Mankiller, Colorado

CHAPTER 8

They untied their horses and took the animals with them, threading their way through the crowds in the street. The hitch rail in front of the café was crowded, but there was just enough room left for the Texans’ horses.

A pair of doors with curtained windows in their upper halves led into the building. When Bo opened one of them, a mixture of delicious aromas floated out and washed over him and Scratch.

Scratch paused to take a deep breath. He sighed and then asked, “Are you sure this is Mankiller and not heaven, Bo?”

“I don’t reckon El Señor Dios would have a couple of mangy varmints like those Deverys trying to charge a toll to get into heaven, do you?”

“Probably not,” Scratch agreed.

They went inside and closed the door behind them. The place was busy, which testified that the flavor of the food matched its aroma. Most of the tables covered with blue-checked tablecloths were occupied, and every one of the stools at the counter running along the right side of the room was occupied. A couple of pretty waitresses in gingham dresses and white aprons were hurrying from table to table, delivering platters of food and taking orders. An older but still very attractive woman behind the counter refilled coffee cups for the men who sat there.

Bo spotted an empty table. He pointed it out to Scratch, and they hustled to take it before anybody else could come into the café behind them and steal it out from under them.

As they sat down and removed their hats, one of the fresh-faced waitresses came over to them. “Coffee and the special, gents?” she asked.

Bo glanced at the chalkboard hung on the wall behind the counter. The special, written in lovely, flowing script, was roast beef, potatoes, carrots, peas, biscuits, and apple pie.

“Oh, my, yes, ma’am,” Bo said, his mouth already watering. The prospect of such a meal after living on what he and Scratch could eat on the trail for a couple of weeks was very appetizing.

“And keep the coffee comin’,” Scratch added.

The brown-haired waitress smiled at them. “I sure will,” she promised. “Be right back with your cups.”

Scratch watched her walk back to the counter to turn in the order. “Mighty friendly folks in this place,” he commented.

“In the café, you mean,” Bo said. “The rest of the town didn’t strike me as being all that friendly.”

“Well, no, I reckon not.” Scratch paused. “You think those Devery boys will really come after us?”

Bo shrugged. “The sheriff seemed to think so. I’m not sure how reliable he is, but Luke and Thad didn’t seem to be the sort who’d give up a grudge easily.”

“In other words, we may be in for trouble.” Scratch chuckled. “It’s not like that’ll be a big change for us, will it?”

Bo shook his head. Unfortunately, what Scratch said was true. All they wanted was peace and quiet, and in this case, the opportunity to do a little prospecting. It seemed that those things might be denied to them, at least for a while.

But for the time being, they had a good meal to look forward to, so they pushed those other thoughts away. Neither of them had been the sort to let worry consume them. They took things as they came.

The waitress came back a couple of minutes later, expertly balancing two cups and saucers and a coffeepot, the handle of which she held with a thick leather pad. She set the cups down, filled them, and said, “Your food will be along in just a few minutes, gents.”

“Thanks, miss,” Bo told her. He had been looking back and forth between the waitress and the woman at the counter and had noted the resemblance between them. “Begging your pardon if I’m too nosy, but is that your mother behind the counter?”

The waitress smiled. “That’s right. And the other waitress is my sister.”

“Family business, is it?” Scratch asked. “Is your pa back in the kitchen doin’ the cookin’?”

The young woman’s smile went away. “No, I’m afraid not. I wish he was. He passed away a while back.”

Scratch instantly looked apologetic. “I’m sure sorry, miss,” he said. “Didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

“No, that’s all right. You didn’t know. But to answer your question, my Uncle Charley is the cook.” She smiled again. “And he’s a really good one.”

“I’m sure he is,” Bo said. He took a sip of the strong black coffee. “He brews a good cup of coffee, too.”

Customers at other tables were clamoring for attention. The waitress gave Bo and Scratch a friendly nod, then went back to work.

Scratch sighed. “It’s downright amazin’ how far in my mouth I can shove this big ol’ foot of mine sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bo said. “Like the girl told you, you didn’t know about her pa.”

Scratch cast an interested look at the counter and the woman working behind it. “That means the lady’s a widow. Wonder exactly how long it’s been since her husband passed on.” There was nothing Scratch found more intriguing than a good-looking widow lady.

Bo laughed. “I get a feeling that if we wind up staying in Mankiller for very long, we’ll be eating here a lot.”

“We might be,” Scratch said. “We just might be.”

If they did, the quality of the food would justify it, Bo discovered as their meals arrived a few minutes later, delivered by the same waitress. The roast beef was tender, bursting with juices and flavor, and the rest of the food was almost as good. The biscuits were light and fluffy, a far cry from what a fella could cook on the trail. The apple pie topped off the meal perfectly, with its sweet filling and light, flaky crust. All of it was washed down with several cups of coffee, which the pretty brunette kept refilling.

The lunch rush died down a little while the Texans were eating. By the time they were finished, only about half the tables were occupied, and there were a few empty stools at the counter. The woman working there, the mother of the two waitresses, was able to pause and catch her breath. She pushed back a strand of brown hair that had come loose and fallen over her forehead. There were some threads of gray in that hair, but not many, Bo noted. He had to agree with what he knew Scratch was thinking…the woman had a mature beauty that made her very attractive.

In all their years of traveling together, the two of them had seldom if ever paid court to the same woman. One always deferred to the other out of the deep friendship they had developed. Since Scratch had expressed an interest in this lady first, Bo didn’t intend to interfere.

He didn’t expect anything lasting to come from it, anyway. Scratch had never been the sort to settle down. If such thoughts even began to crop up in his head, he tended to skedaddle as quickly as possible.

Now, however, Scratch stood up and, holding his hat in front of him, went over to the counter. He smiled at the woman and said, “Ma’am, I just wanted to tell you that was the best meal I’ve had in a month of Sundays.”

She returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Mister…?”

“Morton, ma’am. They call me Scratch.”

“Well, thank you again, Mr. Morton, but I can’t take credit for the food. My brother is the cook.”

“If you’d pass along my compliments to him, I’d sure appreciate it. And I can promise you, my partner and I will be back to eat here again.”

“I hope so. Are you planning to be in Mankiller for long?”

“Depends on how we do once we start prospectin’.”

The woman’s smile went away. “You came here looking for gold?”

“Yes, ma’am. We read all about the big strike.” Scratch saw something like disapproval lurking in her eyes. “You don’t like the gold strike, ma’am? Seems like it’d help your business a lot.”

“Of course it does,” she said, “and I don’t begrudge anyone who wants to seek their fortune. But I’d like to see more people come here who’d like to put down roots and help the town grow once this boom is over, as sooner or later it will be.”

Scratch nodded. “I reckon you’re right about that, ma’am. My partner and me, we ain’t really the putting-down-roots sort of hombres, though.”

“I see. Well, you’re welcome here while you’re in town, Mr. Morton, however long that may be.”

“Thank you most kindly, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name…?”

“It’s Mrs. Bonner.” For a second it seemed like that was all she was going to give him. Then she relented a little and added, “Lucinda Bonner.”

“That’s a mighty pretty name, Mrs. Bonner. It suits you.”

Bo figured he’d let Scratch flirt with the woman long enough. He came up to the counter as well and asked, “How much do we owe you for the coffee and two specials, ma’am?” The price wasn’t written on the chalkboard.

She turned to look at Bo. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

The eyes of both Texans widened in surprise. Scratch’s shock overcame his interest in Lucinda Bonner, and he blurted, “Ten bucks? Ain’t that kinda steep?”

“Of course it is,” she replied. “But in Mankiller, five dollars isn’t bad for a meal like that. You can go over to the hash house and get a bowl of greasy stew that isn’t nearly as good, and it will set you back four dollars.”

“Why are the prices so high?”

“Because the price of supplies is so high. I promise you, Mr. Morton, we’re not gouging our customers. Even charging what we do, the café is barely getting by, if you want to know.”

Bo said, “It’s a boomtown. Supply and demand. Demand is high, and supplies are limited. We’ve seen it before, Scratch.”

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Scratch shook his head. “Still, it’s mighty dear.”

Bo slid a half-eagle across the counter to Lucinda Bonner. He kept a few coins in his pocket, and so did Scratch, but the rest of their stake was split up between a pair of money belts, one worn by each of them.

“There you go, ma’am,” he told her. As he touched a finger to the brim of his black hat, he added, “Best of luck to you and your daughters and brother.”

“Thank you.” Her hand moved, and the coin disappeared.

Bo and Scratch left the café. As they paused outside, Bo said, “I’ve got a feeling that if you intended to court that woman, Scratch, you may have ruined those plans by accusing her of overcharging us for those meals.”

“Now, that ain’t exactly what I said,” Scratch protested.

“Close enough.”

Scratch sighed. “You may be right about that, Bo. I was just surprised, that’s all, and you know sometimes my talkin’ is a few steps ahead of my thinkin’. I should’ve knowed better. We’ve been in enough boomtowns to know how it is.”

“Yeah, we sure have.” Bo untied the reins of his dun and the packhorse from the hitch rail. “I hope we can find room in a stable for these animals.”

They led the horses along the street and were turned away at a couple of livery stables that were already full up. When they came to a ramshackle barn with a crudely lettered sign that read EDGAR’S LIVERY, Bo shrugged and said, “This may be the best we can do.”

“Or maybe we ain’t hit bottom yet,” Scratch said. “Reckon all we can do is go in and ask.”

They found the liveryman inside, mucking out a stall. That brought back unpleasant memories of Socorro and Johnny Burford.

“Are you Edgar?” Bo asked the thickset proprietor.

“That’s right. You boys lookin’ for a place to stable them cayuses?”

“Do you have room for them?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I do. Be four dollars a day for each of ’em.”

Scratch let out a whistle. “There’s nothin’ cheap in this town, is there?”

“Not right now there ain’t,” Edgar agreed. “Not in the middle of a gold boom.” He rubbed at his grizzled jaw. “Tell you want I’ll do, though…you got three hosses, so we’ll call it ten bucks a day for all three. How’s that sound?”

“Still a mite like highway robbery,” Scratch grumbled.

“But we’ll take it,” Bo added. “Thanks.”

He handed over a double eagle to pay for two days. At the rate their money was going, he hoped they would be able to find gold soon. Otherwise their stake would be gone and they’d have to move on.

Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad thing. They had gambled before and lost, and the good thing about being drifters was they could always ride away and leave those troubles behind them, as long as they had enough money left for a few supplies.

Edgar showed them the empty stalls. As they were unsaddling their mounts, Bo asked the liveryman, “Do you know a family named Devery?”

Edgar looked surprised. “Yeah, I know ’em. Why do you ask?”

Scratch said, “We had a run-in with a couple of ’em at the bridge leadin’ into town.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Had to pull iron on ’em.”

Bo said, “Sheriff O’Brien told us the Devery family owns a lot of the land hereabouts.”

Edgar laughed. “Still seems strange to me that ol’ Biscuits wears a law badge now. Wasn’t that long ago he was the one bein’ locked up all the time.” The liveryman lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Biscuits drinks a mite, you know.”

Bo nodded. “We got that idea. We don’t want any hard feelings with the Deverys. We just didn’t think they had any right to charge us a toll. From what the sheriff said, though, maybe we should have paid.”

“It was mighty high,” Scratch put in, “but then, so’s everything else around here.”

“You know where we can find them?” Bo asked.

Edgar stroked his chin and nodded. “When you rode in, did you see that big ol’ house up at the head o’ Main Street?”

“We did.”

“Well, that’s the old Devery house. Jackson Devery—Pa Devery, some call him—lives there with his brood. You don’t need to go all the way up there to see Luke and Thad, though.”

“Why not?” Scratch asked, but Bo had already tumbled to something his partner hadn’t.

“We didn’t mention their names,” he snapped as he started to reach for his gun.

It was too late. With a rush of footsteps, several people charged them from behind. The Texans tried to turn and draw their guns, but before they could manage that, crashing blows fell on their heads. They were driven forward, tackled, brought down on the hard-packed dirt of the barn’s center aisle. Fists and booted feet and, for all they knew, gun butts thudded into them. Bo and Scratch struggled to throw off their attackers and get up, but there was too much weight pinning them down. Their heads spun wildly from blow after vicious blow.

Bo didn’t know who lost consciousness first, him or Scratch, and it didn’t matter one damned bit, anyway.