“That’s my plan,” he said. He ventured a smile. “I don’t think I’m exactly cut out for the same sort of work that you do.”
Donnigan threw his head back and guffawed. “No, I reckon not,” he said. “No offense. I never had much truck with readin’ myself, newspapers or books or anything else, but if that’s what you’re suited for, that’s what you ought to do. I reckon a whole heap of the world’s unhappiness comes from fellas forcin’ themselves to do things they really don’t want to do, just ’cause they think for some reason that they ought to.”
“That’s very profound, Mr. Donnigan. Do you mind if I quote you?”
“Don’t quite know what that means, but sure, go ahead.”
Armbruster drank more beer, then got on with the task that had brought him into the settlement tonight: finding out what Jaime Mendoza wanted to know.
“Why in the world is the town so crowded? Is it always like this, simply because of the mines?”
Donnigan laughed again and said, “Silverhill’s a boomtown, all right, but what’s goin’ on right now is something special. It’s the brides!”
“The brides?” Armbruster frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The mail-order brides. Five of ’em Dyson brought in, and all beautiful enough to take a man’s breath away and make him feel like he’s been punched in the gut.”
Five beautiful women, Armbruster thought. Donnigan had to be talking about the women from the wagon, the ones who had been accompanied by those two old men who’d put up a far better fight than Mendoza had ever expected.
Armbruster, like Mendoza and the other members of the gang, had assumed those women were prostitutes. Now, according to what Donnigan was saying, it seemed that they were something else.
“Two blondes, two with very dark hair, and one with lighter brown hair?” Armbruster asked as he tried to recall what the women had looked like, based on the glimpses he had gotten of them through Mendoza’s field glasses.
“Yeah, that’s right. You’ve seen ’em, huh? Ain’t they just about the prettiest fillies you ever laid eyes on?”
Armbruster didn’t answer those questions. Instead, he asked another of his own.
“If they’re mail-order brides, who are the prospective grooms? Who are they going to marry?”
Another laugh boomed out from Donnigan, and once again he slapped Armbruster on the back hard enough to stagger him.
“That’s just it! Nobody knows yet, ’cause it ain’t been decided. There’s gonna be contests to decide who gets hitched with ’em. I signed up for the strongman contest and the bare-knuckles boxin’ tournament.” Donnigan’s massive right fist smacked into the palm of his left hand with a sound like a gunshot. “I figure I’ve got a good chance to win one or both of ’em!”
Armbruster took another drink while he struggled to grasp what Donnigan had just told him. He had never heard of such an arrangement before.
“The ladies, they’ve agreed to this?”
“Well, I reckon it took ’em a mite by surprise when they got here and found out what Dyson’s plannin’, but they’ll go along with it. I mean, they came out here to get married, right? And if they marry up with the fellas who win these contests, they’re bound to get pretty good husbands. It makes sense to me that they’d go along with it.”
Looking at the matter from that perspective, Armbruster supposed his newfound acquaintance was right. Simply by becoming mail-order brides, the women had agreed to marry men they had never met.
Armbruster was enough of a cynic to believe it was usually a mistake to depend on logic where females were concerned, though.
“When is all this going to happen?” he asked.
“The poker tournament starts tomorrow mornin’,” Donnigan said. “And the strongman contest will be held tomorrow afternoon, while the poker games are still goin’ on. The shootin’ contest and the horse race will be the next afternoon, and then the boxin’ tournament that morning and evenin’, as long as it takes to declare a winner.” His rugged face split in a grin. “Which means however long it takes for me to knock out all the other contestants!”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Armbruster said. He had found out almost all he needed to know. He drank the last of the beer in the mug and then asked, “Do you happen to know where the ladies are staying while all this other business is going on?”
“Dyson’s puttin’ ’em up in the Territorial House, across the street. It’s the best hotel in Silverhill, or so they say. I wouldn’t know firsthand, ’cause I’ve never had reason to set foot in the place myself.”
Armbruster nodded. He said, “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Donnigan—”
“Seamus,” the miner said. “Call me Seamus.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, but I have to be going now. Before I do, though . . .” Armbruster slapped his hand on the hardwood and yelled, “Barkeep!”
The man came over again and asked, “Another round?”
“Just for my friend here,” Armbruster said as he slid a coin across the bar. “This one’s on me, Seamus. I always repay any favors done for me.”
“You’re an honorable man, Phil. I hope I run into you again. Come watch the strongman competition tomorrow. If you get a job with the newspaper, you can write about it!”
Armbruster just smiled and nodded. He didn’t know what he would be doing in the future. That was up to Jaime Mendoza. The bandit chief was expecting him back tonight, at the camp up in the hills where Mendoza and the others waited.
First, though, Armbruster had to make another stop in Silverhill.
CHAPTER 27
By the time Bo, Scratch, the five young women, and Forbes Dyson left Harbinson’s Restaurant, Cecilia had agreed to take a wait-and-see attitude toward the activities of the next couple of days as Dyson had outlined them. Since the other ladies seemed to regard her as their natural leader, they were willing to go along with that.
Actually, Rose, Beth, and Luella were more than just willing to go along, Bo thought as he walked with the others back toward the Territorial House. They had been won over completely by Dyson’s smooth talk and the romanticism of the idea. To them, it really was like noble knights jousting over fair ladies . . . although as far as Bo could tell, most of the hombres crowding into Silverhill were about as far from being knights as a man could get.
Jean was more reserved in her support for the idea, and Cecilia was downright skeptical. Bo didn’t know if Dyson could win her over or not, but clearly, the saloon owner intended to try.
One thing he hadn’t sensed was that Dyson had any interest in any of the ladies himself. As far as Bo could tell, Dyson was doing this simply out of a desire to help Silverhill grow, as he claimed.
That didn’t mean Bo had lost all his suspicions of the fellow, though. He still planned to keep a mighty close eye on Dyson, just in case he was up to something more than was apparent.
The crowds in the street had thinned out a little during the evening, but a lot of people were still moving around. Dyson led the way toward the hotel, with the ladies behind him and the two Texans bringing up the rear. Because of that, when a cowboy lurched drunkenly toward the young women, it was Dyson who got in his way.
Dyson put a hand on the cowboy’s chest and said around the cigar clenched between his teeth, “Better back off there, friend. You don’t want to go crowding the young ladies.”
“I don’t intend to crowd nobody, mister,” the cowboy responded. “I just want to get a better look at them gals. I paid good money to enter the shootin’ contest, and I think I got a right to see just what I’m tryin’ to win.” His voice rose angrily. “And you’d best get your hand off’a me. I don’t cotton to bein’ touched like that.”
Jack Bouma appeared as if out of nowhere, making Bo realize that he’d probably been lurking somewhere close by all evening. Dyson gave the cowboy a shove that made him stumble back a couple of steps. Bouma moved in smoothly to get between Dyson and the cowha
nd.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Bouma said in a low, hard voice. “Better move on now, amigo, while you’ve still got the chance.”
The cowboy pointed past Bouma at Dyson and yelled, “He pushed me!”
Bouma began, “You’ll get worse than a push if you don’t—”
The drunken cowboy cursed and clawed at the holstered gun on his hip.
When the confrontation began, Bo had nodded for Scratch to stay where he was and then had moved around the ladies to get a better look at what was happening. He might have taken a hand himself, but then Bouma had shown up.
So Bo was in perfect position to see the speed of Bouma’s draw as the gunman’s hand flickered down and then up again, filled with a revolver. The cowboy’s gun was less than halfway out of leather when flame spurted from the muzzle of Bouma’s weapon and the crash of the shot filled the street.
The cowboy let go of his gun and it fell back into its holster as the slug from Bouma’s gun slammed into his chest. The impact knocked the cowboy back another couple of feet. He gasped, and his eyes opened wide. He brought up a trembling hand and patted clumsily at the blood-welling hole in his chest as he swayed back and forth.
Then his eyes rolled up in their sockets, his knees buckled, and he collapsed.
It had all happened so fast, the ladies were all standing there, staring in shock.
Bouma stepped over to the fallen cowboy, apparently satisfied himself that the staring eyes were indeed lifeless, and took a cartridge from one of the loops on his shell belt to replace the one he had fired.
Dyson turned hastily toward the young women and held up his hands as he said, “Ladies, I’m so sorry you had to witness that. I wish that young fool had listened to reason.”
“He . . . he killed him,” Rose said.
With a solemn shake of his head, Dyson said, “The man gave Jack no choice. It’s accepted practice out here that when a man tries to draw on you, you have a right to defend yourself.” Dyson glanced over at Bo. “Isn’t that right, Creel?”
“Generally speaking,” Bo agreed. “That hombre was drunk, though, and from the looks of it, not that slick on the draw to start with. Why didn’t you just buffalo him, Bouma?”
The gunman’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Don’t try tellin’ me how to handle my affairs, old-timer. It’s none of your business.”
Dyson said, “Take it easy, Jack. No one’s blaming you for this. We both gave that young fool a chance to back off.”
“He was never going to back off,” Bo said. “Not with all the whiskey he had in him and pretty girls around to try to impress.”
“That was still his choice to make,” Bouma drawled with a smirk on his lean face.
“Yeah, I reckon it was,” Bo said grimly.
The shooting had caused a large area to clear suddenly around the group in the street. People began to come forward now, though, as they peered curiously at the dead cowboy.
“Where are the authorities?” Cecilia asked. “Isn’t there any law in this town?”
“We have a marshal,” Dyson said, “but his main duty is locking up drunks who try to cause trouble. It’s a shame he didn’t get this one behind bars before things went as far as they did. A killing like this, where it’s a clear-cut case of self-defense and there are plenty of witnesses . . .” Dyson shrugged. “Well, there’s really no need for any authorities to get involved.”
“And you expect us to marry and settle down in a lawless place like this?” Cecilia said.
“It’s not lawless,” Dyson responded with a faint note of impatience in his voice now. “It’s just a different sort of code from what you ladies are used to.”
Jean said, “Shouldn’t someone at least get that poor young man’s body off the street?”
“Undertaker’s on his way now,” Bouma said, nodding toward a wagon creeping through the crowd toward them. A man in a black suit and top hat sat on the driver’s box, handling the team.
“We should get on to the hotel, ladies,” Dyson said. “My deepest apologies for this tragic delay.”
Cecilia sniffed and the others still looked a bit shaken, but they all followed him toward the Territorial House.
Bo and Scratch trailed behind them.
Scratch glanced over his shoulder and said quietly, “Bouma’s already gone. Slipped back into the shadows like a snake, I reckon.” The silver-haired Texan paused, then added, “He’s fast, Bo. Faster than me and maybe faster than you.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” Bo said.
* * *
Philip Armbruster was trying to persuade the clerk in the hotel to tell him which rooms the young ladies were in—a five-dollar gold piece hadn’t done the trick, but a ten-dollar eagle might—when the gunshot roared out in the street.
Quite a few people were in the hotel lobby. They hurried to the windows to look out and try to see what was going on.
Armbruster was among them, but at first he could see only a crowd surrounding an open space in the middle of the street. Then, through a gap, he caught a glimpse of a man sprawled in the dirt and several people standing near him, including the five young women.
Armbruster’s heart lurched inside his chest. If anything happened to that woman Mendoza had set his sights on, there was no telling what he might do in his rage.
He might even try to burn Silverhill to the ground, but he didn’t have enough men left to pull off such a raid successfully. Chances were, all he’d accomplish would be to get all of them killed.
Thankfully, as far as Armbruster could tell from his vantage point, all five of the ladies appeared to be all right. After a few minutes, the well-dressed man with them ushered them on toward the hotel.
Armbruster stiffened as he spotted the two older men following the ladies. He recognized them from the several times he had seen them before. He had no idea what their names were, but they were the hard-fighting old-timers who had put up such a battle against Jaime Mendoza’s band of thieves.
And they had gotten a good look at him, too, during that parley, Armbruster reminded himself. A little shudder went through him as he recalled how that had ended with bullets flying around his head. He didn’t want them seeing him and probably recognizing him, so as the group reached the hotel porch, he drew back and faded into the crowd, keeping his head down.
A lot of people called excited questions as the group entered with the well-dressed man in the lead. Remembering what Seamus Donnigan had said in the Silver King, Armbruster wondered if this man was Forbes Dyson, owner of the saloon and organizer of the bizarre competition for the hands in marriage of the five young ladies. It seemed likely he was.
Armbruster used his elbow to nudge the man standing next to him and asked quietly, “Is that Forbes Dyson?”
“Who else would it be, squiring around those beauties like that?” the man replied. He hooked his thumbs in his lapels and went on, “Folks are going to be calling him the King of Silverhill before this is all over.”
Perhaps, Armbruster thought. Given the name of Dyson’s saloon, that might be exactly what the man had in mind. But Jaime Mendoza might have something to say about that.
Dyson lifted his hands, which quieted the crowd in the hotel lobby immediately. He said, “Friends, I’m sorry you had to witness that unfortunate display out in the street just now. You all know it’s my fondest wish to see Silverhill growing into a large, thriving, and, above all, peaceful community.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” snapped one of the men in the crowd, “having a gunfighting killer like Jack Bouma working for you.”
A lot of eyes swung to the well-dressed middle-aged man who had spoken, including Dyson’s. Armbruster saw the way Dyson’s smooth-shaven jaw tightened. He caught the flare of anger in the saloon man’s eyes.
But Dyson controlled those reactions quickly and said, “I’m still a businessman, Lester, and Silverhill is still a boomtown. I have to have someone protecting my interests. You
hire men to guard your mine, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” the man replied. “But it’s different—”
“I don’t think so. Jack was just looking out for me, keeping me and these ladies from being hurt. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to our lovely visitors, would you?”
“No, of course not,” the man called Lester blustered. “But still, a young cowboy being shot down in the street like that—”
“Will more than likely prevent any other young cowboys—or any of your miners—from getting too liquored up and causing trouble tonight. Sometimes the harsh lessons are the most effective.”
Lester looked like he wanted to continue the argument, but several of the other men spoke up, saying things like, “That’s right, Mr. Dyson,” and “It’s not your fault, Forbes.”
Lester scowled, shook his head, and turned away to push through the crowd and out of the hotel. Dyson steered the ladies toward the staircase again.
The two rugged old-timers followed.
Armbruster managed to stay on the fringes of the crowd, inconspicuous, until they had all gone upstairs. A part of him wanted to follow them and see which rooms they went into, but he couldn’t risk being spotted, and besides, he told himself, it didn’t really matter. The Territorial House was one of the biggest buildings in Silverhill, but not so big that five women couldn’t be found in it, when the time came.
He slipped out of the hotel and headed for the hitch rail where he had left his horse when he rode into town earlier this evening. Mendoza was probably growing impatient by now, and Armbruster wanted to pass along everything he had found out.
Mendoza would have to go about making his plans differently now. He had lost enough men that he couldn’t just come barging into a place and take what he wanted anymore. That diminished force was why he hadn’t ambushed the travelers while they were still out on the trail, before they ever reached Silverhill. It had been just too risky.
But over the past few days, Armbruster had seen how obsessed Mendoza was with that young, dark-haired beauty, and there was plenty of loot in Silverhill for the other men in the gang to get their hands on, as well, in all the confusion of this so-called bride competition.
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