Last Chance Saloon

by Cole Shelton

  ‘I always gave value for money.’

  ‘You said “gave”?’

  ‘I retired a couple of years ago,’ Brett said flatly.

  ‘Heard that too,’ Delaney said. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on Brett. ‘But you’ve obviously lost none of your talent, Cassidy. That draw in my saloon was the fastest I’ve seen – and I’ve seen a few in my time.’

  Brett shrugged and took a swallow of his beer.

  ‘So what are you doing in Red Butte?’ Delaney asked pointedly.

  ‘Reckon that’s my business,’ Brett said, watching Delaney’s eyes narrow at his blunt reply. ‘However, I’ll give you my answer. I’m just passing through.’

  ‘Damn shame.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I could use a man like you,’ Delaney said slowly.

  It was what Brett Cassidy had hoped he’d say, but he didn’t intend to appear too eager. ‘For what exactly?’

  ‘To look after my interests.’

  ‘And you have considerable interests. Noticed your name all over town.’

  ‘Small fry,’ Garth Delaney dismissed his Red Butte businesses as if they were of little account. ‘I own a very profitable freight line that transports supplies and other goods between here and a dozen towns, in particular Gorman’s Flat and Panhandle. I have business interests in both towns. Then there’s Wildcat Camp, that’s a mining hole, four hours ride from here. I have a thriving enterprise there. Of course, I own the Rolling B ranch and the Lazy F in Lonesome Valley. Right now I’m looking to increase my Lazy F herd, but some lousy two-bit homesteaders are in the way.’

  ‘Sodbuster vermin,’ Cassidy remarked, shrugging.

  Delaney bared his tobacco-stained teeth as he smiled again. ‘I like your attitude, Cassidy. Yes, sir, I sure do. We’d get along fine, real fine.’

  ‘Like I said, I was just passing through,’ Brett told him. He fixed his eyes on Delaney. ‘However, if you’re thinking about making me an offer to stick around, make it a good one.’

  Delaney appraised the gunfighter. ‘I can’t pay what you earned in Hangman’s Bend, but I can pay good regular money . . . with benefits.’

  ‘Keep talking. I’ll listen and consider,’ Brett said.

  ‘Well, consider this, Cassidy,’ Delaney urged. ‘Two hundred dollars a month, your own room paid for at the lodging house and free grub. Then, on top of that, drinks in the Last Chance Saloon are on the house.’

  ‘You’ve just about convinced me.’

  ‘And,’ Garth Delaney said, ‘if you join my outfit, I’m offering a special signing-on present. One of my Last Chance saloon gals is yours for the night. Jessie, who you’re obviously acquainted with, will select one for you.’ Smirking, he lit a cigarillo. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the soiled dove she picks. It’ll probably be Josephine, real young and pretty.’

  ‘Actually, I’m partial to Indian girls,’ Brett hinted casually.

  Delaney frowned before saying dismissively, ‘We don’t have any here.’

  ‘Then I’d settle for Jessie’s choice.’

  Garth Delaney took the cigarillo from his lips and demanded, ‘So do we have a deal, Cassidy?’

  ‘You’ve just hired yourself a new gun,’ Brett Cassidy said slowly.

  Delaney’s smile broadened as he silently congratulated himself he’d just added a worthy addition to his outfit. Having Cassidy’s guns to back up his other men would make him even more feared and powerful. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the future. For his part, Brett wanted to wipe that smile of triumph off Delaney’s smug face but that would have to keep. Right now he needed to play the part of Delaney’s new recruit, which should give him the chance to poke around relatively unhindered. He needed to find those Indian girls. He was certain now they weren’t here in Red Butte. Of course, the word that he was actually working for the homesteaders was bound to get out, sooner rather than later, so he had to work fast.

  ‘Any questions, Cassidy?’

  ‘None I can think of right now.’

  ‘You’ll be working with Buff Malloy,’ Garth Delaney informed him. ‘Buff’s my right hand man, been with me for years. He don’t say much but he’s reliable and you’ll get along fine with him.’ He hesitated before saying, ‘You’ve already met Jorgenson. Now the Kid won’t be real happy I’ve put you on the payroll, but he’ll learn to live with my decision. Besides, in his condition he won’t be itching to tangle with you too soon.’

  ‘I can handle the Kid.’

  ‘Book into the lodging house now. Tell Mrs Tully, the woman I bought it from, that you can have Room Five. That’s the best one, even has a bath that doesn’t leak. Not that you’ll be sleeping over there tonight. You’ll be in a saloon gal’s room and if Jessie picks the redhead, Josephine, you won’t get much sleep. She’s young and by all accounts, very obliging.’

  Brett grinned. ‘I’m going to like working for you.’

  ‘Right now, relax, have a few drinks with Buff,’ Delaney told him. ‘Get to know him, Cassidy. You and him will be saddle-pards.’

  ‘First I’ll stable my horse.’

  ‘My men have free use of the livery stable, right behind the freight line office,’ Delaney told him.

  ‘I’ll leave my roan there now.’

  ‘This afternoon you drink and make merry, tonight you’ll have fun, tomorrow you’ll start earning your keep,’ Delaney predicted as Brett opened the door. He said ominously, ‘I have a very special assignment for you in the morning.’ He dismissed his new recruit with, ‘We’ll talk about it at sun-up. See you then, Cassidy.’

  Brett left Delaney’s office, watched by Buff Malloy who was leaning on the bar counter. He walked through the saloon to his waiting roan.

  Once Brett had left the Last Chance, Delaney emerged from his office and motioned Malloy to join him at their usual table under the balcony.

  ‘He’s one of us now, Buff,’ Delaney informed him.

  ‘Figured you’d sign him on.’

  Delaney said, ‘He could be a real asset.’

  Agreeing, Malloy remarked, ‘Haven’t seen any man clear leather so fast.’

  Delaney said warily, ‘However, we don’t really know him, Buff.’

  ‘Thinking the same thing myself,’ Malloy agreed.

  ‘So keep a real close eye on him.’

  ‘You can rely on me, Mr Delaney,’ Buff Malloy promised fervently.

  ‘I know that, Buff. That’s why you’ve been with me so long.’

  Brett untied and led his horse down Corporal Alley.

  He passed the stone walls of the freight line office and found the gate to the fenced back yard. Shoving open the gate which whined on its rusty hinges, he saw the yard packed with wagons, close to twenty of them. Most were small freight wagons with no canvas and no iron hoops. All of them had Delaney’s name painted on their sides. He glanced at a chuck wagon and several one-horse farm wagons. Leading his horse towards the livery stable, which was on the northern side of the yard, he noticed two big Conestogas. One had ripped canvas. He led his roan between two freight wagons to the livery stable. Inside were seven horses in their stalls. He noticed a big chestnut. After unsaddling his roan, he walked him to a spare stall. Draping his saddle over a stall rail, he returned to the yard.

  There was no one around so Brett threaded his way through the wagons to the far corner where the Conestoga stood with its torn canvas fluttering in the swirling northerly wind. Unlike the other wagons, which were coated with fine dust, this Conestoga was caked with dry black mud. He climbed inside the big wagon and looked around. It smelled of whiskey but appeared to be empty. Then, just as he was about to climb down, the wind whipped up the shreds of dirty canvas that littered the wooden floor.

  That’s when he saw the moccasin.

  He went over, crouched and looked closer.

  The moccasin was brown, the same size as the one he’d seen on the left foot of the Indian girl who’d been brutally murdere
d and buried in that shallow grave. This moccasin would have fitted her right foot perfectly. It had to have been hers.

  There was no doubt in Brett’s mind that this was the Conestoga used to transport those captive Cheyenne maidens and its tracks had led right to Red Butte.

  But where were the Indian girls now?

  Delaney had said flatly he didn’t have any here. He hadn’t heard any saloon talk about them, not even a mention. Besides this, Tabitha O’Toole was emphatic they weren’t in town. He told himself you could hardly hide a bunch of Cheyenne maidens in Red Butte. Yet they had to be somewhere. Delaney had boasted about his profitable enterprises in Gorman’s Flat, Panhandle and Wildcat Camp.

  They could be in any of those towns or in none of them.

  Maybe he’d have to ride to all three, but time was running out.

  Dusk was fast closing in over Red Butte as he climbed down from the wagon and headed back to the alley. He would act like an exemplary new member of Delaney’s outfit. Accordingly, he checked into Red Butte’s lodging house. Delaney had bought out Mrs Tully but he’d put her on his payroll. She was a bright-eyed, grey-haired widow well into her fifties. Her businessman husband had been a part time gambler; sometimes he’d won, sometimes he’d lost. One day he’d won this lodging house in a high stakes poker game. That was a year before he died of a frontier fever. The lodging house had been their pride and joy and she’d inherited it. She’d have still owned it now, except Delaney had put pressure on her to sell. Mrs Tully showed her new guest to Room Five. It contained a single wooden bed with pillow and blanket, table, chair and the bath Delaney had mentioned. There was a square of torn yellow carpet on the floor.

  She regarded him dubiously. ‘So you’re working for Mr Delaney?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Her eyes gravitated to his twin guns. ‘Means you get special treatment.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘I’m not really complaining about Mr Delaney,’ the widow thought it best to say, as she gave his table a last dust with an old rag, ‘he’s been reasonable to me since I gave in and accepted his price for the lodging house.’ However, Brett caught more than a hint of resentment and bitterness in her voice as she continued, ‘Less than a quarter the price it was worth, mind you, but what Mr Delaney wants, Mr Delaney gets. That’s the way it is in Red Butte.’ She relented, ‘However, he gave me a job and let me live in one of the rooms.’ Her eyes stayed on those holstered guns. ‘But I just wish the killing would stop.’

  ‘Thanks for showing me my room, ma’am,’ Brett said, accepting the key.

  He waited at the window while she returned to her desk in the foyer.

  From where he stood, he could see the full length of First Street. Kid Jorgenson had just left the doctor’s rooms. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged and his arm in a sling. Flanked by the two Lazy F cowpokes who’d escorted him to the surgery, he was grumbling and stumbling back along the boardwalk on the other side of the street.

  After building and smoking a cigarette, Brett left his room, crossed the street and followed Jorgenson into the Last Chance Saloon. He parted the batwings and saw Buff Malloy at the bar holding up his empty glass for a refill. Jessie glanced up from her piano playing and he caught her seductive smile. Meanwhile, Jorgenson was about to throw a tantrum, demanding to be dealt into a poker game. His face was screwed up in pain and Brett noticed bloodstains marring his sling. The Kid should probably be resting up in bed but he was making a statement by being here regardless. Heading past Jessie towards Malloy, Brett ignored the Kid’s dark scowl.

  Buff Malloy picked up his freshly-charged glass.

  ‘Delaney suggested we get acquainted,’ Brett said.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll be working together,’ Buff Malloy agreed in a cautious but conciliatory tone. He turned to the bartender. ‘Beer for Mr Cassidy.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the bartender stammered. ‘Coming up, Mr Cassidy, sir.’

  Buff Malloy wasn’t Brett’s idea of congenial company, but a friendly chat had been Delaney’s edict so he went along with it. They talked and had a beer together. Malloy told him he used to work on a southern plantation keeping slaves in order but with the Abolition of Slavery, his job ended. He played poker all along the Mississippi and casually confessed what Brett already knew – he’d killed a tinhorn. Consequently, he’d ridden west and was hired by Garth Delaney. During his second beer, he extolled the virtues of working for Delaney and Brett made no argument.

  ‘I’ll call the Kid,’ Malloy said.

  Jorgenson first ignored, but then responded to Malloy’s beckoning finger and slouched over to join them. The Kid’s face was dark as a thundercloud but with great reluctance he acknowledged the new recruit.

  Brett asked, ‘No hard feelings, Kid?’

  Jorgenson stared at him with cold, steely-blue eyes that spoke of utter loathing and the desire for revenge. However, with great difficulty, he mouthed, ‘No, none at all.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was sundown over Red Butte and Brett Cassidy was finding it hard to shake Malloy and Jorgenson who seemed on a shared mission to be with him every minute. He played along with them, suffered their profane, boring company, but he needed to be free of them and search for the captive Cheyenne girls. After tonight there was but one night left before the full moon, when according to Yellow Wolf, the Cheyenne war drums would start throbbing their messages of death. He had to get those Indian maidens safely home – but first he had to find them.

  The three men were served buffalo steaks by one of Delaney’s saloon girls, the redheaded Josephine. According to Delaney, she was bound to be the one Jessie would choose for his ‘signing-on’ present. She was young, not even out of her teens, with an ample bosom and full sensuously-pouting lips, well sought after by the woman-hungry cowpokes who frequented the Last Chance Saloon.

  Brett wasn’t even remotely interested, but going to her room would get him away from these two leeches. An hour drifted by and Brett’s patience was finally rewarded. Malloy and Jorgenson settled down for a game of poker with the two Lazy F cowhands who’d already had too much to drink and were exchanging sharp words with each other. One blonde-haired saloon girl slipped on to Malloy’s lap and Jorgenson even invited Brett Cassidy to join them.

  He didn’t need to make a decision because Jessie stopped playing the piano and swayed up to him.

  ‘Come with me, Brett,’ she invited.

  Unsteady on her feet, she walked ahead of him to Room Two, right next to Delaney’s office.

  Buff Malloy looked up from his cards. He was jealous. He’d been with Delaney for years, but he’d never been invited to Jessie’s room. Neither had Kid Jorgenson. They both hoped the new recruit wasn’t going to get favoured treatment all the time. Muttering, they looked back at their poker hand while Jessie ushered Brett inside and closed the door.

  Jessie lit an ornamental wall lamp and its mellow glow spread over her luxuriously-furnished room. He was standing on deep-piled wall-to-wall Persian carpet. The double bed boasted red satin sheets and matching pillows. He saw a narrow wood-grained wardrobe and a large glass-fronted cabinet displaying bottles of wine and glasses.

  She sat on the bed and beckoned him. He could smell her heady French perfume and breath laden with alcohol. She was very seductive, yet tonight he was repulsed by her.

  ‘Garth told me to pick a woman for you,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I picked myself,’ she said, giggling.

  He asked, ‘Aren’t you Delaney’s personal possession?’

  ‘You know me, Brett,’ she said, pouting. ‘I belong to no man.’ She patted the bed impatiently. ‘Tonight though, I’m all yours, courtesy of Garth Delaney.’

  ‘We have plenty of time,’ he said.

  ‘All night,’ she confirmed.

  He glanced at the window, which was draped with long white lace. With Malloy and Jorgenson set for a long night playing poker just outside the door, he�
��d need to slip out through that window.

  ‘First though,’ Brett said, taking off his Stetson, ‘we’ll have a drink or two.’

  ‘Or three,’ Jessie chuckled.

  Brett opened the wine cabinet’s glass door.

  Remembering Lincoln City and her weakness for imported champagne, he selected a bottle and poured her a full glass.

  ‘So pleased you’re working for Garth,’ Jessie said, gulping down her champagne.

  He noted her hand was shaking. She’d already had far too much alcohol, which had always been her style. Rather than sipping delicately, she drank too quickly. Not that he minded right now.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’ll be doing, but it’s regular pay.’

  ‘Mr Garth Delaney’s a – very big important man – around here,’ she said. Her voice was becoming slurred. ‘You’ll be protecting – his many business – interests.’

  ‘So Delaney said. Tell me about them.’

  ‘Let’s just – have – a good time,’ Jessie pouted, one hand holding her trembling glass, the other reaching behind to try and unhook the back of her saloon frock.

  ‘No need to rush, we have all night.’ He topped up her glass. ‘Do you think I’ll be working in Gorman’s Flat?’

  Jessie struggled with the hook. ‘No, Brett, darling. That’s just a quiet – peaceful cattle town. Less than – fifty souls. Not even a saloon or a card house. Garth owns the sheriff and – and the general store there.’ She swore, ‘Damn it! Help me get out of this – flamin’ outfit.’

  ‘Just let me finish my drink.’

  Jessie’s head was swimming. ‘Well hurry . . . you’ve hardly had a drop.’

  ‘What about Panhandle?’ he asked.

  ‘Could be where he’ll – send you,’ Jessie said, not winning her battle with the hook. Finally, she wrenched hard and the hook parted with the fabric. ‘Mining town west of here – Garth has a big store there – been some trouble with two brothers – who had the damn nerve – to open a rival store.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Nothing much, darling. You won’t have – any fun there. You’ll just be takin’ care of those – two brothers, uh, Wayne and Hyman Oakley – both Mormons.’