Page 2 of Redeeming the Outlaw
“Yeah. I’ll be back around ten, as I have a few things to do. Oh, I’ll pay you on Friday for the next month.”
Hiram lifted his hand. “It has already been paid.”
A crease formed on Whit’s forehead. “Who?”
“Dunno. Someone dropped off an envelope.”
“Appreciate you letting me know. I’ll be back later.”
Crushing the cigar out with the heel of his boot, Hiram nodded. “I’ll leave the back door open. I’m locking up for the night.”
Whit gave a small wave to the man before setting off down the road toward the lively sounds and music emanating from Miss Marcy’s place. With any luck, he might have the chance to meet Brodie Richards tonight. He had only heard tales of the notorious outlaw.
People said the Richards gang, known for causing fear and chaos wherever they roamed, had returned to town. Whit’s heart raced when he heard Brodie Richards, himself, had returned. Brodie took over the gang when his brother, Duke Richards, was hanged.
Most of the stories surrounding the infamous Richards gang involved Whit’s half-sister Evangeline Sarah Hartman, or Vangie as the family called her. He didn’t know all the details and his pa, Randall Hartman, wouldn’t talk much about it. All the Hartmans, it appeared, were good at keeping secrets. Whit knew whatever the Richards gang did had hurt Ma Hartman greatly and he would do anything to protect the woman who took him in after his own mother died.
He entered the saloon and sat in the darkened corner. Raising two fingers to Red behind the bar, the man nodded and reached underneath for an unmarked bottle. Pouring the amber liquid into a glass, he handed the glass to a new girl Whit didn’t recognize, and she walked it over.
“Here you go, darlin’,” she said, placing the drink down on the table. Running a long finger down Whit’s arm, she smiled, showing a full set of white teeth. It was not a common characteristic with most of the soiled doves. “Need some company?”
Whit tossed her a coin. “Not tonight, sugar.” He gave her his most saccharine smile. “Keep the change and leave me alone.”
The woman bit the coin and turned with a huff before flouncing back toward the bar to find another customer. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, an all too real grimace appearing on his face as the liquid traveled his throat. Closing his eyes, he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and turned the cup upside down on the table. If anyone was watching him, they would think it was whiskey in the glass and not concentrated sarsaparilla syrup mixed with a bit of quinine and water.
“Boss will meet you.” A raspy growl interrupted him, and Whit opened his eyes.
Two-bit Tom pulled out a rickety chair and flipped it aroundbefore sitting down across from him. Tom tapped his fingers on the chair back as he regarded Whit through narrowed, sun-squinted eyes. His leathery face was creased and cracked like old saddle leather left too long in the desert sun. Years of riding hard and living rough had etched deep lines across his forehead and weathered his skin to the point of looking perpetually dirty.
Beneath the brim of Tom’s battered hat, Whit could see his gray-streaked hair poking out, hinting at his advanced years. Tom’s eyes were piercing but bloodshot, scanning the room with the wariness of a man who had dodged too many bullets. His clothes had the dull, dusty look of someone who spent more nights sleeping under the stars than in a bed. His wiry frame strained against the faded, sun-drenched shirt he wore, while his hat drooped with age. Even without knowing his name, one could tell from his appearance he was an outlaw who had spent too long surviving on the fringes of civilization.
Whit shifted under the calculating stare, trying not to show his nerves. Tom’s appearance matched everything he had heard about the infamous outlaw gang. It appeared the man had been carved from rawhide and left out to cure.
“So, you’re the pup who wants to run with the pack,” he rasped, his voice like gravel scraping over sandstone.
Whit nodded, holding the outlaw’s calculating gaze. He could feel the intensity of those pale eyes boring into him, taking his measure.
Tom leaned back and pulled a cigar from his vest pocket. He bit off the end and spit it on the floor, then struck a match on the rough wood of the table. The sharp scent of sulfur mingled with fragrant tobacco smoke as he puffed the cigar to life.
“You did good, kid.” Tom curled his lip back, his tobacco-stained teeth repulsing Whit.
“That so?” Whit leaned back in his chair, resting his shoulders against the wall. Lifting his hand, he ran his finger across the wall behind him.
“Brodie said the information the marshal has is old. Some of it is right, but we can change our plans and they’ll never expect what we’ll do next.”
“What are you going to do next?”
Tom’s sneer pulled at his lip, exposing a row of yellowed teeth stained with tobacco. Whit felt his stomach churn at the sight. He resisted the urge to gag, grateful he didn’t smoke or drink. Tom continued to pick at his teeth with dirty fingers, examining whatever debris he removed before flicking it across the room. Whit forced himself to remain calm, but inside the unsanitary display repulsed him.
“Can’t tell you,” he finally replied.
“Where’s Richards?”
“He’s around.”
Whit let the chair land with a thud. He crossed his fingers and put his hands on the table, leaning forward toward Tom. “Let me make this very clear. I am tired of you wasting my time. I did what you asked. In fact, I’ve done everything you’ve asked for. I don’t give a flying fig about you or anyone else, and I’m done here. I don’t think you know Brodie Richards. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re just a lackey trying to get information on him for someone else. How about I take it to the marshal and let him know?”
Tom’s lips thinned to the point of almost disappearing, and then his mouth erupted into a wide grin, accompanied by raucous laughter and a forceful slap on the table. “I heard you had some gumption. Boss is going to like you.”
