and downstairs were all lit, and shadows moved in them. More shadows moved on the broad front porch, several hatted figures sitting atop the cottonwood pole rails. They were all smoking or drinking, the coals oftheir cigarettes or cigars glowing faintly in the darkness.
Saddled horses were packed nearly stirrup-to-stirrup against the hitch racks fronting the stoop, and more horses stood in a corral off to the right of the tavern, beyond a windmill whose blades spun slowly, nudged gently back and forth by changes in the breeze.
James walked his horse up to the corral, dismounted, and tied the reins around one of the pole rails, glancing warily toward the porch, a little puzzled that no one had contested his presence. If Burleson was right, and the Ace of Spades was indeed a hotbed of outlaw passions, it seemed doubtful that strangers would be welcome.
James resisted the urge to slide the Henry out of its saddle boot. Deciding that his Griswolds would have to do if he was turned away in a hail of lead, he adjusted the belt and pistols on his lean hips and strolled with feigned ease past the horses and up the squawky wooden steps of the porch.
Several men glanced at him, eyes narrowed with incredulity, but no one tried to stop him as he crossed the porch through a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke and the fetor of man sweat, horses, and leather and strode through the door that was propped open to the cool night air with a rock.
Inside were at least a dozen men sitting or standing in a semicircle around the band at the back of the long, low-ceilinged room lit by flickering oil lamps. Most of the crowd had their backs to James, and most were stomping or clapping to the beat of the band, the woman still singing though she’d moved onto another song. Most of the men were too interested in the comelyyoung singer to pay much attention to James, though he was aware of several hard, unshaven faces scowling at him through the wafting smoke.
To a man, they were well armed with pistols as well as knives, and there were several rifles leaning against walls or square-hewn ceiling support posts. They likely weren’t accustomed to trouble from outsiders here, as most enemies probably respected the boundaries and legends of such a place, but they were ready for it if it came.
One man stuck out of the crowd. Sitting on the bar planks on the room’s right side, he was a middle-aged gent in a red serape and a broad-brimmed black sombrero trimmed with silver conchos. He was a white man, though he was also dressed in the fancily stitched deerskin slacks of a Mexican vaquero—
charro
slacks, James believed they were called. Over the serape he wore crisscrossed cartridge bandoliers over his chest, and two big pistols jutted from holsters attached to the bandoliers. Two horn-handled Green River knives were sheathed low on his thighs.
He was a hawk-faced man with blue eyes and long copper-red hair dancing against his shoulders as he laughed and whistled and clapped his hands in rhythm to the boisterous music. James felt his attention riveted on this man who emitted an almost palpable raw savagery—a wild brutishness that James had seen in wounded wildcats, but rarely in men even in the deepest Smoky Mountain hollows. That this was the proprietor of the Ace of Spades, and the leader of the cutthroats gathered here, couldn’t have been more obvious had Mangham worn his name on a sign around his neck.
James raked his fascinated gaze away from the red-haired gent to scrutinize the room. He couldn’t see much of the singer, but he could tell through the smoke that she was fine-featured, with coal black hair, in a light, peach-colored frock that left most of her milky torso bare above her breasts, her slight shoulders straight and smooth as delicately chiseled marble. A peach-colored choker, trimmed with an ivory cameo, encircled her neck. She was dancing, lightly stomping her slippered feet as she clapped her hands and sang, her lush raven hair
Saddled horses were packed nearly stirrup-to-stirrup against the hitch racks fronting the stoop, and more horses stood in a corral off to the right of the tavern, beyond a windmill whose blades spun slowly, nudged gently back and forth by changes in the breeze.
James walked his horse up to the corral, dismounted, and tied the reins around one of the pole rails, glancing warily toward the porch, a little puzzled that no one had contested his presence. If Burleson was right, and the Ace of Spades was indeed a hotbed of outlaw passions, it seemed doubtful that strangers would be welcome.
James resisted the urge to slide the Henry out of its saddle boot. Deciding that his Griswolds would have to do if he was turned away in a hail of lead, he adjusted the belt and pistols on his lean hips and strolled with feigned ease past the horses and up the squawky wooden steps of the porch.
Several men glanced at him, eyes narrowed with incredulity, but no one tried to stop him as he crossed the porch through a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke and the fetor of man sweat, horses, and leather and strode through the door that was propped open to the cool night air with a rock.
Inside were at least a dozen men sitting or standing in a semicircle around the band at the back of the long, low-ceilinged room lit by flickering oil lamps. Most of the crowd had their backs to James, and most were stomping or clapping to the beat of the band, the woman still singing though she’d moved onto another song. Most of the men were too interested in the comelyyoung singer to pay much attention to James, though he was aware of several hard, unshaven faces scowling at him through the wafting smoke.
To a man, they were well armed with pistols as well as knives, and there were several rifles leaning against walls or square-hewn ceiling support posts. They likely weren’t accustomed to trouble from outsiders here, as most enemies probably respected the boundaries and legends of such a place, but they were ready for it if it came.
One man stuck out of the crowd. Sitting on the bar planks on the room’s right side, he was a middle-aged gent in a red serape and a broad-brimmed black sombrero trimmed with silver conchos. He was a white man, though he was also dressed in the fancily stitched deerskin slacks of a Mexican vaquero—
charro
slacks, James believed they were called. Over the serape he wore crisscrossed cartridge bandoliers over his chest, and two big pistols jutted from holsters attached to the bandoliers. Two horn-handled Green River knives were sheathed low on his thighs.
He was a hawk-faced man with blue eyes and long copper-red hair dancing against his shoulders as he laughed and whistled and clapped his hands in rhythm to the boisterous music. James felt his attention riveted on this man who emitted an almost palpable raw savagery—a wild brutishness that James had seen in wounded wildcats, but rarely in men even in the deepest Smoky Mountain hollows. That this was the proprietor of the Ace of Spades, and the leader of the cutthroats gathered here, couldn’t have been more obvious had Mangham worn his name on a sign around his neck.
James raked his fascinated gaze away from the red-haired gent to scrutinize the room. He couldn’t see much of the singer, but he could tell through the smoke that she was fine-featured, with coal black hair, in a light, peach-colored frock that left most of her milky torso bare above her breasts, her slight shoulders straight and smooth as delicately chiseled marble. A peach-colored choker, trimmed with an ivory cameo, encircled her neck. She was dancing, lightly stomping her slippered feet as she clapped her hands and sang, her lush raven hair
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