking his eyes off of Scott. Only when the fair-haired Lancer went back into the store did the Flemings move back to the table they had previously occupied.
"Thanks fer pointing him out to us," Roger said, as he passed the stranger.
"Your funeral," was the man in black's only comment before bringing his attention back to his whiskey. However, the smile on his face had nothing to do with the liquor in front of him.
TBC