Page 9 of Native Hawk
Jim leaned over to whisper something to Harvey. Harvey nodded, plucked his hat off the rail of his chair, and smashed it down over his thinning hair.
Drew eyed him with suspicion. “You goin’ somewhere? The whiskey’s comin’.” He nodded at the saloon girl and held up four fingers.
Harvey got up. “I’ll be right back.” He pushed his chair in and headed out the door.
Drew smelled trouble. Maybe it was time to bid them goodnight.
“Aw, hell,” he said after Harvey was gone. “I clean forgot. I got a pretty little lady waitin’ for me. What time is—”
He reached for his pocket watch. Before he could draw it halfway out, Jim scraped his chair back in a panic and shot to his feet. The movement startled Billy, who tipped over backwards in his chair. Drew had his Colt whipped out and cocked before Billy’s head hit the floorboards with a sickening thud. Meanwhile, Jim was struggling to untangle his own six-shooter from its holster.
Drew still hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot somebody. Billy was out cold. And it looked like Jim had the shooting skills of a four-year-old.
Unfortunately, the bartender spotted the flash of Drew’s Colt and decided to intervene. From the corner of his eye, Drew saw the barrel of a rifle swing up over the bar.
Drew ducked, which turned out to be unnecessary. The bartender’s shot was a warning blast only, fired at the plaster ceiling.
The crack of the rifle got everyone’s attention. Jim responded reflexively, unfortunately before his gun was clear of the holster. He shot a chunk out of his big toe.
Still, Drew didn’t fire. He might be a fast gun. But he never wasted ammunition.
For everyone else in the bar, however, two shots were a call to battle. Those who had guns pulled them out. Those who didn’t armed themselves with broken bottles.
Before all-out war could break out, the front door of the saloon crashed open. A sour-faced giant of a man barged his way in.
At his heels was Harvey. “See, Pa? I knew he was trouble.”
Pa? Drew scowled. Was all of Shasta just one big, happy family?
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Pa boomed.
Then Drew noticed the star on the big brute’s vest.
“You old fools!” the big man barked. “Put away your guns.” He shook his head. “Pete?”
The bartender answered. “Just another poker game gone bad, sheriff.”
“Is that so?” He scoured the room. When he saw Billy passed out on the floor and Jim limping around with a bloody foot and wrenching at his stuck pistol, a curious look came into his eyes.
Disappointment.
Drew realized a powerful man like that was probably ashamed to have such inept, sniveling cowards for sons.
Jim’s face was white, and he grimaced in pain. But his beard quivered with rage over his misfire. “He was cheatin’, Pa, just as bold as brass.”
Harvey chimed in. “It’s like I said, Pa. That no-good half-breed has been takin’ our money all night.”
The sheriff snorted, then peered down at Billy. “He all right?”
Jim was more concerned with his own bloody foot. “Aw, hell, he just passed out. He’ll be fine.”
Then he gave Drew the once-over. “What’s a half-breed doin’ in my town?”
“Just passin’ through,” Drew said.
“Like a bank robber’s just passin’ through?”
“Naw, not me,” Drew said in his best aw-shucks voice. “I’m just visitin’ from Hupa, over yonder.”
