Everett Brooks and the Midnight Riders: Part 2
High times in the Hollow.
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
“You shouldn’t have let him live,” Duncan MacTavish observed as they squelched their way through the muddy thoroughfare, dodging fellow pedestrians and piles of horse droppings. “He’ll bring the Riders down on you for sure now.”
“He was gonna do that anyway. You heard him.”
“I heard a drunk man making drunken boasts. He might have been lying.”
“Tommy Tramer is a lot of things, but he ain’t a liar. If he says the Riders know I’m here, then that’s the truth.”
“You seem to know the man much better than I. My impression of him is that he’s nothing more than a raving, imbecilic drunk.”
“Well, your assessment ain’t terribly far off.” A quizzical look crossed Everett Brooks’ face. “I thought you said the sheriff don’t like to let just anyone walk the town heeled.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So what in the hell is Tommy Tramer struttin’ around with a Navy six for?”
“You know, I have seen him out on the town with the deputies. Boozing in the saloons, frequenting the hog ranches. That sort of thing.”
“If he’s in good with the deputies, that goes along with your theory about them working with the Riders. If it turns out they are your road agents.”
As they approached the steps leading up to MacTavish’s saloon, The Scotsman’s Hall, the doors to the establishment swung outward, and an intoxicated miner was deposited unceremoniously into the mud at their feet. Standing in the doorway stood a savage figure clad top to bottom in fringed buffalo leather. His dark hair was streaked with gray and hung down to the small of his back, while a bushy beard that matched in both color and length covered his face. A Schofield revolver with a walnut grip sat holstered on his right hip, a Bowie knife sheathed on his left, and a Winchester Yellow Boy rifle lay across his back. The fury in his blazing eyes, ostensibly at the drunk man he’d just ejected, disappeared as soon as his gaze fell on the duo standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ll be damned! That really you, Everett Brooks?!” Pistol Pete Crosby, otherwise known to the locals as Rudabaugh Jenkins, exclaimed.
“In the flesh,” Brooks replied nonchalantly. “Still raising hell, I see.”
“Matter of fact, this gentleman right here pays me to keep the hell-raisers out.” Pistol Pete inclined his head deferentially at Duncan MacTavish, then gestured aggressively at the man still laying in a disheveled heap. “This one was gettin’ handsy with the ladies and tryin’ to buffalo his fellow card players.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we,” MacTavish stated rhetorically. “I’ll trust you not to let this man back inside The Scotsman’s Hall again, Mr. Jenkins…er…Crosby.”
Pete Crosby laughed good naturedly, “I see our friend here has spilled the beans. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d prefer it if you kept callin’ me by Jenkins. Pistol Pete Crosby’s got a lot of old enemies that’re probably gunnin’ for him, and he wouldn’t want to make it too easy for them to learn his whereabouts.”
“As you say. Shall we go in and get a drink?” Duncan MacTavish led the group into his saloon. Inside, The Scotsman’s Hall was bustling with activity as dozens of roughneck patrons sat playing cards, leaned on billiards tables, and caroused with the numerous women clothed in colorful bustiers and frilly petticoats. The trio made their way over to the bar. The barman gave MacTavish a respectful nod and poured three shots of whiskey.
“Mr. MacTavish!” The delighted squeal rose above the din, and Everett Brooks looked up from his drink to see a sensationally beautiful blonde weaving through the crowd.
“Caroline, lass!” The Scotsman was equally thrilled to see the beguiling woman.
“It’s been so long since you’ve visited us,” Caroline pouted coquettishly. “Me and the girls were beginning to think you didn’t love us anymore.”
“Nonsense, I’ve simply been busy dealing with other affairs.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?” Caroline asked as she stared hungrily at the stranger standing next to her boss.
“Ah, yes! Where are my manners? Caroline, meet Everett Brooks, bounty hunter extraordinaire.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Caroline presented Brooks with a graceful hand that was gloved in delicate lace. “You can call me Sweet Caroline.”
Despite his best efforts, Everett Brooks couldn’t keep his eyes off of Caroline’s heaving bosom. When he finally met her gaze, his cheeks flushed slightly as she flashed a dazzling smile, a knowing twinkle in her eye.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“He’s a bit shy, isn’t he?” Caroline remarked as she fingered Everett’s vest and button down shirt with deliberate coyness. “I like him.”
“Sweet Caroline here will cure what ails you, and then some,” MacTavish said wolfishly.
“Thanks, but I don’t partake.”
Caroline planted her hands on her shapely hips in a posture of mock defiance. “You got a problem with us trollops, mister?”
“I got no problem with anyone trying to make an honest living the best they know how. But I don’t believe in paying for what should be given freely in love,” Brooks opined. “Plus I just don’t like to share.”
Pistol Pete guffawed, “I seem to remember a certain harlot you sure didn’t mind wastin’ all your money on at that hog ranch in Virginia City.”
“That was before I knew better.”
MacTavish laid a strong, friendly hand on Everett Brooks’ shoulder. “You agree to work for me, you can have Sweet Caroline all to yourself, as well as a room here, free of charge. Provided she agrees to that, of course.”
Caroline nodded vigorously, for she was thoroughly intrigued by Brooks, but before she could voice her consent, two men wearing deputy badges barged through the doors, their faces twisted in rage. The whole room went deathly quiet as everyone anxiously held their breath to see what would happen next. The deputies strode angrily towards Brooks.
“You! You’re under arrest for attempted murder of a citizen in good standing.”
Everett Brooks arched an eyebrow, “Tommy Tramer? A citizen in good standing? Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
The deputy closest to Brooks slammed a fist on the bar top, “Hand over your guns and come with us. Peaceably.”
“Ain’t neither one of you gonna take my guns from me,” Brooks stated flatly, all trace of amusement gone from his voice. He studied the adjacent deputy closely. “You look awfully familiar. I know you?”
“If you’d met me before, you wouldn’t be alive today,” the man said menacingly.
“I swear I’ve seen that mongrel face of yours somewhere.” Brooks slowly and deliberately reached into the pocket of his buffalo plaid jacket and pulled out a folded up stack of papers. He quickly rifled through them before slapping one down on the bar. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
Both deputies looked at the paper. A familiar face glared out at them from a Wanted poster: the same malevolent gaze, the same drooping mustache. The apparent fugitive reached for his revolver, but Brooks kicked the man’s feet out from under him, and he flopped to the ground like an unwieldy sack of potatoes. His pistol went flying and clattered several feet away. Brooks had one of his Colts drawn in a flash, pointing the barrel at the still standing deputy who was in mid-draw himself.
“I told you: I ain’t giving up my guns, and I ain’t turning myself in. Tommy Tramer drew down on me. In public. He’s lucky I just winged him. I’ve got witnesses that plainly saw I acted in self-defense. You go back to your boss, whether it be the sheriff…or someone else…and tell them if they got a problem with that, they’re more than welcome to come down here and force the issue. This one, however,” Brooks kicked the prone man in the side with the toe of his boot, “stays with me. I aim to collect the hundred dollars Uncle Sam’s gonna pay me for…Otis Hauser here.”
“This ain’t over,” the remaining deputy threatened ominously as he retreated out of the saloon.
“No, it certainly ain’t,” Brooks agreed as he hauled Otis Hauser to his feet. Hauser growled in indignation and scrambled desperately to break free of the bounty hunter’s grasp, but Brooks casually clubbed his hostage over the back of the head with the butt of his revolver, and the man crumpled to the floor once again, this time unconscious. The racket of gambling and carousing resumed as everyone returned to their business now that the commotion was over.
Nonplussed, Brooks turned back to Duncan MacTavish, “Guess that confirms Tommy Tramer’s standing with the locals. Now, where were we?”
The Scotsman cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, “We were discussing the terms of your employment.”
“Yes, we were. I’ll take the twenty dollars a day, and the free boarding at this swanky establishment of yours. However, the girl don’t need to be involved in our arrangement, sweet as she might be. Also, if I’m going after an outfit of road agents, and if that outfit is indeed the Midnight Riders, I’m going to need some help. I want to enlist my good friend here,” Brooks nodded at Pistol Pete. “And I expect you to pay him what you’re paying me.”
“That’s almost twice as much as I’m paying him now!” MacTavish protested.
“That was before you knew who he really was. Truth be told, he’s probably worth more than I am.”
“Very well, I agree.”
“Excellent. I’ll let you and Rudabaugh keep an eye on Hauser while I collect my belongings from the hotel and bring them on over.”
“Fine, fine. Caroline will show you to your room,” Duncan MacTavish said as a mirthful look spread across his face. Sweet Caroline reached into her bustier, pulled out a key, and motioned for Brooks to follow her with a puckish grin.
“Right this way, sugar.”
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That was great Josh 👍🏼
Really loved how the dialogue between the characters barrelled along and set the scene perfectly
If you’re writing keeps up at the same pace, I’ll be looking forward to the next instalment round about Friday! 😁
Bounty hunter without a star
arrested a depty who ran from afar
into the arms of the law to keep him safe
just his bad luck the hunter had his face
on a poster attached to a bounty.