The Last Outlaw(7)

“Can’t blame you for wanting some peace after all you’ve been through,” Clete said from behind the bar. “It’s the women who always want opera houses and schools and churches and such.”

Jake thought about Randy, how she’d educated their son and daughter, insisting they know big words and history and things he didn’t care much about. “I suppose.”

“Jake, you can’t blame us for asking,” Medley offered.

“I appreciate it.” He adjusted his jacket. “Sorry about that little skirmish, but Brady Fillmore rubs me the wrong way. I don’t normally even drink, but there are times when a man just needs a beer.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Clete answered.

“Yeah, well right now my wife is probably looking for me, and I don’t want her coming in here, so I’d better go.” Jake tipped his hat to Clete. “Thanks for speaking up for me and chasing Brady out of here. I was about ready to get myself in hot water all over again.”

“No problem, Jake,” Clete answered, smiling. He walked closer and put out his hand. Jake ended up shaking hands all around the table.

“Any chance we could at least have a look at those famous guns?” Till Medley asked.

Jake grinned. “Sorry, boys. I wouldn’t want someone to get hurt.” He gave Sonoma a smile before he took a couple of long strides through the saloon’s swinging doors and stepped onto the boardwalk and into the chilly air. It should have been warmer than this in June, but sometimes the wind swept down from the snow-capped Rockies in the wrong way and brought cold with it.

Back inside the saloon, everyone looked at one another, all thinking the same thing.

“Remind me not to rub that man the wrong way,” Tucker voiced aloud.

Another round of laughter followed.

“Shit, the man is as fast with his temper as he is with his guns,” Clete commented.

“Yeah, I was a little worried for a minute he’d just take those guns out and shoot the hell out of Fillmore,” another joked.

“You can see it in his eyes,” Clete commented. “He’s an amiable man, but don’t cross him. God knows what all he’s done no one knows about—things that weren’t in that book, and things he’ll never tell.”

“Any man who can hold a gun to a man’s forehead and pull the trigger point-blank has to have a special darkness inside,” Till said quietly.

“Killed his own father,” Tucker added. “According to the book, his childhood was a nightmare. It’s a wonder he’s even in his right mind.”

“Yeah, well, the look in his eyes when he shoved Brady Fillmore’s head to the table wasn’t sane,” Clete told them. “A man would be best not to insult Jake Harkner’s wife.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Sonoma told them as she brought them fresh beers.

“You just want to sleep with him,” Clete told her. He took the beers from the tray and set them out for the card players, who all snickered.

“I don’t care what you think,” Sonoma told them, pouting. “He is a nice man. Maybe things just happened he couldn’t help. That man in Denver, he was one of those who raped his daughter. That same man showed up at that cattlemen’s ball and shot Jake’s son. Jake was only defending his family that night. The judge believed him.”

“Yeah, well, they say he had the man down and could have waited for the police. But he held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger anyway. That’s more than defending your family.”

Sonoma set the tray aside. “People say he and his son are very, very close. You have a son, Bill Tucker. What would you do if someone shot him right in front of your eyes? I think you would want to kill him, no?”

Tucker lit a cigar. “I would want to kill him—yes.”

“Get back to work, Sonoma,” Clete told her.

The woman sauntered away, and every man there watched her walk. They looked at one another and grinned.

“Ole Jake could have a good lay today if he wanted,” one of the others joked.

They laughed again as Tucker dealt a new hand.

“He has a beautiful wife,” Till commented. “Just beautiful. If I had a wife who looked like her, I wouldn’t need any whore on the side.”

“I think he is a bad man with a good heart,” Sonoma called to them from behind the bar.

“Is there such a thing?” Clete quipped as he carried the tray of empty glasses back to the bar.

“I think so.” Sonoma glanced toward the doorway. “And his name is Jake Harkner.”





Three


Jake lit a cigarette and stepped farther out into the street. A motorized buggy passed by, startling two nearby horses. They whinnied and pulled at the reins that held them to hitching posts. The buggy suddenly backfired, and one of the horses screamed and reared up, tearing completely away from the hitching post. The animal ran off, spooking another horse, which reared and nearly tossed its rider. The rider cursed at the driver of the motorized buggy and told him to “get that thing out of here!”