Silver Creek - G.L. Snodgrass Page 0,47

tenth time that day. Two miners stepped out of the Red House, already wobbly, returning for a swing shift down in the mines.

Luke stayed back as he glanced over at the bullet hole in the jam. It must have come from either the hotel or bank roof. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and into the shadows as he examined the building across the street. The Circle B sentries were gone.

Another mystery that needed to be answered.

He quietly closed the door behind him then bent and hurried around the corner, using the shadows as camouflage. Luke kept the corner of the building between him and any rifleman. Only when he had reached safety did he let himself breathe again.

He worked his way south behind the buildings until he could cross at the far end. Once he was across the street, he crouched as he jogged to the back of the hotel then up the back stairs to the roof. Peaking over the casing he found it empty. The Bank roof as well. His gut relaxed. Whoever had taken that pot shot at him was long gone.

It was too dark to search for casings or other clues.

It took him another ten minutes to get to the smithy, all the way darting from shadow to shadow. Memories of the war jumped to his mind. How often had he done this? When tasked with scouting duties he’d had to leave his horse behind more than once to get in close to the enemy. All the time, expecting a bullet between the eyes. Moments like this had a habit of making a man’s shoulders tighter than a preacher’s purse.

Strumph was just putting his tools away for the night when Luke stepped in from the back. The orange glow from the hearth provided just enough light. The blacksmith’s eyes rose in surprise when he turned to find Luke standing there.

“Got myself a deputy,” Luke told him. “My brother. Thought you lot should know.”

Strumph nodded. “Saw Felton and about ten riders scoot out of town about an hour ago. Sarah Felton wasn’t with them. I think he left a couple of men at the hotel.”

A dozen scenarios ran through Luke’s head as he tried to work out what Felton was up to. His gut told him that too many things didn’t make sense and he hated not knowing.

“What about Reed?” Luke asked, the former sheriff's health would drive how things worked out.

“He’s doing better. McAdams says he ain’t sure, but he thinks he might recover.”

Luke sighed with relief. He liked the sheriff and couldn’t wait to give this job back to the man. But it was doubtful it would be any time soon.

Staring off into the distance Luke asked, “You seen Carver? Rides for the Circle B?”

Strumph nodded, “Saw him go into the Red House an hour ago. There was a line of cowboys waiting for Frost to open back up.” The large blacksmith frowned deeply. “You stuck a burr under their saddles. I’ll never understand some men. They get their favorite watering hole and they don’t like no other.”

“Maybe that’ll teach them to mind their manners.”

The large blacksmith laughed, “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Luke nodded then slipped out into the dark. Within a minute he was at the back door to the Red House. He paused for a moment, recalling that two nights earlier he had been in this very position. He’d had to kill a man. God, he hoped that didn’t have to be repeated.

Sucking in a deep breath he stepped into the saloon. The sharp smell of stale beer, rotgut whiskey, and cheap tobacco washed over him. A half dozen lamps lit the place up like a Saint Louise bawdy house. Over twenty men were lined up shoulder to shoulder along the bar and another dozen around the tables.

Payday, he thought to himself. Why hadn’t he remembered? Instinctively his hand adjusted the gun on his hip before he shifted his finger next to the trigger on the rifle as he pointed it out over the crowd.

“Frost,” he called out over the din of noise. “You keeping things peaceful like?”

Forty men and two bar girls twisted to find their new sheriff standing there with a rifle covering them. The room dropped into a deafening silence.

Luke stared back at them, daring any one of them to make a move.

“Yes, sheriff,” the bartender said with a nervous hitch. “We are going to be the most peaceful saloon this side of the Mississippi. Aren’t we boys?”

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