“Don’t go cussin’ at me, boy. Ain’t done nothin’ to you.”
Maybe gambling dens in Texas skipped the pretentious Cajun French. “Got a deck on you?”
“Never been a sportin’ man. Ain’t never been much of nothin’.”
So why the spiffy duds? “Tell me your story. I’m a good listener.” Professional caliber, as a matter of fact.
Henry fixed him with a bleary stare. “You ever love somebody?”
A pang raked Daniel’s ribs. He didn’t have to stretch to load his voice with sympathy. “Who’d you lose?”
“Everybody. Everythin’. Farm. Wife. Daughter.” The codger’s gaze ambled away, taking most of his voice along. “A son.”
A spectral hand reached into Daniel’s gut and tugged at the stitches on an old wound. “Life’s got a bad habit of playing dirty tricks on folks.”
“Like them two fellas you gunned down?”
The phantom scent of blood and black powder hit Daniel like a physical blow. He threw a grip around a bar as cold sweat rushed over his skin. A sick thud. The sicker certainty. Gorge scalded his throat.
He dragged the back of his hand across his lips. God willing, the first man he’d killed would be the last.
Henry studied him through a bloodshot squint. “That’s a right-fine shade of green. What’s the matter, boy?”
The bile still burning Daniel’s gullet roughened his voice. “Haven’t eaten in two days. Just a little woozy.”
For a drunk, the old man sure could maintain steady eye contact. “Fella used to killin’ other men…he don’t change color like that. Roy ain’t gone green ’bout nothin’ since he come home from the war.”
Daniel had stayed out of that little wrestling match. If he didn’t shed this one right quick, he’d forego the damn keys and join Henry at the bottom of a whiskey barrel. “Don’t imagine the marshal wants me starving to death before he gets the pleasure of hanging me.” He nodded at the plate. “Why don’t you open the gate and slip me that food?”
Brows crunched low, Henry swung his attention to the ring on the wall, then back to Daniel. “You won’t try nothin’?”
On a hard swallow to chase the lingering taste of death, Daniel shook his head.
Henry stared at the keys. C’mon, you old coot. Just two steps.
The aging dandy planted his feet, gripped the back of the chair for leverage…
…and the jailhouse door swung open.
Dammit. Daniel’s jaw clenched.
The marshal stormed across the threshold and delivered a vicious cuff to Henry’s ear. The drunkard shrank away, raising both arms to fend off another blow.
“What’ve I told you about jawing?” Halverson’s snarl lit a simmer in Daniel’s gut. “Get the hell out. Crawl back into a bottle.”
With a grimace, Henry dragged rickety bones from the chair. He smashed the beaver hat on his head, and then his gaunt shadow weaved into the street.
The simmer in Daniel’s gut wound out through his teeth. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Glowering, Halverson stalked to the cell. “Whatever you told him, that liquored-up bastard won’t remember a word.”
“Bet he’ll remember cowardice, though.”
Halverson’s hand shot through the bars, snatched a fistful of shirt, and yanked. Daniel’s forehead banged iron.
“This is my town, Farrow. Talk all you like. Nobody’ll believe you.”
Two hard blinks cleared the spin from Daniel’s vision. “Because they trust a lily-livered sack of—”
The marshal jerked a twist in the sweat-soaked cotton at Daniel’s throat, cutting off his air. “I don’t want to hear another word out of that smart mouth for the rest of your short life.”
Inches away from the lawdog’s bared teeth, Daniel met the man’s glare with a smirk. A wheezing laugh squeezed through the chokehold. “Five days, Halverson. I plan to enjoy ’em.”
Chapter Four
Two soldiers loitered outside the barber’s shop, bold as you please. Each rested the butt of a rifle on the boardwalk, as if a populace disarmed by decree might erupt in rebellion.
Winnie meandered to the other side of the farmer’s wagon, to the tomatoes, plump and red-orange like a waning sunset. She’d not seen their equal since before the war, and with her back to the mudsill vermin, she could pretend they didn’t exist. She could pretend Injun Creek remained the safe, sane little town she’d known before Mark’s crusade attracted a Yankee invasion.
“Excuse, ladies.” Mr. Gunderson squeezed through the throng of women and hefted a crate of potatoes from the buckboard’s bed. A broad smile wreathing his face, he caught Winnie’s attention and nodded at the load in his arms. “I bring for you, too. And onions, ja?”
“Yes, please. And a bushel of peppers, if you have extra.”