“Females are fussy creatures. They always want the best corset money can buy, but they always want it at half price.”
“That’s only natural,” Saber commented. He had as much interest in corsets as he did in the mating habits of toads.
“Easy for you to say, my good man. You don’t have to put up with their endless griping.”
“If the work bothers you so much, do something else.” Saber thought that a nice touch, since he had no intention of letting the idiot leave Wolf Pass alive.
“Ah. But there are compensations. I get to travel. I get to meet new people. And sometimes—not very often, but on occasion—a lady will let me help her try on a corset.” The drummer’s piglet eyes sparkled with lust. “Those are the moments I live for, as would any man with blood in his veins.”
Saber was of the opinion that if you had seen one naked female, you had seen them all. Oh, some were short and some were tall, some were skinny and some were heavyset, but they all had the same body parts, and one breast was as good as another under the sheets.
Saber had taken as much of the drummer’s prattle as he could stand, and when the drummer went to use the outhouse, he signaled to Creed. Shortly thereafter, Creed came back in with the forty-seven dollars the drummer had on him.
The coyotes feasted well that night.
Now Saber went to the door and gazed at the point where a rutted track merged into the clearing from the southeast. In under five minutes, a pair of riders appeared. Right away, Saber pegged them as prospectors. They were cut from the same coarse cloth: unkempt, weather-beaten clothes, bushy beards. Each man led a pack animal laden with the tools of their hardscrabble trade. Angling to the hitch rail, they stiffly climbed down.
Saber stepped outside, plastering a smile on his face. “How do, gents? Welcome to the Wolf Pass Saloon.”
The pair had rifles crooked in their elbows, and each wore a brace of pistols. “How do, yourself,” said the burliest. “I’m Zeb, and this here rascal is my pard, Roscoe.”
Saber indicated the pack horses. “Off into the mountains after gold or silver, I take it?”
“Either will do,” Zeb drawled. “We’re not particular about how we get rich.”
“Just so we do,” Roscoe amended with a chuckle.
Prospecting was difficult work, the rewards never certain. Saber had a much more practical way of meeting his needs. He regarded nugget hounds as greed-blinded yaks, but he kept that to himself and said, “Care to wet your throats? I’ve got red-eye that will curl your toes.”
“And put hair on our chests?” Zeb joked. He already had more hair than a bear. His wrists and the backs of his hands were covered.
“Heard about any strikes in these parts?” Roscoe asked.
“Afraid not,” Saber answered. “Most folks don’t go that far in, and those that do are more interested in keepin’ their scalps than rootin’ in the ground.” Actually, he had no idea how many used the pass each year.
“That’s fine by us,” Zeb said. “It means the ore is still there, waitin’ for us to find it.”
“We’re overdue for a strike,” Roscoe remarked.
Saber never could understand ore hounds. They were dreamers, chasing elusive wisps. Their chances of striking it rich were about the same as that of a cow sprouting wings. His way was better. He simply took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
“Never expected to find a saloon so far up in these mountains,” Zeb commented as he strolled in.
“I don’t suppose you have a dove or two workin’ for you?” Roscoe asked hopefully. “It’s been a spell since I fondled me a female.”
“The only doves hereabouts are squaws,” Saber said, “and they don’t cotton much to white folks.”
“I lived with an Injun gal once,” Zeb said. “Bought her from her pa for a couple of horses and a blanket. She wasn’t much of a talker, but she could cook. At night she was a regular wonderment.” He winked at Saber.
Roscoe snickered. “That’s about all women are good for, anyway. Unless you count complainin’.”
Saber went behind the bar, while the two prospectors idly surveyed the room, showing little interest in anyone else. “What will it be?”
Zeb placed his Sharps rifle on the counter with a loud thump and noisily smacked his lips. “Bug juice. I’m not finicky, so long as it burns goin’ down.”
Roscoe stared at Creed as if he had never beheld a black before. “Same here,” he parroted.
As Saber set out glasses and chose a bottle, he debated what to do with them. Other than their guns and their horses, they had nothing of value. He was inclined to let them ride away. Then Roscoe leaned toward him so as not to be overheard.
“How come you let him in here?”
“Him who?”
“The nigger. Where I come from, their kind ain’t allowed to mix with our kind. It’s not decent.”
Saber savored the icy chill that washed over him. He opened the bottle and slid it toward them. “Help yourselves. The first drink is on the house.”
Roscoe resumed digging his own grave. “So what if we can’t keep ’em as slaves anymore. Niggers ought to know their place.”
“Did you hear him?” Saber hollered to Creed. “This gent says blacks have no business minglin’ with whites.”
Everyone in the saloon froze. All sound ceased. Roscoe’s mouth opened and closed a few times until, coughing, he sputtered, “What in hell did you do that for?”
“We don’t want no trouble,” Zeb said.
Creed slowly set down his glass. He slowly turned and just as slowly came toward them. His features might as well have been carved from marble.
Twitch shadowed him, giggling in anticipation.
“We don’t want no trouble,” Zeb said again, to Creed this time. “My partner didn’t mean anything.”
“That’s right,” Roscoe nervously bleated, his eyes on Creed’s Remingtons. “I was makin’ small talk.”
“Pitiful,” Saber said. “Downright pitiful. They have no more gumption than a couple of chipmunks.”
Creed stopped about six feet from the prospectors. “I’ll let you jerk your hardware first.”
“Now hold on,” Roscoe said. “I meant no disrespect. I was just tellin’ this fella how things are in some parts of the country.”
“You should be worried about how things are here,” Creed said. “A minute from now, you’ll be in the hereafter.”
Zeb surveyed the saloon as if hoping someone would side with his partner and him, and when no one did, he appealed to Saber. “What kind of place are you runnin’ here, anyhow? Invite us in for drinks, then stand by and do nothin’ when this darkie threatens to blow out our wicks?”
“Some days it just doesn’t pay to get up, does it?” Saber asked.
“I don’t get this,” Roscoe declared. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”
A human statue, Creed was waiting for them to claw at their hardware. From experience, Saber knew that the black could stand still for hours. Creed was like an Apache in that respect. It was spooky.
“Well?” Zeb prodded. “Say somethin’!”
Saber took a swig from the bottle. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he responded, “You brought this on yourselves, boys. The only thing to do now is take your medicine.”
“Damn it.” Zeb was fingering his Sharps. “We’re goin’ to back on out, nice and peaceful like.”
“All we want is to be left be,” Roscoe said.
“You’ll never reach the door.”
Ignoring Saber, moving as if they were stepping on eggshells, the prospectors sidled toward the entrance. “That’s it,” Zeb said, covering the rest. “Don’t anyone be hasty, and we’ll all live to see the sun set.”
Roscoe had not taken his eyes off Creed. He seemed mesmerized, like a bird unable to look away from the snake about to devour it.
“I will give you to three,” the black said.
Zeb grew ashen. “Please. We don’t want to spill blood. How about if we say we’re sorry? Would that satisfy you?”
