Page 7 of Sure as Shooting

The Indians made utterances of astonishment and several Americans lunged for Bud. Huntley was the first to reach him, gripping him by the shoulders and vigorously walking him toward the front door of his trading post.

“Listen here, you low-down dog,” Huntley snarled. He lifted the shrimp off the ground to clear the step into the store, the hellion’s legs wheeling furiously.

Bud grabbed onto the doorjamb. “The only good Indian is a dead Indian!”

Huntley flung him so thoroughly, Bud let go of the doorjamb, flying into some barrels of flour. A barrel lid spun free and white stuff rained down on his head and torso. Huntley stomped over, hands jammed onto his hips, making footprints in the flour.

“What in hell is wrong with you, boy? Are you loco? What shit are you trying to stir up here? You don’t know the first of what you’re getting into.”

Bud blinked at him, his eyes black pebbles in the white flour mask. “Why are you protecting them Injuns? Are you a Digger lover? In San Francisco you were whaling on that very same horseflesh-eater who was just hollering up a storm against Americans!”

Huntley snarled, “You’re stepping into the middle of an entire political stew that you don’t know the half of. I’ll thank you to keep your trap shut, or I’ll have you booted out of my town.”

“Your town, eh?” Bud looked around. “If it’s your town, why can’t you control those squaws you’re always fucking? Tell them to get their men to retreat to the mountains and stop wearing regular white people’s clothing as if it was some kind of damned circus.”

Huntley started for the shrimp in order to shake him around some more but stopped when he heard chuckling.

Dr. Whitney leaned back against a wall with one hand in his trouser pocket as though he didn’t have a care. He looked as though about to whip a pocket watch out or ask for tea, that’s how infuriatingly composed he was. His close-shorn hair was like a cap around his head, his moustache perfectly trimmed and neat.

Huntley wanted to lash out, but Dr. Whitney held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry for laughing,” he said suavely, coming forward. He looked down at Bud, who hadn’t tried to get up. “But you look like a child playing on a sandy beach.”

Huntley was relieved that Dr. Whitney wasn’t laughing at him, and then he became irritated with himself that he was relieved. What did he care who the doctor laughed at? So he approached the doctor frontally. “Why are you standing up for this useless cur? Do you realize how much trouble he just tried to stir up?”

Whitney shrugged. “It’s understandable, given what happened to his family.”

“Yes, but did he have to make it look like it was one of us who was saying those things?” Huntley almost laughed then, thinking about the comical possibilities. Like one of those sideshow ventriloquists with dolls, Bud had just pulled off a pretty good gag at their expense.

Whitney must have seen him soften, for he took a few steps even closer. Cinnamon wafting from Whit’s educated person, and Hunt was appalled to feel his cock twitch against the leather of his buckskins. “Well,” said the doctor. “We won’t be bothering you anymore. I heard the town of Mariposa could use a doctor, and it’s a few miles closer to that Ahwahnee Valley I want to explore.”

Huntley grinned in embarrassment. It was odd how quickly his anger abated when close to the doctor, as though the doctor had a soothing effect on his wildness. “Hey. Don’t leave on my account. Yesterday I…was just exhausted from all the travel, all this mess with the Indians.”

“Are you saying that you wish me to stay?”

“I’m just saying…Don’t leave on my account. I can be a pretty big hothead, if you haven’t figured that out by now.”

Whitney smiled, displaying his fine white teeth. He had this uncanny ability to stare directly into one’s soul without wavering. No hemming or hawing for this doctor—he just pinned one down with those piercing eyes. “All right. I’ll stay. But I hope you’re not disappointed if I can’t keep old Bud Pennington away from the Ahwahnee Valley.”

Huntley smiled, too. “I won’t shed many tears.”

Suddenly, the dull roar of commotion outside rose to nearly a terror pitch. Huntley had a sense of things such as this—the timbre of men’s voices, the level of rage in a shout, whether or not to get excited or distracted by an event. And from the way Phil Din was carrying on outside, the way ol’ Cassady had come galloping up angrily braying something—wait, Cassady? He was back at his post on Cassady’s Bar.

Huntley raced to the doorway, but Bud Pennington blocked it with his wide, immobile body.

“What is it?” Huntley barked.

Bud grinned fiercely, as though he aimed to break his face in two. “I don’t know. Some fellow name of Greeley was just killed over in Cassady’s Bar.” He swiveled his head gleefully. “By some Indians plundering his trading post.”