Bloody Battle At Rogues Harbor

By John J. Law

A stream of profanities burst back into the room as the back door opened, Jake straining under the weight of a wooden crate, its contents clinking inside, "That worthless Injun run off with two full bottles."
"You can start," Alva gave her father a sharp look, he hazel eyes darkening a shade, "by informing this gentleman that we no longer sell whiskey."
"Put it in the corner, and we'll take two more crates," Chester called over his shoulder, waiting for Buck to move. Despite Reverend Watson's best attempts on his daughter, rye whiskey still turned a hefty profit in this remote town. Quit selling it, and folks would just go elsewhere to get it. As his daughter grudgingly turned her attention back to the young drifter with the nails, he added, "but I'm not paying for the two Jim took. Maybe you can get him to pay if you can find him, but I don't figure to spend any time in Sheriff Kent's Greybar Hotel for providing liquor to Indians."

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223387237

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The young woman stopped her sweeping long enough to cast a disparaging glance at the man entering the mercantile through the back door. Another shipment of whiskey, no doubt. 

We don’t need any, she said, dismissing the older man as one would a naughty child.

I’ll be with you in a couple minutes, Jake, her father said, ignoring the shake of her head and concentrating instead on the chess board on the old nail keg between him and a grizzle-faced miner.

Looks like you might actually win one for a change, Jake quipped, leaning on the counter and fingering a captured black bishop, rolling it over in his hand.

I win plenty, the shopkeeper replied offhandedly, not even noticing the tinny little bells announcement that a paying customer had entered the store, just not against Buck... yet.

The man across the counter managed a tight-lipped grin, glancing over the top of his wire rimmed spectacles which looked out of place on a man who otherwise appeared as if he seldom made his way out of the mountains. Drawing in deep on his crude pipe, he exhaled slowly, allowing the pungent wisps to curl towards the tall ceiling, Your day will come, Chester, your day will come. Just as soon as you start learning to look a couple of moves ahead.

The miner’s voice was quiet, assured, with a soothing quality not unlike a parson speaking graveside condolences. The young woman had always liked him, though he seldom spoke to her directly. He came in from the Rockies every couple of weeks. He had been doing it all of her life, as best she could remember. Always bought pipe tobacco. Sometimes, he’d buy books. Once, he’d had her father order some violin strings from back East.

Looks like his day’s probably just come, the whiskey vendor observed, gesturing towards the collection of captured pieces. Even a casual observer could see that the captured black pieces nearly doubled the captured whites.

Looks that way, the miner mumbled, capturing a pawn with one of his own.

Now, Buck, Jake chided, Even I could tell that was a bad move, and I ain’t played in years.

The miner’s look darted to the whiskey vendor. A touch of annoyance, barely perceptible, crept into his voice, as he stumbled through the haze, ¿damn anything more important to do? Waitin’ for the grinning vendor to shake his head, he added, I saw ol’ Jim out back earlier...he must have suspected you were coming.

The vendor cussed a blue streak, quickly losing any trace of affability, Why didn’t anyone tell me?"

I’ll thank you not to use vulgarity in this establishment, the shopkeeper’s daughter scolded after Jake’s backside as he scurried back out the door. Turning her attention to the newcomer scanning the unfamiliar shelves, she asked, ¿Can I help you find something, mister?

Just need a couple bags of two-penny nails, came his reply, can you put’ em on Mister Daniels’ account?

Certainly, This must be the young man who drifted into town a couple days ago. No hat. He needs a haircut. Still, he’d be a nice catch if he were a couple inches taller. Anyone still working for Mister Daniels after a day and a half must be a good man, or a hard worker, at least. Most don’t make it past sundown. Directing the man to a row of hardware bins on the far wall of the store, she turned back to her father, If you’re just about done with that silly game, there is work to be done.

Taking his eyes off the checkered board only briefly, Chester gave his daughter a look like an old hound being pestered by a pup, Alva, I’ll get to it when I’m good and ready. His tone left no room for argument, but a wry grin overtook his features as he moved a white knight towards the left edge of the board, capturing the black queen, Should be just a couple more moves.

A glint of humor played in Buck’s sky blue eyes as he looked over at the shopkeeper leaning back on his chair, hands clasped behind a head of thinning grey hair. Buck removed the pipe with one hand, stroking his stubbly chin with the other. Indeed, he muttered, studying the board.

A stream of profanities burst back into the room as the back door opened, Jake straining under the weight of a wooden crate, its contents clinking inside, That worthless Injun run off with two full bottles.

You can start, Alva gave her father a sharp look, he hazel eyes darkening a shade, by informing this gentleman that we no longer sell whiskey.

Put it in the corner, and we’ll take two more crates, Chester called over his shoulder, waiting for Buck to move. Despite Reverend Watson’s best attempts on his daughter, rye whiskey still turned a hefty profit in this remote town. Quit selling it, and folks would just go elsewhere to get it. As his daughter grudgingly turned her attention back to the young drifter with the nails, he added, but I’m not paying for the two Jim took. Maybe you can get him to pay if you can find him, but I don’t figure to spend any time in Sheriff Kent’s Greybar Hotel for providing liquor to Indians.

Across the street, a pair of batwing doors groaned their objection as a tall man stepped out of the Muleshoe Saloon, shading his eyes against the August sun. He was young, but looked older, his face beginning to show the early effects of hard work and hard drink. His eyes slowly adjusting, he shuffled to the hitching rail, patting the roan gelding on the neck as he unlooped the reins. The horse nickered lightly as he put his boot in the stirrups, ready for the ride home.

Swinging himself into the saddle, the man swept a muscular forearm over his mouth, wiping away the last remnants of foam. He needed another drink, but there was work to do. Maybe he’d be able to sneak back into town after he’d gotten those fences on the western range mended. Then again, maybe he’d better pick up a bottle of rye over at the mercantile just in case he wasn’t able to get back. Be cheaper that way anyhow.

The old miner took his time, his gaze alternating between his opponent and the board. Dismal indeed, he mused, It does look as though you’ve gotten the better of me.

Chester grinned, a look of satisfaction that could only accompany an achievement long sought and often denied, It had to happen sooner or later, my friend. How long have we been playin’ this game?

Almost an hour, his daughter scolded, shaking her head.

It’ll be twenty-three years next month, the miner recalled, ignoring Alva entirely, Twenty-three long years.

And I still haven’t beaten you?

You’re overdue, the man allowed, taking the pipe back into his mouth with a long draught as he picked up a bishop.

I’m obliged, ma’am, the handyman’s voice wafted from over by the door, the bell tinkling behind him as the door banged shut.

Check mate, the miner grinned as he slid his piece across the board.

**********

Gary Sommers didn’t bother to tie Red to the hitching rail outside the mercantile. He’d only be a minute, and that horse wasn’t going anywhere.

The young stranger coming out of the mercantile didn’t see him. Neither man was paying particular attention to where he was going. The two collided, knocking the smaller handyman back a couple steps.

Watch your step, Gary snarled, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself.

Sorry, mister, I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going, the sandy haired stranger replied. His tone was steady, consolatory, but without a trace of the fear the larger man was accustomed to inspiring.