Outlaw in Paradise

by Patricia Gaffney

  Shrimp's knees almost buckled. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Gault. You won't regret it, I swear."

  "I better not."

  "You won't."

  "Because if I do, that'll put me in a bad mood."

  "Yessir. No, sir, you can rest easy." He started backing toward the door, smiling hopefully, tipping his chewed-up hat. "Well, I'll say adios—"

  "I aim to stay in Paradise for a while. I'd sure hate to hear any rumors about our little business deal."

  Shrimp made an X over his chest with a black thumb. "Cross my heart, nobody'll ever hear about it from me."

  "Because if they did, you know what would happen?"

  Shrimp was smarter than he looked. "It'd put you in a bad mood."

  "That's right. Folks say I get irrational when I'm in a bad mood."

  "Yessir." This time he twisted two fingers in front of his mouth, and vowed, "My lips're sealed."

  Jesse could've pointed out that he didn't have any lips, but that would've been unkind. Besides, the smell was getting too bad. When Shrimp scrabbled for the knob behind him and finally got the door open, Jesse sent him one last steely-eyed glare and let him go.

  Then he felt like letting out a rebel yell, or tossing his hat in the air. But the walls were too thin and the ceiling was too low. He settled for throwing himself on the bed and crooning, "Yee-ha," in a soft, celebratory tone.

  PARADISE—YOU'LL LIKE IT HERE, a sign said at the top of Main Street. Yes, sir, Paradise was an all right town. Gault liked it here just fine. So did Jesse.

  ****

  Cady had passed that sign so many times, she didn't even see it anymore. Today, driving by it, something else caught her eye anyway: Ham Washington, Levi's boy, flying straight at her down the middle of the street like rabid dogs were chasing him. If she didn't know Ham so well, she'd've thought the saloon was on fire.

  "Miz Cady, Miz Cady!"

  The calm, slow-footed mare shied a little, halting just short of a collision with Ham. "Abraham, how many times have I told you not to run at a horse like that?"

  He was too excited to apologize. "Miz Cady, a man—a man—" And too winded to make sense. "Guns, guns, a black horse—stayin' at your—place, and Poppy say—"

  She reached her hand down, he grabbed it, and she hauled him up beside her on the seat. Ham was tall for seven, but skinny as a weed, all elbows and shoulder blades. "Slow down and catch your breath," she advised, handing the reins to him out of habit.

  Handling the mare calmed him down—Ham was crazy for horses. "A man done rode in, Miz Cady," he managed all in one breath. "Bad man, Poppy say. He at the Rogue—done took a room. He have guns an' rifles all over, an' Poppy say he look like death walkin'. Just like death walkin'," he repeated with relish.

  "What are you talking about? Why is he a bad man?"

  "He a gunslinger. Look at him cross-eyed, he shoot you, Mr. Yeakes say. I ain't seen him yet—he up in his room, got the door shut. He named Gault."

  They were almost in front of the Rogue. "Stop right here," Cady commanded, and Ham reined the mare in at the corner. "Take the buggy to the livery for me," she told him, jumping down, "and tell Mr. Yeakes I'll pay him later. You come straight back afterward and stay with your daddy, you understand?"

  "Yes'm." If anything, he looked more agitated than before—her urgency had confirmed his worst, most exciting fears.

  Watching him drive off, she noticed a knot of men across the street in front of the French restaurant. She recognized Stony Dern and Sam Blankenship; Gunther Dewhurt tipped his hat to her, but didn't come over. On the opposite corner, Livvie Dunne and Ardelle Sheets were talking to a third lady; Cady could only see her hat and the back of her gray dress. Like the men, all three were staring across at the small, red-painted balcony that ran across two sides of her saloon. Nobody was up there, though. Nothing stirred except the rocking chairs in the wind, and one blackbird flapping its wings on the railing.

  She looked back at Livvie and Ardelle—who saw her and immediately turned their backs on her, the way they always did. If they'd had their children with them, they'd've gathered them up and herded them down the sidewalk, as if they were sheep and Cady was a big drooling wolf. She made her snooty, careless face, wishing they'd turn around so they could see how little their scorn mattered to her. Just then Levi poked his head out the swinging door. She picked up her skirts and hurried across the street toward her tavern.

  "Cady," Levi greeted her, holding the door open. Over his shoulder, she noticed the saloon was almost empty, nobody but Jersey Stan Morrissey playing poker by himself, and Leonard Berg and Jim Tannenbaum, drunk and squabbling as usual. This time of day on a Friday, the place ought to be half full at least, and getting livelier by the minute.

  "I just saw Ham," said Cady.

  "Yep, I seen 'im fly by in the buggy."

  "What's he saying about a gunfighter, Levi?"

  The bartender smoothed one long-fingered hand back over his ear, feeling for bristles. Levi shaved his head every morning, shiny and smooth as an eight ball. "Sho' look like it to me. He say his name's Gault. Bad-lookin' white man. Scared off all but these here," he said, nodding toward the three stragglers at the bar.

  "You gave him a room?"

  He ducked his head. "Didn't see no way not to. He look jus' like I heard he did, one eye an' one good ear. Look like a killer to me. But he ain't did nothin' yet, an' plus... tell you the truth, I was scared not to do what he say."

  "It's all right," she said quickly, "I'd have done the same thing." Following his nervous gaze to the stair landing at the back of the saloon, she half expected to see Gault standing there, guns drawn. "Think Wylie hired him?"

  "I don't know. I hope not."

  She hoped not, too, but what else would a gunfighter be doing in Paradise? "Where's Tommy?"

  Levi shrugged, and added a roll of his eyes. Which meant, What difference does it make? She had to agree. Sheriff Tom Leaver (Lily Leaver, some people called him for a joke) was either dutifully shuffling papers in his office or else mooning around Glendoline Shavers, Cady's best bar girl. Either way, if the man upstairs really was a hired killer, the sheriff wasn't going to be running him out of town anytime soon.

  She looked back at the empty staircase. Looked around her mostly empty saloon. "I don't need this, Levi."

  "No, ma'am."

  She bit her lip for a while longer, scowling into space. "Well, I guess I'll go up there."

  Levi sighed, as if he'd known that was coming. "Guess I'll go with you."

  She looked at him doubtfully. Levi was tall as a telegraph pole, but he weighed about as much as she did. He never touched guns, and there wasn't a violent bone in his body. He kept the peace by talking men to death, reasoning with them in a calm, practically hypnotic voice that soothed the meanness out of the surliest customers. And if it didn't, Cady threw them out herself, with help from the little Remington five-shot she kept in her garter.

  "No need for that, Levi. I can handle myself," she said.

  "Prob'ly can, but I'm still comin'."

  If she kept refusing, it would embarrass him. "Okay, but partway. Just see me into his room. After that, if you hear shooting, run for the sheriff." She said it with a smile, but she wasn't sure if she was kidding or not.

  ****

  Jesse was dreaming about women. Two women, a blonde and a brunette. The brunette was taking his boots off and the blonde was sitting on his lap, wetting the end of a cigar, fixing to light it for him. She wet it by running her tongue around and around the tip, making little humming noises. Somebody said, "Bet's to you," and all of a sudden he had three kings and a pair of aces in the hand that wasn't resting on the blonde's little round behind. "See that and raise you a hundred," Jesse said, and everybody laid down their cards. Slop everywhere—he won. The blonde kissed him on the ear. He reached for the pot—

  Knock knock knock.

  He opened his eyes, smiling, disoriented, unable to remember where he was. Big room, soft bed, yellow wallp
aper—he sat up fast, going for his guns while he called out, "Who's there?" in a sleep-rough voice.

  "Cady McGill."

  A woman. No need for a weapon, then. In the mirror over the bureau, he noticed his eyepatch had slid over to his temple. Righting it, raking his hair back with his fingers, he padded over to the door and jerked it open.

  And broke into a big, tickled grin—all wrong, not Gault at all, but he was just so glad to see her. She was a little thing, no more than about chin height, but she was real shapely. Real shapely. Shiny dark hair tied back in a ribbon, and eyes the same color as her hair. Plain brown skirt, no bustle, and a faded blue blouse with a piece of white lace at the front to draw your eye, in case it wasn't there already. She had on a man's felt hat, hanging down in back by a leather strap, dark against the smooth white of her neck. He liked the thin, friendly line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Most of all he liked her wide, sexy mouth, currently set in a nervous straight line.

  "Mr. Gault?"

  Gault, right, right. He changed his smile into a leer. Pretty girls had guilty consciences, too, he knew for a fact, so he didn't say a word, just widened the door and stepped back. It was a fine line, though; he wanted her to come in, so he didn't want to look too dangerous.

  She hesitated. After a glance down the hall to her right, she lifted her chin, like a stud player bluffing a flush when she's holding a pair of deuces, and stepped over the threshold.

  Before he closed the door, he checked to see who was out there. Aha—the tall Negro bartender, on guard at the top of the stairs. He looked petrified, but he was standing his ground. Jesse liked that in a man.

  Cady halted in front of the unmade feather bed. A black, bullet-studded gunbelt with twin holsters was slung over one of the posts, and a black Stetson hat hung at a rakish tilt on the other. Something, maybe the contrast between the friendly, rumpled sheets and the dangerous-looking gunbelt, threw her off her stride. So, some frivolous part of her mind noted, even outlaw gunfighters take naps. Under the covers, just like the rest of us. Maybe they even snore.

  Which was a stupid thing to be thinking right at this moment. With a mental shake, she pivoted to face the outlaw.

  He was even meaner-looking than Levi had warned her he'd be. He was taller than she was—who wasn't?—but not exactly a giant, maybe six feet or so. He wore his wavy hair long, and it was the same shade of dark brown as hers, only his was streaked with silver. Prematurely silver, though—he looked young, not even thirty. While she watched, he did up one button on his black shirt. But he didn't bother with the top button of his black denim trousers.

  He folded his arms and leaned against the door, crossing his bare feet at the ankles. It was hard not to stare at the patch over his right eye. Was he terribly scarred under it? Maybe he had no eye there at all. The notion horrified and fascinated her about equally.

  She knew his name, but only vaguely, mostly from unreliable barroom gossip. She remembered something about him being wounded at Gettysburg before his gunfighter career started—but how could that be? In 1863 he couldn't have been much more than twelve or thirteen years old. She also remembered something about him being killed in a gunfight a few months ago in California. Apparently that story was exaggerated.

  "What can I do for you, Miss Katie McGill?"

  "Cady," she corrected automatically.

  "K. D.?"

  "No, Cady. It's short for Cadence." Oh, this is how you talk to hired gunslingers: you make sure they know what your name is short for. "What about you?" she said aggressively. "Don't you have a first name?"

  He narrowed his one eye, which was an eerie shade of silver-gray, and didn't say anything for so long, she began to perspire. "I don't need one," he finally sneered, but by then she'd forgotten the question.

  She resented it that he was scaring her. She put her hands on her hips and said combatively, "I own this place."

  "That so?" He nodded, glanced around. "Nice view. I'm real partial to a rocking chair."

  "Yeah, I thought they'd be a nice touch." She waved her hand toward the low door that led out to the porch roof. "Airy and all."

  "Real nice touch."

  Well, this was a pleasant conversation they were having. She caught sight of a Winchester .44-.40 leaning against the wall, and it brought her back to the point.

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Gault? Who hired you?" He just stared at her until her palms began to itch. "Wylie," she answered for herself, because it was so obvious. "Right? It was Wylie, wasn't it?"

  "Why would Wylie hire me?"

  "Maybe to burn me out, the same way he did Logan's livery stable. How much is he paying you?"

  Instead of answering, he started to walk toward her, naked feet slow and quiet on the thin carpet. She couldn't stop herself from stepping back, then sideways. Without even pausing, he passed her by and sat down at the foot of the bed.

  It took a whole minute for her heart to slow down.

  "You listen here," she said when it did. "I'm not paying you anything, and I'm not leaving. Rogue's Tavern is mine, and Merle Wylie's never getting his dirty paws on it. He can't have the Rogue, he can't have the Seven Dollar, and he can't have me. And you can tell him I said so." Her anger got hotter with every word; by the time she finished her little speech, her hands were shaking.

  Gault stroked his mustache thoughtfully, looking at her with more interest than menace. "I'll tell him if you want me to. What's he look like?"

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Fellow Wylie. I don't know him, but I'll be glad to deliver your message."

  "You're saying he didn't send for you?"

  "Never heard the name till this afternoon. I stabled my horse at his livery."

  "His livery. Hah. That's because two weeks ago he burned Logan's down to the ground," she shot back, mad all over again.

  "Now, why would he do a mean thing like that?"

  Was he playing with her? "Because he wants the whole town to himself, that's why."

  He stood up and started walking toward her again, but this time she didn't give way. "Greed'll do funny things to a man," he said in a low, rough, whispery voice that sent a little thrill across the tops of her shoulders. He was standing so close, she could smell him. Tobacco, bay rum, and leather. And danger.

  "How long were you planning to stay in Paradise?" she asked, sticking her chin out at him, glad when her voice didn't quiver.

  He turned his head to the right, and she remembered he was deaf in one ear. "Long as it takes to get my business done, Miss McGill."

  No need to ask what his business was. Professional gunfighter—he might as well have a sign across his chest. Who had hired him, though? And who could he be gunning for in Paradise? "Well, you're welcome to stay here as long as you don't cause any trouble," she said firmly as she backed toward the door. "I won't stand for any trouble in my place."

  "Sometimes trouble has a way of following a man, and there's nothing he can do about it."

  So, the frivolous part of her brain piped up again. It's not just in corny dime novels—gunfighters really do talk like that. She hunted for the proper response, and finally settled for, "I expect that depends on the man, Mr. Gault."

  "Yes, ma'am, I expect it does."

  They stared at each other somewhat blankly until she said, "Well," and searched behind her for the doorknob.

  "You know what I want?"

  The question made her nervous. Rather than ask what, which would've betrayed too much interest, she just lifted her eyebrows.

  "I want a hot bath, a steak dinner, and a poker game."

  For some reason—relief, probably—she smiled at him. "Sorry, there's no plumbing on the second floor—which Levi should've told you. But you can get a bath at the barbershop for a dollar. We don't serve meals, either, but Jacques' is right across the street. He says the food's French, but it's really Creole. Then there's Swensen's on Main Street, but I don't recommend it. Not unless your stomach's made out of cast iron."

/>   That made him smile, the same infectious, almost sweet smile he'd greeted her with at the door. It hadn't lasted long, but she hadn't forgotten it. Now it struck her the same way as the rumpled bed and the six-guns—a funny contrast to the scary-looking rest of him.

  "And the poker game?" he reminded her.

  "Ah, now, there I can help you."

  "Square game?"

  "Absolutely. The fairest in town." Which definitely wasn't saying much. Gault smiled again, as if he'd read her mind. They shared a look, and just for a second she thought it was a companionable look, almost... conspiratorial. "Well," she said again. "See you."

  He touched his index finger to his forehead in a cocky salute. When he took it away, the smile and the look, whatever it had meant, were both gone. He didn't say "See you" back; in fact, he didn't say anything. Oddly disappointed, Cady slipped out the door and closed it softly behind her.

  Levi was still waiting for her on the stairs. Walking toward him, she had the strangest sensation: that she'd just had a conversation with two men, not one, and she had no idea which was real. Or which one interested her more.

  Two

  Everything in Rogue's Tavern went dead quiet when Jesse walked in—from carnival noisy to church still, just like that, as soon as he pushed open the swinging doors and sauntered over to the bar. On the way, he came within two inches of smacking into a post on his blind side. Which took some of the cockiness out of him. But he got it back when the fellows around the bar fell over themselves trying to get out of his way. "Bourbon," he whispered into the reverent hush, "and don't water it down this time."

  The tall, spindly bartender bobbed his bald head and slid a bottle and a glass in front of him. While he was at it, he started to pour what looked like sarsaparilla into the glass that belonged to a pale, thin, cadaverous-looking gent on Jesse's left. The man stuck one bony hand over the glass and threw a half dollar on the bar with the other, backing away as if a scorpion had stung him. "Doc?" called the bartender, frowning. Mumbling something, hunching his scrawny shoulders, the corpselike fellow turned and headed for the door.