Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1339
“Sure, I’m lucky at cards,” drawled the stranger, “but all- fired unlucky at love,” and he smiled at Kit as he spoke.
“Cowboy, I just can’t believe that last,” she returned. Perhaps her arch look and warm tone accounted for the ill- concealed glint of hatred in Emery’s gaze.
“Gentlemen, and Miss Bandon, the game has slowed up,” continued Bradway, exasperatingly. “Too much talk. And talk appears cheap in this town — I reckon almost as cheap as life.”
“If that’s one of your smart cracks, it just happens to be true,” snapped Emery.
“In case there’s anything personal in that remark, Mister Gambler, I reckon you-all haven’t figured that the outfit who makes mine cheap will be biting sawdust ahead of me,” drawled Linc.
“Who in hell are you?” demanded Emery, in an effort to be sarcastic. But there was curiosity in his voice.
“Linc Bradway. Hail from Missouri, more recently from Nebraska — nephew of Cole Younger, if that means anything to you.”
“Suppose we play one more jack,” suggested Lee, manifestly nervous over the turn the conversation had taken. He sensed the direction events were taking and wanted to get out of the game before things got too tense.
“What a lot of cheap fourflushers!” exclaimed Kit. “But all right, one more jack. Only Mr. Cole Younger’s nephew, I’ll want satisfaction.”
“That’ll be a pleasure, ma’am. I’m sorry, but this will have to be the last game I’ll sit in with your gambler partners,” drawled Linc, deliberately. Apparently these worthies wanted a peg to hang suspicion or accusation upon, and Lincoln was willing to let them have it. It was plain to see that Emery was a snake in the grass. The silent McKeever might be the more dangerous one of the two, after all. Neither, however, made any reply to Linc Bradway’s deliberate insult. The hands were dealt, the pot opened, raised, and cards called for. Linc stayed on a pair of deuces and for once failed to add to the strength of his hand. Betting was light. They were afraid of the stranger’s luck. When he raised the limit of the money in front of Emery that individual followed the lead of the others and threw his cards down in disgust. Then Lincoln, with a queer little smile, laid down his pair of deuces.
“Jess, he stole it!” Kit cried, and it almost appeared as if she were pleased with the gamblers’ discomfiture. “You and Mac took this cowboy for a tenderfoot, and he has cleaned you.”
Lee laughed. “He cleaned us all, and if I know poker he pulled as straight a game as I’ll gamble he can shoot.”
“Thanks, Colonel, that’s Texas talk if I know folks from the South,” returned Linc. “And now, Mister Emery, you can eat that hint about my peculiar play.”
The circle of spectators shifted uneasily and there was a perceptible sway toward the alcove portal. But there was too much uncertainty, too great an undercurrent of excitement for the crowd to bolt yet. Emery, however, no longer labored under his misapprehension.
“Bradway, no insult intended,” he said.
“So you are willing to crawl?... Emery, every look and word of yours to me has been insulting.... I’m calling you.”
“Cowboy, you must be looking for trouble.”
“Yes, and I’ve found it. But not much trouble for a hombre like me. Come on!”
Kit Bandon suddenly interposed in the tense situation. “Bradway, these friends of mine often forget there’s a lady present. But you’re a gentleman.”
“Thanks, I haven’t overlooked the fact that you’re a thoroughbred in bad company.”
“I reckon I can stick it out,” she returned flatly. She did not show the least fear of Bradway or concern for her friends. “Jess, it looks as though you and Mac have riled the wrong cowboy.”
“Kit, you forget what happened to the last cowboy you took a shine to,” flashed the gambler, angrily. If these two, the gambler and the girl, despite the obvious close relationship between them, did not hate each other, then Bradway was a poor judge of character.
“Hell no, I haven’t,” she returned, just as angrily.
Linc, after pocketing his winnings, pounded the table with his left hand. His right was significantly not in sight. “Cut it, Miss Bandon, begging your pardon. Let Emery talk to me.”
At this juncture Lee and the miner quietly vacated their chairs. “Lemme out,” demanded the red-shirted giant. “If I know this stripe of feller there’ll be hell poppin’ here pronto.” His remark started an exodus. Still the morbid remained.
“Bradway, you’re unreasonable,” shouted Emery, shrilly. “I can’t crawfish for something I may have said unintentionally.”
“Crawfish — hell! Your liver is as white as your face.... Lady, kindly get up and out of this.”
Kit Bandon neither flinched nor moved. She appeared fascinated by this drama in which a young and personable stranger was forcing the issue against her friends.
“Emery, you’re a cheap gambler — a poor loser — a damned liar.... Stop! Keep your hand out of that vest!”
The remaining watchers broke pell-mell to get out and for a moment there was a mingling of whistling breaths, and the trampling scuffles of hurried feet.
Emery’s white hand sank twitching back to the table. Out of the corner of one eye Bradway caught McKeever’s hand slipping inside his vest. Then the cowboy gave the table a tremendous shove and sprang erect, his gun leaping out.
CHAPTER II
KIT BANDON, WHO had half risen just as the heavy table caught her, fell and rolled clear out of the alcove. The gamblers both went down, with Emery under the overturned table. But McKeever slid free and as he sat up, propped on his left hand, he reached for the gun in his vest. It gleamed brightly. Lincoln’s shot broke that draw, and evidently the gambler’s arm, for it flopped down, and the gun went spinning across the floor. McKeever let out a hoarse cry of fury and agony.
Linc, smoking gun in hand, swung the table off Emery, who then slowly labored erect, his features livid and contorted. Kit joined him, her face red with rage, and stood brushing the sawdust off her black dress.
“Damned fools! I told you,” she burst out, furiously. “Did he — kill Mac?”
“Looks that — way,” muttered Emery, hoarsely.
“No, I just winged him,” spoke up Bradway. “Miss Bandon, I’m sorry I had to mess up your party, but it could have been a lot worse. You’ll please excuse my rough manner.”
“I excuse you, Mr. Bradway,” she said, in a low voice, her dark eyes meeting his gaze. Whatever she felt, it hardly seemed to be anger for the cowboy from Nebraska.
“Emery, you made a crack to this lady a minute ago about what happened to the last cowboy she took a shine to,” flashed Lincoln to the gambler. “Wasn’t that cowboy Jimmy Weston?”
Amazement and fear held the gambler mute, and Kit Bandon stared at Lincoln, startled, her red lips parted, the rich color fading out of her cheeks.
“Weston was my pard,” went on Bradway. “I’ve letters of his that give me a hunch as to what happened to him, and I came here to prove it.... Get out, Emery.” Lincoln made a move with the still smoking gun that sent the gambler hurrying out into the crowd which was edging back again toward the alcove.
“Mac, are you bad hurt?” asked the woman, kneeling beside him.
“Arm busted. High up,” rejoined McKeever, weakly. “I’m bleeding bad.”
“Don’t move. I’ll get someone to look after you.”
Linc picked up the little gun and examined it. The weapon was a derringer and it had a large bore for such a small gun. He put it in his pocket.
“Mac, you better pack a real gun next time you meet me,” said Bradway, and started to go out. By this time Kit Bandon had arisen. She stood before him, visibly agitated, and was about to speak when he asked her: “How come such a fine girl as you could be hooked up with hombres as low-down as these?”
“Mac is Emery’s friend, not mine,” she whispered hurriedly. “Jess and I... we have cattle deals. I own part of this place. It goes back to a long time ago... Bradway, I must see you — talk with you....”
As he stood there close to this girl whom they called the Maverick Queen, Bradway felt himself drawn by her beauty and personality, just as she was clearly moved by the courage of this stranger. Linc saw the unmasked emotion in her dark eyes. She must have had a deep cue for passion, and he divined that it had its origin in his reference to Jimmy Weston. Remembrance of his friend and the part which this woman may have played in Jimmy’s death brought Linc back to his senses.
“Well, this is not the time nor place,” he replied coldly, and left her. The crowd opened to let him pass through and out into the street, where he sheathed his gun, and joined the stream of pedestrians on the wooden sidewalk of South Pass’s main street.
Linc kept looking back to see if he was being followed. He could not be positive until he had cleared the center of town. He passed the last pedestrians on his side, and then crossed the street. He caught sight of two men whose actions were kind of suspicious. Quickly he squared around, gun in hand. They made a quick retreat down a dark alleyway. This enabled him to gain his lodginghouse before his pursuers could tell where he had gone. The cowboy found his room, barred the door and lighted a kerosene lamp. Then for the first time in an hour he drew a breath of profound relief, and threw off his coat, its pockets heavy with gold coins and bulging with rolls of bills. The room had a window, but it was too high up for anyone on the outside to see in. Walls and doors were strongly built. For the time being he felt safe. But just how permanent his safety was depended upon how strong and bold the gamblers were in South Pass. He had made two treacherous men his bitter enemies. Moreover he had now in his possession between five and six thousand dollars, a fortune to Bradway, whatever it might be to them. As for Kit Bandon, the way she flashed money and bet it and lent it augured that it must come to her as easily as it went.
As he thought over the events of the evening he exclaimed under his breath. “But maybe it’s bad luck. That outfit will do for me if they can. As for Kit Bandon — either I’m loco or she cottoned to me pronto. Did she turn white when I came out with Jimmy Weston’s name? My hunch must have been right. Whatever happened to Jimmy, the Maverick Queen had something to do with it. And whatever it was I’ve got to find out!”
He turned out all the rolls and wads of bills, and the many gold coins upon the bed. That pile of money amounted to more than Lincoln had ever seen in his life, let alone owned. He had won it fairly. And he was going to hang on to it! No more gambling. He would not need to ride trail or drive cattle while he was solving the riddle of Jimmy Weston’s death. He had not a doubt, however, that his problem would have been far easier and less perilous if he had not gambled and shot one of the players, thus bringing himself into prominence in South Pass. And yet, as a result of his forcing things tonight, he had learned some facts that might save him some time — if his luck still held.
Lincoln kept an old money belt in his bag. He took it out, stowing away in it all the bills of large denomination. The others and the coin he would exchange tomorrow. After that was done he thought of Jimmy’s letters, and taking them out he reread them with mingled emotions. Poor Jim had had no conception when he wrote these lines of the tragedy stalking him. There were several mentions of a girl named Lucy, and evidently she was someone of whom he thought a great deal. The fifth letter bore signs of labored writing. Jimmy was not himself. It was written in lead pencil, and some of it was hard to decipher. But so much was poignantly plain: “This dam black-eyed female I lost my haid over has queered me with Lucy. Honest, pard Linc, I didn’t mean to be that yellow. But you know what likker does to me an’ this woman made me forget all the decency I ever knew. I’ll get even with her. I’ll be as yellow to her as she made me be to the kid... .” No doubt the kid referred to was the girl, Lucy.
Evidently the girl lived in or near South Pass, because Thatcher had mentioned her. And she was the one person Lincoln wanted to see next, before Kit Bandon, or anyone else.
Linc undressed and, turning out the light, he went to bed. But he was far from sleep. Over and over again he tried to piece all these details into a logical sequence. Each time he found that Kit Bandon seemed to be the nucleus of the plot. There could be no doubt that she was the “black-eyed female” Jimmy had referred to in his letter. Linc had a premonition, as he sat there in his pine-boarded room, that the “black-eyed female,” whom he had heard called the Maverick Queen, was going to play an important part in his own life during the coming weeks in South Pass.
He lay there in the dark thinking, and before he went to sleep he came to the conclusion that he must not let his feelings run away with his intelligence. He must imagine less and learn more. As for the menace to himself — that was certain. In the morning, when he was clear-headed again, he would give some thought to plans for his own self-preservation. Afterward, he would have patience and wait, and be as cunning as a fox. The incentive was great. Yet there was more to it than his love for his old friend and the firm resolve to avenge his death. There were some facets to this problem that intrigued him and whetted his curiosity. Who was this Lucy? And the dazzling, seductive Kit Bandon? Lincoln suddenly realized that he must be on his guard against succumbing as easily to her wiles as had Jimmy. There was passion and temptation in those sultry dark eyes. As sleep began to overpower him, his last conscious thoughts were of the Maverick Queen — the color and vividness — the fragrance that emanated from her — the symmetry of her form, and the provocation in her black eyes.
Linc Bradway was awakened by a yellow ray of sunshine that streaked through his little window. He was cold and glad to get up and dress. With daylight his mind again worked clearly. The possibility that he would have to fight for his life bothered him not at all. All these mushrooming gold towns were noted for bloodshed; it was hardly to be expected that he would meet an even break at gunplay in South Pass. His risk, he thought, lay in being shot from ambush. It would be known that he carried a large sum of money. Robbers and bandits would be as eager for that as Emery and his partner. Night would be the time for extreme caution, although he realized that he would have to move with care even during the day.
Lincoln went out on the street to have his first glimpse of South Pass in the light of day. He was most agreeably surprised. It spread along the bed of a narrow valley, and despite its new raw atmosphere of pine-board buildings and canvas tents, it seemed the most picturesque mining town he had ever seen. Early though the hour, there was already color and bustle in the streets. Heavy-booted miners, packing tools, were passing along the wooden sidewalks; stores were open; the saloons were being swept out; and Linc heard the rattling whirr of roulette wheels that never stopped. Over the hill east of the town hung clouds of yellow and black smoke from the gold mills. The western hillside was dotted with prospectors’ tunnels, where they had dug for traces of the precious metal. Beyond the hill that rose to the north, white peaks of snow glistened in the sunlight. Cold and white, they notified the watcher where this nipping air came from. They marked the southern end of the Wind River Range, where it opened out into the Pass that Jim Bridger had discovered in the early days, and through which ran the famed Oregon Trail.
Entering the restaurant Lincoln found a few early birds, too hungry to pay any particular attention to him. The Chinese proprietor did not appear. A serving girl waited upon Lincoln. He ordered a good meal of ham and eggs that would last him the whole day and longer if necessary. Then, with a hitch to his belt, Lincoln went out upon the street again, his gaze as restless as a compass needle.
South Pass, by this time, had definitely awakened for the day. Miners and other workmen had increased in numbers; ranch vehicles and horsemen were in evidence; a chuck wagon was being loaded with supplies in front of the big store at the intersection of the two main streets. Cowboys’ saddled horses stood bridles down before the saloons. Lincoln crossed to the opposite corner, where he encountered Thatcher coming out of the store. The cowboy jerked up his head and stared.
“Ahuh. You must be more’n one feller,” he said.
“Good morning, Mel. I saw you first,” replied Linc, cheerfully.
“Yes, I’ll bet that’s your way.”
“Look here, Thatcher, you got me wrong. I’m not such a bad hombre, if I like you.”
“Mebbe you’re not at that.... I was in the Leave It last night when you called them gamblers. I’m bound to admit it looked pretty good to me, and others.”
“Mel, now you’re being more friendly. I won a little coin. Is there a bank in this place?”
“Up this side street. That low stone building... only stone building in town. So you won a little coin? Lordy, what would you call a lot? But, cowboy, you don’t need a bank. You need a morgue of which we have none here.”
“You reckon they’ll lay me out?”
“Sure do. You bucked the wrong tiger last night. I think I’m giving you a good hunch when I advise you to take the eight o’clock stage and vamoose with your little coin.”
“Thanks. You’re right kind, or else you want to see the last of me around here.”
“So do we all,” replied Thatcher, with a smile that disarmed his words.
“But for what reason?”
“One reason is you’re sure a handsome stranger. And we only have a few women in these diggings that a feller can be serious about.”
“Can’t you be sport enough to introduce me?”
“Well, you didn’t need no one last night.”
“Is Kit Bandon one of these few women you’re bragging about?”
“Nope. She’s not in the class I mean. She’s in one all by herself.”
“Struck me deep, that lady did. Does she specialize in cowboys same as mavericks?”
“You’ll have to find out for yourself,” returned Thatcher, significantly.
“Where you bound for? I see you’re packing out supplies.”
At this moment Thatcher’s comrades of the preceding night showed up, clean-shaven and bright of eye. They responded to the cowboy’s civil greeting.
