Out in the hallway, O’Keefe heard that and thought that the gunman sounded more like someone who was partners with Dyson, not necessarily an employee.
That might well be the case. Whatever they were up to, they could have gone into the scheme together, with Dyson providing the money and an air of respectability while Bouma furnished the necessary gun skills and the men to carry out some violent chore.
O’Keefe was pondering that when he heard a footstep near the door. He drew back, turned, and moved swiftly and soundlessly along the hall. He turned again when the doorknob rattled, so that when Jack Bouma stepped out into the hallway, O’Keefe was sauntering toward the office with a smile on his face.
Bouma stopped short and frowned.
“You want something, O’Keefe?”
“I thought I’d see if Mr. Dyson could change some large bills for me,” O’Keefe replied easily. As it always did in situations such as this, his brain worked quickly.
Dyson appeared in the doorway behind Bouma in time to hear what O’Keefe said. He asked, “How much did you have in mind, O’Keefe?”
“A couple of hundred,” the gambler replied, shrugging.
Dyson nodded and waved him on. “Come on in. Jack, I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” Bouma said. He cast a narrow glance from the corners of his eyes at O’Keefe as the two men passed in the hallway. The gambler saw the look but appeared to take no notice of it.
He already knew that Bouma didn’t like him. But Bouma didn’t like much of anybody, so O’Keefe didn’t take it personally.
Once he was in the office, O’Keefe took his wallet from an inside coat pocket and extracted two hundred-dollar bills from it. He dropped them on Dyson’s desk while the saloon owner unlocked a cashbox and took out ten double eagles.
“Usually people want to trade in the coins for currency,” Dyson commented, “not the other way around. It’s easier to carry that way.”
“I have always liked the heft of a handful of double eagles better than a piece of folding money,” O’Keefe said. “Reckon I’m old-fashioned.”
“How’s the game going downstairs?” Dyson took a cigar from his vest pocket and put it in his mouth. He didn’t offer one to his visitor. “Are you out already?”
“No. My table is just taking a break,” O’Keefe replied with a shake of his head.
“I have to say, Kenton, I’m a little surprised you signed up to play in this tournament. I realize we don’t know each other all that well, but I wouldn’t have figured you for a man who wants to win a wife.”
“Never claimed that I do.” The answer was framed in the gambler’s soft Virginia drawl.
Dyson regarded him with renewed interest for a moment, then chuckled. “You plan to drop out and take your winnings before the tournament’s actually over, is that it?”
“That’s allowed, isn’t it? Or does a man have to go broke to get out of this game?” O’Keefe’s tone hardened slightly. “If those are the rules, they should have been made clear beforehand.”
“No, no,” Dyson said quickly, waving the hand that had just taken the cigar out of his mouth. “There’s nothing stopping you from leaving whenever it suits you. Most of the other players won’t care. That’ll just be one less man they have to beat in order to claim the hand of one of the young ladies.”
Weighing in his hand the coins Dyson had given him, O’Keefe asked, “Do you really expect those women to go along with your plans?”
“They’ve agreed to at least consider it. And let’s face it . . . if they do back out in the end, that will hardly be my fault, will it? And by that time, a lot of money will have poured into Silverhill already. The town will be on more solid footing. The mines are operating at full blast right now. The biggest shipment so far will be rolling out on some of George McCallum’s wagons in a day or two. But that may not last. What will Silverhill do then? The town will stand a much better chance of surviving if it has something else going for it.”
“You sound like a civic booster from back East, Forbes. You plan on turning Silverhill into the mail-order bride capital of New Mexico Territory?”
Dyson laughed heartily and shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. But if there’s a healthy profit in it, who knows?”
O’Keefe thanked Dyson for changing the bills, then left the office. Trading the greenbacks for double eagles had been mostly a ruse, an excuse for him to be found in the corridor when Bouma stepped out of the office, but the brief conversation with Dyson—as well as the one he had overheard between Dyson and Bouma—had made the gambler more convinced than ever that Dyson had some sort of plan to enjoy a big payday while all this hoopla over the mail-order brides was going on.
And if that actually was the case, there was no reason in the world why Kenton O’Keefe shouldn’t cut himself in on it.
CHAPTER 31
Bo and Scratch stood on the porch in front of the Territorial House. Next to them were the five young women. Rose, Beth, and Luella all pressed up against the railing and rested their hands on it as they looked out with eager anticipation at what was going on in the street. Cecilia and Jean were a bit more subdued but still definitely interested.
Five wagons had been lined up side by side, and then the teams that pulled them into position had been unhitched and led away.
Today, instead of horses, men would pull these wagons.
The five contestants had sturdy ropes wrapped around their chests and attached to the wagons. The singletrees had been lifted and tied so they would be out of the way.
The contestants shook their arms and rolled their shoulders to make sure their muscles were loose. They kicked and scuffed at the dirt, looking for just the right spots to plant their feet when the signal came to start pulling.
Fifty feet ahead of them, a line had been drawn in the dirt and marked by a flag on a stick at each end. Each man had to pull his wagon that far by the sheer strength of his body in order to qualify for the next round of the competition. People crowded into the street beyond that finish line, as well as along the boardwalks, to cheer on the contestants.
Scratch pointed toward the burly redheaded man at the far end of the line and said, “That fella right there looks to me like the favorite. You can tell by his clothes he’s a miner. Probably spent thousands of hours swingin’ a pick or usin’ a sledgehammer to bust rock.”
“That builds up a man’s arms and shoulders,” Bo said, “but it’s leg strength that’s going to win this competition. Look at that hombre in the middle.”
“His legs are the shortest in the bunch.”
“Yeah, but they’re as big around as a tree.” Bo nodded. “That’s the one my money would be on, if I were a betting man.”
“But you ain’t, except for a card game now and then.”
Bo shrugged. “He’s still the one I think will win.”
“We’ll just see,” Scratch said confidently.
Cecilia looked over at them and said, “You almost sound like you’re comparing the qualities of livestock.”
“Well, a human bein’ is an animal, too, Miss Cecilia.”
“Yes, I’m all too aware of that,” she said.
Bo nudged Scratch and said, “Here comes Dyson. I reckon he’s going to get things started.”
Wearing his expensive black hat to shield his face against the glare of the afternoon sun, Forbes Dyson strode to the middle of the street in front of the gathered contestants and raised his hands for quiet. Gradually, the crowd settled down and became attentive.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dyson began, “especially five young ladies in particular, the reason we’re here today . . .”
He stopped long enough to take off his hat and sweep it in front of him as he bowed to the young women on the hotel porch. Then he straightened, put the hat back on, and continued with his spiel.
“We’re gathered here today to witness not only a competition but also a demonstration of strength unlike any that has ever been seen before in S
ilverhill. These men”—he flung out a hand toward the contestants—“these gallant sons of Hercules, will move those wagons, normally pulled by teams of horses or mules or oxen, by the sheer power of their own bodies. Here are the men who will attempt this prodigious feat!”
Dyson pointed at the burly redheaded miner.
“Seamus Donnigan!”
Donnigan waved as cheers and whistles came from the crowd. He clasped both hands together and shook them over his head like a prizefighter.
“Albert Powell! Big Dog McCreary! Fred Winchell! Joe Hammond!”
With each name that Dyson called out, one of the men grinned and waved to acknowledge the crowd’s acclaim. The short, thick-legged man Bo had pointed out as his pick to win was Big Dog McCreary. His ruddy face, which had a distinct bulldog-like cast to it, had to be the reason for the nickname.
McCreary turned, grinned at the five young women lined up along the porch railing, and waved a ham-like hand at them. Rose and Beth laughed and returned the wave.
Once all the applause and cheering had died down again, Dyson called, “Gentlemen, take your places! Are you ready?”
He paused until he received eager nods from all five men.
“Then the contest begins now!”
Another wave of thunderous cheering rolled along the street as the competitors leaned forward and surged against the ropes that bound them to the wagons.
For a moment, as the men strained, it appeared that the wagons weren’t going to move. Then, with a creaking of wheels and axles, the heavy vehicles lurched forward a few inches. The contestants threw their strength into the effort again.
The wagons began to roll. They didn’t travel fast, but they moved steadily. As the competitors grunted and strained, the wagons slowly built up speed. Powerful legs churned against the dirt of the street as the men fought to keep the vehicles moving.
Big Dog McCreary reached the finish line first, as Bo expected he might, but this wasn’t a contest of speed. Seamus Donnigan was close behind McCreary; then one by one the other men crossed the line, as well.
As the last man reached the goal, Forbes Dyson waved his arms to signal that this round was over.
“All right, everyone is moving on,” Dyson announced. “The competitors will rest while we prepare the wagons for the next round.”
The men shrugged out of the rope harnesses. A couple of them leaned over and placed their hands against their thighs to steady themselves as they dragged in great lungfuls of air.
A dozen burly men hurried out to turn the wagons around, and then they carried sandbags, stumbling a little under the weight, and placed them in the backs of the vehicles. When four sandbags had been loaded into each wagon, Dyson called the competitors out into the street again.
“They can’t possibly move those wagons with that extra weight in them,” Luella said. “They were barely able to budge them the first time.”
“I bet they can. Some of them, anyway,” Rose said. “You wait and see.”
Bo was curious about what was going to happen, but as the contestants got ready to begin the second round, he also looked around the crowd, searching for any signs of potential trouble.
He was especially on the lookout for Hugh Craddock, and after a few minutes, Bo spotted the rancher. Craddock was on the opposite boardwalk with his men, but he didn’t give any indication that he was planning to disrupt the contest.
Instead, he just stared across at Cecilia with an intent expression on his face. She must have noticed the same thing, because when she suddenly cleared her throat, Bo glanced over at her and saw that her features had taken on a pink hue.
She was blushing.
“I wish that man would stop staring at me that way,” she murmured.
“Want me to go talk to him?” Bo asked quietly.
Cecilia shook her head. “As long as he’s not doing anything else, I suppose he has a right to look,” she said. “After all, there’s no harm in that, is there?”
* * *
The crowd jostled the mild-mannered Mexican peasant back and forth. Philip Armbruster felt himself getting more annoyed every time someone casually jolted his shoulder and made no apology, and in fact didn’t seem even to notice what they had done.
He didn’t allow himself to display that irritation, though. He didn’t know exactly what Jaime Mendoza was planning to do, but the bandit chief had made it clear that Armbruster shouldn’t allow his masquerade to be discovered. Mendoza didn’t want it known that he or any of his men were in town until it was time for them to make their move . . . whatever that was going to be.
In the meantime, Armbruster watched the strongman competition with interest. The big miner he had talked to in the Silver King the previous night, Seamus Donnigan, was one of the contestants, and he seemed to be doing well. He had finished second in the first round, not that the order of finish really meant anything, according to what Armbruster had overheard in the crowd. The weight of the wagons would continue to be increased until only one man could pull his vehicle over the finish line. That man would be the winner and would be allowed to sit down with the ladies and try to convince one of them to marry him.
Because of his friendly conversation with Donnigan, Armbruster supposed he might as well root for the miner to emerge triumphant in the competition.
The second round got under way, and as the crowd cheered them on, the contestants struggled mightily to pull the loaded wagons. Donnigan and the man called Big Dog McCreary got their wagons moving at the same time. The other three men took longer, but eventually, their wagons rolled slowly toward the finish line, too.
Before they got there, one man suddenly stopped, dropped to his knees, and shook his head. His face was so red, it appeared that he might pop at any moment. He fell forward and caught himself on his hands, then stayed there on all fours as he tried to recover.
Jeers from the crowd poured down on the man, which was hardly fair, thought Armbruster. It wasn’t like any of those people could have done any better.
The other two contestants continued on and dragged their wagons across the finish line before collapsing, as well. Donnigan and McCreary leaned against their wagons, breathing hard as big drops of sweat rolled down their faces.
“What an incredible effort!” Forbes Dyson proclaimed as he came forward into the street and raised his voice. “Give all the competitors a big hand, ladies and gentlemen!”
Armbruster didn’t applaud. He thought it would look odd for a peon like he was supposed to be to do such a thing. Instead, he stood there and kept his head tilted forward a little so the sombrero’s brim obscured his face to a certain extent.
Someone bumped into him again, and as he tightened his jaw against the angry retort he wanted to make, the person leaned close to his ear and said, “Be ready, amigo. Soon you will witness daring that will thrill your readers when you write about it.”
Armbruster glanced over and saw Jaime Mendoza standing there. He asked in a half whisper, “What are you going to do?”
“When the final round takes place and all eyes are on the street, a distraction will take place. And then I will swoop in, claim my beloved, and leave this place behind us. As I said, be ready, or you will be left behind. There will be no time to waste. Where is your mule?”
Armbruster leaned his head toward the mouth of a nearby alley. “Tied up back there. I can get to him quickly. But how is a mule going to keep up with your horses?”
“Some mules are fast. Do your best, amigo. But if today marks our parting, remember your new friends fondly, eh? And write our story well.”
“Of course,” Armbruster said with a nod.
Unknown to Mendoza, the bandit had just given him a way out of the dilemma in which he found himself, Armbruster thought. When Mendoza and the others fled from Silverhill, he simply wouldn’t go with them. Mendoza would believe that he hadn’t been able to get away.
It meant giving up the opportunity to experience more of the bandido life, but Armbr
uster believed he already had plenty of material for his stories—and the book he would make from them.
“Good luck,” he added to Mendoza.
“Luck?” Mendoza repeated. “I need no luck! I am—”
He stopped short, evidently realizing it wouldn’t be a good idea to proclaim himself a notorious bandit in the middle of this crowd. With a cocky grin, Mendoza moved on instead, vanishing quickly into the press of people watching as the next round of the competition got under way.
* * *
More sandbags were loaded into the wagons. The straining was monumental this time as the contestants fought to move them.
Big Dog McCreary got his wagon rolling first, followed a moment later by Seamus Donnigan. A third competitor followed Donnigan toward the finish line, but the fourth man finally slumped back against his vehicle and waved his hands weakly to signify that he was giving up before even getting started in this round.
Over on the hotel porch, Scratch grinned and said, “Looks like it’s gonna come down to those two fellas we picked to root for, Bo.”
“I’m not actually rooting for any of them,” Bo said. “I just pointed out the one I thought stood the best chance of winning.”
Rose turned her head toward the Texans and said, “Well, I’m rooting for that big redheaded man. He’s more handsome than the other two.”
“I’m not much of a judge of that, I reckon,” Bo said.
“Well, you won’t wind up having to marry one of them.”
Cecilia said sharply, “None of us have to marry any of the men who win the competitions. We don’t have to get married at all.”
“Speak for yourself,” Beth said. “I came to Silverhill to get a husband!”
Cecilia might have argued, but at that moment the third man gave up short of the finish line, too, just as Seamus Donnigan crossed it. Big Dog McCreary was already past the line.
“Now it’s down to just the two of ’em, like I thought it was gonna be,” Scratch said. “Looks like we got the final round comin’ up!”
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