Page 11 of Native Hawk
“Did you, Pa?” Jim asked.
“Too dark,” Jasper gasped out. “Liable to get killed, shootin’ in the dark.”
“Aww, dang it,” Harvey whined like a petulant child.
Jasper would have liked to wallop him with the butt of his pistol right about then. But he’d promised Priscilla that he’d take care of the boys after she passed. He’d kept that promise for the last six years, even though they weren’t boys anymore and ought to know how to fend for themselves. At least they ought to know not to fraternize with Injuns.
Jim slapped his hand on his holster, as if he actually knew how to use the pistol in it. “We can start out bright and early tomorrow.”
Jasper bit back his real opinion about that—that he’d rather take his chances in a pit full of rattlesnakes than hunt outlaws with his trigger-happy, foot-shooting son.
“Sure,” he grunted.
Harvey hitched up his trousers with a sniff. “Leastwise we got our money back.”
“It ain’t about the damn money,” Jasper snarled. “It’s about honor.”
“Yeah, Harvey,” Jim chimed in, giving his brother a shove. “Don’t you know nothin’?”
Harvey shoved Jim back.
Jasper jammed his gun into its holster and grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks. He resisted the urge to knock their heads together.
He supposed he’d have to spell it out for them. “I won’t have it bandied about that the Brown boys were beat at poker by a damn Injun. Do you know what that would do to my reputation?”
The boys gave him a blank look.
Harvey licked his lips. “Actually, Pa, he was a half-breed.”
Jasper growled, gave them a good shake, and let them go, walking off in disgust. “It don’t matter. I’ll hunt him down tomorrow and put an end to it.”
What the boys were too stupid to understand was that the natives around here tended to get uppity. And if they started getting it into their heads that they might get the upper hand against lawmen, who knew what would happen? Just a few years back, not that far from here, the Modocs had made a stand against the U.S. Army and nearly won.
There would be no Injun war in Shasta, not on his watch. And the only way to prevent that was to subdue insurrection—before it happened.
If there was one thing he’d learned fighting in the War Between the States, it was that white men didn’t dare give an inch or they’d lose a mile.
Hell, they’d lost a mile already, surrendering to the Negro-loving North. Freed slaves were running loose all over his good country.
If Jasper had anything to say about it, they’d go back to the way things were when he was his boys’ age. Back then, there was a bounty of five dollars on every Injun scalp a white man collected.
His sons were savvy enough not to chatter at him on the return walk to the Winsome Saloon. Now all he had to do was collect his youngest boy, take him home, and sober him up.
When he swung open the saloon door, it was still a busted-up mess. But all the drunks were gathered around his boy. And the town doctor was crouched beside him.
Jasper’s jaw tensed, and the coppery taste of fear hit his tongue. He barged forward, hauling men out of his way.
“What’s goin’ on?” he growled at the doctor. “What’s happened to my boy?”
The doctor looked up at him with fearful eyes and slowly shook his head.
For the space of a heartbeat, Jasper was stunned. Then he decided the doctor didn’t know shit. He shoved the man aside and crouched by Billy himself.
“Come on, Billy,” he demanded, grabbing him by his suspenders and giving him a good shake. “Wake up!”
Billy’s head lolled backward. He felt as limp as a stillborn calf.
“Wake up, damn you!”
