Episode 48
The Angry Sky
The day was quiet but for a thunderstorm that swept down on Mercury Wells after sundown. The streets turned into a swamp under the driving downpour. The few folks about in the dark kept indoors, crowded into the remaining saloons and cathouses.
Joe donned an oilskin slicker and patrolled the boardwalks alone. As Joe promised, the Twisted Tree crew were absent from town. The drovers off the Three Rivers were somewhere else as well. Homer Gibbs and his cowboys were nowhere in sight. Maybe Hector Nostrand was keeping them back at the bunkhouse. More likely they were still out rounding up strays from the stampede that morning. Or maybe getting their own herd ready for the freight cars coming the next day.
There were a few of the usual fist fights over a woman or hand of cards. Joe let them play out when he found them. Once one drunk was down for the count, he fined both combatants a five dollar cash fine and booted them out into the rain to sober up. One fella pulled a fierce looking knife on a monte dealer. Joe let him off with a dent in his head and a busted arm. There was no room in his cells for more rowdies.
The organ at the Majestic was in competition with rolling crashes of thunder each time the sky was split with streaks of light. The organist was banging out a waltz with a pair of drunks shuffling around the floor in the arms of a pair of indifferent whores. The rest of the patrons either played muted hands of cards or sought the bottom of bottles at the long bar.
Joe stepped to the bar, aware of the eyes on him. He’d long ago learned to discern the difference between idle curiosity and studied intent. Though he was certainly not beloved in this place he didn’t sense the frisson of tension that always came before tempers rose to violent action.
He took the offer of a complimentary nip from Marcelle DeGeaux. The sweet fire cut the chill of the wet night. It was top shelf stuff. An aged brandy the Frenchman kept for himself and special visitors.
“Your friend is here,” DeGeaux said, nodding toward Ben Temple seated at a table under the stairs. Ben was speaking, telling one of his tales to a glassy-eyed whore with hair the color of brass.
“I saw him,” Joe said.
“But did he see you?” Marcelle said with a smirk.
“Trust me, that old badger knows I’m here.”
“Has there been a contretemps between old friends?”
“He can be a prickly pear. No lie.”
“A man needs friends. No man more than you, marshal,” DeGeaux said, pouring another dram into Joe’s tumbler.
“It’s the quality of a man’s friends not the number,” Joe said.
“The same can be said of a man’s enemies.”
Joe raised his eyes to lock onto the Frenchman’s. Just for a second, DeGeaux flinched under the lawman’s icy gaze.
“You trying to tell me something?” Joe said.
“Just making the conversation.” DeGeaux shrugged, lips pursed.
“Seems like all day long all I’m hearing is people hinting at the world of trouble I’m in. Walking all around the words without saying them. You have something on your mind?”
“Only that you had best tread lightly, marshal. I say this as someone who likes you.” DeGeaux smiled, eyes dancing.
He was startled by the sudden rush of Joe’s right hand snaking out to catch a fistful of his silk shirt and pulling him against the bar. The brass trim along the bar struck him hard at the belt line.
“I don’t like you, you coon-ass son of a bitch. And I don’t like these buttermilk threats I’ve been getting since I woke up this morning,” Joe said between his teeth.
The greasy charm melted from the Frenchman’s face. His eyes narrowed and he showed his own teeth between thin lips.
“Only a very foolish man stays where he is not wanted,” DeGeaux hissed.
“Then I’ll be walking.” Joe released the man’s shirt front. DeGeaux retreated from his reach. The marshal felt every eye in the house on his back as he made his way to the door and out under the angry sky.
