hands passed a bottle half-full of clear liquid from man to man, and Keeper grimaced while watching a chaw of tobacco balloon a fellow’s cheek as he took a long, thirsty pull. “Goramighty,” he murmured.
The cold stung his nostrils as he breathed air scented of sweat, saddle leather, and last night’s whore. Watching the bottle with a wary eye, he wondered what he should do when it came around to him. He didn’t want to look less than a man on this, his first ride with the Regulators, but someone had laughed that it was Willie Thompson’s home recipe they were passing about. That rotgut had damn sure killed somebody just last week!
His hand trembled as he accepted the bottle from the man beside him. The neck was warm in his hands. Wondering if he could get away with skipping his turn, he sneaked a look at Sheriff Strickland. Amusement crinkled the corners of the lawman’s eyes, and the dimple in his chin deepened as one corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. When he raised his hand and ran a finger along his thin, straight nose, Keeper knew what he was supposed to do. It was the sheriff’s way of telling a fella to get on with a thing.
Sheriff Strickland got more talking done with his eyes and his fingers than he ever did with his mouth.
Keeper brought the bottle to his lips. The liquor’s kick about knocked him off his horse. The man next to him pounded his back as he choked and coughed, fire burning its way to his belly. “Good stuff, ain’t it boy?” the man said. “Tastes like the backwoods of Kentucky, just like 0l’ Willie said. Family recipe, you know.”
Keeper ignored the man and turned watery eyes to Strickland. The sheriff smiled an encouragement. Despite the burn the liquor caused in his innards, the boy shivered and the tears in his eyes took a bit to dry. Sheeeit, he thought, glancing around. An ocean of men surrounded him; he couldn’t run away and puke even if he did get the nerve. When Watt Moorman started talking, he listened with half an ear.
“Glad to see so many of you turn out today,” the colonel said, hooking his thumbs under his arms. “This council has much to consider on such a fine January morn.”
Attempting to ignore the rumbles in his gut, Keeper watched the Regulator chief and tried to figure why he’d been chosen as leader rather than the sheriff. After all, since the group had organized in order to take the law into its own hands, it made sense to pick its only real lawman to be the headman.
Moorman was a strange character; he always dressed like he was late for the Battle of the Alamo. Today he had on a half-military coat and a black hat with a red feather in the band. He carried a brace of single-shot pistols and a bowie knife, and rode with a hunting horn hung on his saddle cantle. But in Keeper’s eyes, Colonel Moorman couldn’t hold a candle to the sheriff. Jack Strickland was tall with coal-black hair. He had a mouthful of straight white teeth that sent womenfolk to swoonin’ when he smiled. Sheriff Strickland could draw a pistol slicker than snot and shoo the stinger off a mud dauber at fifty feet.
But most important of all, Strickland was the one that got him out of the whorehouse.
The boy snapped back to attention when the men around him all raised their right hands. He didn’t have a clue what was being voted, but when Strickland’s hand went up, his did too.
Moorman said, “It’s unanimous. We continue our war on the lawless group Edward Merchant formed to oppose us—the Moderators.”
The band of Regulators cheered. “We are the leaders of our communities,” Moorman continued. “We own the towns and the courts. We will use the power of our positions to squash the rebels like pesky mosquitoes.”
Some men fired pistols into the air. Keeper about fell off his horse.
Moorman smiled and held up a hand, signaling for quiet. He said, “It has come to my attention that many of the Moderators have made it their habit to do their
The cold stung his nostrils as he breathed air scented of sweat, saddle leather, and last night’s whore. Watching the bottle with a wary eye, he wondered what he should do when it came around to him. He didn’t want to look less than a man on this, his first ride with the Regulators, but someone had laughed that it was Willie Thompson’s home recipe they were passing about. That rotgut had damn sure killed somebody just last week!
His hand trembled as he accepted the bottle from the man beside him. The neck was warm in his hands. Wondering if he could get away with skipping his turn, he sneaked a look at Sheriff Strickland. Amusement crinkled the corners of the lawman’s eyes, and the dimple in his chin deepened as one corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. When he raised his hand and ran a finger along his thin, straight nose, Keeper knew what he was supposed to do. It was the sheriff’s way of telling a fella to get on with a thing.
Sheriff Strickland got more talking done with his eyes and his fingers than he ever did with his mouth.
Keeper brought the bottle to his lips. The liquor’s kick about knocked him off his horse. The man next to him pounded his back as he choked and coughed, fire burning its way to his belly. “Good stuff, ain’t it boy?” the man said. “Tastes like the backwoods of Kentucky, just like 0l’ Willie said. Family recipe, you know.”
Keeper ignored the man and turned watery eyes to Strickland. The sheriff smiled an encouragement. Despite the burn the liquor caused in his innards, the boy shivered and the tears in his eyes took a bit to dry. Sheeeit, he thought, glancing around. An ocean of men surrounded him; he couldn’t run away and puke even if he did get the nerve. When Watt Moorman started talking, he listened with half an ear.
“Glad to see so many of you turn out today,” the colonel said, hooking his thumbs under his arms. “This council has much to consider on such a fine January morn.”
Attempting to ignore the rumbles in his gut, Keeper watched the Regulator chief and tried to figure why he’d been chosen as leader rather than the sheriff. After all, since the group had organized in order to take the law into its own hands, it made sense to pick its only real lawman to be the headman.
Moorman was a strange character; he always dressed like he was late for the Battle of the Alamo. Today he had on a half-military coat and a black hat with a red feather in the band. He carried a brace of single-shot pistols and a bowie knife, and rode with a hunting horn hung on his saddle cantle. But in Keeper’s eyes, Colonel Moorman couldn’t hold a candle to the sheriff. Jack Strickland was tall with coal-black hair. He had a mouthful of straight white teeth that sent womenfolk to swoonin’ when he smiled. Sheriff Strickland could draw a pistol slicker than snot and shoo the stinger off a mud dauber at fifty feet.
But most important of all, Strickland was the one that got him out of the whorehouse.
The boy snapped back to attention when the men around him all raised their right hands. He didn’t have a clue what was being voted, but when Strickland’s hand went up, his did too.
Moorman said, “It’s unanimous. We continue our war on the lawless group Edward Merchant formed to oppose us—the Moderators.”
The band of Regulators cheered. “We are the leaders of our communities,” Moorman continued. “We own the towns and the courts. We will use the power of our positions to squash the rebels like pesky mosquitoes.”
Some men fired pistols into the air. Keeper about fell off his horse.
Moorman smiled and held up a hand, signaling for quiet. He said, “It has come to my attention that many of the Moderators have made it their habit to do their
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