“Damn right I know better.” Pool picked up the bottle and downed a slug of whiskey. “I’ll tell you what else I know,” he went on as he thumped the bottle back down on the table. “I don’t want to be hearin’ a lot of whisperin’ and complainin’ behind my back because we haven’t ridden out yet. That makes me think you fellas don’t appreciate all I done to put this gang together and make sure it’s run right.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Now, Jory, it ain’t like that at all—”
“Tell you what,” Pool said as if Mitchell hadn’t spoken. “If there’s anybody who don’t like the way I run things, he can speak up, right out in the open. If you boys want somebody else to be the boss, why, he can challenge me. I like to run things fair and square.”
Despite the calm, rational words Pool spoke, Mitchell saw a crazy light flickering in the man’s eyes. Pool was smart and cunning and one hell of a leader, but he was also a man it paid not to cross. They all knew that, so Mitchell started to say, “Nobody wants to—”
“There’s just one thing,” Pool broke in. “I don’t take it too kindly when I feel like you boys don’t appreciate me.”
“I swear, Jory, that ain’t the way—”
Pool looked up at Hannah as she stood beside him and said, “Kiss me, honey.”
She smiled. “Why, sure, Jory.” She bent down to kiss him, resting one hand on the table beside the cards to steady herself as she did so. She gave him a long, sensuous kiss, so passionate in its intensity that it made Mitchell and Beeman squirm a mite in their chairs.
With his lips still locked to hers, Pool brought his other hand out from under the table with his bowie knife clutched in it. Moving so fast that it took everyone by surprise, he brought the blade down and drove the razor-sharp steel through Hannah’s hand so that it was pinned to the table like an insect on a display board. She jerked upright, threw her head back, and shrieked in agony.
Pool kept his hand on the knife, bearing down on it so that Hannah couldn’t free her hand. As she slumped forward and collapsed onto the table, whimpering in pain, Pool said to Mitchell and Beeman, “I love this gal. She’s mighty precious to me. So if I’d do this to somebody I love, what do you think I’d do to somebody who crossed me and tried to stir up hard feelin’s against me over this Buckskin business?”
“N-nobody’s gonna do that, Jory,” Beeman said, his eyes wide with shock and horror.
“Damn right,” Mitchell added. “You’re the boss, Jory. What you say, goes. Always has and always will.”
Pool nodded. “All right then. Go on back to the boys and tell ’em what you saw here tonight. Tell ’em I don’t want to hear any more grumblin’ behind my back. You’ve got my word, we’ll hit Buckskin when the time’s right. When I’m damned good and ready.”
The two men scraped their chairs back, nodded, and turned to hurry out of the cabin. Mitchell heard the sound of Pool pulling the bowie knife out of Hannah’s hand. She let out another groan as the blade came free.
But neither Mitchell nor Beeman looked back, and as they closed the door behind them, they heard Pool saying in a tone of genuine affectionate concern, “That hand don’t look so good, darlin’. You’d better tie a rag around it or somethin’.”
Frank spotted Clint Farnum at the bar of the Silver Baron when he walked into the saloon that evening. Farnum was talking to the bartender, Johnny Collyer, and Johnny was laughing. Farnum had an easy way about him that made most folks feel like his friend, even though they might have known him for only a short time. He inspired trust.
Frank didn’t trust him. He knew better. But Farnum had never double-crossed him, so he was willing to give the little gunfighter the benefit of the doubt—for now—although he was going to be wary about it.
Farnum grinned at Frank and said, “Ready to have that drink now, Marshal?”
Frank gestured toward Farnum’s empty glass. “Give a refill on me, Johnny.”
“You’re not drinking, Frank?”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah,” Farnum said, “I recollect now that you were never much of a whiskey man. That’s probably why your nerves have stayed so steady over the years.”
“Might have something to do with it,” Frank allowed with a faint smile.
Farnum picked up the glass Johnny had filled with amber liquid again. He inclined his head toward the rear of the room, where there were several empty tables, and said, “Sit down with me for a minute, Frank? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Curious what Farnum could have to discuss, Frank took the coffee cup Johnny handed him and nodded. “All right, I reckon I’ve got a few minutes before I start my evening rounds.”
They walked back to one of the tables and sat down. Keeping his voice pitched low so that no one could eavesdrop on the conversation, Farnum said, “This town of yours looks to be growing mighty fast.”
Frank nodded. “It’s like any other town where there’s been a gold or silver strike. For a while, it tries to bust wide open at the seams. But in time, it’ll settle down, and if the ore holds out, it’ll grow into a mighty nice place one of these days.”
“Right now, though, I’ll bet you’ve got your hands full. A boomtown’s nothing but trouble. And you’ve got to deal with other problems on top of it…namely young bucks like Charlie who want to gun you down and make a name for themselves. I’ve heard that hardly a week goes by without somebody like that showing up.”
“Who told you that?” Frank asked, his jaw tightening. He knew he was probably the subject of gossip around town, but he didn’t have to like it.
Farnum shook his head. “Doesn’t matter who told me. The word’s all over town. These folks like you, so they’re willing to put up with it. Got to be hard on you, though, trying to keep the lid on and not get killed at the same time.”
“That’s the chore any lawman faces. I pinned the badge on. I’ll do the job.”
“Sure you will. But all you’ve got for a deputy is a broken-down old-timer.”
Frank laughed. “Go and tangle with Catamount Jack and then come back and tell me how broken down he is. I think you’ll find that he lives up to his name.”
“Maybe so. It still seems to me like you could use another deputy. Somebody who knows how to handle trouble.” Farnum smiled. “Maybe because he’s started so blasted much of it in his time.”
Frank stared at the other man in surprise. He couldn’t help it. After a moment, he asked, “Are you saying that you want a job as my deputy, Clint?”
An uncharacteristically solemn expression appeared on Farnum’s normally jovial face. He leaned forward and said, “I know I’ve spent a lot of time in my life riding some dark and lonely trails, Frank. I’ve heard the owl hoot many a night. But so have you.”
Anger welled up inside Frank. “I’ve lived by the gun, and I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of. But I haven’t spent one day of my life as an outlaw.”
“Maybe not, but those are the stories people tell about you.”
“‘Stories’ is right. There’s not a lick of truth to most of them.”
Farnum waved a hand. “I won’t dispute that. Reckon you’d know about that better than anyone else. But my point is, you put all that behind you. You stopped drifting, settled down, pinned on a badge, of all things. You know of any reason I couldn’t do that too?”
Frank knew of several, including some bank robberies and stagecoach holdups that Farnum had been in on.
But on the frontier, the line between lawman and outlaw was sometimes a mighty thin one, and Frank knew that quite a few respected star-packers had come from shady backgrounds. Of course, it sometimes went the other way too. More than one outlaw had started out carrying a badge before turning crooked. The Dalton brothers were prime examples, having served as deputy U.S. marshals in Indian Territory before taking up the owlhoot trail.