Shameful though it might be, he turned and ran.
The guards’ bulk meant they were slower on their feet than Mac was. Three blocks later, he finally evaded them by ducking into a saloon in Pirate’s Alley. He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. The smoke in the dive formed a fog so thick it wasn’t possible to see more than a few feet. He coughed, then went to the bar and collapsed against it. “I say this to damned near ever’body what comes into this place,” the barkeep said, “but in your case I mean it. You look like you could use a drink.”
Chapter Two
The bartender poured a shot of whiskey.
Mac knocked it back, and it almost knocked him down. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but this had to be the most potent popskull he had ever encountered. He choked, swallowed, then said, “Another.”
“The first was on the house. The next one you pay for.”
“I just had a run-in with my lady friend’s pa.” He sucked in a breath and endured the pain in his ribs. Micah Holdstock had a grip like a bear. The powerful liquor went a ways toward easing the pain. He fumbled out a greenback for another drink. He needed all the deadening he could pour down his gullet.
The bartender picked up the bill, examined it, and tucked it away. “Don’t usually take Yankee bills, but seeing’s as how you’re in pain, I will this time.” He splashed more whiskey into Mac’s empty glass.
Mac started to protest at not getting change. As the second shot hit his gut and set his head spinning, he forgot about it. What difference did it make anyway? He had to find a way to sneak Evie out of the house and get her to a judge for a proper marrying.
“Do tell.”
Mac blinked and frowned. He hadn’t realized he had been talking out loud, but obviously the bartender knew what he’d been thinking. He ran a shaky finger around the rim of his empty shot glass and captured the last amber drop. He licked it off his fingertip. The astringent burn on his tongue warned him that another drink might make him pass out.
“I’ll find a way,” he said, with more assurance than he felt. He needed both hands on the bar to support himself.
As he considered a third drink, he noticed how the sound in the saloon went away. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Thinking the drink had turned him deaf, he started to shout out for another, then saw the frightened expression on the barkeep’s face. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the reason.
The two guards who had been stationed outside Micah Holdstock’s front door now stood just inside the saloon, arms crossed over their chests. Those arms bulged with muscles. The men fixed steely gazes on him. Out of habit—or maybe desperation—Mac patted his right hip but found no revolver hanging there. He had dressed up for the occasion of asking Evie to marry him. There hadn’t been any call for him to go armed.
He knew now that was a big mistake. He turned and had to brace himself against the bar with both elbows. He blinked hard, as much from the smoke as the tarantula juice he had swilled. Hoping he saw double and only one guard faced him, he quickly realized how wrong that was. There were two of them, and they had blood in their eyes.
“You gonna stand there all night or you gonna come for me?” He tried to hold back the taunt but failed. The liquor had loosened his tongue and done away with his common sense. Somewhere deep down in his brain, he knew he was inviting them to kill him, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Well? Come on!” He balanced precariously, one foot in front of the other, fists balled and raised.
The one who looked like a boxer stirred, but the other held him back.
“Waiting for the bell to ring? Come on. Let’s mix it up.” He took a couple of tentative punches at thin air.
“Mister, that’s Hiram Higgins,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to tug at his sleeve. “He lost to Gypsy Jem Mace over in Kennerville.”
“So that just means he can lose to me just east of Jackson Square.”
“Mister, Gypsy Jem whupped Tom Allen the next day for the heavyweight championship.”
“So? You said this man Higgins lost.”
“He lost after eighteen rounds. Ain’t nobody stayed with the Gypsy longer ’n that. The man’s a killer with those fists.”
Mac wasn’t drunk enough to tangle with Holdstock’s guard, not after hearing that. But the boxer stepped away deferentially when a nattily dressed man stepped into the saloon. The newcomer carefully pulled off gloves and clutched them in his right hand. He took off a tall top hat and disdainfully tossed it to the boxer. Walking slowly, the man advanced on Mac.
“You are the one? You?” He stopped two paces away from Mac, slapping the gloves he held in his right hand across his left palm.
“I’m your worst nightmare, mister.” Still emboldened by the booze, Mac flipped the frilled front of the man’s bleached white shirt. A diamond stud popped free. The man made no effort to retrieve it from the sawdust on the floor. He stared hard at Mac.
“You are drunk. But of course you are. Do you know who I am?”
“Not a clue. Some rich snake in the grass from the cut of your clothes.” Mac tried to flip his finger against the man’s prominent nose this time. A small turn of the man’s head prevented him from delivering the insulting gesture.
“I am Pierre Leclerc, the son of Antoine Leclerc.”
“I’ve heard the name. Somewhere.” Mac tried to work out why the name was familiar. His head buzzed with a million bees inside it, and he was definitely seeing double now. Two of the annoying men filled his field
