Shadow Walker by Kerry Newcomb

Author:Kerry Newcomb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-03-14T00:00:00+00:00

Downstairs, the Hondo was a broad, high-ceilinged saloon lit by two huge wagon-wheel chandeliers sporting oil lamps. Round hardwood tables and curved-back captain’s chairs crowded the floor while a massive walnut bar dominated almost the entire east wall. Gilt-edged mirrors and lithographs of Greek nymphs vied for the attention of every man who stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink.

As he descended the stairs, Cole took note of two bartenders standing idle behind the bar. They both were of average height, wore brown brocaded vests over white shirts. One sported a mustache, the other a full beard. Both men were hard-eyed and looked capable of handling any rowdy who came through the front doors.

Another man sat near the cast-iron stove. He sat slouched in his chair, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles. His hands rested on the shotgun in his lap. A broad-brimmed hat hid his features, but O’Brian recognized the man as Shotgun Ned Price, a man in Bannister’s employ.

A black piano player dozed at his keyboard, his white hair and beard like snow upon the dark earth of his features. His head nodded, his chest rose and fell with every breath. As the two men came down, the piano player stirred, looked up from the keyboard, shoved away from the instrument, and headed off toward the kitchen in the rear of the saloon.

Cole inhaled as he caught the scent of frying bacon. The smell made his mouth water despite the tall stack of wheatcakes that rode in his belly like a pound of lead shot.

Gage Bannister was doing more business this morning than he had in weeks. A dozen of Teardrop’s good citizens were gathered at the tables nearest the bar, and several of the men were nursing glasses of bourbon or cups of coffee laced with whiskey to take the edge off the morning’s chill.

O’Brian and Cole recognized Mitchell, the banker, and Jeremiah Harlowe. A few prospectors were seated at one table apart from their more prosperous-looking neighbors. Gathered together were the principal proprietors of the town, a barber, the Behan brothers, and a local plantation owner who farmed in an adjacent valley to Teardrop. Doc Fletcher sat with the banker, sharing a glass of port and waiting for something to happen. Judd Priest, the lawyer, sat eyeing two of Bannister’s saloon girls who had just emerged from the kitchen. Dancin’ Fingers and a doll-faced, light-skinned black woman named Journey stood at the foot of the stairs.

Dancin’ Fingers whispered to Journey, whose gaze traveled the length and breadth of Cole Tyler Anthem. The seventeen-year-old gulped and touched the brim of his hat. Journey stood with her hands on her rounded hips, her small, pointed bosom contained by a scarlet corsette and lace bodice, a scarlet garter circled her coffee-colored thighs. She made no move to secure her dressing gown as it parted.

“I hope you got enough rest, honey,” Journey said softly as Cole crossed in front of her. She started toward the stairs, the hem of her gown brushed Cole’s leg, a hip nudged him as she passed.

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