Shoot-Out!, page 8
Danny grinned and went on watching the man. He was a little too far distant for any real definition, but he looked to be tired from the slump of his shoulders. And the gray horse had its head down like it had run hard and was grateful to get its wind back. They were up on a slight ridge that ran parallel to the trail for a few thousand yards before fading back down to the flat. It wasn’t a good position for a road agent, affording the stage too much advance warning, but Danny still kept his eyes on the man as they drew level.
The man gave no indication of having seen the Concord. Just sat there, apparently staring into empty space. Danny twisted in his seat to peer back as they passed the sentinel, then turned to watch ahead as horse and rider faded into the heat haze.
‘Wonder what he was doin’?’ he thought aloud. ‘Sittin’ out in the middle o’ noplace.’
‘Mindin’ his own friggin’ business,’ grunted Stacy. ‘Like any goddam God-fearin’ citizen.’
‘I guess,’ Danny agreed.
And forgot about the man.
On the ridge, Saul Blass watched the stage disappear behind its own dust cloud and wondered if it was headed for Garrison.
Chapter Eight
THE SLIVER OF moon that had shone over San Antonio was a fraction thicker as the stage rolled to a halt before the Garrison saloon. Yellow light streamed welcomingly from the windows and through the open door, outlining Shawn Docherty’s thickset shape as he waved a greeting from the porch. McLain was the first out, turning to hand Eleanor Farmer down as Shawn grinned hugely and said, ‘Welcome back, John. Welcome to Garrison, folks.’
‘Shawn,’ McLain smiled back, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine,’ answered the gray-stubbled ex-soldier. ‘How many overnighters?’
Eleanor Farmer said, ‘I shall be staying a while. Do you have a suitable room?’
‘Sure do.’ Shawn angled a thumb at the doorway behind him. ‘You go right on in, ma’am. Door over there? That’s the dining room. My wife’s got a meal ready. You just tell her you’re stayin’ an’ she’ll fix you up. Name’s Alice. I’m Shawn Docherty.’
‘I’d appreciate a bath first,’ the woman said. ‘A hot bath.’
‘We got a cold water pump out back.’ Shawn saw no need to offer any apology. ‘Alice can boil you a kettle, or you can get a hot tub over at Chen Lee’s come morning.’
McLain looked down Main Street to the now-completed structure of the bathhouse. It looked like the Chinaman’s voluble supervision had got the work done in record time. He turned to look along the street in the opposite direction: to where the red lights glowed from the frontage of the Maison Belle. It felt good to know that Belle would be waiting for him there.
‘I’ll be stayin’ on, too,’ said George Willard. Then, to Danny Austin: ‘Fetch my gear down, would you?’
Danny glanced at Stacy Chase, who sent a thick gobbet of liquid tobacco onto the moonlit ground and asked, ‘Someone like to tell me what the goddam hell’s goin’ on? Far as I know, I got two passengers through to Brownsville an’ one fer Laredo.’
‘I’ll pick up another stage,’ said Willard. ‘Business calls.’
‘I’m staying indefinitely,’ said the woman. ‘I may take a later stage or seek a refund.’
Stacy moderated his language as he replied: ‘Up to you, ma’am. You want a refund, though, you’ll hafta go to a regular depot. That means San Antone, or Laredo, or Brownsville.’
‘No matter,’ the woman smiled faintly. ‘May I please have my baggage?’
Stacy nodded at his guard, then asked Charley Bascombe, ‘You changed yore mind, too, Charley?’
‘No.’ The Texas Ranger shook his head. ‘I’ll be comin’ with you.’
‘All right.’ Stacy cut a fresh chunk of tobacco from his wad and began to chew. ‘We pull out at first light. Want me to see yore pony stabled, John?’
‘Thanks,’ McLain nodded. ‘I’ll buy you a drink later.’
‘Hold you to that,’ grinned the driver. ‘An’ Shawn? Tell Alice I got me a real appetite, will you?’
Shawn Docherty waved a hand in agreement and began to collect the baggage Danny was hauling from under the leather flap covering the boot. McLain helped him carry it inside, dumping his own gear behind the bar. The rest was deposited in the rooms as the travelers made their way through to the restaurant.
‘You get yore pistol?’ Shawn asked.
‘Yeah.’ McLain showed him the gun, recounting what had happened in San Antonio. ‘How’ve things been here?’
‘Quiet,’ said Shawn. ‘We locked up a homesteader was fixin’ to shotgun Chen Lee on account he thought the Chinaman was tryin’ to boil him alive. Swede laid a fist on his face to quiet him down. Fined him five dollars an’ threatened to run him outta town if he does anythin’ similar. Billy Conlin took a notion to show Belle’s girls his new cow pony, so we gave him free board fer the night an’ sent him home sober the next mornin’. Otherwise, nothin’.’
‘How is Belle?’ McLain asked. Then wondered if the enquiry sounded as eager as he felt.
‘She’s fine,’ Shawn grinned. ‘You got a real good woman there, John.’
‘Any word from Frank Donnely?’
‘None.’ Shawn shook his grizzled head, blue eyes twinkling. ‘He took Janey off like he wasn’t sure if he was goin’ to a wedding or a funeral. Syl Bellew’s been doin’ a real good job an’ there’s been no sign o’ Injun trouble.’
‘Good.’ McLain pushed the dining-room door open. ‘I’ll say hallo to Alice, then get on—’ he almost said home, then changed it to, ‘back.’
‘Abe’s over there now,’ said Shawn. ‘You can tell him about Jesse Comstock.’
McLain nodded, a sudden twinge of foreboding clouding his brown eyes. ‘Shawn,’ he murmured, ‘don’t spread this around, but Wilf Stodard reckons the killer was after the Colt. He might come here. He does, you let me know if I don’t see him first.’
‘You got it,’ agreed Shawn. ‘Want me to keep it close? Or should I tell the others?’
McLain knew that he meant the tight knot of original settlers – Swede, Angus MacKay, One-Eye Peters, Abe Kintyre – who formed the nucleus of the town. That Alice would be told was understood. He nodded: ‘I guess so. But tell them not to try anythin’ if he does show.’
‘Right,’ Shawn promised. ‘But, John, you remember if you need help you got it fer the askin’.’
‘I know,’ said McLain. ‘Thanks.’
Shawn looked serious for a moment, then regained his customary humor as he went into the dining-room calling, ‘Alice? Yore wanderin’ boy’s come home.’
Across the room, Alice set a stew pot down and passed the ladle to George Willard, wiping her hands busily on her apron as she moved towards McLain. Warmth shone in her eyes as she studied his face, reaching out to take his hands with a smile wiping the years from her features.
‘John T.,’ she murmured. ‘It’s good to see you back.’
‘It’s good to be back.’ He returned the pressure of her grasp, the bond between them not needing words. ‘You look well, Alice.’
‘You look like you could use a meal,’ she smiled. ‘You want to eat here?’
‘I’ll go see Belle first. She’s busy, I’ll come back.’ Suddenly he felt embarrassed, not yet sufficiently accustomed to his changed circumstances to feel easy about refusing Alice’s hospitality. ‘If that’s all right?’
‘Sure it is.’ Alice chuckled, putting him at ease again. ‘I’d not expect different. You go see her, an’ I’ll keep a plate warm in case. But either way, you come on over soon as you can an’ visit a spell.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he nodded. ‘See you later.’
He quit the dining-room and collected his saddlebags and Sharps from the bar, nodding greetings to the men who called a welcome before stepping out onto the street and heading for the white and red building at the far end of Main Street. He could hear a pianola jangling a tune as he approached, and the muted buzz of voices interspersed with feminine laughter. The red glass lanterns set either side of the door cast a warm glow over the shadowy porch, the curtains drawn over the windows hiding the light inside so that the cathouse assumed a mysterious, promising air. He went through the door and halted, looking round.
Under Belle’s supervision the spartan essentials offered when Gomez had owned the place had been transformed to the closest Garrison knew of luxury. A thick, deep, red carpet covered most of the floor, the color matched by the plush upholstery of the chairs and banquettes set along the walls and around the polished oakwood tables. Brass spittoons gleamed at discreet intervals, and each table held a beaten copper receptacle for cigar and cigarette butts. The walls had been papered with stuff Belle had ordered from St Louis, choosing from the samples Abe Kintyre held, but seldom had use for in a territory where walls were, at best, painted white. The paper was patterned with curlicued twinings of red and gold and white, broken by the paintings that gleamed with the deep luster of thickly-applied oil, depicting scenes Belle had told him were Grecian, androgynous people in funny little white outfits disporting in sunlit woods or lush-looking meadows that made McLain think of Missouri. A small bar stood at one end of the room, the front paneled in dark teak, the counter in mahogany. A brass foot rail ran along the bottom, and behind the bar bottles of whiskey and tequila and kegs of beer stood on shelves or trestles. The bar was tended by a fat Mexican woman called Estrelita, who had stayed on when Gomez left. Her daughter, an equally plump girl of fifteen, served the tables, answering to the name of Madrileña. McLain had once seen the mother floor a drunken cowhand with a single blow when the man made an obscene suggestion to the daughter.
The pianola was a novelty, presumably brought up from Brownsville while McLain had been in San Antonio. A girl of Creole blood with skin the color of dark honey and hair sleek as a raven’s wing was operating the pedals that worked the machine, grinning with delight as the keys jumped untouched and the drum turned to emit the tune of “Sweet Betsy From Pike.” Soldiers and citizens occupied the chairs, talking and drinking with the seductively-clad working girls. McLain saw Abe Kintyre sharing a bottle with a red-faced sergeant called McLaglen and two girls called Rita and Linda. Belle was nowhere in sight.
‘La señora is in her room,’ Estrelita called, her cheeks wobbling as she smiled. ‘She saw your horse behind the coach, Señor Juan. She say she wants to get ready for you. You are not to go in until she calls.’
‘The hell with that,’ grinned McLain. ‘I been away long enough.’
Estrelita’s smile grew larger still as she put down the glass she had readied for him and chuckled something about it being only a little while, but what could you expect from a man with stars in his eyes and cojones to match. McLain didn’t hear her because he was already going through the door that led to the private quarters Belle had had built onto the rear. He moved fast down the corridor until he reached the entrance to the small parlor. Eased the door silently open and dumped his gear on the closest chair. The Sharps clattered as the barrel struck the wood and Belle’s voice came from the bedroom.
‘Madrileña? Is he here?’
McLain felt an anticipatory smile tauten his cheek muscles as he crossed to the half-open door and entered the white-painted room.
‘Yeah. He’s here.’
‘John T. McLain! You were supposed to wait! I wanted to look my best for you.’
Belle pouted, feigning anger as she turned from her mirror. The movement swung the black, filmy robe she was wearing open so that he saw she wore nothing beneath save for a black bodice that supported dark silk stockings. Her rich, red hair was piled up, exposing the slender column of her neck, loose tendrils falling either side of a face that was attractive without the help of the cosmetics she had applied. They rendered it even more seductive.
McLain said, ‘I never seen you look a whole lot better than today.’
And the pout became a smile as she rose from the chair and put her arms around his neck, silk and scent swirling in sensuous unison as she stared into his eyes. McLain let his hands run slowly down the smooth curve of her back, cupping her hips, enjoying the sight and the feel and the smell of her.
‘It’s good to have you back.’ Her voice was a husky whisper. ‘I missed you.’
‘It’s good to get a welcome like this,’ he murmured.
Then there were no more words as she pulled his head down and let her lips prove her pleasure. McLain responded with a matching eagerness and for a long time they stood with tight-locked mouths, bodies pressing hard together as they savored the reunion, prolonging the moment until the hunger grew too demanding and McLain lifted her and carried her to the bed.
‘I ain’t had a bath since San Antone,’ he apologized as she plucked at the buttons of his shirt. ‘You want me …’
‘Yes,’ she interrupted. ‘Now. The hell with a bath.’
A long time later they sat at the parlor table eating the meal Belle had whipped up. She was dressed now, wearing a gown of some shiny reddish-brown material with little frills of black lace edging the cleavage and sleeves. The smudged make-up had been artfully renewed and her face was serious, concern showing in her green eyes.
‘What will you do if he does come here?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.
‘What I promised Wilf Stodard,’ he replied. ‘Take him back to San Antone. One way or the other.’
‘Unless …’ Belle let the sentence tail off, something like fear showing now in her eyes.
‘It’s like I told you,’ McLain said slowly, evenly; taking care to find the right words. ‘I’m the peace officer here. I got a job to do an’ I made Wilf a promise. I can’t go back on that, an’ you wouldn’t want me to. I’ll not ask you to quit this place, an’ you can’t ask me to quit what I do—either of us wanted that, there wouldn’t be no point us bein’ together. I want you just the way you are; you want me to change, it ain’t me you want.’
‘No,’ she said with an equal intensity, reluctance flattening her voice, ‘I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you shot, either.’
‘Makes two of us,’ he grinned. ‘Hell! The reason all this started was because I want to stay ahead o’ the game. Get an edge.’
‘I know.’ For a while she refused to answer his grin, then she returned it. ‘Trouble is, I didn’t know I’d miss you so much. That’s something I have to get used to yet.’
‘Makes two of us again,’ he replied. ‘That ride felt like a lot longer than it has before.’
‘He’s not likely to come here, anyway …’ Now her smile was genuine. ‘Not when you know what he looks like. Not to your own town.’
‘It don’t seem very probable,’ McLain allowed, thinking that a man who had shown himself ready to go up against a cocked scattergun couldn’t be counted on to do what was probable. ‘So you can quit worryin’.’
‘And tend to business,’ Belle said, rising. ‘What are you doin’?’
‘Said I’d buy Stacy a drink,’ McLain answered. ‘I’ll head over to the saloon, then make the rounds.’
‘Then come back here fast.’ Belle’s smile was wickedly promising. ‘I’ll be waitin’.’
The Isaacs had moved on from the staging post located in the northeastern quadrant of the valley and now it was operated by a couple called Henry and Maria Tallon. Henry was a narrow-faced man with gentle eyes and thinning hair who had driven coaches for the Butterfield line for three years, and Wells Fargo for eight. He had been one of the best until a brake shoe had snapped coming down the Pike’s Peak trail and the stage had threatened to overrun the horses. Henry hadn’t had much more choice than to let the team run, trying to stay ahead of the coach and negotiate the curves. He had brought his passengers safely to the bottom and the team to a halt, then climbed down to check the pilgrims inside. One man had staggered out clutching his belly and thrust Henry aside as he doubled over to vomit. The driver had been pitched off balance, clutching at a wheel to save himself from falling just as a woman climbed down still wailing her terror. The sound had spooked the team, which stamped nervously forwards, turning the wheel Henry was grabbing far enough that he slid sideways to the ground. Without the brake to hold it, the stage rolled farther forwards than usual. The right-side rear wheel went over Henry’s right arm and ended his days as a driver. The guard managed to get the coach slowly to the next staging post, where the manager performed a crude amputation just above the elbow.
Henry had been surprised his Mexican wife hadn’t shown more upset. He’d felt like a half-man: crippled and useless. Maria had acted like it didn’t matter. She had grieved for his loss, but she let him know at the same time that it didn’t change anything between them. Henry loved her all the more for that, knowing that a woman with Maria’s sultry looks could have had her pick of more able-bodied men. It had saved him from bitterness, and now he was adjusted to the loss of his arm. And happy running the staging post for Tevis Stark.
He picked up the bucket he had just filled and turned for the house. It was the beginning of evening, the light poised undecided between afternoon and night, heavy and still. The air was warm, lazy with the buzz of insects and the farewell singing of birds. Smoke rose lazy from the square adobe building, melding with the darkening blue of the sky. A crescent moon shone blue-silver against the horizon, and over to the west, fire crimsoned the edge of the approaching twilight.
Henry carried the bucket into the house and set it down by the stove. Maria looked up at him and smiled, still bending over the redolent pot sizzling on the skillet.
‘I’ll check the animals,’ he said.
Maria nodded, her eyes huge and soft.
Henry went back outside and checked the fodder spread for the twelve coach horses. He slopped scraps into the trough for the pigs and glanced at the chickens pecking dirt beside the cabin. He felt good: at peace with life. He looked along the trail as he did every night, not really expecting to see anything, but still set in the habit.
He was surprised to see a rider approaching from the direction of San Antonio.
