Wyoming Renegade. Susan Amarillas

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       Chapter Two

      Gunlock was a two-day journey northwest of Cheyenne. It was tucked into the notch of three hills that protected it from the wind, while a cluster of cottonwood trees guarded it from the sun. To the north, a fastmoving stream insured the town of water, an allimportant fact in a place as barren as Wyoming.

      There was no train in Gunlock. The Union Pacific, on its push to Promontory Point, had taken a more direct route. That fact alone should have assured the town’s demise. It didn’t. Ragtag Gunlock was smack dab in the middle of the Montana Trail, the route for the thousands of cattle being pushed north from Texas.

      Saloons were plentiful in town, all at the eastern end of the one and only street. Covered in peeling paint and raw wood, they were a hodgepodge, everything from false fronts to two stories with balconies. A pine-plank sidewalk ran the length of the street, connecting the rowdier side of town with the respectable west end.

      So, while the good folks lived and shopped a few hundred yards closer to the setting sun, cowboys, tired and thirsty and looking to blow off a little steam, crowded into the saloons.

      It was late afternoon when Josh Colter reined up in front of McGuire’s Saloon and dismounted, tethering his chestnut gelding to the gnarled hitching rail.

      He stepped up onto the plank sidewalk, his spurs jingling as he moved. He was tired and dirty and mean, and all he wanted was to get this over with.

      A woman walked past. He nodded but didn’t speak. He was in no mood for polite civilities. In the nearly eight weeks since the rape and murder of his sister, Josh had tracked and killed two men. It didn’t sit well with him, killing a man, but he’d done it and would do it again—perhaps today.

      The thought of vengeance made his fingers flex, his palm brushed against the smooth wood handle of his Smith & Wesson. He tested its fit in the worn holster, reassured by the easy way the metal slid against the leather.

      With grim determination, he dragged in a steadying breath and pushed through the double doors of the saloon. The doors banged closed behind him.

      He blinked twice against the sudden darkness and stepped away from the doorway. Sunlight at his back made him an easy target, should anyone take a notion. Not that he expected trouble waiting for him. Hell no, Josh was the one bringing trouble—for one man, at least.

      Skirting around an unoccupied table, he headed for the bar. His boots made scuff marks on a floor that hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in years. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies burned his nostrils. He’d never hated saloons before, but in the past few weeks he’d had enough of them to last him a lifetime.

      They all seemed to look the same, as though there were a regulation somewhere that predetermined the arrangement. The room was long and narrow, with the bar of unrecognizable wood taking up most of one wall. There was a poor excuse for a painting of a naked woman hanging on the wall behind the bar; a couple of bullet holes marked the spots where her nipples used to be.

      Six or seven mismatched tables, round and square, were scattered around the room, paired up with an assortment of chairs. A dozen cowboys, whom he figured had trailed up the cattle herd he’d passed outside of town, had taken up residence. Some were drinking. Some were playing cards. Two near the back seemed to be arguing about who was going to go first with the one and only woman in the place. Her red-lipped smile was widening in direct proportion to the bidding.

      “Whiskey,” he told the slick-haired bartender as he leaned one elbow on the scarred surface.

      He angled around to survey the room. His heart drummed furiously in his chest, and his fingers were funeral cold. Inside, he was determined yet scared. But he didn’t let on. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the faces of the men present, pausing, searching, looking for the last of the men he sought.

      They all looked young, too damned young, he thought, feeling suddenly old at thirty. He hesitated once on a tight-lipped cowboy playing cards, but then the man shoved his hat back, revealing dark brown hair. Josh let go the breath he only now realized he’d been holding. Larson had said Gibson was blond, definitely blond.

      “Damn,” he muttered to himself.

       Well, did you expect him to be sitting here? A man can hope, can’t he?

      “Two bits,” a man’s voice said.

      Josh actually flinched and jumped a little at the sound of the bartender’s voice right behind him. He wheeled around, leaning more fully on the bar, holding the empty glass while the bartender poured.

      It looked like whiskey but smelled like horse piss, and Josh wasn’t so sure he wanted to drink it.

      So he toyed with the glass, revolving it between thumb and forefinger, absently making a game out of not spilling it. A couple of men came in and took the table closest to him. He eyed them suspiciously and discounted them just as quickly.

      When no one was paying much attention, he asked the bartender, “You seen Gibson around lately?” He made it sound like they were old friends, though Larson and his pal, Cordell, never got around to first names.

      “Davy Gibson?” the barman replied. He was cleaning a glass with a grimy-looking towel that needed to spend a couple of hours in the company of hot water and soap.

      “Yeah, Davy Gibson,” Josh repeated, taking in the new information. “He around?”

      The barman seemed more interested in the glass he was wiping than in conversation.

      Behind Josh, a round of laughter came from a group of cowboys, and he turned with heart-slamming speed, his hand instinctively resting on his gun. It took a couple of seconds to realize the man was busy telling tall tales to his pals and totally unaware of Josh. He willed his heart rate down to something less than a stampede pace and focused on the bartender, who still hadn’t answered his damn question.

      “About Gibson?” he prompted, struggling to keep his anger in check. Lord, he was tired and he wanted to end this—today, if the spirits allowed. He hoped like hell they did.

      The barman held up another glass toward the window as though studying it. He talked as he worked. “I know Gibson. What of it?”

      “Like I said, he around?”

      “How the hell should I know?” He called to a cowboy nearby. “Hey, any you boys seen Gibson from over at the bank?”

      “Heard СКАЧАТЬ