Addie was on her feet. "Mr. Gilbert!" she said sharply. "I told you that you could return to this establishment only if you promised not to cause any more trouble. I'll thank you to keep your promise."
"A promise to a whore don't mean nothing," Butch snorted.
The madam went pale under her rouge. White Eagle glanced around the room and noticed that most of the customers were edging away from Butch. But four men moved to his side.
A grim smile tugged at White Eagle's mouth. Five to one—bad odds, but not the worst he had ever faced. Butch and his friends might beat him, but they wouldn’t be unscathed.
"Mind if I lend a hand, sir?" asked a gravelly voice behind him. White Eagle took his eyes off Butch long enough to glance back and see Julius standing there. The black man's face was solemn, but his dark eyes twinkled in anticipation. Obviously, he was looking forward to a scrap.
Before White Eagle could reply, Addie said, "I don't want a lot of damage in here, Julius."
"Of course, Miz Addie."
White Eagle looked back at Butch. "If you want trouble, I'll be glad to oblige, mister. But let's move outside first."
Butch nodded curtly. "Sure. Why not?"
White Eagle started to turn away. They could go out back, between the house and the stable—
"White Eagle! Look out!" cried one of the prostitutes.
The scout spun around and instinctively lifted his hands as Butch lunged across the room at him. The bearded man threw a wild punch at White Eagle's head, but the scout blocked it easily. Butch's rush made White Eagle step back involuntarily, and he tried to set himself to return the blow.
Butch's four companions hurtled forward. One of them banged roughly into White Eagle's side and knocked him further off-balance. At the same moment, Julius entered the fracas. He grabbed one man by the arm, spun him around, and smashed a fist into his face.
White Eagle hooked his balled fist into Butch's belly, and the man's liquor-laden breath puffed into his face. He followed it with a short, powerful punch that rocked Butch's head back. But at the same time Butch's companions were hammering him with their fists. One of them clipped White Eagle on the jaw, staggering him and forcing him onto one knee. A booted foot crashed into his ribs. As the force of the blow stunned him, he sprawled full length on the carpeted floor.
White Eagle was vaguely aware of women shouting and screaming, and he heard Julius roar as the burly black man fought. With a burst of effort, the scout got his hands under him and pushed himself over, just in time to roll out of the path of another kick, this one from a livid Butch. He grasped Butch's ankle as it went by and twisted it hard so that the man yelped and fell heavily.
Another roll brought White Eagle lithely to his feet. As he saw Julius fighting with two of Butch's friends, he noticed a third man moving behind the knot of struggling figures. This man slipped a pistol from his pocket and flipped it around so that he was clutching the barrel and the cylinder. As he lifted it over his head, White Eagle shouted, "Behind you, Julius!"
The black man jerked his head around and tried to move away when he saw the new threat, but he was too late. The butt of the pistol thudded into the side of his head. Julius staggered, and his legs folded under him.
Blazing with fury, White Eagle lunged toward the man who had struck Julius. A brawl with fists was one thing; he was used to that. But trying to cave in a man's head with a gun butt was something entirely different.
He didn’t reach the man with the gun. As he went by Butch, a foot suddenly thrust between his legs made him fall again. In a flash, Butch was pounding his fists into White Eagle's face. Now that Julius was out of the fight, all the men could concentrate on White Eagle. The scout knew he was finished, but at least he had put up a good fight.
A sudden fear gripped him. If he were beaten to death in this bordello, Katie would certainly hear of it sooner or later. The realization gave him new strength.
White Eagle surged up. He threw Butch to the side, buried a fist in another man's stomach, and whirled to smash a third man in the face.
"Shoot the son of a bitch!" Butch howled.
The man with the pistol was just as caught up in the battle as Butch, and he had fallen back when White Eagle exploded up off the floor. Now he stood by the parlor entrance, a good eight feet away. He lifted the pistol and aimed it at White Eagle. Cold fear clutched at White Eagle's belly as he realized he couldn’t tackle the man in the time it would take him to pull the trigger.
A hand came down on the gunman's shoulder before he could fire. The man was jerked around, and a hard fist crashed into his jaw. He fell to the floor as the pistol slipped out of his hand and clattered away, unfired. A tall figure appeared in the doorway, face dark with anger.
White Eagle gaped as he watched his father throw himself into the fight. In one fluid motion, Pierre knocked aside one of Butch's friends and grabbed another in a bear hug.
The scout had no more time to wonder what Pierre Dandaneau was doing here. The furious Butch and the remaining man renewed their charge. White Eagle blocked the man's punch, grabbed his shirtfront, and jerked him close enough to smash a knee into the man's groin. That left Butch, who suddenly looked a little green, standing alone.
White Eagle launched a flurry of blows that forced Butch to back up and block them desperately. The scout was only setting him up. A second later, when White Eagle feinted to his left, Butch tried to dodge away and moved right into an uppercut that had White Eagle's full force behind it.
The fist caught Butch on the jaw and lifted him off the floor. His feet went up in the air as he flew backward and crashed onto the carpet. He sprawled, utterly still.
White Eagle drew a deep breath and turned to see that his father had enjoyed equal success. Both of Pierre's opponents were stretched out on the floor. Only one of the five men who had jumped White Eagle was still conscious, and he lay curled in a tight ball, moaning and clutching where White Eagle's knee had savaged him.
A grin suddenly stretched across White Eagle's face as he looked at Pierre. "Thanks," he said. "That was a pretty good fight, but it could've gotten unpleasant if you hadn't shown up when you did."
Pierre snorted contemptuously as he looked around. "The Army must've made you soft, boy, if you can't kick five dogs like this by yourself."
White Eagle couldn’t tell if Pierre was serious. He ignored the gibe and bent to slip an arm around Julius's shoulders. The black man was groaning and shaking his head. White Eagle helped him into a sitting position.
"Are you all right, Julius?" the scout asked. "Maybe I should fetch a doctor."
Julius shakily lifted a hand and probed at the lump on his head. "Thanks anyway, sir, but this old noggin's taken worse licks than that. I'll be all right."
White Eagle helped him to his feet and then turned to face the angry gaze of Addie Plunket. "I tried to talk them into taking their fight outside, Mrs. Plunket," he said. "You heard me, and you saw how they jumped us."
Addie nodded. She peered around the room, where the prostitutes and the remaining customers were huddling in careful silence. Finally, Addie said, "I don't see any harm done. We were lucky this time. I can promise you one thing—Butch Gilbert won’t bring his trade to this house anymore."
"Damn right he won't," Pierre growled. "Julius, give me a hand tossing this trash into the street." He bent to grasp the feet of one of the unconscious men and hauled him out of the parlor.
White Eagle stared after him. There had been a definite tone of command in his father's voice. Why was Pierre Dandaneau giving orders in Addie's house? For that matter, what was he doing here in the first place? White Eagle couldn’t deny that Pierre's arrival had probably saved his life, but he wanted some answers.
Addie put a hand on his arm. "Come on," she said, her tone much gentler. "You've got a pretty good scrape on your face. Let's go to the kitchen and put something on it."
He let her lead him to the kitchen and sat in the straight-backed chair she indicated. Moving t
o a cabinet, she took a bottle of whiskey and splashed some of the liquor on a cloth. The whiskey fumes were strong in White Eagle's nose as she swabbed his face.
"I imagine that burns a little," she said.
"Some," he grunted. Without looking up at her, he went on, "What's my father doing here, Addie?"
The madam hesitated before she answered. Finally, she said, "Maybe he came for the same reason any other man does."
Something had occurred to White Eagle, and he glanced at the back door to confirm it. "I didn't hear him come in the front. He just appeared out of nowhere."
"You were fighting. I'm not surprised you didn't hear him come in." Addie stepped back, lowering the whiskey-soaked cloth.
White Eagle nodded toward the back door, which was still slightly ajar. "Or else Pierre was slipping in the back when he heard that brawl in the parlor and ran to lend a hand. What's going on here, Addie? Why was my father slipping in the back door of a house like this?"
Before Addie could answer, the kitchen door opened, and Pierre stepped into the room. He said, "Julius and I threw all those troublemakers out, Addie, and I warned Gilbert not to come back. He's just a bully. You won't have to worry about him anymore."
Addie nodded. "Good," she said fervently. Suddenly, her eyes widened. "My lord, Pierre, you're hurt!"
The Frenchman lifted his right hand and regarded his blood-covered knuckles. "It's nothing," he said. "I just scraped some skin off."
White Eagle stared at him. "I want to talk to you, Pa," he said after a moment.
"So, talk," Pierre grunted.
"In private."
Pierre considered the request, then shrugged. He gave Addie a meaningful look, and the madam said, "I'd better make sure that everyone has calmed down. We can't have customers frightened off by a little fight." She went into the hall and disappeared toward the parlor.
Pierre looked levelly at White Eagle. "What do you want to say to me, boy?"
"I want the answer to one question," White Eagle said.
Pierre waited in silence.
"You're not just a regular customer here, are you?"
"No," Pierre said brusquely. "I own the place."
White Eagle had half expected that answer, but it still came as a shock. His father owned one of Abilene's most lucrative whorehouses. As he sat there and thought about it, everything fell into place. Now he knew why he had been given special treatment in the bordello. It also explained where Pierre's money came from. His father's earnings from his infrequent jobs as a freight wagon driver couldn’t have been enough to buy and furnish his house.
Did Katie know? he suddenly wondered. Surely not. She believed Pierre had told her the truth about his life, but now White Eagle knew better.
"Say something, dammit!" Pierre suddenly rasped. "Don't just sit there and stare at me."
"I'm not sure what to say," White Eagle mused. "Except that this tells me you haven't changed much after all. You're still the same old bastard you always were."
Pierre clenched his fists. "I just saved your life out there, boy," he growled.
"And I said thanks." White Eagle stood up.
Pierre caught his arm. "Don't you even think about going to Katie and telling her about this," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "She'd never understand. I'll kill you myself if you don't keep your mouth shut."
White Eagle took a deep breath and jerked his arm free. "Don't worry," he said coldly. "I didn't tell Katie when I thought you were just a regular customer. I'm certainly not going to tell her that you own the place. For one thing, I'd have to admit to her that I've been living here."
A humorless grin stretched across Pierre's face.
"You're a hypocrite, boy. You've been eating my food and drinking my liquor and bedding Emily, and now you go and act like there's something wrong with me owning this house. Well, I don't give a damn what you think about me. Never have."
White Eagle’s chest was tight with anger. Pierre was right. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself when he thought that Addie owned the house. The fact that Pierre was the owner didn’t change any of the things he had done over the last few days.
"I know you never cared what I thought," he said. "And I don't care what you think, either. Let's keep it that way."
"All right by me," Pierre agreed with a nod.
The kitchen door opened then, and Addie came back into the room. She glanced from father to son, then said, "White Eagle, Emily's back from town. I had sent her to the store to pick up some fabric for me, and when she got back, the first thing she heard was how you had gotten into a fight with a dozen men." The madam smiled wryly. "The way those townies are talking, it'll be two dozen by tomorrow morning. Anyway, the girl's worried about you. You'd better get out there and let her know that you're all right."
White Eagle nodded. "Thanks, Addie. I was wondering where she had gone." He started toward the kitchen door.
Pierre stepped forward and slid an arm around Addie's waist. "Come along, Addie," he said heartily. "Julius can keep an eye on things down here. Let's you and me head upstairs."
"Of course, Pierre," she murmured.
White Eagle paused in the doorway and briefly met his father's arrogant gaze. He knew the old man was just trying to irritate him. And Pierre was succeeding, blast it.
He shook his head. As he went to look for Emily, he wondered if coming to Abilene had been a serious mistake.
5
When he awoke the next morning, White Eagle was still asking himself that question. As he lay in bed with Emily snuggled warmly against him, he wondered if he should pack his gear, get on his horse, and ride out of Abilene. He could go back to Indian Territory and his old job as a scout. That would be simpler than staying and sorting through the tangled emotions his visit had aroused.
It had been far into the night before he had been able to fall asleep. He lay next to the sleeping Emily and kept reliving the evening's events. He wasn’t sure he could look Katie in the eye again, knowing that Pierre owned this bordello and that she was blissfully unaware of it. But the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Katie. The very last thing . . .
Emily shifted her head against his shoulder and looked up to find him staring at the wall. She sighed sleepily. "I swear, you're about the moodiest man I ever saw," she said. "Every time I turn around, you're brooding about something."
White Eagle put a smile on his face. "Sorry," he told her. "I was just thinking about Pierre."
Emily raised herself on an elbow. The sheet slipped down, exposing her firm breasts. "I told you last night, Addie gave us strict orders not to tell anybody that he owns the house. That included you. I didn't like keeping it from you, but there was nothing I could do."
He placed a fingertip on her lips. "Hush. I know you couldn't tell me. I'm not upset with you."
"You're just angry with him." Emily grasped his finger and kissed it lightly.
"I'm not sure..." White Eagle couldn’t tell Emily that he was concerned about Katie, not Pierre.
She slid her hand down his body. He knew she was trying to distract him, and right now he was more than willing to let her. He forced his worries from his mind and turned toward her, reveling in her warm, smooth flesh. He let her passion carry him away.
He wouldn’t leave Abilene, he decided. Not just yet.
"I tell you, that's him," a young voice hissed.
"No, cain't be. That fella ain't old enough. The way I heard tell, Dandaneau's been fighting Injuns for twenty years or more."
"Aw, you're crazy! I know it's him. Alice told me, and Cully told her."
With his lips twitching, White Eagle leaned back in his chair on the porch of the Grand Palace Hotel. The two young boys were huddled twenty feet away at the edge of the porch, whispering urgently to each other while they stole glances at him. He forced his face to remain expressionless as he listened to their argument. Dressed in his buckskins, he supposed he made a picturesque sight on the main street of town.
When he rememb
ered that it was Saturday afternoon and that the town would be full of people, he felt a restless urge and decided he needed to spend some time outside the bordello. After promising Emily he would return for dinner, he had ridden to Texas Street and found a spot to sit and watch the world go by.
Abilene was busy today. The street was crowded with horses and wagons, and people hurried back and forth on the boardwalk in front of him. Most of the pedestrians were farmers with their families, although a few cowboys appeared in the throng.
Abilene was much like the rest of the West, White Eagle thought. Less than a decade earlier, the town had been new and brawling, filled with Texas cowhands, the air punctuated with the roar of gunshots. Then Bear River Tom Smith, Wild Bill Hickok, and now Lucas Flint had arrived, and with them came law and order. Once the town had been civilized, storekeepers, farmers, and bankers followed. Most of the time the streets of Abilene were probably as safe—or safer—than those of Eastern cities like Chicago and Philadelphia and New York.
The frontier had moved farther west now. With every year that passed, White Eagle mused, more and more territory was settled. The Indians had strongly resisted the white man's advance, and despite Custer's misadventure, within a few years—twenty at most—all the battles would have been fought.
White Eagle frowned. Those young boys were so impressed with him because they knew, as well as he did, that Army Indian scouts would soon be gone with the Indians they tracked.
He heard a tentative step on the boardwalk and glanced over to see that the two boys had come closer. The one in the lead was a freckle-faced redhead with a pugnacious jaw and eyes full of mischief. White Eagle grinned as the boy said, "Mister, you mind if we ask you a question?"
"Sure, fellas, go right ahead," he replied.
"Are you that scout they call Dandaneau?"
White Eagle nodded solemnly. "I am."
The boy looked triumphantly at his companion. "Told you, Donny!" he exclaimed. Turning back to White Eagle, he went on excitedly, "This here's Donny Simmons, and I'm Patrick Hammond."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 84