The Measure of a Lady

by Deeanne Gist

  ‘‘Six ounces on the ace,’’ he cried.

  She quickly looked around to see if the boy had any relatives or friends in the crowd, but it appeared that no one even knew the lad.

  Play began and the ace must have won, because the men closest to the boy banged him on the shoulder and offered congratulatory words.

  The boy pocketed his original bag but placed his winnings on yet another card. ‘‘Bar the port.’’

  She had no idea what that meant, but cards were brushed aside and others took their place. Over and over the boy won until grown men were placing their bets according to what the boy did.

  Having worked his way through one entire deck of cards, the dealer chose another pack, shuffled, cut, and made a layout. The jack and queen graced the tablecloth, and for the first time she saw the boy hesitate, as if he could not quite decide which was the most worthy.

  ‘‘Twenty-five ounces on the queen,’’ he said, gathering the whole of his winnings and placing them on her royal majesty. Few others bet, but it was of no consequence, for the little urchin won yet again, turning his twenty-five ounces into fifty.

  Then fifty became a hundred. A hundred became two hundred, and the table in front of the lad was completely covered with gold.

  ‘‘I’ll break that bank or it’ll break me,’’ he cried. ‘‘How much you have?’’

  ‘‘Bank’s at two hundred fifty ounces,’’ the dealer replied.

  ‘‘I tap the bank upon the tray.’’

  The crowd stilled and Rachel could not help but recall this very scenario occurring that first day in Johnnie’s hotel, except this was worse. Much worse. Johnnie had fleeced an adolescent. This boy could not have seen more than six summers.

  She still had no inkling as to how the game worked, but without hurry the dealer turned the cards over one by one until he stopped, hesitated, then calmly leaned over and scooped all the gold onto his own side of the table.

  Dizzy and sick, she looked to the boy, taking comfort in the fact that his original buckskin bag rested safely intact about his waist.

  With a stiff lip and an air of defiance, the boy plopped that selfsame bag back up on the table.

  And lost it in the very next round of play.

  She barely suppressed a groan. O Lord. What will he do? Does he have anything to eat?

  Whistling ‘‘Oh Californy,’’ the child turned his back and strutted out as proud as any dandy that ever lived. The men parted way for him, and she slipped silently behind him.

  Before she could lose him amidst the crowd, she caught up to him in the street. ‘‘Oh, son, whatever were you thinking? Where are your parents?’’

  He scrutinized her without ever ceasing to whistle.

  Taking his arm, she led him into an alley between two tents. ‘‘You must tell me how much you lost. Do you have any money on which to come and go?’’

  Still he did not answer. Just sized her up and whistled.

  She quickly untied the purse at her belt. ‘‘How much do you need?’’

  The whistling immediately ceased. He chanced a quick glance into the street. ‘‘I believe you’re a good egg,’’ he said. ‘‘So mum’s the word?’’

  She found herself nodding.

  ‘‘You want to know how much was in that bag?’’ A delightful grin spread across his face. ‘‘Wall, I’ll tell you. Just four pounds of duck– shot mixed and nothing more.’’

  He slapped both hands against his thighs as laughter overtook him. ‘‘What a swar’rin’ and a cussin’ they’ll be doin’ when they open it up.’’

  She could not decide if she was relieved or angry or just plain saddened. But she definitely was not amused. At all.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  But maybe he could help her. ‘‘Do you know of a Mr. Merle Sumner? I believe he’s a professional gambler.’’

  All mirth fell from his expression like a curtain dropping after the final call. ‘‘What bus’ness ya have with ’im?’’

  ‘‘I, uh, I owe him something and I’d like to pay him.’’

  The boy’s smile held no humor. ‘‘Wall, ya needn’t worry, then. He’ll find you. Them blacklegs always collect. The cause of all our troubles, they is. Murderin’, thievin’ rascals, ev’ry last one of ’em.’’

  She sucked in a breath. ‘‘Are you speaking of Mr. Sumner in particular? Do you know him?’’

  ‘‘Know who he is. Wears them green-checkered pants like one of them rangers wears a badge.’’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘‘He threatenin’ you, miss?’’

  She raised a brow and leaned in closer. ‘‘Now, I’m going to tell you something. . . .Mum’s the word?’’

  He nodded.

  ‘‘I’m going to threaten him.’’

  The boys eyes widened. ‘‘Ya need any help? Ya know, somebody to watch yer back while ya do yer deed?’’

  Land sakes. She couldn’t decide whether to feel warmed or horrified by his offer.

  She shook her head. ‘‘Best not. This is my fight, not yours. Now, do you know where he lives?’’

  ‘‘Shore. Just built hisself a metal house up on Telegraph Hill.’’

  She listened carefully to the directions, committing them to memory, before giving him a bit of dust for his help. It wasn’t until she was well on her way that she realized he’d called her ‘‘miss.’’

  Pulling her hat low, she tried to swagger while simultaneously keeping her pantaloon-covered hips from giving her away.

  chapter 13

  Johnnie watched Michael collect their winnings and pay out their losses from the Chinese box at his side. The boy had a way with figures and was easily one of the best croupiers he’d ever had.

  The fellas were getting restless, though. He caught Soda’s attention and the barkeep hastened over.

  ‘‘What will you gentlemen take to drink?’’ Johnnie asked.

  The men called out their preferences to Soda, who promptly filled the order and returned, remembering exactly what each of the twenty or so men had requested. A break in the play ensued while each lushed it up.

  He turned at the grazing of his elbow. ‘‘Well, there, Cotton. How’s the evening treating you?’’ He shook hands with Marty Shine’s boy, whose curly hair was so blond it looked almost white.

  ‘‘I done struck hardpan and pay dirt over in the Dorado, then lost it all on the tray.’’

  ‘‘Did you now? Well, that’s a shame. A shame, indeed. What brings you here? You know I won’t let you play.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’ The boy looked about the group of men, but no one paid the two of them any heed. He leaned close. ‘‘It’s about yer spare rib. I think she might be in a fix.’’

  He tensed, knowing immediately the boy was speaking of Rachel and not wasting any time pretending she wasn’t his woman. Cotton wouldn’t believe him.

  ‘‘What’s happened?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Fer as I can tell, nothin’ yet. The trouble is, I give her my word. So what’s a fella to do when you give a bonnet yer word but you have a pardner who you’ve swarn to stick to through thick and thin, heat and cold, thaw and freeze?’’

  He gave the boy his full attention. ‘‘You swear your partner to secrecy.’’

  Cotton pinned him with his gaze. ‘‘Mum’s the word?’’

  ‘‘Mum’s the word.’’

  ‘‘She’s all git up like a feller and askin’ where to find the Weasel.’’

  It took every bit of control he had not to react in front of the men. Any sudden movement and the boys became skittish real fast. Too many guns and drunks to risk that kind of foolishness.

  ‘‘Where is she?’’

  ‘‘Last I saw her, she was headed toward the Hill.’’

  He swore. ‘‘How long ago was that?’’

  ‘‘Maybe an hour.’’

  ‘‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’’

  ‘‘Been playin’ follow my leader.’’

  He frowned. ‘‘Don’t tell me you have
a gun now?’’

  The boy puffed out his chest. ‘‘Got me a Colt.’’

  Pushing his chair back, he motioned to Carmelita. ‘‘Boys, I’m going to give you into the hands of the lovely Carmelita. Be respectful now, or you’ll find yourselves on the wrong side of my door.’’

  He put a hand on Cotton’s shoulder and guided the boy to the bar. ‘‘You have something my partner can do to earn some poke, Soda?’’

  ‘‘Shore ’nough I do.’’

  ‘‘Well, he’s packing now, so don’t make him mad.’’

  Soda lifted his brows. ‘‘Wall, I don’t have no work o’ no kind for fellas who pack a pistol.’’

  Cotton immediately pulled his gun from his belt and handed it to Soda. ‘‘You put it where you likes, Soder. Jis’ tell me what to do.’’

  With controlled haste, Johnnie left through the back entrance and checked his own revolver before heading to the livery for J.B.

  ————

  The hustle and bustle of town fell behind Rachel as she hiked up Kearny to Telegraph Hill. Outlined at the top was the telegraph station Misters Sweeny and Baugh had built. From the observation deck on its roof, she had heard the two men would constantly scan the Golden Gate for incoming ships, then announce impending arrivals by semaphore.

  The Hill wasn’t as close to the Plaza as it appeared. And the degree of the slope was steeper than she’d expected, as well. Winded, she stopped a moment and held the stitch in her side.

  The treeless settlement below looked almost pretty from this vantage point, with its luminary tents clustered about the bay. And so big. She’d had no idea it now spread out so far. She marveled at the number of wooden buildings. When had those been erected?

  Taking a deep breath, she pressed forward. If the directions the boy had given her were correct, the house should be just around the next curve.

  None of the light that filled the streets and Plaza reached this far out, and the quiet darkness both soothed and unnerved at the same time. Ocean waves thrumming against the shore offered a false sense of serenity, while the brisk breeze whipped about her, bringing with it whiffs of salt and fish. Or maybe it was herself she smelled.

  In the distance a faint outline of a box house began to take shape, and within moments she stood in its yard. She wished she could see it better. Light glowed through the curtainless window, making it easy to see the barren parlor within. No furniture, no rug, no Lissa.

  Was the seducer home or had he left her sister alone while he pursued the pleasures town had to offer? If Lissa was alone, perhaps she could be talked into returning home.

  Yet nothing would ever be the same. There were only two kinds of women. The chaste kind and the other kind. No, Lissa had no choice in the matter. She must enter into holy wedlock with this despoiler.

  But what if he beat her? Rachel narrowed her eyes. If he so much as harmed a hair on Lissa’s head, Rachel would personally wait until he entered the Plaza, then chase after him, screaming, ‘‘Hang him!’’

  What if he refused to marry? Rachel carefully removed the revolver from her waistband. She would persuade him otherwise.

  What if they were . . . busy? O Lord. Please don’t let them be busy.

  Stepping to the door, she struck it with the butt of her pistol, then lowered her voice an octave. ‘‘Open up.’’

  She heard some shuffling, then silence. She pounded on the door again. Almost immediately it swung open.

  She leveled her gun at the man before her.

  He slowly raised his hands up and out, ballooning the sides of his shirt.

  She kept her voice low and gruff. ‘‘Get your woman. We’re going to the preacher.’’

  ‘‘Lissa?’’ he called over his shoulder.

  She heard a scrambling, then her sister’s voice. ‘‘Who is it?’’

  ‘‘Just come here a minute, love. Would you?’’

  Rachel could not quite decipher the look in his eyes. But she knew he took her seriously. Very seriously.

  The door widened. ‘‘Rachel! Oh, Rachel! In heaven’s name, put that thing down!’’

  So much for her disguise. Then, to her distress, Lissa threw herself between the gun and the man.

  Without taking her gaze off Mr. Sumner, Rachel raised the gun. Now it pointed at his forehead. ‘‘Sir, do not move a muscle. Lissa, step to the side.’’

  Sumner stayed as he was.

  So did Lissa. ‘‘What is the matter with you? Are you crazy?’’

  ‘‘Are you married?’’

  ‘‘Sort of,’’ Lissa screeched. ‘‘Now stop it. This instant.’’

  Rachel closed one eye and looked down the sight of her gun. ‘‘Either you are or you aren’t.’’

  ‘‘Rachel, so help me if you shoot him I will never in all my born days forgive you. I love him. And he loves me. Please.’’

  She kept him pinned in her sight. ‘‘Do you love her, sir?’’

  He didn’t so much as flinch. ‘‘I do.’’

  ‘‘Then why isn’t her last name Sumner?’’

  ‘‘I will see to it.’’

  She opened the eye she had closed. ‘‘Good. Lissa, if you don’t want to get married in that calico, then you need to change. We are going to ‘see to it.’ ’’

  ‘‘Absolutely not. I won’t have Merle forced by gunpoint down that hill. You might stumble and blow his head off by accident. He said he would marry me and he will. Now, if you don’t put that thing away, I’ll take it from you.’’

  ‘‘You try and you’ll be a widow before you’re a bride.’’

  The pounding of a horse’s hooves sounded from the hill. Barely had they come to a stop when they were replaced by human footfalls.

  Rachel’s focus remained on Mr. Sumner and vice versa. Her arms began to fatigue, but she continued to hold them straight and steady.

  Lissa left her post and raced into the yard. ‘‘Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Parker. You must do something. Rachel is threatening to shoot Merle.’’

  My stars and garters, what is he doing here?

  ‘‘Put the gun down, Rachel.’’

  ‘‘This is none of your affair, Mr. Parker. Go away. Lissa, either you, Mr. Sumner, and I all go down that hill and find a preacher or you and I go down to the shanty alone. But you are not living in sin one more minute.’’

  Lissa groaned. ‘‘Oooooh. This cannot be.’’

  The girl moved back to the doorway, hands on her hips. She, thankfully, did not return to her position as human shield for this rapscallion.

  ‘‘You know, Merle,’’ she said, ‘‘I’m not even sure Rachel knows how to use that thing. Never in my entire life have I ever seen her harm any living creature in such a violent manner. Suffocating in jars. Yes. Annihilating with a revolver. No.’’

  No snake could have struck faster. Of course he was a snake, so that explained why in one fluid motion he knocked the pistol from her grip, grabbed her wrists, and twisted them around and up her back.

  She would not cry out, no matter how much it hurt.

  Then to her everlasting pleasure, her dear Johnnie Parker ever so casually palmed a very handsome Colt and held it loosely at his side. ‘‘Release her. Immediately.’’

  He did. She scrambled to pick up her gun, but Johnnie got to it first and placed a boot on it. She looked up.

  ‘‘You will leave it.’’

  Oh my, but he was furious. Well, so what? She hadn’t asked for his assistance. Still, she stood, leaving the pistol, and turned back to Lissa. ‘‘You’re going with me.’’

  ‘‘I’m not. I love him. Not that you’d understand. But it doesn’t matter whether you do or don’t. Nobody but you and Mr. Parker are taking a trip down that hill. Merle and I are staying here.’’

  Panic began to nibble at her insides. ‘‘Lissa, you are too young to discriminate between the respectful homage of a sensible gentleman and the self-serving lies which flow so smoothly from the mouths of vanity-puffed shallow-brained men.’’

&
nbsp; Lissa stiffened. ‘‘How dare you.’’

  A mixture of grief and despair overcame Rachel. ‘‘Think, dear. Please. He’s not just some adventurer looking for a buried treasure, he’s a professional gambler. Nightly he pursues his soul-killing avocation, little caring for the mental agony of his victims. And he’s not content with ruining only those of his own sex. By his very nature, he’s on the alert for young, beautiful victims of the opposite sex. And you are far too captivating to go unnoticed—for now. But without a wedding ring, what is to keep him from luring the next young innocent when you are beyond the blush of youth?’’

  The more she spoke, the more hostile Lissa became. The girl clenched and unclenched her fists, squinted her eyes, locked her jaw. Why could her sister not perceive what a sham this man was?

  Lissa jabbed a finger into Rachel’s chest. ‘‘Well, that’s certainly the pot calling the kettle black when your beau is a saloon owner. Talk about a soul-killing avocation. Talk about taking advantage of the childlike.’’

  ‘‘He’s not my beau.’’

  ‘‘Oh no? Have you let him touch you?’’

  Try as she might, she could not stop the rush of blood to her face.

  Lissa crossed her arms. ‘‘Well, well, well.’’ She looked at Johnnie. ‘‘Do I need to send Merle after his pistol, Mr. Parker?’’

  How on earth had this conversation run amuck? ‘‘Lissa, I am not living in sin with Mr. Parker.’’

  Leaning back a bit, the girl cocked her head. ‘‘No. I’m sure you aren’t. There’s no need to, is there? For Mr. Parker owns a facility that allows lovers to meet with minimal fear of detection. He’s quite discreet, I hear.’’

  Suddenly Johnnie loomed over the two of them. ‘‘You will keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of your sister. She’s done nothing, and I’ll not have you slandering her.’’

  Lissa lifted her brows. ‘‘‘The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.’ ’’

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Rachel took a fortifying breath. ‘‘Lissa, enough of this. It is time to come home. Clearly, the man is not going to marry you.’’