Chapter 4
983 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
Before pulling on his boots, Henry checked the inside, tapping out anything that may have been lurking in the snug darkness. This was an old habit he’d picked up on the range when he was not much more than a boy. Scorpions loved to curl up in the safety of a boot’s interior and when he’d witnessed a man called Mitchel screaming after one of the little devils had pierced the sole of his foot, Henry always went through his morning ritual. Mitchel had died in agony some days later, consumed with pain, not even aware of who he was. Old Bill Spade, the wise cook who could rustle up anything from nothing, told everyone that some folk simply reacted badly to certain bites and stings. Whereas some could laugh them off, the poor unfortunate ones, like Mitchel, took it bad and died. “I seen it more than once,” old Spade told them as they sat around the campfire one evening, slurping up spoonsful of hot slurry the cook had made for supper. “I’m telling ye, check yer boots in the mornin’. That way one of them evil critters won’t nip you in the toe!”
They laughed but Henry took the advice. He was glad he did. There had been several mornings when he’d knocked out a scorpion. This morning, thankfully, there wasn’t one and he stood and finished dressing.
Downstairs, Eva, the cook Quince employed from a place called Poland, put down a plate of eggs, fried tomatoes, thick-sliced ham, and hot bread. Henry stood and smiled, licking his lips. “I got to say, Eva, you’re the best-darned cook I’ve ever met.”
She smiled, wiping away an errant strand of hair from her face. “Ah, Mr Henry, you are a kind man.”
“I wish you’d come visit me in my room, Eva. I’d then show you just how kind I can be.”
He winked, she blushed and fled. Laughing, he settled himself down and attacked his breakfast.
He’d barely swallowed down the first mouthful when Manchester, the butler came in. He saw Henry and stopped. “Glad you’re here, sir.”
“Oh?” Henry raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. He pulled a face. It needed sugar. “Why is that?”
“I did not wish to waken Mr Quince.”
“He can be as nasty as a rattler in the morning, I’ll give you that. What did you want to say?”
“There’s a caller, sir.”
“A caller? At this hour?”
The butler nodded. “Shall I ask him to come in, sir?”
“Who is he?”
“He presented himself as a Mister Bourne, from Kansas City.”
“Kansas? That’s one helluva way. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Only that he had some important news for Mr Quince.”
Henry put down his knife and fork, finished his coffee and stood up. “Let’s go take a look.”
The ‘look’ he discovered was a short, stout-looking man sporting a brown Derby hat and dark-grey suit pulled back revealing a pearl-handled six-gun at his hip. Frowning, Henry also noted a curious sagging on the left-hand side of the man’s coat. Nothing seemed to be in the right place with the man, a hotchpotch of styles randomly thrown together as if, for whatever reason, he struggled to find his identity.
Smiling broadly, the man took off his hat and gave a little bow. “Good day, sir. My name is Bourne.”
Something stirred inside Henry. A suspicion born from years of keeping company with vagabonds and confidence tricksters. The end of the War gave every good-for-nothing any number of opportunities to indulge in wrongdoing. There was nothing in this man’s demeanor to persuade Henry that he was anything different.
“What can I do for you?” Henry asked, forcing himself to sound relaxed, friendly even. He already felt disadvantaged due to his own gun hanging in its gun belt on the back of the dining room chair he’d just vacated.
“I’d like to talk to Mr Quince, if I may.”
“Mr Quince has yet to rise, sir. Can I ask what this is about?”
“Indeed.” Bourne, in a deep conversation with himself, chewed away worryingly at his bottom lip. He replaced the Derby. “If I could come inside, I’ll reveal my purpose.”
On his left, a shadow crossed Henry’s line of sight. He turned and was relieved to see Manchester standing in the corner, a Sharps carbine in his arms. He nodded towards the butler before turning once again to the visitor. “You may. Just unbuckle your gun belt before doing so.”
Bourne stiffened. For a moment it seemed to Henry that his request would not be adhered to. Looking around, as if half-expecting to see others moving up close, Bourne sighed, shrugged, then obediently took off the belt and placed it gently on the ground next to him.
Henry stepped aside and allowed the visitor to enter.
Standing in the entrance hall, Bourne took in his surroundings before noticing Manchester stepping out of the shadows. “Hey,” said Bourne, raising his hands, “ain’t no need to put the drop on me.”
“We have to be careful,” said Henry, dipping his hand inside the man’s jacket to relieve him of the so-called Wells Fargo pocket pistol concealed there.
Bourne gasped. “Mister, I meant to—”
“Sure you did,” said Henry, hefting the gun in his palm. “I noticed you had this inside your jacket, mister. Just a tad curious as to why you’d need a concealed weapon.”
Bourne looked nervously towards Manchester who was now pointing the Sharps directly at him. “Now look, I ain’t—”
“Just tell me what you want before I come to the end of my patience.”
They all looked up as a stair creaked and Quince appeared, dressed in a silk dressing-gown of chocolate brown.
“It’s all right, Henry, I’ll take it from here. Mr Bourne, if you’ll step this way.”
Bourne’s face lit up. He deftly retrieved the Wells Fargo, gave Manchester a leer, and swung around to follow Quince into the rear drawing-room.
Henry blew out a long sigh, gave Manchester a quick salute, and went back to finish his breakfast.
- Writer
