“Yes. A couple of greasers stabbed each other to death in a cantina early this morning. But don’t let that put you off your guard. Like I said, sometimes we’ll have five or six men cross the divide in a day’s time.”
“Die, you mean?” Seymour asked with a frown.
“That’s right.”
Seymour remembered what the porter had told him at the depot. “And there’s no law here? No law at all?”
“None to speak of. The last couple of deputies the sheriff sent down here to establish law and order got killed, and now nobody else will try it. It would take a team of wild horses to drag the sheriff himself down here, and I’m not sure even they could accomplish it. He’s a politician, you know,” Heathcote added, as if that explained everything. And Seymour supposed it did. The newspaperman went on.
“A while back the respectable folks in town—and there are some, you know—got together and decided to hire a marshal. The damn fool who took the job lasted a week before he was gunned down. The next one was dead in four days. Since then . . .” Heathcote spread his hands. “Well, nobody wants that job anymore either, and I don’t suppose you can blame them.”
Seymour shook his head as he muttered, “Incredible. It’s just incredible that such a place could exist in this day and age. I know that Texas is still the . . . the Wild West, so to speak, but surely there’s some way to establish law and order here.”
“If you figure it out, you tell me, Mr. Standish, and I’ll print it in the paper. In the meantime, have you got a place to stay while you’re in town?”
“No, not yet. I thought perhaps I’d rent a room in a local boardinghouse—”
Heathcote shook his head. “There aren’t any. We’ve got a hotel, though, and there are usually some vacant rooms there.” He stood up, took his coat off and hung it over the back of his chair, and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. “I’d show you, but I’ve got a paper to get out . . .”
“Oh, don’t let me interfere with your work. I’ve already taken up enough of your time and imposed on your hospitality.” Seymour got to his feet. “If you could just tell me where to find the hotel . . .”
“Go on down the street past the Black Bull. That’s the biggest saloon in town. You can’t miss it. The hotel’s in the next block, on the same side of the street.”
“Thank you.” Seymour started to lift his hand as if he were about to tip his hat politely, before he remembered that he no longer had a hat. Trying not to let that fluster him, he started toward the door. As he stepped out into the late afternoon heat, he caught a whiff of the stink coming from his dung-smeared sleeve. He hoped there was a laundry somewhere in town. He didn’t know if it would be possible to get his coat clean, but he intended to try. He started to turn back into the newspaper office to ask Heathcote about a laundry, then decided that they could probably tell him at the hotel where to find one. Carrying his carpetbag and sample case, he started in that direction.
The train was still at the station, Seymour noted as he looked in that direction. It had been about to pull out earlier, so he assumed that some mechanical malfunction must have cropped up to delay its departure.
He could go back down there, he told himself, climb aboard the train, and keep riding until it reached the end of the line. He would have to purchase another ticket, but he could do that. He didn’t really care where he went, as long as it was away from this terrible place called Sweet Apple.
But if he did that, he would be abandoning his job and letting down his Uncle
Cornelius. Worse than that, he would be letting down the company and his father’s memory. Seymour heaved a sigh. He was here, and he was just going to have to make the best of a bad situation. Besides, the locomotive blew its whistle just then, and the train lurched into motion, pulling out of the station at last. With it went Seymour’s only chance to escape.
At least until the next train came through.
He had turned back toward the hotel when a sudden rattle of pounding hoofbeats made him look up. Two riders were racing their mounts along the street toward him. Their gaudy clothing told Seymour they were cowboys. He had seen similar outfits in illustrations in Harper’s Illustrated Weekly. The men were drunk, or naturally exuberant, or both. They whooped at the top of their lungs, and one of them pulled a gun from its holster at his waist and fired the weapon as the riders thundered along.
Seymour jumped at the sound. Then his eyes widened as he realized that there was a young woman standing on the boardwalk in front of him. Those lunatics on horseback were about to sweep past her, and if the one waving the gun around fired again, the bullet might strike her. The first shot must have already come too close to her for comfort. And she seemed rooted to the spot with terror, unable to move. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, Seymour dropped his carpetbag and sample case and threw himself forward.
Chapter 14
Maggie O’Ryan barely had time to realize what was happening. Two crazy cowboys, out on a toot, galloped along the street toward her. One of them had his gun out and had fired the shot that had almost hit her—not aiming at her necessarily, just shooting out of sheer drunken exuberance.
Then someone crashed into her and knocked her off her feet. Less than a heartbeat later, as she landed hard on the planks of the boardwalk, the window of the Black Bull shattered where a bullet struck it. That bullet would have hit Maggie if someone hadn’t tackled her and knocked her out of the way.
At the moment she didn’t fully understand how close she had come to dying. That was because the fall had knocked the wind out of her and her brain didn’t really comprehend anything except that she had to have air. She tried to drag some into her lungs, but the weight pressing down on her chest made that difficult. Her head swam. She finally grasped the idea that whoever had grabbed her was now lying on top of her. She put her hands against his shoulders, pushed, and gasped,
“Can’t . . . breathe!”
Maggie found herself looking up into the face of a young man with slender, delicate features and brown eyes. His hair was brown, too, and slightly mussed. As she pushed at him, understanding dawned in his eyes and he rolled off her, a bright red flush appearing on his face as he did so. It appeared that he had just realized he was sprawled on top of a young woman with his knee wedged somewhat intimately between her thighs. Maggie’s face grew warm, too, but she was too busy trying to catch her breath to worry a great deal about it.
She pushed herself upright.
The celebrating cowboys were gone, having galloped on down the street, probably without any idea of how close one of them had come to killing her. Maggie looked up at the broken window. She had been standing right in front of it.
A crowd of people surged out of the Black Bull, led by Pierre Delacroix, who looked angry that someone had just shot out one of his front windows. His expression changed to one of concern when he saw Maggie sitting on the boardwalk. He hurried over to her, saying, “Mam’selle O’Ryan! You are hurt?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m all right,” she told Delacroix. She looked over at the young man who had tackled her. “Thanks to this gentleman here.”
He was still blushing furiously. “I just . . . uh . . . I apologize for any, uh, impropriety, ma’am . . .”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “You saved my life, sir.” She extended her hand to him. “You have my gratitude.”
He hesitated, but then clasped her hand. His movements were awkward and nervous. It was an inauspicious meeting, Maggie thought as they shook hands. They were both sitting on a dusty boardwalk surrounded by drunken louts from the saloon. At least the crowd began to diminish as the Black Bull’s patrons began to file back inside, anxious to return to their drinks and cards.
Delacroix said, “Allow me to help you up, Señorita.” He grasped Maggie’s arm and lifted her to her feet.
The young man scrambled upright, too, and began brushing dirt and dust off his brown suit. Maggie sniffed. A distinctive odor came from the
stranger, and she saw a darker brown blotch on his coat sleeve that could be only one thing. He noticed and said, “I’m sorry. Some young hooligans threw some . . . well, pelted me with . . .”
“That’s all right,” Maggie assured him. “You still saved my life, and I’m grateful to you, sir.”
“Seymour Standish,” he said, and it took Maggie a second to realize that he had just introduced himself.
“I’m Maggie O’Ryan,” she said. “Magdalena Elena Louisa O’Ryan, to be precise.”
“Precision is good,” Seymour Standish said, then flushed again. “I mean, one should always be precise in one’s speech, at least to the extent possible.”
“Oh, I agree.”
Delacroix said, “Did you see who was responsible for this atrocity, Señorita O’Ryan?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not really. It was just a couple of cowboys. Inebriated, no doubt. I’m sorry I can’t tell you who they were. I know you’d like to make the man who fired the shots pay for your window.”
“The cost of a pane of glass, dear though it may be, worries me less than your health, mam’selle.”
Seymour Standish frowned a little and asked, “Are you French or Spanish, sir?”
Delacroix smiled and shrugged. “Cajun by birth, mon ami, but this close to the Mexican border, one becomes Spanish, too.” He turned back to Maggie. “Would you like to come back inside and sit down for a moment to catch your breath? Perhaps a small glass of sherry to brace you?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.” Despite the fact that Delacroix had been making fun of her earlier, she sensed now that he was genuinely concerned. “If you want to do something for me, make sure that Oliver attends school tomorrow.”
“He will be there, Señorita. On that you have my word.”
Seymour Standish said, “I could, ah, walk you home, Miss O’Ryan. Just to make sure no other incidents occur.”
“That’s not necessary.” Despite the gratitude she felt, Maggie couldn’t help but remember how it had felt to have this young man lying on top of her. She didn’t want to compound that embarrassment for either of them. Seymour’s face still glowed, and her ears were warm. She went on. “I’m sure you have business of your own to attend to.”
He shrugged. “I was just on my way down to the hotel to rent a room. I am here in Sweet Apple on business. I represent Standish Dry Goods, Incorporated, of Trenton, New Jersey.”
“Really? I’ve never been farther east than Waco. I can’t imagine traveling all the way to Texas from someplace like New Jersey.”
“It was a long, arduous journey,” Seymour admitted.
“Well, I have to get back to the school and prepare tomorrow’s lessons.”
Seymour lifted a hand toward his head, which was hatless, then stopped. “Yes, of course. Good day to you, Miss O’Ryan.”
“Good day, Mr. Standish.”
Maggie turned and started along the boardwalk. She brushed dust off her dress. A part of her wanted to look back, but she didn’t do it. A lady always maintained a proper air of decorum, and that didn’t include turning to stare at a handsome young man.
She felt her face growing warmer again. Seymour Standish was handsome, no doubt about that, but he had nothing to do with her. He’d just happened to be there at the right time and place to save her life. That was all. What she felt was nothing more than simple gratitude.
She told herself that several times, and by the time she reached the small adobe school building on the edge of town, she believed it.
* * *
“You are a drummer, no?” the Cajun said.
“No. I mean yes. I mean, I’m a salesman,” Seymour said. “For Standish Dry Goods, as I told Miss O’Ryan. My father established the company.”
Even as he spoke, his eyes were still on Maggie O’Ryan as she walked along the street. He told himself that he was watching her only to make certain that no other untoward incidents befell her. The fact that she was an attractive young woman had nothing to do with it.
The Cajun chuckled. “Your father owns the company, yet you are a traveling salesman? Sent to this border hellhole, no less?”
Seymour felt a flash of irritation. “My father passed away. My uncle runs the company now, although I own an equal share of it. He’s the one who sent me here, and I’m sure he had no idea what sort of place Sweet Apple really is. I think he chose it simply by the name.”
“Ah.” The man snapped his fingers as if he had just realized something. “You are the one from the railroad station. Some of my customers were talking about your encounter with Cole Halliday. Now I know why the name was familiar. You are Seymour the—”
Even though the man stopped short without uttering the offensive nickname, Seymour closed his eyes and sighed. Did everyone in town already know about his humiliation? How could he possibly hope to establish any new accounts with the local merchants when he was nothing but an object of derision and ridicule?
“I am Pierre Delacroix, the owner of this establishment,” the man went on as he inclined his head toward the bat winged entrance of the saloon. “Would you care to come in and have a drink? On the house, of course.”
Seymour shook his head. “I don’t imbibe.”
“No? I would like to repay the debt that I owe you for saving the life of the charming Señorita O’Ryan.”
Seymour frowned as he caught the tone in Delacroix’s voice. “You and Miss O’Ryan . . .”
The saloon keeper smiled and lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.
Seymour wouldn’t have thought there would be any sort of romantic relationship between Maggie O’Ryan and this suave Cajun saloon keeper. Miss O’Ryan had struck him as the prim and proper type. Of course, that was the way he regarded all women unless and until they gave him reason to revise his opinion of them.
But none of this was any concern of his, he reminded himself.
“Not only that,” Delacroix went on, “Señorita O’Ryan and her school represent one of the last vestiges of culture in this misbegotten settlement. Though my own son is a, shall we say, less than enthusiastic student, I would not like to see the school close.”
“Well, we agree on that,” Seymour said. “Education is important.”
Delacroix clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come. Have a drink.”
Seymour stood firm, saying, “No, thank you. I’ve had a tiring day. I just want to rent a hotel room, find a laundry, have something to eat, and get some sleep.”
“Ah, yes, the laundry.” Delacroix looked at the stain on Seymour’s sleeve and wrinkled his nose. “There is a Chinese gentleman named Wing who operates such an establishment. The hotel can send your garment down to him. I fear that M’sieu
Wing will have a formidable task awaiting him, however.”
Seymour picked up his carpetbag and sample case. “Thank you for the information.” He started down the block toward the hotel.
“Come back anytime,” Delacroix called after him. “Except, perhaps, when M’sieu Halliday is in attendance.”
Seymour understood what the Cajun meant. Delacroix didn’t want any incidents such as the one at the train station to occur in his saloon. The sight of Seymour might provoke Cole Halliday to gunplay again.
The clerk in the hotel lobby sneered at Seymour’s soiled coat sleeve, but rented him a room anyway. When Seymour asked about the laundry, the clerk said, “Put anything you want cleaned outside the door of your room. I’ll have a boy get it and take it down to Wing.”
“Thank you.” Seymour took the key to Room Eleven from the man, picked up his bags, and trudged up the stairs to the hotel’s second floor.
The room was small and rather spartanly furnished with a bed, a chair, a tiny table with a basin on it, and a chamber pot. Several nails driven into the wall evidently served as a wardrobe. There was one window with a thin, threadbare curtain hanging over it. The air inside the room was stifling. Seymour put his bags on the bed and went over to the window to open it. As he
pushed the curtain aside and raised the glass, he found himself looking out at Sweet Apple’s main street.
Roughly clad men strolled up and down the boardwalks. Others galloped heedlessly along the street. A dog squatted to relieve itself, adding to the already abundant feces in the street. In the next block, two women leaned out an open window in what had to be a house of ill repute, judging by their indecent attire, and called lewd invitations down to the men below. A man staggered along, weaving back and forth unsteadily, no doubt from the enormous quantity of rotgut he had taken on, until he tripped and fell as he was passing a water trough. He toppled over into the water, which was covered with bright green scum, and stayed there with his head submerged until Seymour felt horrified and alarmed. Before the man could drown, though, a man passing by reached down to grasp the back of his shirt and haul him out of the trough. The drunk sprawled on his back in the muck and mire, gasping for air, as his rescuer walked on.
“Oh, Uncle Cornelius,” Seymour whispered. “What sort of hell on earth have you sent me to?”
* * *
By the time Seymour crawled out of the lumpy, uncomfortable bed the next morning, he was ready to flee Sweet Apple by train, stagecoach, or any other means of conveyance. He would even consider leaving on horseback, even though he had never ridden a horse, he thought as he scratched at the numerous welts left behind by the bugs that had shared the bed with him.
The meal he’d had in the hotel dining room the night before had been barely edible, and he held out no hope that breakfast would be any better. He doubted that he would have slept much anyway, between the rocks that apparently filled his mattress and the ravenous insects that called it home, but the constant uproar that came in through the open window all night insured that lack of slumber. Angry shouts, raucous laughter, pounding hoofbeats, tinny piano music, the occasional gunshot or scream of pain or rage . . . it all blended into an aria sung by demons from the depths of hell, at least to Seymour’s ears.
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