Oath of I'm Fine
Part Eight
Chapter Twenty-eight
The year: Summer 1869
Jess Harper's age: 23 years old
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The man at the bar had gone way overboard, already having downed far too many drinks.
The bartender smiled as he drew another beer to meet the guy's demand and set it on the bar, taking away the two empty mugs already there and refilling the whiskey shot glass that had been filled, emptied, and refilled several times. The Willow Watering Hole was sure making plenty of money today off this spoiled, rich kid.
"And I'll tell you another thing," the tall blond yelled across the room, severely slurring his words, "you're nothing! Just a lowdown saddlebum. And I'll prove it."
Of the many insults he had slung at the man sitting with his friend at a table in the far corner, at least this latest one was not laced with profanities. The condemnations usually came with the vilest of name-calling.
"The only thing you're provin' is how stinkin' drunk you are, Howard."
"Stay out of it, Tibbs! This is between me and Harper."
Will Tibbs glanced across the table at his friend, surprised at how calm he had remained as every curse was directed at him. It wasn't like Jess to let insults go like that. Will had seen the damage Jess Harper's temper and fists could do when he was riled. Not to mention the destruction he could cause with his gun. But there Jess sat, relaxed and leaning back in his chair, his left arm casually stretched out on the table, whiskey in hand, like he hadn't heard a word. Or perhaps as though he were indulging a petulant child.
Will puzzled at the lack of response and the emotionless expression. Until… He noticed Jess' right hand resting on his thigh but very near his holster. And his left hand was wrapped around his shot glass so tight Will wondered why it hadn't already shattered.
"Buddy, I wish you'd ease up your grip on that whiskey," Will said under his breath. "When that glass explodes, it could send shards straight into my eye."
Jess glanced at him, then turned his gaze back to Howard Wilkie, leaning against the bar. But Will noticed the grasp on the shot glass did let up.
Howard gulped his whiskey, chasing it down with his third beer, and motioned for the shot glass to be refilled. Then he looked all around at the fifteen or so men in the place, all of whom knew who he was. Blake Wilkie's son. And they weren't about to interfere with the powerful land baron's only child.
"You see," Howard shouted, making sure the two saloon girls also were paying attention to what he had to say. "Harper here ain't a big man like folks think. Look how he's sitting there just taking everything I dish out."
Will saw a muscle twitch in Jess' jaw. He leaned toward his friend and murmured, "Ain't you gonna do somethin' about this jackass?"
"In time. I don't wanna have t' shoot 'im. That sure wouldn't help to git his pa off our backs for homesteadin'. 'Sides, the state Howie's in, he'll be fallin' over soon anyways."
Howard continued his show of bravado for the whole saloon's benefit. "Harper's all reputation and nothing to back it up. I'll show ya." He turned toward Jess. "I'm calling you out, Harper." He stood with his boots planted wide apart and his right hand hovering over his sixgun, swaying in a besotted imitation of a gunfighter stance.
Men near him scattered away.
Jess changed his relaxed position. He let go of the shot glass and leaned forward, his left arm still on the table but pulled closer to his body, making a means of leveraging himself up in a hurry if he had to, and his right hand hanging loosely near his holster.
Jess' gravelly voice came deep and angry, but controlled. His face held a withering scowl aimed at Wilkie. "I'll be mighty glad to take you on with my fists, Howie. But I ain't fightin' ya with a gun."
"Because you're a coward!"
"Because I like a challenge!" Jess snarled loudly. "A gunfight with you would be like squashin' a snail."
The men in the bar roared with laughter. Will Tibbs couldn't wipe the grin from his face and was laughing so hard he could barely stay in his chair.
Jess kept the same position he had been in before, the same frown, the same unblinking glare at Howard.
Patrons throughout the saloon settled down as a furious Howard Wilkie cast a hateful eye around the room. Seven of the men worked for Blake Wilkie; at least four of the others did business with him. No one wanted Howard to report back to his father about who had joined in ridiculing him.
Tobias Gault, the owner of the saloon, had walked into the barroom from his office at the back of the building just in time to hear the last exchange. He knew Harper. And he knew the reputation the man carried was well earned. He gave Harper a lot of credit for controlling himself and knowing how to handle the situation, one he had obviously been in many times before. Harper had remained seated, fully aware that if he made a move to stand, Howard would probably try to draw, and Harper would be forced to shoot him. Many a gunslinger wouldn't care a bit, would even enjoy blasting away at such an incompetent, insolent fool. But Harper was different. He wouldn't take any pleasure from even just wounding a drunken loudmouth.
But Gault also knew on which side his own bread was buttered. A lot of his saloon business came from Blake Wilkie's ranch. He didn't want to embarrass Blake's son, have Howie tell his father, and Blake then order his cowhands to go to the saloon across the street instead of Willow Watering Hole.
"Howard, if it's a gunfight you want, take it where it belongs. Out in the street. I don't want blood all over my saloon."
"Fine by me." Howard blinked increasingly heavy eyelids, as he turned toward the front of the saloon. "I'll be waiting for ya, Harper."
He started toward the batwings, wobbling and weaving. Before he got even half way, he passed out, landing with a thud on a table where two of Wilkie's ranch hands sat.
With the right side of his mouth lifting into a bit of a smile, Jess glanced at Will, who chuckled.
"Take the boy home." Gault sneered at the twenty-eight-year-old who, alcohol aside, acted more like an eight-year-old. No one in this town had any respect for either Howard or his old man. Fear, yes, plenty. But no respect. Blake Wilkie practically owned Willow, Colorado. No one dared cross him or deny his son anything.
As the two Wilkie cowhands dragged Howard from the saloon, followed by the other five, Gault turned to the table where Harper and Tibbs sat.
He knew the two friends were trying to get a ranch going on open range land that bordered the Wilkie spread. It wasn't easy. The Wilkies were seeing to that. They didn't want competition, didn't want any homesteaders' cattle near grass or water they claimed for their own beeves. Blake had run off previous homesteaders in the area and kept trying to do the same with these men. But Tibbs didn't scare easy, and Harper not at all. And every man in the saloon knew that.
Gault knew it would be just a matter of time before Blake Wilkie stopped his low-key warning tactics like curse-laden threats, broken windows, a random small fire here and there, or the occasional head or two of cattle Tibbs or Harper found butchered in their pastures. The perpetrators of those incidents couldn't be proven in court, but Tibbs─and especially Harper─had already been in several fistfights with Wilkie ranch hands after accusations flew. Before long, there would be barn burning, stampeding, and shooting. The saloon owner had seen it happen before when others attempted homesteading near the Wilkie ranch. He just hoped the bullets would be aimed at cows and not Harper and Tibbs themselves. But with the Wilkies, you never knew how bad it could get. And although Sheriff Ed Mills stood up to Blake, the wealthy rancher had the local judge in his hip pocket. Gault wondered if Harper and Tibbs had any idea how unscrupulous and dangerous the Wilkies could get.
Gault liked and respected both these men seated at his table, although he worried about what would happen to the two of them if Wilkie got as mean as Gault knew he was capable of being. He could see Harper, though hot-headed when pushed, was also level-headed and honest. He had been trying to leave his gunfighting days behind. But if the homestead plans with Tibbs were ruined, Gault could imagine Harper returning to his gunhawk ways. He'd hate to see that happen to this decent, hardworking man. As for Tibbs… there was something about him. Gault didn't know how to label it, but he figured it wouldn't take much for that guy to turn outlaw.
Harper stood up as Tibbs was finishing his beer. Jess pulled some coins from his pocket and was about to drop them on the table when Gault stepped forward.
"Keep your money, Mr. Harper. Drinks are on the house today for you and your friend."
"Thanks, Mr. Gault. But I don't want no charity."
"That's not what it is, son. It's a simple thank you. Warms my heart to see a man use smarts instead of bullets to settle a squabble brought on by a fool."
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Author's Note
License to Kill is one of my favorite episodes. It has great pard scenes! When I watch it, I always wonder why Howard Wilkie would have hated Jess so much that he offered a huge reward for him, dead or alive, even though he obviously knew Jess was innocent of murder. Yet, even two years later, Howard was still determined to "tie the knot around Jess Harper's neck." I had a theory for why Howard had so much animosity toward Jess.
When a reader's review suggested that I write an Oath of I'm Fine segment about Jess Harper and Will Tibbs in Willow, Colorado, I thought "yeah, this would be the time for my Howie hypothesis." So, Valerie, thanks for the encouragement, and for your kind comments. I hope you'll like Part Eight.