Pat looked at me. “You ready to ride, Tall?”
“I'm ready.”
Chapter 5
AS WE RODE, Pat Roark seemed to be the only man in the whole group who was completely at ease. He rode slouched over to one side of his saddle, grinning slightly, as if he was looking forward to the excitement. He's just a kid, I thought. Nothing but a damned green kid who doesn't know what he's getting into. But then I realized that he was as old as I was. Maybe a few months older. I'd never thought of him before as being a kid.
“Cavalry,” Pat Roark said, as if he had been giving it considerable thought. “They're the ones we've got to watch out for. The police don't amount to a damn.”
“How much cavalry is there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “There's a detail up north somewhere, about a half a troop, I think. They come and go in John's City, but they've got too much territory to cover to stay there all the time.”
“But the police will be there,” I said.
He looked at me. “They'll be there. This Thornton I mentioned—Jake Thornton, I think his name is—probably we'll find him in the City Bar. It's the only place in town that caters friendly to carpetbaggers.”
I kept my voice level. “Do you know this Thornton when you see him?”
“I know him. I'll point him out to you when the time comes. It'll be a pleasure.”
I knew then that Pat Roark was the only one I could really depend on when things got down to shooting. The others, mostly, were just coming along because they didn't have the guts to stay back. They were all good men, and I didn't have anything against them, but this was my fight, not theirs, and they knew it better than anybody.
When we sighted the town, Pat took out his pistol to check the loading. I said, “Do you mind if I look at that?” He grinned and handed it over.
It wasn't much of a weapon—an old .36-caliber Gofer revolver. It was mounted on a brass frame and had a naked trigger without any guard. I recognized it as one of the guns that the Confederacy had bought from some outlaw arms dealers before the war, probably because the Yankees were afraid to shoot them and they were cheap. Across the top of the frame and barrel there was the mark: T. W. Gofer's Patent, Portsmouth, Va. I figured it was about an even bet that the cylinder would explode before you could get off the third shot.
I handed the pistol back to him. Then, on impulse, I drew one of those new, deadly .44's that Pappy had given me and handed that over too.
“You'd better take this,” I said, “in case you need a pistol.”
He took it, admiring its velvety finish and fine balance. Then he grinned again and shoved it into his waistband. “Thanks, Tall. I guess with a pair of these between us, we haven't got anything to worry about.”
In Pat Roark, I knew that I had one good man on my side. And one good man was all I needed.
We rode into Main Street in no particular formation, Pat and myself still in the van, and the others strung out in the rear. The town was ready for us. Everything that a bullet could hurt had been taken off the plank walk and dragged inside. The street was almost deserted, with only two or three horses standing at the block-long hitching rack. The last buckboard was just pulling out of the far end of the street as we came into town.
“We hit it right,” Pat Roark said out of the side of his mouth. “The cavalry's not in town.” He was moving his head slowly from side to side, not missing a thing. The thumb of his right hand, I noticed, was hooked in his cartridge belt, close to the butt of that new .44. When his head turned in my direction again he said, “You want to try the City Bar first?”
I nodded. The bar was a two-story frame building standing on the corner, at the end of the block. When we reached it, I motioned for Pat to pull in, and I waited for the others to come up.
“Look,” I said, as they grouped up around me, “I know this is none of your fight. I'm not asking you to come in with me, but I'll appreciate it if you keep watch outside here and see that nobody has a chance to get me and Pat in the back.”
The men looked as if they wanted to object and join in on the fight, but nobody did. Jed Horner was the only one to say anything.
“Tall, we don't want you to get the idea that we're not with you. It's just like I said...”
I left him talking and looped the bay's reins over the hitching rack. Pat was waiting for me on the plank walk, his back against the building.
“I guess we might as well go in,” I said.
“I guess so.”
We kicked both batwings open at the same time and stepped inside. I was ready to draw from the first. I half expected a rifle, or maybe a shotgun, to be looking at us from over the bar. But there was nothing out of the way. Business was going on as usual. A couple of Davis policemen were having beer at the bar, a handful of turncoats and scalawags were in the back of the place where the gambling tables were. A roulette ball rattled like dry bones as the wheel spun, then the rattling stopped abruptly as the ball went into a slot. “Black, twenty-three,” I heard somebody say.
“He isn't here,” Pat said under his breath.
The bartender and two policemen were watching us carefully, but nobody made a move. There was something about the whole setup that I didn't like. I knew the bartender recognized me, and probably the two policemen as well. Then why didn't they do something? I was the one they wanted.
I went over every inch of the place with my eyes. There were nine men in the place, counting the bartender,
