The Christmas Journey. Winnie Griggs

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СКАЧАТЬ thrust out his jaw. “You can’t take them until you settle your bill,” he insisted, hands fisting at his sides.

      Ry silently applauded the boy’s pluck.

      But the pair of philistines didn’t share his admiration. The second oaf, whose crooked nose and scarred cheek gave him a more villainous appearance than his partner, scowled. “Like we already said, we settled up with Joe this morning.” The man’s voice rasped like a dull saw on a stubborn log.

      The boy crossed his arms. “Joe didn’t say nothin’ about it.”

      Mustache stopped in the act of opening a stall gate. “You calling us liars?” He swiveled toward the boy, jabbing his fist into his palm with a forceful thwack.

      That did it. Ry couldn’t abide bullies. And he was pretty sure the good Lord hadn’t put him here at this particular moment just so he could stand by and watch.

      Clearing his throat he strolled forward, casually nabbing a pitchfork from a pile of straw. “Good day, gentlemen. Is there a problem?”

      The pair froze, then turned to eye him suspiciously. Ry held his genial smile as he mentally gauged his options.

      As he’d expected, once they got a good look at his tailored clothes and “citified” appearance, their cocky grins reappeared. Better men than these had mistakenly equated polish with softness. His years at law school had added the polish, but he was still a born and bred Texan, able to stand with the best of them.

      “No problem,” Scarcheek finally answered. “The boy’s confused is all. You just stay out of the way, and we’ll be done in a minute.”

      Not likely. Another three unhurried steps placed Ry between the youth and the two men. He pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open with his thumb.

      As expected, both men’s gazes latched onto the gold-cased timepiece with a covetous gleam.

      “I don’t know.” Ry glanced down, then closed the heirloom with a snap. “It appears this is taking a good deal longer than a minute, and I’ve already wasted more time in Knotty Pine than I cared to.”

      Scarcheek met Ry’s relaxed opposition with a lowered brow. “Unless you want to get them fancy duds and that pretty-boy face of yours messed up, you’d best stay out of matters that don’t concern you.”

      Ry flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Well, now, that could be difficult. You see, it’s an unfortunate failing of mine that I find there are so many matters that do concern me.”

      Scarcheek drew his pistol and pointed it at Ry’s chest. “Don’t know where you come from, Mister, but around here that’s not a very healthy attitude.”

      Ry’s smile never wavered as he coolly calculated his next step. Using the pitchfork to knock Scarcheek’s gun out of his hand would be an easy maneuver. Handling Mustache, who was just out of reach, was a bit trickier. He’d hoped the sight of his watch would tempt the bully to step closer. Still, a few agile moves and a bit of finesse just might help him avoid a bullet while he disarmed the man.

      He hoped to handle this without drawing his pocket pistol—the fewer bullets zipping around, the less chance of the boy getting caught in the crossfire.

      Bracing himself, Ry shifted his weight and tightened his hold on the pitchfork. No time for doubts. But, as his mother had liked to say, there was always time for prayer.

      Lord, I know I don’t say it often, but Your help is always welcome, and right about now would be a good time to provide a distraction.

      No sooner had Ry formed that thought than the metallic click of a cocked rifle sliced through the tense quiet of the livery. “What’s going on here?”

      “Joe!” The boy’s shout signaled both relief and warning.

      Then everything happened at once.

      Scarcheek spun around, gun raised, just as the boy started toward the newcomer, putting himself directly in the line of fire.

      Fueled by concern over the boy’s safety, Ry swung the pitchfork with a speed and force that surprised even him. The blow connected with Scarcheek’s wrist, drawing a yelp and string of curses from the man as the gun went flying.

      Before the gun hit the floor, Ry dropped the pitchfork and dove for the boy, tackling him to the ground. Covering the boy’s back with his own body, he left the newcomer’s line of fire clear to take care of Mustache if need be.

      “Hands where I can see them.” The rifle-wielding local’s command carried the cold hardness of a marble slab.

      With the sunlight at their rescuer’s back, Ry couldn’t make out many of his features. All he got was the general impression that this Joe fellow was a wiry young man who radiated a give-no-ground toughness.

      Deciding it was safe to let the squirming stableboy up, Ry stood, though he kept a restraining hand on the lad’s shoulder. Now that everything seemed under control, he was actually feeling a bit proud of the way he’d handled himself. He still had it in him, it seemed.

      Joe’s gaze shifted briefly toward the two of them. “You okay, Danny?”

      “I am now.” The boy rubbed an elbow as he glowered at Mustache and Scarcheek. “They was fixing to take off without paying what they owe.”

      “Is that right?” The inquisitor turned back to the surly pair, tightening his hold on the rifle. “You two planning to leave town without settling your bill?”

      “Look here, no need to get all riled up.” Scarcheek cradled his wrist against his chest. “Clete and I were just pulling the kid’s leg a bit.” He shot Ry a hot-for-vengeance look. “Before this stranger stuck his nose in, we was about to pay up.”

      Danny stiffened. “Hey! That’s not—”

      Ry squeezed the boy’s shoulder, cutting off the rest of his protest. Joe was obviously in charge of the livery and it would be best to let him control the stage for now. Ry did, however, slip his free hand into his coat, palming his pistol. Wouldn’t hurt to be ready if things turned ugly again.

      He felt rather than saw Joe’s gaze flicker his way. Apparently his movement hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought.

      Then the livery operator’s focus returned to Scarcheek and Mustache. “Well, you can hand over the cash now or decide which horse you’re going to leave as payment.”

      Scarcheek scowled, then called over his shoulder. “Pay up, Clete.”

      Mustache reached into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills. He took a step forward, but halted when Joe shifted the rifle, pointing it dead center at his chest.

      “Just set it on that barrel.” There was a flash of teeth as Joe gave a wolfish grin. “Being as you two are such reliable souls, I’ll trust it’s all there.”

      Confident and cautious. Ry’s assessment of the man raised another notch.

      “Now, get your horses and gear, and move on.” Joe lowered the rifle, but Ry doubted anyone in the stable thought he’d lowered his guard. “And don’t plan on doing business here again.”

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