A Time to Bloom (Leah's Garden #2)(90)

A motley group, but a determined one. And mounted on horseback, rifles at the ready, they presented an intimidating posse. At least RJ hoped so.

They reached the liquor tent on the banks of the creek. Several rough-looking characters lounging outside the tent regarded them suspiciously. Were any of these louts those who had jumped William? RJ nudged his horse slightly ahead to shield his friend.

“We’d like to see your proprietor,” Mr. Young announced with an authoritative air.

Guffaws, and then one of the men hollered over his shoulder. “Hey, Powell. Someone here to see ya.”

The tent flap lifted, and a small, wiry man with sleeves rolled up and a dirty apron stepped out into the setting sun. “What can I do for you gents?”

Mr. Caldwell dismounted. “Your establishment is no longer welcome near our town. We are here to inform you that you would be wise to vacate this region entirely.”

Powell snorted a short laugh. “Or what?”

RJ swung off Captain and stepped closer. “Or you’ll regret it. All of you.”

The owner bristled like a banty rooster. “There ain’t no law says you can just tell us to clear out.”

“Maybe not.” RJ stood his ground. “But there are laws against murder. And we’ve reason to believe one of your customers here”—he raked the men outside with a scathing glance—“is responsible for the death of one of our citizens, Tom Kinsley. The victim of a brawl, beaten well nigh to death three nights ago.”

“Brutal internal injury, by my examination,” Adam added. “Perhaps by means of a booted foot repeatedly to the abdomen?”

One of the men, shifty-eyed with muscular limbs, suddenly scrambled to his feet and scuttled off down the creek. RJ’s grip tightened on his rifle. Another man, who’d had his face hidden beneath his hat brim, raised his head a touch, giving RJ a jolt of recognition.

Clive Johnson, the first man he’d fired for drunkenness on the job.

“You,” RJ barked, stepping toward Clive. “Johnson. Is it you who’s been hanging around throwing rocks through the boardinghouse window? Following and attacking my employees?”

“Well,” Clive growled, pushing to his feet, “when folks go about firing honest workers and replacing them with Irish and colored boys, one might say they get what they deserve.”

RJ saw red. He started to raise his rifle, only held back by Adam’s warning hand on his arm. He glanced back to see Jesse had moved his horse in front of William, gun ready.

“Now, now, gentlemen.” Mr. Powell raised his hands, voice deprecating. “I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can prove.”

“Mebbe not.” Isaac McTavish’s voice came soft as the hiss of a rattlesnake. “But there also ain’t nothin’ to stop us from using those rows of whiskey you got back there for target practice.” His movements easy, Isaac walked forward and lifted the tent flap, flipped it over his shoulder, and sighted down the barrel of his rifle with a low whistle. “Would you look at those glass bottles, now? Wouldn’t those make a right purty little fireworks show?” He cocked the gun.

RJ stepped up beside Isaac, his own rifle ready. He was liking this fellow soldier more by the minute.

“Wait! Stop, please.” A note of panic entered Powell’s voice, and he hurried to squeeze in front of RJ and Isaac, jerking the tent flap back down. “There’s no need to get violent.”

“Precisely. That’s why we’re requesting that you move your little establishment far away from our town.” Adam’s voice was flinty.

“And all your men with it,” RJ added.

The proprietor’s nostrils flared. “You got no right to order us to leave.”

“We’ll just take care of the problem ourselves, then.” RJ took another step toward the tent.

Behind him, all the men from town put their hands on their guns, as if linked by a commander’s word.

Mr. Powell stood in front of his tent door, arms spread as if he could stop the group like Moses and the Red Sea. His chest heaved, and beads of sweat lined his scant hairline despite the cold. He scanned the group, eyes resting on each face before landing on Isaac McTavish, who still stood with his rifle cocked.

Powell’s mouth hardened into a grim line. “You’ll be sorry.”

In one quick motion, he spun on his heel and ducked under the tent flap, dropping it behind him.

“All right, boys, you heard ’em.” A crash of breaking glass, and the owner swore. “Don’t give me that. Get off your backsides and help me pack up.”

The men lounging outside eased to their feet, eyes on the group, then slipped inside the tent. Clive Johnson flicked one last look of loathing at RJ and William, then followed.

Suddenly aware of his pounding pulse, RJ stepped back and reached for Captain’s bridle, stroking the horse’s neck. “Good boy,” he murmured.

They all waited in silence a few moments, and then at a nod from Mr. Caldwell, those who had dismounted mounted up, and the horses turned as one. The group rode in silence back to town.

RJ reined Captain over to ride beside Adam. “Think that actually did it?”

The doctor shook his head. “Time will tell.”





27


Lark sliced open the envelope and read aloud.