Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  She supposed she should feel proud of him, but she did not. Suddenly she felt a pang of jealousy. It was Will Reilly who could feel proud, for after all, Will had raised him, and he seemed to have done quite a job of it.

  Val had mentioned poker…was he a gambler, too? But her Pinkerton reports had made no mention of that, and it was something they would not have missed. So if he gambled at all, it was very little. No doubt Will had tried to keep him away from all that.

  “If we could talk alone, Val,” she suggested.

  “He has promised to go shopping with me,” Boston said.

  Myra was growing irritated. The girl annoyed her, and she sensed a like feeling from Boston. “Please”—there was just an edge of sarcasm in her tone—“he can buy you pretty dresses any time. This is business. It is important.”

  “You misunderstand,” Boston said very politely. “I buy my own dresses, with my own money. Some girls do, you know.”

  Myra stiffened as if she had been slapped. For an instant everything within her was still. Then she felt a shock of cold anger. She started to retort, but cut the words off and forced herself to speak with care.

  “That’s very nice, I’m sure.” Then she added, “I suppose you have your own ways of earning money.”

  “Yes,” Boston said, smiling, “I mavericked calves, if you want to know, out on the range with a branding iron and a rope.”

  Myra looked at her in frank disbelief, and Pavel said, “I don’t understand…what is it…maverick?”

  “It’s a Texas name for an unbranded calf, or whatever,” Val said. “It got its name from a Texan who didn’t take the time to have his cattle branded, and when he sold the herd, riders moved in and branded every one as one of Maverick’s.

  “There are a lot of loose, unbranded cattle around, and although the practice is beginning to be frowned on, it is still the fastest way to build an outfit of your own. Boston is one of the best riders, male or female, I’ve ever seen, and she’s good with a rope and fast with a branding iron, so she has done very well.”

  “It is difficult to believe,” the Prince said. “You do not seem the type, somehow.”

  “We all work in this country,” Val replied, “and Boston rides like one of your Cossacks.”

  Myra sat waiting, fighting down her impatience. The conversation kept wandering away from the subject, and this room would be filling with people at any moment now. Already a few had come in, and she was expecting Masters and Cope.

  “We must settle this, Val. If you are going to sell the property, why not sell it to me, your mother?”

  Val stifled the sharp answer that came to his lips. “I shall have to think about it. In the meantime, you might decide what is your best offer and make it to Bricker….But don’t waste time returning to the fact that you are my mother. I haven’t had much of an example of that, Myra.”

  He got to his feet. “Prince Pavel, if you are interested, there are usually some good poker games around. Don’t bother with Blake Street. You can find a good one right here in the hotel.”

  Myra sat very still as he walked out, but her mind was working rapidly. She was going to lose this deal unless she acted swiftly. There was also the matter of the box…she had forgotten about the box temporarily.

  Had Val received it? If not, he must be prevented from receiving it. His room must be searched, and then she must get word to Sonnenberg. She had come west so quickly there had been no chance of waiting to learn if they had obtained the box.

  “Your son,” Pavel asked, “has he ever been to Europe?”

  Her thoughts were elsewhere. “Europe? Of course not. How could he have been in Europe?”

  Myra was frustrated and bitter. The breakfast conversation had been inconclusive, to say the least. Valentine seemed in no mood to do business with her, and she dreaded his receiving an offer from Cope or Masters.

  First the box. She must have it, or at least examine its contents….And then Val. For Myra Cord, now Fossett, killing had come to be simply a solution to a problem.

  She got up, waited for Pavel to receive his change, and then left him in the lobby, and went to her room.

  She had already taken care to find out which room was occupied by her son.

  CHAPTER 25

  IN THE LOBBY, Val paused and took Boston’s hand. “I was proud of you, but be careful. She’s not like ordinary people, and she has been pretty successful in what she has done. By now she probably believes that she cannot make a mistake.

  “Her entire life has been a struggle for money, for power. She doesn’t have to have a reason for killing other than that you are in the way, and I am sure she feels you are, as I am.”

  “I’m not afraid of her, Val. I think she is more afraid of me.”

  “I’ve got to find Bricker, and tonight I must have a meeting with Pavel.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He hesitated. “Boston, I am going to play poker. I am going to play for blood, using everything I have except the ranch. I am going to twist him and break him.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I’ve got to try. He had Uncle Will murdered, but there is no way I can prove that here and now, so this will be my way to make him pay.”

  “All right, Val. Only be careful. I do not like him.”

  Dube met him outside. “Val, you better do as we planned. You grab yourself a horse and light a shuck.”

  “I’ve got to see Bricker, then Pavel.”

  “I looked him over. I don’t care for that Russky. I’ve known some good ones, but he’s got a mean look under all of that polish.”

  “I can’t go now. I’ve got to stay in town.”

  “Val, don’t you do it. Light out for Durango. You’ve got business there, anyway. Make ’em follow you—I mean those gents who want you to sell to ’em. But you get away from that woman…and from Sonnenberg. I meant to tell you about him. He ain’t alone. He’s got three men trailin’ him around. One’s a kind of crazy galoot they call Tom, then there’s—”

  “Tom?” His thoughts went back to the cold winter day when Will and he had driven up to that lonely hideout in the snow, the hideout where Tensleep, Sonnenberg, and…wasn’t the other one named Tom?

  “That’s what they called him. Odd-lookin’ crittur. Eyes never stop, one shoulder hangin’ lower than the other, sunken chest, hollow cheeks.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “There’s a breed called Pagosa, and a long, lean slat of a man named Marcus Kiley. They’re bad ones.”

  Dube was silent for a moment. “Well, I told you. That’s all I can do except to have that horse where I planned. It will be there, come midnight, but you do whatever you’re of a mind to.”

  By noon Val had located Stephen Bricker, and had made arrangements with him to open negotiations with Cope, Masters, or anyone else interested in the right-of-way.

  When Val emerged on the street he paused to take stock of the street and of the windows all around before moving on. He was wary, and he liked the feel of the Smith & Wesson in his waistband. Every bit of common sense he had told him he should do just what Dube had wanted him to do…leave town, leave fast, and by back trails.

  He had never been a man who hunted trouble, and as he had not faced Sonnenberg, nobody could ever call him a coward for quietly dropping out of sight. Moreover, he had business in Durango and the vicinity. But the memory of Pavel and how he had bought the death of Will Reilly held him in Denver.

  There would be a big poker game in the Windsor that night, and if Pavel entered, Val would. And from that moment on, it would be war.

  * * *

  —

  MYRA HAD WASTED no time. Val’s room was not far from her own. And she had long possessed five skeleton keys that would open almost any lock. If seen by anyone in the hotel, she had only to say wha
t was true—that she was going to her son’s room.

  She opened the door and stepped inside quickly. She stood still for a moment, sweeping the room with her eyes.

  There were half a dozen suits in the closet, shirts and underwear in the drawers. Her son, she decided, after a glance at the clothes, had good taste. She went through the room working with the skill of a professional. If the box was in the room at all, she was quite sure it would be hidden, and she knew the places where things are usually hidden. She had hidden things many times herself, and she had a devious mind, given to quick apprehension of trick or device. Within a matter of minutes, she was sure the box was not in the room.

  Where, then, was it?

  She had had no word from Sonnenberg; if he had the box he had not notified her. If he had not been able to get it, the box must be at the bank, in which case the bank must be entered and the box obtained. This part of the affair was in Sonnenberg’s hands.

  But what if Val already had the box? If not in his room, where was it likely to be?

  In the room of Boston Bucklin.

  Myra paused, considering that. To enter the girl’s room was dangerous, too dangerous unless she definitely knew the box was there and the girl was out.

  The solution, then, was to get into the room by invitation, and then look around. If she could not see the box, she could, at least, eliminate all but a few hiding places, which could be examined later.

  What her son would do with that box and its contents she had no idea, but without it nobody could do anything. Men had died, and by now worms had eaten them, and only Van could name dates and places. Only Van could know or guess where the bodies were buried.

  She was positive, judging by his attitude, that he had not yet obtained the box—at least, he had not opened it and studied the contents. She must move quickly.

  She listened a moment at the door, heard nothing, then slipped out. As she pulled the door shut behind her she thought she heard the click of a closing door an instant before Val’s closed.

  Quickly, she glanced around, but the hall was empty. She walked back to her room, fumbled with the lock long enough for a quick look around again, then stepped inside.

  There were five doors along that hall. Surely, Boston’s room was one of them. Had she been watching? Had Boston seen her leaving Val’s room? Or was it that cowhand brother of hers who had come to Denver with them?

  For several minutes she watched from a crack of her door, wondering if anyone would come to check Val’s room, but no one did. Whoever had opened and closed the door might have been a stranger…or it might have been her imagination.

  After a few minutes she went down to the lobby, inquired for Miss Bucklin, and learned that she was in her room. From a writing desk in the lobby Myra sent out several notes, one to Stephen Bricker, others to Cope and Masters. Another note went to a man on Blake Street.

  * * *

  —

  CHEYENNE DAWSON DID not look the way his name sounded. He should have been a cowhand or a bad man, the “bad” used in the western sense, meaning a bad man to tangle with. Cheyenne was all of that, only he made no show of being tough or mean, or good with a gun.

  Cheyenne Dawson held forth in a saloon or two along Blake Street, and was known in all the less savory spots in Denver. He was a huge, sloppy man, wide in the hips, narrow in the shoulders, the tail of his shirt nearly always hanging out on one side or the other.

  He had large, soulful blue eyes, was partly bald, and wore a coat that was too big, even for him. He was five inches over six feet, and was said to weigh three hundred pounds.

  The years that lay behind him had covered about everything dishonest that a man could do, but his activities usually were those that demanded the least activity. After a spell of smuggling over the border and of rustling cattle, he had decided it was easier to make a living by selling whiskey and guns to the Indians. As the country built up and the Army became more active, he decided there was too much risk in that, so he opened a saloon with a couple of barrels of “Indian” whiskey.

  One day he was approached by a cattleman who was having nester trouble. Did Cheyenne know of a man who was discreet, good with a gun, and who could keep himself out of trouble?

  Cheyenne did, and the man proved to be just as good as Cheyenne promised, and he also kept out of trouble. Soon Cheyenne became known as a reliable source for hired gunmen, or anyone who was needed to do anything at all, and Cheyenne got a satisfactory payment without moving more than a city block or two from one of his accustomed chairs.

  For some time now Cheyenne had been getting notes, accompanied by cash, for various errands, mostly for information he acquired simply by listening, or through minor thefts.

  The first time it was connected with assays on gold from a certain mining property, and after his report the property’s source of eastern capital dried up. Cheyenne noted the cause and effect with considerable interest, and over the years he learned that whoever was asking for the information had considerable money, and furthermore seemed to have a wide knowledge of the West and its people.

  Often when that person asked for a man to do a job, the man was asked for by name, as in the case of Henry Sonnenberg. In every case that mysterious person in the East had known exactly whom to ask for, and the person requested was the best at his job.

  Cheyenne Dawson owned a part of a saloon, a part of a livery stable, and had more than a passing interest in several cribs in the red-light districts, but during the past ten years the income from that person back east had been so substantial that he had roped in, through women or drink, bookkeepers or shift bosses from various mining and railroad ventures to keep him supplied with the information he needed.

  The notes that came to him were invariably written on a typewriter, until one day he received a hastily written note in longhand.

  Interrupted in the reading of it, he had started to get up when Lila Marsh, one of the older girls, indicated the note. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in years. What’s she want…a job?”

  Cheyenne’s scalp prickled, but he merely folded the note. “Who? Who ya talkin’ about?”

  “Myra Cord. I’d know that handwriting anywhere. We worked in the same house in Pioche one time…and again in Ogalala.”

  Cheyenne fished the stub of a cigar from his capacious coat pocket and lit it. “How was she?” he asked.

  “Good…maybe the best I ever saw at taking them for money, but cold…all she ever cared about was money. Even her man—Van Clevern, his name was—didn’t seem to mean a whole lot to her. She owned her own place in Deadwood for a while, then she sold out and I haven’t heard a thing of her since.”

  “How old would she be then?”

  Lila hesitated. That was cutting closer to her own age than she liked. “Oh, she was older than most of us! I guess she’d be forty-odd now, but she’d look good. She always kept herself well.”

  Cheyenne started for the door. “Are you going to bring her down here?” she asked.

  “I’ll think on it. I doubt it,” he said.

  Outside on the street, he rolled the cigar in his fat lips and considered. Of course, Lila had had only a glimpse of the handwriting and she could be wrong. On the other hand, a woman who’d been on the line would know the people she had mentioned. Cheyenne went on up the street, stuffing in his shirttail.

  During the year that followed he had pieced together quite a dossier on Myra Cord, without any idea of how he expected to use it…or if he intended to.

  There were a couple of rumors…a trail-drive foreman had sold a large herd, paid off his men and headed for the station with the bulk of the cash, some sixty thousand dollars. He dropped the comment to one of the hands that he had found himself a girl and was going to stop in Kansas City for a wild time.

  He had disappeared, and investigation brought nothing to light e
xcept that he was said to have visited Myra at least twice after the herd arrived in town.

  Now, nearly five years after he had received that first handwritten note he received another. Only this one was written on Windsor Hotel stationery. Not that the printed heading had been left on, for in fact it had been neatly creased and torn off, but Cheyenne Dawson knew that paper, and knew the watermark. Nobody else in town used it.

  This woman then, Myra Cord or whoever, was in Denver and staying at the Windsor.

  Cheyenne Dawson, like a lot of people before him, had tired of the petty day-to-day deals he was making. He wanted a big killing and retirement. This looked like it. He tucked his shirttail into his pants, rubbed out his cigar and put it in his coat pocket, donned his narrow-brimmed hat, and walked to the Windsor.

  He leaned his heavy forearms on the desk and stared at the desk clerk from watery blue eyes. “Woman here…stayin’ here. Wanted to buy a horse. Forgot her last name…Myra…Myra something-or-other.”

  “You must mean Mrs. Fossett. However, I did not know she wished to buy a horse. If you would leave your name, Mr.—?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll come back,” he said, and padded away through the lobby. He was just going out of the door when Myra Fossett came in from the dining room.

  She caught a glimpse of him, and then the clerk said, “Oh, Mrs. Fossett, I didn’t know you were in the dining room. There was a man here…said you wished to buy a horse.”

  “I had thought of it,” she replied. “Did he ask for me by name?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, no. He wasn’t sure about your last name.”

  “I see. Well, thank you very much.”

  In her room Myra Fossett sat down quickly, for suddenly her legs were trembling. She had been a fool to come west! A triple-dyed fool!

  Yet how could he have traced her? Even if she had written from here in the city…