MASON HAWKE.
THE MAN WHO SHOT
EBENEZER PRIEST.
He had just finished posting it when he turned around and saw Mason Hawke carrying his saddlebags over his shoulder.
“Are you going somewhere?” Kirby asked.
Hawke nodded. “It’s time for me to move on.”
“But why would you do that? The judge said there wouldn’t be any charges against you. And think of how much money you will make in tips over the next several weeks because of this. Everybody is going to want to meet the man who shot Ebenezer Priest.”
“Yes, that’s exactly why I’m leaving,” Hawke said. “I’ve no wish to meet anyone who wants to meet the man who killed Ebenezer Priest.”
“But…” Kirby said, clearly distressed by this news. “Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll cut you in for a percentage of everything we take in for the next two months.”
“Thank you,” Hawke said. “That’s a generous offer. But I think I’d better be moving on.”
Kirby nodded, then sighed, and looked up toward his sign. “All right,” he said. “I can’t keep you here. But you sure are passing up the opportunity to make a lot of money.” He took the sign down.
Hawke stuck his hand across the bar. “You’ve been a fine man to work for, Mr. Kirby,” he said. “I wish you the best.”
“Same to you, Mr. Hawke,” Kirby said as he morosely tore up the sign. He bent down to put the torn pieces in the trash can, and when he straightened up again, he saw Hawke stepping through the bat-wing doors.
Chapter 2
THE TOWN OF BITTER CREEK, WYOMING TERRITORY, was little more than a fly-blown speck on the Union Pacific Railroad. It had reached its peak when it was End of Track, a “hell on wheels,” with enough cafes, saloons, and bawdy houses to take care of the men who were building the railroad. But as the railroad continued on its westward trek, Bitter Creek lost all of its importance and most of its population. It was gradually beginning to recover, though, and its hearty citizens hung on, waiting for the eventual bounty the railroad was sure to bring.
Two young men, passing through the town, stopped in front of the Boar’s Breath saloon. Swinging down from their horses, they patted their dusters down.
“Damn me, Boomer, if you don’t look like one of them dust devils,” one of the men said, laughing at his friend.
“Yeah, well you ain’t exactly a clean white sheet yourself, Dooley,” Boomer replied. “What do you say we get us a couple of beers?”
“Sounds good to me,” the other man said.
Pushing through the bat-wing doors, the two men entered the saloon and stepped up to the bar. The saloon was relatively quiet, with only four men at one table and a fifth standing down at the far end of the bar. The four at the table were playing cards, the one at the end of the bar was nursing a drink. The man with the drink had a scar that started at his right eyebrow, came through the eye, disfiguring it, slashed down his cheek like a purple lightning bolt, then hooked into the corner of a misshapen mouth.
As the boys stepped up to the bar, the man with the scar looked over at them with an unblinking stare.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.
One of them continued to stare back at the man standing at the end of the bar. He had never seen a face quite as disfigured.
“Dooley?” Boomer said. “The bartender asked what’ll we have.”
“Oh,” Dooley replied. “Uh, two beers.”
“Two beers it is,” the bartender replied, and turned to draw them.
“And I’ll have the same,” Boomer added.
The bartender laughed. “You boys sound like you’ve got a thirst.”
“Just sayin’ we’re thirsty don’t quite get it,” Dooley said. “Why, I got that much dust you could grow cotton in my mouth.”
“Cotton, huh? You boys must be from the South,” the bartender said as he put the two beers in front of Dooley.
“You got somethin’ against the South?” Boomer challenged.
“No, Lord, no,” the bartender said, chuckling. “I’m from southeast Missouri myself. I wore the gray and fought with ol’ Jeff Thompson durin’ the war.”
“We wasn’t neither one of us old enough to fight in the war,” Dooley said.
“But if we had been, we woulda fought with General James Henry Lane of the Texas Fifth,” Boomer said. “He’s my uncle,” he added proudly.
“So, you boys are from Texas, are you?”
“Yes, sir. We just rode up here.”
“It’s a long ride all the way up here from Texas.”
“Sure is. We ’bout rode the legs offen our horses,” Dooley said.
“What brings you to Wyoming Territory?”
“Well sir, we just got a little bit of the wanderin’ fever, so we thought we’d come up here ’n’ see what it’s like,” Boomer said. “We’re pretty good cowhands. Do you know if any ranchers are hiring?”
“Cowhands, huh?” the man with the scar said. It was the first time he had spoken, and he snorted what might have been laughter.
“I beg your pardon?” Boomer asked.
“I’d be willing to bet that you aren’t cowhands at all. More than likely, you’re store clerks, out for a little adventure, and you don’t know the difference between a cowhide and a buffalo turd.”
“Are you hirin’, mister?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone that is hirin’?”
“No.”
“Well, then, whether we are cowhands or not ain’t none of your business, is it?”
“Who did you say your uncle was? Some general?” the scar-faced man asked.
“I said my uncle was General Lane. General James Lane,” Boomer said. He took a swallow of his beer, leaving some foam trapped in his moustache. “You got somethin’ to say about that?”
“I heard of General Lane.”
“Yeah? What did you hear?”
The scar-faced man poured himself another whiskey, then drank it, all the while holding Boomer in a steady gaze.
“I heard he was a cowardly son of a bitch, leadin’ a pack of Texas cowards,” the man replied.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Dooley said, joining the conversation.
“Mister, I expect you’d better take that back,” Boomer challenged.
The bartender leaned across the bar and said, very quietly, “You boys might want to ease up just a bit. Don’t you know who that is?”
“I don’t care if he is Abraham Lincoln,” Boomer said. “I already don’t like the son of a bitch and just met him. And if he don’t shut the hell up, I may just shut him up.”
“Easy, Boomer,” Dooley said, reaching out for his partner. “We’ve come a long way from home, and we didn’t come up here to get into no fight.”
Boomer glared at the scar-faced man, but the expression on the man’s face never changed.
