whiskey in the cups and slid them across the table to Mitchell and Beeman.
Each of the men sipped the fiery liquor, then Mitchell said, “You wanted to see us, Jory?”
“Yeah.” Pool moved a red seven onto a black eight. “I been hearin’ talk about how we need to go out on another job.”
“The boys are anxious,” Mitchell admitted with a shrug. “They’re eager to get out there and show you what they can do.”
“I know what they can do. And I know the time’s not right yet. Buckskin’s a boomtown. It’s gonna keep growin’ for a while yet. The more it grows, the more loot there’ll be for the taking when we do hit it.”
“That makes sense,” Beeman said. “But the more people there are in the settlement, the more of a fight they’ll be able to put up, ain’t that right?”
Mitchell glanced with slitted eyes at his friend. What Beeman had just said was logical enough, but it might be taken as arguing with Jory Pool too, and that was never a wise thing to do.
“If we strike at just the right time, it won’t make any difference how many people are in the settlement. They won’t put up a fight. It’s just a matter of waitin’ for the proper moment.”
“Well, I reckon you’d know better about that than we would, Jory,” Mitchell said, shooting another glance at Beeman and hoping he’d take the hint to keep his piehole shut.
“Damn right I know better.” Pool picked up the bottle and downed a slug of whiskey. “I’ll tell you what else I know,” he went on as he thumped the bottle back down on the table. “I don’t want to be hearin’ a lot of whisperin’ and complainin’ behind my back because we haven’t ridden out yet. That makes me think you fellas don’t appreciate all I done to put this gang together and make sure it’s run right.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Now, Jory, it ain’t like that at all—”
“Tell you what,” Pool said as if Mitchell hadn’t spoken. “If there’s anybody who don’t like the way I run things, he can speak up, right out in the open. If you boys want somebody else to be the boss, why, he can challenge me. I like to run things fair and square.”
Despite the calm, rational words Pool spoke, Mitchell saw a crazy light flickering in the man’s eyes. Pool was smart and cunning and one hell of a leader, but he was also a man it paid not to cross. They all knew that, so Mitchell started to say, “Nobody wants to—”
“There’s just one thing,” Pool broke in. “I don’t take it too kindly when I feel like you boys don’t appreciate me.”
“I swear, Jory, that ain’t the way—”
Pool looked up at Hannah as she stood beside him and said, “Kiss me, honey.”
She smiled. “Why, sure, Jory.” She bent down to kiss him, resting one hand on the table beside the cards to steady herself as she did so. She gave him a long, sensuous kiss, so passionate in its intensity that it made Mitchell and Beeman squirm a mite in their chairs.
With his lips still locked to hers, Pool brought his other hand out from under the table with his bowie knife clutched in it. Moving so fast that it took everyone by surprise, he brought the blade down and drove the razor- sharp steel through Hannah’s hand so that it was pinned to the table like an insect on a display board. She jerked upright, threw her head back, and shrieked in agony.
Pool kept his hand on the knife, bearing down on it so that Hannah couldn’t free her hand. As she slumped forward and collapsed onto the table, whimpering in pain, Pool said to Mitchell and Beeman, “I love this gal. She’s mighty precious to me. So if I’d do this to somebody I love, what do you think I’d do to somebody who crossed me and tried to stir up hard feelin’s against me over this Buckskin business?”
“N-nobody’s gonna do that, Jory,” Beeman said, his eyes wide with shock and horror.
“Damn right,” Mitchell added. “You’re the boss, Jory. What you say, goes. Always has and always will.”
Pool nodded. “All right then. Go on back to the boys and tell ’em what you saw here tonight. Tell ’em I don’t want to hear any more grumblin’ behind my back. You’ve got my word, we’ll hit Buckskin when the time’s right.
The two men scraped their chairs back, nodded, and turned to hurry out of the cabin. Mitchell heard the sound of Pool pulling the bowie knife out of Hannah’s hand. She let out another groan as the blade came free.
But neither Mitchell nor Beeman looked back, and as they closed the door behind them, they heard Pool saying in a tone of genuine affectionate concern, “That hand don’t look so good, darlin’. You’d better tie a rag around it or somethin’.”
Frank spotted Clint Farnum at the bar of the Silver Baron when he walked into the saloon that evening. Farnum was talking to the bartender, Johnny Collyer, and Johnny was laughing. Farnum had an easy way about him that made most folks feel like his friend, even though they might have known him for only a short time. He inspired trust.
Frank didn’t trust him. He knew better. But Farnum had never double-crossed him, so he was willing to give the little gunfighter the benefit of the doubt—for now—although he was going to be wary about it.
Farnum grinned at Frank and said, “Ready to have that drink now, Marshal?”
Frank gestured toward Farnum’s empty glass. “Give a refill on me, Johnny.”
“You’re not drinking, Frank?”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah,” Farnum said, “I recollect now that you were never much of a whiskey man. That’s probably why your nerves have stayed so steady over the years.”
“Might have something to do with it,” Frank allowed with a faint smile.
Farnum picked up the glass Johnny had filled with amber liquid again. He inclined his head toward the rear of the room, where there were several empty tables, and said, “Sit down with me for a minute, Frank? There’s
