*
Quinn rode to Pierre's saloon and tied his horse at the hitching rail beside two others, Tuckett's leggy bay mare and an average dun. Stale cigarette smoke tainted the air as he pushed the doors open. The lighting from inside pierced the darkening shadows of the day. He could see Pierre's legs and feet on the other side of the bar from where he stood. Quinn stepped inside, letting the heavy door swing shut on its own. A floorboard creaked under his feet as he crossed the saloon.
Pierre rubbed the wooden slab bar with his frayed bar towel. The slab's rough knots had worn smooth from use and heavy scrubbing. He burnished a damp spot until it was almost dry.
Quinn pushed against the bar, testing it for sturdiness.
"Got it nailed down, do ya?"
"Don't need more broken glasses. Just got this batch here from Frisco." Pierre set a shot glass on the bar. "Your usual?"
"'Course, trail’s mighty dry. Plum cracked my throat." Quinn turned slightly to evaluate his fellow customer, Tuckett. The man had proven himself more than equal to taking any unearned advantage he could, whether at a hand of poker or life. Quinn despised Tuckett's stringy ponytail and goatee almost as much as he despised Tuckett himself.
Bottles rattled against jars as Pierre retrieved a whiskey bottle from the shelf behind him. Quinn turned back to Pierre without acknowledging Tuckett's nod in his direction. "Zelda 'round?"
Pierre's pouring of whiskey stuttered. "Been gone awhile this time."
"She visitin' another sick friend?" Quinn smiled, taking the shot glass. That woman, she was always showing someone how generous and sympathetic she was.
The boards overhead creaked rhythmically. Pierre's eyes darted to the ceiling and back to Quinn. The creaking stopped.
"Don't think Kueter looked at all sick." Pierre jerked his thumb toward the ceiling without moving the bar towel in his hand.
Quinn's expression turned dark. The boards overhead squeaked out the rhythm once more, increasing in speed. All at once it was quiet.
"Kueter." Quinn sneered, tossing the whiskey back. He'd not expected Zelda to return to her whoring in his absence. Had she done it before? Or just with Kueter?
"Have another drink."
Quinn swiped the bottle from Pierre's hand with one hand while slapping a silver dollar on the bar with the other. He'd probably owe Pierre more before too long. He poured the shot glass to overflowing and drank it down. Another, this time some of the whiskey, spilled onto the bar. With the bottle still in one hand and his shot glass in the other, Quinn leaned on the bar, drinking and waiting.
Pierre pocketed the coin and dabbed at the spilled liquor before moving down the bar to polish another spot.
Quinn's anger simmered. He'd met Zelda on his trip to San Francisco last fall and brought her here. Back then Pierre had run a hotel/saloon. He had asked her to marry him. She'd said she needed to think about it. Every time he came to see her, he asked again. He planned to take her for a walk in the moonlight tonight and ask her to marry him again. They'd talked about her leaving her profession quite a bit on their journey to this little valley and she had agreed. He poured the last of the whiskey into his glass, downing it with bile anger.
At last the couple moseyed down the steps, Kueter's arm draped around Zelda as if claiming her for himself, a nearly empty bottle in his other hand. One of his pant legs stuck in his boot as if it had been pulled on in haste. Zelda wore her purple dress trimmed in black off her shoulder in a seductive style, her black camisole revealing a glimpse of her ample breasts. The matching feather in her hair was slightly askew, proof of her activities. Four steps from the bottom, Zelda glanced up. Her expression changed from flirtatious seduction to stunned guilt.
Quinn glared at her, waiting for her or Kueter to speak. Zelda's walk lost its sashay of moments before as she approached him with Kueter beside her.
"I -- I didn't expect you." Her explanation sounded weak.
"Obviously. I hurried back. Guess it weren't fast 'nough. Didn't 'spect ya to be mov'n on."
"You got a problem?" Kueter interrupted, puffing out his chest. He stood several inches shorter than Quinn. Quinn cocked his head slightly and pulled himself erect, no longer leaning on the bar.
"Just ya'll and yer bein' here." Quinn quickly measured the man. He appeared younger than Quinn, his light hair still tussled from their activities upstairs. Quinn knew he outweighed the man and had a longer reach.
"Don't recall seeing you around here. I believe I was here first."
"Tonight maybe. Whose string ya workin'? Don't know anybody in these parts that'd wanna hire the likes of you." Quinn scowled at the younger man's fancy britches and finely sewn shirt. He didn't bother to check the bottoms of Kueter's boots. They probably didn't have any manure on them.
"Who says I have to be working for anyone? It ain't your business, anyway."
"Zelda's my business."
"Not tonight, she ain't."
Quinn stepped closer to Kueter, unwilling to back down. Zelda was his girl and had been for the better part of a year. He lowered his voice. "Zelda's always my business."
"Quinn, stop." Zelda tried to interfere.
"So you're the cowboy that toddles away and leaves such a beauty to fend for herself."
"A man's gotta make a livin.' Ain't never heard 'er complain."
"You wouldn't 'cause you're never here."
"An' ya think ya can just come in 'ere and bed her?" Quinn bit off the question.
"No wonder she's so lonely. 'Course you probably don't know how to satisfy her, anyway."
Quinn answered Kueter with a stiff upper cut. Kueter stumbled back, caught off-guard. He regained his balance and charged. Fists landed on muscle, leaving bruises in their wake. Quinn's fist found Kueter's nose. The awful crunch of smashed cartilage warned of severe injury.
Kueter answered with a wicked blow to Quinn's eye socket, tearing flesh. Quinn advanced, sending punch after punch to his opponent's soft underbelly. He didn't care for the man or his implications. This was Quinn's territory. Zelda was his girl. A table crashed to the floor under the weight of grown men. Quinn was up first, but Kueter charged again, wrapping his arms around Quinn's middle and driving him back. Quinn staggered back against the bar, the solid wood bruising his back.
Tuckett, an adversary ever since Quinn won the hand of poker that cost Tuckett his best horse, stepped in, picking up the whiskey bottle Quinn had drained. Quinn saw Tuckett raise the bottle overhead out of the corner of his uninjured eye. Twisting, he blocked Tuckett's blow with his arm. A nasty gash spurted blood in all directions. Kueter punched Quinn hard in the left kidney. Quinn arched to the side and back in reflex. Tuckett took a swing at Quinn. Instinct aroused Quinn's senses, pushing him to a murderous frenzy, fighting both men at the same time.
Tuckett and Kueter got their feet tangled while trying to back Quinn into the corner. Kueter stumbled, cursing Tuckett for his interference. Tuckett shoved a poker table at Quinn. It caught on a chair. Quinn grasped the chair with both hands. Kueter scrambled to his feet as Quinn brought the chair down on his head, driving Kueter back to the floor. Quinn had no time to savor his victory as Tuckett clambered over the table to reach Quinn. Using the wall at his back for leverage, Quinn kicked the edge of the table, sending it crashing to the floor. Tuckett lay stunned. Quinn placed his heavy foot on his throat.
"This ain't your fight, Tuckett. Stay down," Quinn growled. Tuckett raised his hands over his head in surrender. Just as Quinn relaxed, Tuckett swept Quinn's feet out from under him. Tuckett stood, his hand going for his gun.
"No guns." Pierre eased the shotgun he always kept loaded on the bar, its barrel pointing in the combatants' general direction. "I won't miss at this distance and you know it. You owe me for a table and chair. Let that be enough."
Zelda bent over Kueter while Pierre helped Quinn to his feet with one hand, the shotgun in the other. Quinn pushed the assistance away. He glared at Zelda, further infuriated by her attention to his opponent. Tuck
ett staggered toward the door, pausing to lean on the wall with one hand. Quinn moved to Zelda, grasped her arm and pulled her away from Kueter. The man was barely conscious. Quinn dragged him from the floor, thrusting him at Tuckett.
"Get his carcass out of here before I kill both of ya," Quinn bellowed, herding them to the hitching rail with his lurching steps.
Tuckett pushed Kueter up on his dun with Kueter unable to sit erect in the saddle. Kueter didn't wait for Tuckett but turned his horse and rode away.
Tuckett turned back to Quinn with an ugly though beaten glare. "Next time."
"Get out," Quinn growled, feeling a glimmer of victory.
Tuckett climbed on his own horse and lit out in the same direction Kueter had gone, southwest.
Zelda shook her head at Quinn with an expression of contempt. "You know what I am. You always have." She slipped behind the bar and reached for a whiskey bottle and a glass.
Quinn stumbled down the saloon steps, wounded and bleeding.
"Don't expect to see Kueter in here again."
Quinn watched his friend's expression. "You know I make good on the mess."
"Yup. Whiskey's gonna double in price 'til ya do. Get out of here and get yarself fixed up. Zelda ain't gonna help this time," Pierre said as he helped Quinn up on his buckskin and slapped its rump with the barrel of his shotgun.
Quinn didn't remember turning his horse for home. Nor getting inside his cabin.
He leaned against the door jamb for several minutes before lighting the lantern. The lantern burned bright on his table. He set his bowie knife and its sheath on the table and retrieved his small shaving mirror. Setting his mirror on the table to better see the far side of his arm and reflect the lantern light, he dropped into his only chair. He took a long swig of whiskey and poured a generous amount over the ragged gash on his forearm. Putting the knife sheath between his teeth, he set to work digging the glass out of the ragged and bleeding wound.
Once he cleaned the wound as best he could, he poured more whiskey over it and wrapped a clean cloth around his arm. His muscles sore, his eye swollen, he slumped forward, resting his pounding head on the table and dropped into a whiskey-aided sleep.
Quinn awoke to the crowing of a rooster in the distance. Stiff, sore and hung over, he made his way to the pump to clean up. This was a new day. The spring roundup had taken him hundreds of miles to gather Leavitt's cattle, cattle that had hardened over the winter wherever they could forage. The roundup represented a good deal of pay for the year, income he had intended to share with Zelda.
Chapter 10