Only the Gallant by Kerry Newcomb Page B

his rifle to bear. “We come here to sell these horses to the army. What kind of deal can we expect after you shoot one of their own?”
    “Go to hell, Titus. I mean to have my due and I ain’t gonna wait. You had your chance, now I’ll settle this my way.” Milo started forward. Titus hefted the skillet in his right hand, prepared to cave in the big man’s skull rather than allow him to pass. The two cousins squared off, facing each other across the straw-littered floor. Dust motes, whirring flies, and an air of pent-up violence swirled around them in the rising heat. Milo had bulk on his side; brick hard and nigh unstoppable when the black rage came over him. But Titus was a lean and hungry killer. He was older by five years and twice as experienced. He knew the dark side of men. He’d lived there most of his life. Now Milo was asking for a visit. Well, he had come to the right guide.
    “Now, isn’t this a pretty picture,” a man said from the entrance. The barn faced east and sunlight silhouetted the broad shoulders and solid frame of Doc Stark. No physician, the eldest of the brothers had come by his name simply enough. His Cherokee mother had been so happy at having a traveling physician deliver her firstborn son that she named the infant Doc.
    Upon the death of his father years ago, Doc Stark became the patriarch of the family. Now his burly presence in the doorway defused the confrontation in the barn. Doc was a roughhewn chunk of a man who seemed to carry an invisible mantle of authority wherever he went. Not as tall as Milo, the middle brother, Doc weighed about the same, apportioning his bulk on his shoulders, legs, and the gut that hung over his belt buckle like a bay window. His features were blunt and weathered by the elements. He looked at the world through a perpetual squint that masked the cunning in his eyes. His shadow stretched out before him and lay between Titus and Milo.
    “Hope you aren’t fixing to waste that bacon,” Doc said in a conciliatory tone of voice. “I’m hungry. And so’s my friend here.” He gestured off to the side, and a wiry-looking black man clad in homespun cotton shirt, brown vest, canvas trousers, and black boots joined him in the open doorway. They entered together. The black man looked to be about thirty years old. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and darted from side to side as he nervously checked out the barn.
    “This is Cicero. He used to work on the Tyrone plantation and was a driver for Miss Ophelia Tyrone. I believe brother Milo here has made her acquaintance.” Doc glanced around at the youngest of the Starks, who emerged from the stall and proceeded to dust off his nankeen trousers. He wore an expression of innocence upon his round-cheeked face.
    “Emory, you know her, too, I understand,” Doc said, a kind of menace in his voice. Emory Stark gulped and assumed a hangdog look.
    Cicero hurried to the forge and helped himself to a couple of biscuits from the tin plate. He deftly plucked a few pieces of bacon from Titus’s skillet, while Titus himself stared at the black man in astonishment. Cicero nodded his thanks and, using an anvil for a stool, proceeded to wolf down his breakfast.
    “What the hell is going on, Doc?” Titus said.
    Cicero studied his four benefactors. Though mixed-blood Cherokees, there was nothing Indianlike in their appearance except perhaps for their long black hair. He found it curious when Doc told him they hailed from Indian Territory. Cicero had no formal schooling but he was a shrewd judge of character. At a glance he could tell these were four men who would do just about anything for a handsome profit. Right now he needed them to stay free. But soon they’d be needing him.
    Doc turned to face Milo. His gaze dropped to the Colt revolving rifle.
    “Jesse McQueen’s in town. He did this to me.” Milo held up his bandaged fist. “I aim to make him pay.”
    “Sometime—but not today,” Doc said. He hooked a