Double Eagle, page 18
He had been on the verge of suggesting she get dressed, that he’d walk her home. Their talk had been unsettling. A man with a dangerous job such as his had no right to become so attached to a female that if the worst did happen she was left embittered and alone.
But when Aspen deftly drew the cream-colored camisole down over her hips and kicked it off onto the floor, and he saw the glowing skin in the half-light, the swell of breasts with firm nipples, the rounded thighs, he knew he was lost.
“I’ve got no more willpower than Adam had when he saw Eve.”
Aspen laughed, the sound musical in the dingy little room. Her lips closed over his mouth, blocking whatever else he might have been about to say.
She spent the night. With the first rays of the new day poking against the drapes, she pulled him onto her again. “This is what I’ve needed, Cole,” she gasped. “What I’ve missed and dreamed about … Oh, dammit, we’d be so good together …”
It was his turn to cut off speech, which he did so effectively that her breath was short. And all she could do was gaze up at him rapturously and bite his lips lightly and move her body with his until she shuddered and cried out. She seized his lower back so as to extend his power all the deeper.
“I feel like a new woman.” She sounded spent, but her eyes were shining upon his muscular frame as he lay with hands folded behind his head. “I’ve been cranky and miserable for weeks on end,” she said.
A sound of horses outside silenced her. A creak of leather. Men dismounting? Aspen bounded, naked, to the window, and pulled aside just enough of a drape so she could see out. She turned startled eyes on Cole.
“Two M-Cross men out there,” she whispered, scampering back to the bed. “Big and tough. Curly Southcross and Penrose.”
There was a sudden banging on the door. Aspen placed a forefinger across Cole’s lips. “They’ll go away in a minute,” she whispered. “They look drunk and … mean.”
“Hey, marshal, you in there?” It was a heavy voice. His companion sounded shrill, perhaps drunk. Perhaps not.
“Open up, you got the guts. We hear at the Glory Hole that there’s talk you been cussin’ out M-Cross. We wants to ask you about it.”
“Just a minute, boys. Glad to accommodate you.”
“You fool,” Aspen hissed. But he hopped out of bed, grabbed her clothes, and shoved her barefoot into a closet. A piece of heavy drapery covered the closet door. “Get dressed and keep your mouth shut,” Cole warned and kissed her lightly.
The two cowhands were muttering, irritated at the delay. Several times they rattled the doorknob as Cole quickly dressed. He belted on his gun, signaled a wide-eyed Aspen peering around the drapery to remain silent and well hidden.
Then he cautiously slid up a window on the wall opposite the door. He dropped to the ground and came up quietly behind the pair, who had their ears to the door, grumbling.
“Hell, he ain’t got the guts to step out, sure as hell he ain’t, Curly.” It was a thickly built man with a snub nose and a broken front tooth who happened to see Cole. He straightened up slowly, eyes narrowed. His companion looked around. “You boys want to talk?” Cole asked softly. “Go ahead, talk.” Jed Penrose eyed the badge on Cole’s shirt, then drunkenly tried to draw a gun. Cole hit him in the mouth, demolishing a tooth already broken off. Penrose collapsed, his gun clattering against the wall. That was when Curly Southcross tried to jump Cole’s back. But Cole spun and with the man still clinging to his neck, slammed him back against the door, almost breaking it open. Aspen’s muted squeal of fright came from the room.
Then Cole collected the guns of both men, jammed the weapons into his belt, and pulled the rifles from the saddle boots. By that time both groggy M-Cross riders were on their feet.
“You tell Rufus Cain and his hired gun, that Jobe Sanders, that the law in Rimfire is alive and well,” Cole said with a tight smile.
Jed Penrose stared at his bloodied tooth on the ground and said painfully, “We need our guns.”
“Come back in a week. If you haven’t broken the peace of Rimfire in that time, then we’ll see.”
Southcross tried to sneer. “Think you’re kinda tough, don’t you?”
“Tough enough to handle a couple of blowhards.”
When they had ridden away, heads hanging, Cole went back inside. Aspen had hurriedly dressed but not done up her hair. It hung down her back, the color of pale butter. “Oh, Cole,” she gasped, clinging to him, “one of these days you’re going to get killed. You take such chances.”
“What I’m paid for.” He kissed her. “I’ll walk you home. You’d better get some sleep.”
“For sure I didn’t get much with you.” She gave him a wicked look. “You practically devastated me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
RUFUS CAIN SAW his two cowhands slinking out of the corral where they’d turned in their horses. “Guess I don’t have to ask how you made out with the new marshal,” he said sarcastically.
Penrose had mashed lips and Southcross a split cheekbone.
“He got the drop on us,” Penrose explained, whistling through the new gap in his teeth.
Buck Cain listened from the kitchen door to his father’s rising rage as he screamed at the two ranch hands.
It crossed Buck’s mind that the failure of the two cowhands might be his opportunity to let the old man know he was fully grown and not some ear-wet kid.
Buck watched his chance and slipped away. If he could bring home the marshal’s badge with the announcement that Cantrell had lit out for another and safer corner of the territory, it might warrant a smile of approval. Even a slap on the shoulder from his father. Last year when Buck had turned twenty-one he had hoped the old man would give him more responsibilities. Instead, he had less. Jobe Sanders handled important jobs Buck felt should be his. But Buck was afraid to bring up the subject because it would probably send the old man into one of his classic rages which turned his face purple. There were times when Buck was growing up that he thought the old man would fall over in a dead faint during one of his tirades. He had never seen anybody get so worked up.
As Buck rode to town he thought about his father. He hated the old man on one hand and at the same time would do almost anything to gain his approval. Running the new marshal out of town before Jobe Sanders could have a chance at him would please Rufus Cain; his own son doing a job reserved for Jobe Sanders, since Penrose and Southcross had failed so miserably.
Buck went directly to the Glory Hole, the oldest saloon in Rimfire.
Ace Hyatt, the owner, was playing solitaire at a deal table. Ace, with his stovepipe hat and ragged mustache, looked to Buck like a down-at-the-heels riverboat gambler. Although Ace admitted that he watered his whiskey and that most of his games were shaded strongly in favor of the house, he knew better than to try his tricks on any M-Cross men.
Buck savored the good whiskey Ace poured from his private bottle. He hadn’t intended to drink, but decided that one wouldn’t hurt. He talked about the new marshal.
“So far I ain’t hardly spoke two words to him,” Ace Hyatt confided. “So I don’t know whether he’s friend or foe.”
“Speakin’ of the devil, here he comes, badge an’ all.”
Hyatt put on a smile. “Howdy, marshal. This here is Buck Cain.”
Cole gave both men a brief nod but did not shake hands. Then he outlined the purpose of his visit. Some teamsters passing through had complained they had been cheated, that every game in the Glory Hole was crooked. They had also complained bitterly about paying a high price for weak whiskey.
“Mayor Campbell tells me there’s an ordinance he wants enforced,” Cole said to Hyatt. “It has to do with things I just mentioned. So I’ll take a look around … if you don’t mind.” Without waiting to see whether Ace Hyatt minded or not, Cole strode to the end of the saloon given over to the games. Because of the early hour the tables were covered. There were only three customers in the place, including Buck Cain. Buck knew that the old man liked Ace as well as he did Duke Sateen, the newcomer down the street. But Ace had been here longer. It would please the old man mightily, Buck thought, if his only son could save Ace from embarrassment. And Buck knew the marshal in his search wouldn’t come up empty-handed.
“Every new marshal comes in all fulla bluster,” Ace confided in a low voice as they watched Cole move from table to table, inspecting cards, dice, the roulette wheel. “Then they either cool off or they’re dead. Hell, this ain’t the first place I ever run in the West. Every town’s the same.”
After a quarter of an hour of poking around, Cantrell sauntered to the bar, where he poured a glass of whiskey. He tasted it, then beckoned with a long forefinger.
“Ace Hyatt,” he called. “I’d like some words with you.”
“Snaps his fingers an’ I’m s’posed to run over there like a trained dog?” Hyatt said under his breath, then added, “Got a hunch what comes next.”
Ace Hyatt went to the end of the bar where they would not be disturbed. His smile was broad. “There’s a way you an’ me can get along in this town …”
Cole gestured him to silence. “I looked your games over.”
“Like I was sayin’, there’s a way we can get along.”
“You’re using stripped decks in your card games. And there’s a trip wire on your roulette wheel. The dice in the racks are loaded. And from the taste of your bar whiskey, I’d say you charge too much for the water.”
“Waal, you got to understand how it is in a town like this, marshal,” Hyatt said lamely.
“You’re in violation of city ordinances, Hyatt. Six counts, as I tally it.”
“You ain’t no greenhorn,” Hyatt said with a forced smile. “You an’ me know the only reason a man comes to a fly speck like Rimfire is to line his pockets.”
“There’s two ways you can handle this, Hyatt. Pay a five-hundred-dollar fine, and clean up the bar and the gambling. Or I can close you up till the circuit judge comes to town.”
A beading of sweat began to form just under the stovepipe hat. “See here, marshal. We’re both reasonable men. There’s gotta be a way to handle this, like I been tryin’ to tell you. There’s ways we can get along.” Hyatt closed an eye in a broad wink. He pulled a leather sack from his pocket. He dumped a handful of twenty-dollar gold pieces on the bar top. Up the bar two men were drinking, paying no attention. Near them the barkeep was reading a newspaper.
“You about to offer me a bribe?” Cole asked softly. Something in the black eyes stiffened Hyatt’s spine. He licked sweat off the underside of his dark mustache. “Waal, you see I was … waal, I mean …”
“Because if it is bribery you’ve got in mind, I’d have to lock you up for one helluva long time.”
Hyatt seemed to wilt under his checkered vest.
Cole said, “My suggestion is that you pay the city the five-hundred-dollar fine and clean this place up, games, whiskey, everything.”
“That … that is outrageous.” Hyatt cast a helpless look at Buck Cain across the room, willing him to do something. Buck had practiced a lot with a gun and was really pretty good, and there was nothing in this part of the territory quite like having M-Cross on your side.
Buck was clearing his throat, saying, “He … he giving you trouble, Ace?”
“Sure is.”
Cain unfolded his more than six feet of height and sauntered over. He wore a black scowl. He halted about four feet away from the marshal, thumbs hooked in his shell belt. “Who give you the right to make trouble for Ace?”
“Ace Hyatt violated the law,” Cole explained calmly to young Cain. “So it’s my job to call him on it.”
Buck drew a deep breath, his mouth strained. “We’ll just see about that.”
“And, Cain, if you butt in, I’ll lock you up for interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty.”
Buck muttered something under his breath. Cole had made a half turn and was addressing the saloon man. “What’ll it be? Do you pay the fine or do I lock your doors?”
Hyatt brushed sweat from his forehead with an impatient scrape of fingertips across moist skin, then began to count out five hundred dollars in double eagles. “I … I’ll pay the fine.” Buck Cain knew that this was his chance.
“Put up your money, Ace,” he said with an arrogant whip of the left hand. His right hung just an inch or so above the initialed grips of an ivory-butted .45 in a tooled leather holster.
Cole looked at him. “Better keep clear, Cain.”
“I’ve had a bellyful of you, Cantrell!” Buck Cain shouted shrilly. “Fill your hand!”
The gangling M-Cross heir didn’t wait for Cole to respond. In fact when he uttered the first word of the challenge he was already clamping fingers around the smooth ivory grips. By the time the last word of the challenge had been flung, his gunsight was just clearing the lip of the holster.
That was when a screech of unbidden terror was tom from his throat. Even though Cantrell had apparently been beaten, having made no move toward his gun until one final blur of speed, Buck found himself staring at eye level into the bore of a cocked .44.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed and let his gun drop back into the holster. His knees trembled.
Cole swung his gun to casually encompass Hyatt, who stood with mouth open. The two white-faced customers and the barkeep looked stunned. “Anybody want to buy into this game?” Cole drawled into the tense silence.
No one spoke. Out in the street a wagon rattled along behind a team. In the distance could be heard the mournful hoot of a train whistle.
“Cain, the only reason you’re still alive,” Cole snapped, “is that you’re slow.”
“I … I …” Buck swallowed, his throat locked up. “Whether you stay alive or not is up to you,” Cole finished. “Shuck that gunbelt and step back. You’re under arrest. On a charge of interfering with an officer of the law during the performance of his duty. I could add a couple more charges, but I feel generous today.”
Buck Cain, his face red from mingled anger and embarrassment, was marched to jail with half the town looking on. There were a few catcalls that Cole silenced with a hard glance and a warning: “Enough of that.”
After Cole had locked the cell door, Cain said, “The old man’ll kill me for this.” He sounded miserable.
“How old are you, Buck?”
“Twenty-two. Why?”
“You’d better practice the draw if you figure to be a gunfighter. Otherwise you’ll never live to reach twenty-five. You poor damn fool, I could’ve killed you easy as taking a deep breath.”
Buck Cain clutched the bars of the cell door. “Looky, Cantrell, I got no money of my own … the old man never gives me much at a time. But I got some good hosses. I’ll give ’em to you or sell ’em an’ give you the money. Whichever way you want. Oughta bring more’n a thousand dollars. Just lemme outa here ’fore Pa finds out.”
“Save your money, Buck. My guess is somebody’s already heading out to M-Cross with the word about the fix you’re in.”
In Basin City, Claudius Max summoned Augie Pyne to his private office in the Python Building.
“We leave for New Sodom tomorrow morning,” he said through clenched teeth. “Those fools up there don’t seem to know how to run my railroad!”
“Will Mrs. Max be going with you?” Pyne asked quietly. Max looked up from papers on his desk. Hooded eyes in the overblown face were stone cold. Max had strong feelings about her infidelities. Was Pyne actual or potential? “Why is it important for you to know about my wife!”
“I’m hired to protect her as well as you.”
“That you are. But I still don’t see—”
“If she isn’t going, I’ll leave two men behind.” Pyne’s hazel eyes below the wide temples were guileless. “After all, she is the wife of a very important man.” Pyne spread hands with long fingers as if that explained it. “I just believe in heading off trouble before it starts. Precaution, I guess you could call it.”
Max relaxed. Apparently Pyne was more efficient than his previous bodyguards, Doak Lancer and Rego Gattling. Pyne believed in heading off any possible trouble. The other two had let it engulf them. He was thankful for Pyne, because the high country was crime-ridden. Desperadoes from all the states and territories had drifted in. That Claudius Max was a part of that criminal element would never have occurred to him. His crimes were usually committed with the stroke of a pen or by the use of a talented forger. If guns had to be used, they were by proxy, in hands other than his own. Max decided that morning that he liked Pyne better than any of the others who had acted as proxy.
Max was not surprised that Theodora threw a tantrum when she learned of the trip to New Sodom. He listened, fat arms folded across the enormous chest, for a full minute, then said, “Enough!”
That silenced her.
“My Praetorian Guard will be here early in the morning to escort us to our private railroad car.”
She couldn’t repress a shudder across her fine shoulders. Praetorian Guard reminded her of her late father, professor of Roman history. He and Claudius had been drawn to each other by a mutual admiration for that historical butcher Julius Caesar. When Max made an unusually large endowment to her father’s college, with one eye on a nubile, green-eyed daughter, the seventeen-year-old Theordora became his reward.
News that they were to leave for New Sodom at daybreak ruined the rest of the afternoon for her. The town terrified her. Last year they had been present when a string of her husband’s freight cars had plunged down the mountain and destroyed buildings, throwing New Sodom into panic. There were many casualties.
And hardly had the dust and terror subsided when Rego Gattling and Cole Cantrell had squared off. It was a horrible moment for her when Gattling’s body was dragged to a boardwalk practically at her feet. A man she had taken into her arms, despite great risk.
At daybreak she was in her gray traveling cloak and entering the carriage. Budding cottonwoods were slick with dew; it glistened on the steps and the tie boy. Minutes slid away, and the house was far behind. One of Pyne’s men was driving instead of their regular coachman.
