Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Howard bawled, “Tom! A bottle of your best for me and my pards! And glasses for these younguns!”
“You’re not that old yourself,” Charley remarked. Forty, maybe forty-five, would be his guess. Howard looked older though, thanks to the battering his skin had taken from the sun and the wind.
“Old enough to know not to grab a sidewinder by the tail or a bull by the horns,” was Howard’s rebuttal. “I was your age once. And just like you, I couldn’t find my common sense without a magni fyin’ glass.”
Tony wasn’t trying to hide his growing irritation. “You’re full of wisdom, aren’t you, buffalo runner?”
“I have enough not to poke my head where it can get chopped off. Or to sass someone who can carve me up into tiny pieces.”
“I would like to see you try,” Tony said flatly.
To forestall violence, Charley changed the subject. “Why did you give up huntin’ buffalo, Enos, when you were so good at it?”
“That’s Mr. Howard to you, pup. And why I do what I do is none of your damn business.”
“Would you tell me?” Melissa asked, placing a hand on his.
The frontiersman turned red, jerked his hand loose, and hunched in his chair. His arms were shaking. The bartender had barely set the bottle down when Howard snatched it up and glued his mouth to it. He chugged greedily, gulping a third of the whiskey in the bat of an eye. The color and the tension slowly drained from his features, and he sat back, smiling contentedly. “The Almighty’s elixir of life,” he said softly, tapping the bottle.
Tony shook his head in disgust and turned away.
It wasn’t hard for Charley to guess what his friend was thinking: that Enos Howard was as worthless as teats on a bull; that Howard would be of no help whatsoever even if he agreed to help; that, in short, Tony had prolonged his stay in Denver for nothing.
Out of the blue, Melissa bluntly asked, “Enos, does why you drink have anything to do with why you gave up hunting buffalo?”
Howard was about to guzzle more. He glared at her over the bottle, his lips wrapped around the mouth.
“You can hit me if you want,” Melissa said. “But I’m your friend, and I’d like to help you if I can.”
The frontiersman was a long time answering. He lowered the whiskey without taking a sip and sat with his beard bowed to his chest and his eyes half closed. “I hate you, gal,” he said at last. “You’re trickier than these two put together, but a hell of a lot more honest.”
“If you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll understand.”
Charley was anxious to hear what Howard had to say. Just then the front door opened; he glanced toward it and was seared by a bolt of lightning. It was none other than Ubel Gunther and two of the three men who had been with Gunther at the stable. Charley was sure they must know he and Tony were there, but they walked to the bar without once looking at their table. Careful to keep his back to them, he whispered to his friend, “Those are some of Radtke’s men!”
Tony had been glumly contemplating the floor. Now he took a swift look and shifted in his chair so his back was to them, too.
“What’s goin’ on?” Enos Howard asked much more loudly than he should.
“Quiet!” Charley whispered. “If those gents spot Tony, they’ll kill him.”
The buffalo hunter’s eyes lit like candles. “You don’t say?” He grinned at Tony. “What did you do, boy? Accidentally spit on their fancy shoes?” He swigged whiskey, exhaled loudly, and rose. “So you think I’m worthless? Think I couldn’t lick a ladybug if she had one wing tied behind her back?” Melissa began to say something, but Howard held a hand up. “Don’t deny it, Missy. I can see it in their eyes. And here’s where I prove them wrong.”
Charley watched, thunderstruck, as Howard walked to within half a dozen feet of Ubel Gunther and let out with a war whoop like those Charley had always imagined Indians made.
“Look out, world! I’m a he-bear from the high country, and I am on the prod! Who wants to put me to the test?”
Ubel Gunther turned partway around, his elbow on the bar. “You’ve had too much to drink. Sit back down before someone takes that bottle away from you and hits you over the head with it.”
Enos Howard deliberately took a long swallow and smirked. “I’d sure like to see someone try. How about you, pretty boy?”
Chapter Six
The last thing Charley Pickett wanted was for the buffalo hunter to draw attention. Ubel Gunther hadn’t noticed Tony or him yet, and Charley wanted to keep it that way. Gunther must have descriptions of them both.
It might be sheer coincidence Gunther was here. Right before Howard stood up, Charley had seen the bartender slip a poke across the counter to Gunther, who’d slid it under his jacket.
The two men with Ubel were ready to tear into Enos. They moved toward him but stopped when Gunther barked a command in a language Charley thought was German. The owner of the general store in the town near his parents’ farm had been German, and a nicer man Charley had never met.
Now that Charley thought about it, he realized Walter Radtke must be of German extraction too. Maybe everyone who worked for Radtke was.
“My name is Ubel Gunther, not pretty boy.” Gunther addressed Enos. “Go spout your drivel elsewhere. Or better yet, go take a bath. You stink worse than swine.”
Enos was upending the bottle and sloshed some of the whiskey over his chin when he suddenly jerked it down. “Now, that there was an insult if ever I heard one. And in this country, when a man airs his tonsils the wrong way, he answers for it. So set the tumbleweed to rollin’.”
The gauntlet had been thrown. The men with Ubel were eagerly awaiting the word to pounce. But all Gunther did was stand there.
“Are you implying I am a foreigner, you drunken lout? I’ll have you know my grandparents came to America seventy years ago. I was born here. I am an American citizen, the same as you.”
“Too bad the midwife didn’t drop you on your noggin.” Enos wagged the bottle at him. “Do you have any grit, pretty boy? Or are you fixin’ to talk me to death?”
Ubel said one word, just one, and his associates, as he had called them at the stable, were on Enos before Enos could blink. One swung a right cross that, had it landed, would have dropped Howard like a rock. But much to Charley’s amazement, the buffalo hunter ducked, raised his right foot, and stomped on his attacker’s instep. The man yelped and hopped backwards, swearing in German.
The other tough assumed a boxer’s stance and waded into the buffalo hunter with his fists flying.
Enos Howard was a marvel. He dodged. He weaved. He sidestepped. Charley had a hard time keeping up with who was doing what, they moved so fast. But he had the impression not one of the tough’s blows landed. Suddenly Howard spun, grabbed a chair, and flung it at the German’s legs. The man went down in a tumble.
“If you want something done right,” Ubel Gunther said. Hefting his cane, he stalked forward.
Howard’s Bowie leaped from its sheath. “I’m goin’ to carve that walkin’ stick of yours into kindlin’ and then do the same to you.”
The metallic click of gun hammers being thumbed back brought the fight to an end. The bartender had taken a shotgun from under the counter and was aiming it squarely at Howard. “That’ll be enough. Enos, I’ve warned you before about actin’ up in my place. Put that pigsticker away, or I’ll splatter your innards all over this room.”
“Tom!” Enos sounded stricken. “I thought we were friends.”