Latigo 3, page 8
Cole didn’t feel like discussing anything with Martin Gale at the moment. He and Gale could talk about it tomorrow. “Gale’s given me authority to hire and fire. You’re through, Grubb. Now!”
Grubb lurched to his feet, towering over Cole. “You got no reason to fire me!”
Cole listed the reasons: three times in a month Grubb had driven a coach while drunk, endangering passengers. Had been driving recklessly, such as his entry into New Sodom this afternoon, when he failed to slow in accordance with town rules.
As Grubb glared at him, Cole opened the office safe, counted out the money the former driver had coming in wages. He made an angry Grubb sign a receipt. Only then did he turn over the money.
“Wonder what you an’ that Cutler female done together up in the mountains, huh?” Grubb jammed the money in his pocket and leered at Cole.
“Don’t let me hear you mention Mrs. Cutler’s name in a derogatory way again ...”
“I don’t savvy that there big word but I figure it means mebby she told you how she murdered her husband an’ his partner, an’ after she let you in her blankets, you said you’d go along with her story ...”
Cole snatched at his .44, giving Grubb no chance to lift those scarred fists. He rammed hard into Grubb’s midriff with the gun. A great whooshing breath, stinking of onions and whiskey, burst from the thick lips.
“Keep your mouth shut, Grubb. That’s the final warning. Now get out!”
Cole stepped back, the gun in line. Grubb crouched, fighting for breath, the chest in the bearlike body heaving. Slowly he straightened, his eyes murderous. Then he wheeled and stormed blindly onto the walk, nearly bowling over Claudius Max and some prominent townsmen. Max muttered an obscenity, raised his walking stick as if to bring it down on Grubb’s head. But by then Grubb was striding away, head hunched on shoulders packed with muscle, long arms swinging.
Max recognized him belatedly. “Battling Grubb. I saw him fight once in Basin City ...” Max broke off and looked at the stage-line office, where Grubb had made his angry exit. Cole Cantrell, face tight with fury, was just closing the door.
Cole didn’t see Max on the crowded walk, rubbing jowls thoughtfully, looking pleased.
By then Cole was too keyed up for bed, despite what he had told Amanda. In the Four Aces he eased his anger and weariness with a shot of whiskey. Men spoke to him; others nodded or gestured their greetings. A story about his exploits in a national weekly, complete with sketches by an artist, had for a time made him a high-country hero. A role he didn’t particularly enjoy.
He had just downed his second whiskey when he heard a soft and familiar voice. “Cole ... how wonderful to see you.”
Aspen Grove smiled up into his face. Her light hair was pinned up. Small diamonds sparkled at her earlobes. She wore a red-and-green spangled skirt, and her legs, in black stockings, still caught most male eyes.
Cole hung his hat on the multiple rack near the platform occupied by piano player and fiddler and danced with her. She mentioned Duke Sateen, how their love affair had cooled in San Francisco.
“You were so sure it was the kind of life you wanted,” he reminded the young dancer.
“It was. But I wanted it with you.”
He shrugged. On a spring day they had ridden out of New Sodom, and in the fresh grass, with the sun warming their bare flesh, she almost convinced him to move on with her. But when passion had cooled and he could think clearly once again, he told her that his life was in the high country, always would be. If she wanted him on those terms, each of them their own person, he was agreeable. But she wanted to possess, and as a result she lost him. Now she was back, a year older, just as pretty and, he hoped, a little wiser. Perhaps Duke Sateen had also tired of being possessed. “There’s never been anyone like you, Cole,” Aspen said in her bubbly voice, “and I’m sure you know how I mean that.” Cole stiffened. Duke Sateen was his friend, and he wanted no lengthy discussion as to possible flaws in a lover. When the number was over he could hardly keep his eyes open, and he walked her to a line of chairs against the wall where the other four girls waited to be claimed by dancers.
Aspen wouldn’t let him go and insisted on talking about San Francisco. “After Duke and I ... well, there was someone else in my life. I admit I was infatuated ... for a time. He’s a professional hunter. He was hired by the army to kill off the buffalo ...”
“Yeah, destroy the Indians’ food supply,” Cole muttered, “so as to make them easier to handle.”
“Well, I didn’t think of it that way, Cole. But he’s nice enough and he did say that he’d heard of you and wanted to meet you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rego Gattling ... you don’t seem very pleased.”
Cole explained, that it had been a long week, with very little sleep. “I’m about done in.”
“If I slipped you the key to my room upstairs ...”
One woman at a time was all Cole cared to manage at the moment. He liked Aspen but at present he had Amanda Cutler on his hands. He mentioned her to Aspen.
“I’ll help her till she gets over the death of her husband.”
“The comforting arms of Cole Latigo Cantrell,” Aspen said, her dark-gray eyes suddenly bright with tears. “Damn it, why is it that anything I really want is always out of reach?”
Cole smiled and patted her shoulder. “Cheer up, Aspen.” He then reminded her that she’d already had one husband, unfortunately lost in the war. She could get another if she tried. “But you’re not going to meet anyone you care about while working in a place like this.”
“Last year I met you,” she reminded.
Cole didn’t even bother with a meal but went directly to his hotel and bed. Tomorrow, after he had rested up, he and Amanda would get out of New Sodom.
But down the block, in the Peerless Hotel, plans were already being laid to delay the departure of Cole Latigo Cantrell.
Chapter Ten
AMANDA CUTLER NEVER knew quite how it happened, but Theodora Max knocked on her door and in a charming voice suggested she join her and Claudius Max for dinner. And as Amanda was about to refuse, well aware that the man was Cole’s enemy, Theodora said, “My husband happens to know that Mr. Cantrell is worn out from his ordeal and sleeping soundly at the New Sodom Hotel. So we thought that, you being alone in a strange town ... and more important, Claudius regrets his behavior this afternoon at the railroad station and would like to make amends. Just the three of us.”
Amanda felt stirred by such a challenge. Walter never would have allowed her to make a decision on her own. She accepted the invitation. Theodora named a nearby café and the time.
“I’ll get that conductor his job back, one way or another,” Amanda vowed when Theodora had left the room. Cole would be proud of her.
There was a question of suitable attire for the evening. Amanda had only the one dress that she had worn in the mountains. She had banked fifteen thousand dollars of Walter’s money ... no, her money now ... but had kept out nearly a hundred dollars.
Amanda sailed into her adventure, bought a dress of blue satin, new underclothing she knew would appeal to Cole and at eight o’clock entered the café.
Max and his wife were just inside the door. “Ah, dear lady,” Max said pleasantly. “I didn’t want you to have to grope your way alone through a strange café, so here we are to escort you.”
Theodora, shapely in a brown dress with fur collar, was friendly. Her husband’s lips were puffy, but neither of them mentioned the cause: Amanda’s elbow that afternoon, at the railroad tracks.
Over wine and pheasant Max even agreed that perhaps his long-standing feud with Cole Cantrell was foolish, due mainly to a misunderstanding. Amanda missed Theodora’s startled look. The wine was making Amanda’s head buzz, and she felt relaxed after the long ordeal in the mountains.
She was suddenly bold as she fastened her gray gaze to Max’s through the candle-glow. “Will you give that poor conductor back his job? He meant no harm.”
Max appeared to ponder; then a broad smile lightened the obese features. “I will be delighted to accommodate you, Mrs. Cutler,” Max said in a jovial voice, waving a good Havana cigar for emphasis. “But there is a small favor you can do for me.”
Across the room a violin was played softly: Paris had come to New Sodom. But the floor was plank, scarred by spur rowels, and the ceiling beams blackened by smoke from a big range beyond a counter.
“What favor, Mr. Max?” Amanda asked warily, wineglass in her slim fingers. How wonderful, how confident she felt.
“I am a philanthropist at heart, Mrs. Cutler, despite the mean things you may have heard about me. The mere thought of orphans distresses me.”
“Such poor creatures, yes.” Amanda was being careful not to slur her words. She put aside her wineglass.
“Cole Cantrell had to fire one of the stagecoach drivers.”
“He did?” It was news to Amanda. She picked up her wineglass again.
“Now the driver is disgruntled and wants to put on an exhibition of fisticuffs with Cantrell. It will settle the grudge.”
“What have orphans to do with it?”
“Proceeds from the sale of tickets will benefit them,” Max said, still in that jovial tone. Theodora sat with hands folded at the edge of the table, her classic features unreadable. She stared straight ahead.
“Does Cole know about this?” Amanda asked.
“He’s agreeable.”
Although Claudius didn’t mention an orphanage or where it might be located, Amanda couldn’t help but be impressed. She was in favor of anything to help children. She and Cole would have many. Her fantasy was interrupted by Max.
“I tell you, Mrs. Cutler, there is so little activity in this town that every man ... and some women—the lower types, of course—will fight to buy tickets to see this splendid exhibition between two stalwart gladiators.”
Amanda liked the reference to gladiators. Cole obviously fit that description. She had never known any stagecoach drivers, but they were certainly not the equal of Cole Cantrell either intellectually or physically. Of that she was sure. And the fact that it was all for a worthy cause made the proposed exhibition even more acceptable. She hadn’t thought Max to be a philanthropist, but evidently she had misjudged him.
And when the exhibition was over and Cole declared the winner—of course he would be the victor—then Max promised he and Cole would shake hands, their long-standing misunderstanding at an end.
Max turned to Theodora. “You know for a fact that I hold no ill feelings when it comes to Mr. Cantrell. Isn’t that right, Theodora?”
She nodded her sleek dark head and continued to stare fixedly at the far wall.
When dessert was served, some kind of pudding, Amanda watched her wineglass being filled. She sipped. Amanda suddenly found herself in a lively discussion of wagering, a subject Walter would never have permitted in her presence.
One thing led to another. Then Max said with a smile, “Supposing we complete our negotiations tomorrow at the Four Aces. Noon too early for you, Mrs. Cutler?”
Theodora’s jaw dropped. “But ladies do not go to saloons...” Max wasted his kick under the table; Theodora had trained herself not to wince.
“I do whatever I wish,” Amanda said a little thickly. “If this will end your feud with Cole, then I agree to anything.”
“He has to win first, Mrs. Cutler,” Max said smoothly.
Amanda met Max’s smile, saying, “He will, he will.”
Cole was to meet a stage driver named Al Grubb in a bare-knuckle exhibition. Amanda smiled at the idea. Cole could beat any stage driver who ever lived, with one hand in his hip pocket. She reached for her wine, knocked over the glass. She apologized.
Theodora and her husband escorted Amanda back to her room at Hotel Grant.
“Noon tomorrow,” Max reminded at the door.
Amanda nodded. “The Four Aces.”
When the door closed and they were going downstairs, Theodora hissed, “You beast. What a terrible thing to do. And make me a party to it …”
“To bring that female to her knees and see Cole Cantrell get the beating of his life will bring me pleasure in the extreme.”
In the morning Amanda felt surprisingly good, considering that one glass of wine, two at the most, was all Walter had ever allowed her. The excitement of the day ahead stirred her blood. She dressed and hurried to the bustling walk. It was less than an hour till noon. She hurried to the hotel where Cole said he was saying, but a thin-faced clerk said he wasn’t in.
She debated. Should she go through with it without discussing the wager with Cole? But she knew he could beat that man Grubb, whoever he was. As she walked the busy street, pondering her problem, she pictured Cole’s muscular chest, fists lifted; she’d seen sketches of bare-knuckle fighters in aggressive poses. Her blood warmed. On the crowded walk she looked for Cole but did not see him. Well, the time to make a decision was at hand. She made it when she saw Claudius Max in front of the bank, heard him say, “Lost your nerve, Mrs. Cutler?”
That decided her. Last night Max had given his word that no longer would he cause trouble for Cole. That was worth a lot right there.
It was nearly noon by the time the bank transaction was completed.
In front of the Four Aces she paused, her heart beating wildly. In some ways she felt as if she were a citizen from some hidden culture who had blundered suddenly on civilization. She eyed the formidable saloon front, remembering how, when Walter gambled in a saloon, she was forced to wait for an hour or more in the wagon. To be there when he came back. And she always was. She took a deep breath, flung out her chest and thought, Well, by God, Walter was no longer around to pull on the reins.
This was a new life flowing around her. She was sorry that Walter had to die in order to make it happen, but happen it had. She had lacked the cold nerve necessary to stand up to Walter. Well, never again would she lack it.
She marched to the Four Aces. The first thing she noticed as her arms pushed open the swinging doors was the buzz of talk, laughter, clink of glassware, rattle of poker chips, whir of cards being shuffled. Air heavy with tobacco smoke lay against the beams. A man’s domain that she had often wondered about but had never seen before. Fascinated, she stood looking around. Then in the shadowed barnlike interior she began to see eyes, some startled, see faces with lips parted in surprise. It was suddenly so quiet her own breathing seemed loud.
Amanda looked around to see who might have come up behind her to cause such a change in the big room. But there was no one there, only the doors with their leaded glass inserts, the wood darkly stained. Then she realized the eyes were directed to her.
Someone said, “A new one in town?”
“Shut up, it’s that Cutler woman ...”
“Christ, doesn’t she know better than to ... ?”
Claudius Max stepped from the bar with a flourish of the long black cape that covered his gargantuan figure. He was barely her height but immensely broad. “Punctual, madam,” he said and made a little bow.
Max escorted her to the bar. She removed a bank draft from her coat pocket, waved it in the air so he could read the figures but did not let him touch it. Sam Bishop, paunch jiggling, was behind the bar, counting out fifteen thousand dollars in gold, left on deposit earlier in the day. It was scooped into a leather bag.
“You hold the stakes, I believe, Mr. Bishop,” Max said, “as we all agreed.”
Amanda turned over the check to Bishop, received a receipt and started for the doors. Max took her arm, leaned close. “I admire your nerve. I didn’t think you’d accept the challenge of meeting me in a saloon.”
“Why shouldn’t I meet you on your own ground?” she demanded. “I don’t see that it takes any particular nerve to stare down some man.”
“Ah, but consider the thoughts such a handsome figure thrusts into the minds of men,” he said quietly, for her ears alone. “I dare say there’s hardly a one who isn’t mentally fumbling with your clothing.”
She stared, uneasy at first because of the transformation. No longer was he the considerate gentleman of last evening but now a sarcastic demon. Suddenly she was no longer uneasy. She was glad to see that his lips were still puffy. She drew away from his amused whisper as he started to speak again.
She said scornfully, “I notice you seem long on talk. Perhaps you are less adequate in other ways.”
“You were easier to maneuver than I thought possible,” he said, smiling with the bruised lips.
That stung her. “I guess I was a fool last night.”
“I do give you credit for meeting me here, madam. Although I dare say there is not another decent woman in this town who would have stepped through those doors. Perhaps the word doesn’t apply to you.”
“Don’t go too far with your insults, Mr. Max,” she warned softly.
“I have learned that you spent most of yesterday afternoon with Cole Cantrell, in a box car. The two of you ... alone.”
“I hired him as my bodyguard. I was frightened after my husband was so ruthlessly shot down.” She started away, but his hand on an arm restrained her. Most men had resumed talking, but some were still staring at the handsome woman with the dark-red hair, and the squat figure in the black cape.
“I notice a surprising lack of tears for that departed husband,” Max sneered in his hoarse whisper.
“Perhaps I choose not to show my emotions in public.” She pushed away from him and swept regally toward the doors. A swamper left his bucket and mop and scampered to open them for her.
Claudius Max had gambled that Mrs. Cutler would be brazen enough to accept his challenge, and earlier that morning had arranged for some of his railroad roustabouts to rope off a twenty-by-thirty-foot area in the vacant land behind the Four Aces. It would serve as a fighting ring. The fact that he had been less than candid with the woman worried him not at all. Ethics were to be disposed of whenever Cole Cantrell was involved.
