taken quite a shine to his half-Comanche friend. She always saved the biggest drumstick or the juiciest pork chop or the last dish of peach ice cream for Rooney, who accepted the gestures as if heâd spent his whole life being waited on. Wash knew different. His companion had lived a hardscrabble life. It surprised him how quickly his rough-and-ready friend had adjusted to being fawned over by pretty widows who ran boardinghouses.
Wash dragged himself off the bar stool and headed for the saloon entrance. He sure wished his mother hadnât sold the ranch. One of the things that had kept him going the two years heâd spent in that prison hellhole in Richmond was thinking about the ranch near SmokeRiver. Heâd dreamed about running fifty head of cattle and maybe some horses on the rolling seven hundred-acre Halliday Double H spread. There was something special about a place you called Home. Something worth fighting for.
Now, working for Sykes and the railroad kept him moving all over the Oregon and Washington territories. He never slept in the same bed more than twenty days at a time, but the money was good. And he was glad the railroad had sent him to Smoke River.
He could understand how Jeanne felt about being uprooted, forced out because a railroad line was coming through. She was caught between a slab of granite and a block of steel. His mother had sold out in a heartbeat after his father died; but Wash knew Jeanne would fight like a tiger to the end.
He pushed through the swinging doors and stepped out onto the board walkway. Just as he reached the barbershop where Whitey Kincaid offered haircuts and shaves and hot baths for fifty cents, a grumble of angry male voices spilled out of the open doorway. He strode on past but someone inside yelled the name âNicolet.â Instantly he doubled back.
And wished he hadnât. The small shop teemed with shouting men. They werenât getting shaves or haircuts or anything else, but they were getting plenty worked up over something. A premonition slowed his footsteps and he slipped inside to melt into the crowd.
âIt ainât right!â someone yelled.
A clamor of voices rose in agreement and then Wash recognized the low, silky voice of Joe Montez.The Spaniard was shouting something to a chorus of cheers. âShe thinks she is too good for us!â
âWe gotta do something,â an older man roared.
A prickly sensation crawled up the back of Washâs neck. That damned Spanish rabble-rouser, what was he trying to do?
Montez was standing upright on one of Whiteyâs leather-upholstered barber chairs, addressing the unruly crowd. Wash stood up and made eye contact, and the manâs face blanched.
Without thinking, Wash lunged for him, but Montez scrambled off the barber chair and vanished out the back door. By the time Wash reached the alley in pursuit, the only sign of his quarry was a swirl of dust stirred up by the manâs boots and the fading thud of horseâs hooves.
The raucous gathering at the barbershop set off a warning bell in his head. He didnât like the way his spine itched when heâd looked the men over, and he sure didnât like not knowing where Montez was headed.
He angled through a narrow vacant lot to the main street, noticing that the once lit-up barbershop interior was now black as the inside of a pistol barrel. He swore he could hear menâs heavy breathing in the darkness.
Something was afoot. His instinct whispered that he wasnât going to like it.
Â
The next morning Rooney stumbled into the empty boardinghouse dining room, squinting against the sunshine pouring through the yellow curtains. He was just in time for the last stack of Mrs. Roseâs buckwheat pancakes, the same ones Wash was about to spear with his fork.
âClearing crewâs here,â Wash announced. He shoved the maple syrup bottle toward Rooneyâs elbow.
âYeah?â
âTheyâre a
Wash dragged himself off the bar stool and headed for the saloon entrance. He sure wished his mother hadnât sold the ranch. One of the things that had kept him going the two years heâd spent in that prison hellhole in Richmond was thinking about the ranch near SmokeRiver. Heâd dreamed about running fifty head of cattle and maybe some horses on the rolling seven hundred-acre Halliday Double H spread. There was something special about a place you called Home. Something worth fighting for.
Now, working for Sykes and the railroad kept him moving all over the Oregon and Washington territories. He never slept in the same bed more than twenty days at a time, but the money was good. And he was glad the railroad had sent him to Smoke River.
He could understand how Jeanne felt about being uprooted, forced out because a railroad line was coming through. She was caught between a slab of granite and a block of steel. His mother had sold out in a heartbeat after his father died; but Wash knew Jeanne would fight like a tiger to the end.
He pushed through the swinging doors and stepped out onto the board walkway. Just as he reached the barbershop where Whitey Kincaid offered haircuts and shaves and hot baths for fifty cents, a grumble of angry male voices spilled out of the open doorway. He strode on past but someone inside yelled the name âNicolet.â Instantly he doubled back.
And wished he hadnât. The small shop teemed with shouting men. They werenât getting shaves or haircuts or anything else, but they were getting plenty worked up over something. A premonition slowed his footsteps and he slipped inside to melt into the crowd.
âIt ainât right!â someone yelled.
A clamor of voices rose in agreement and then Wash recognized the low, silky voice of Joe Montez.The Spaniard was shouting something to a chorus of cheers. âShe thinks she is too good for us!â
âWe gotta do something,â an older man roared.
A prickly sensation crawled up the back of Washâs neck. That damned Spanish rabble-rouser, what was he trying to do?
Montez was standing upright on one of Whiteyâs leather-upholstered barber chairs, addressing the unruly crowd. Wash stood up and made eye contact, and the manâs face blanched.
Without thinking, Wash lunged for him, but Montez scrambled off the barber chair and vanished out the back door. By the time Wash reached the alley in pursuit, the only sign of his quarry was a swirl of dust stirred up by the manâs boots and the fading thud of horseâs hooves.
The raucous gathering at the barbershop set off a warning bell in his head. He didnât like the way his spine itched when heâd looked the men over, and he sure didnât like not knowing where Montez was headed.
He angled through a narrow vacant lot to the main street, noticing that the once lit-up barbershop interior was now black as the inside of a pistol barrel. He swore he could hear menâs heavy breathing in the darkness.
Something was afoot. His instinct whispered that he wasnât going to like it.
Â
The next morning Rooney stumbled into the empty boardinghouse dining room, squinting against the sunshine pouring through the yellow curtains. He was just in time for the last stack of Mrs. Roseâs buckwheat pancakes, the same ones Wash was about to spear with his fork.
âClearing crewâs here,â Wash announced. He shoved the maple syrup bottle toward Rooneyâs elbow.
âYeah?â
âTheyâre a
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