Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan Read Free Book Online

people the train had encountered since leaving Independence. A stockade fence surrounded the encampment. Inside, a tall wooden tower afforded a view for miles in every direction. There was a plain wooden barracks for the soldiers, and a series of small wooden houses for the married officers. A little further away from the military complex there were several separate houses, built by settlers who ran the post store and traded with trappers and Indians for pelts and other goods. Homesteaders came from a hundred miles to trade at the fort, to gossip, visit, and refresh themselves with this small vestige of civilization before once more going back to the business of carving out a living in this wilderness.
    For the people of the wagon train, this was an opportunity to refill their depleted supplies and to pause in their journey before moving further into the unknown.
    After securing their wagons and caring for their stock, most of the men were eager to visit the back room of the trading post, where liquor was served by the bottle or glass. Even the men from the Reverend Coulter’s congregation seemed eager to put aside their strict rules for a day or two of unbending.
    Rourke sat with his back against the wall and drained the tumbler of whiskey. He waited, then felt the familiar surge of heat. Tonight he was determined to drink a whole damned bottle of whiskey and fall into a stupor beneath the cook wagon. At least for this one night, he would dull the pain and sleep until morning. He saw Mordecai glance his way and gave him a look that was meant to stop him from coming any closer. Tonight he had no intention of being neighborly. Let the men of the wagon train socialize among themselves. All Rourke wanted was to get pleasantly drunk and fall asleep.
    James Market and Flint Barrows sat huddled at a corner table, an empty bottle between them. They’d been there when Rourke entered. He’d seen neither of them with the train today and found himself idly wondering whether they’d crossed the river even before the wagon train had started its crossing. Arrogant, lazy bastard, Rourke thought, watching Market through narrowed eyes.
    When the two men stood and approached his table, he tightened his grip on the bottle.
    “Where’d you learn to handle that gun?” Barrows asked. He was a tall, thin young man, with brown, stringy hair falling nearly to his shoulders and a scraggly growth of facial hair. The gun stuck in the waistband of his buckskins probably cost him a month’s pay.
    When Rourke didn’t answer, James Market sneered. “Too good to speak to us, Rourke?”
    “I don’t have anything I want to say. And I prefer my own company.” With that he poured another drink, lifted it to his lips and drained it, then set the tumbler down, all the while watching their faces. He didn’t like what he saw.
    Skin flushed. Eyes watery. They were both drunk and itching for trouble. Rourke saw Barrows look down at his gun. His hand twitched. Rourke tensed.
    “Mr. Hawkins, who owns this fine establishment, would like you two gentlemen to leave now.” Mordecai walked up behind the two men and spoke in low tones that the others in the room couldn’t hear. “Asked me to see that you obliged him.”
    “My money’s as good as anyone else’s,” Market snarled.
    “Not tonight. Mr. Hawkins says he’s all through serving the two of you.” With his hand firmly under Market’s elbow, Mordecai eased him toward the door. Behind them, Barrows shot an angry glance at Rourke, hesitated for a moment, then followed. When the door closed behind them, Rourke released his grip on the gun under the table and poured himself another drink. Glancing up, he saw three men from Reverend Coulter’s congregation looking his way and mumbling among themselves. He knew that look. A delegation from the good reverend was no doubt planning to invite him to partake of their church service. He didn’t think he could stomach another interruption in his well-laid