Outlaw in Paradise

by Patricia Gaffney

  As first meetings with the law went, Jesse figured that one had gone all right.

  Gradually people started to mutter and then to talk, and pretty soon the noise level in the saloon was back to normal. Jesse took a deck of cards out of his pocket and laid out a four-card game of solitaire he'd invented, wishing Ham would come back and talk to him. He pretended he'd known Glendoline was there all along, but really he didn't notice her until she ran her fingers inside the back of his collar. "Hey, honey," she breathed boozily in his ear.

  He grunted, debating whether to ask her to sit down. In truth, he was a little disappointed in Glendoline. The sheriff appeared to have a case on her, but she wasn't giving him the time of day. Jesse wouldn't be surprised if she laughed at the upright lawman behind his back—men like Leaver invited that reaction from some women. Well, it was none of his business. He swung his boots off the table and muttered, "You might as well—"

  "Glen, would it be too much to ask you to take care of those men at the back table? The ones with their tongues hanging out because nobody's brought them a drink in the last forty minutes?"

  Glendoline blinked dimly across the way. "Those guys? Oh, sure, Cady. Be right back," she told Jesse with a flirtatious wave and strolled away, swinging her skinny behind.

  Cady rolled her eyes slightly, subtly; you wouldn't have noticed it if you weren't staring at her closely. Which was how Jesse was staring at her. He'd seen better-looking women before, but not too many. Anyway, it wasn't only how she looked right now that made it hard to take his eyes off her. It was this dolled-up Cady in combination with the one he'd met this afternoon, the freckle-faced girl in a faded blouse and an old felt hat. How did women do that? Some women, not all; Glen, for instance, in bib overalls and a kerchief wouldn't have gotten a rise out of him. Ah, but McGill, she was another story. He wanted to see her in other getups, other styles. What did she look like in church, for instance, or the general store? First thing in the morning?

  "Mr. Gault, you're scaring off my customers."

  He glanced behind her and saw it was true: half the saloon had emptied out when the sheriff left. The scrawny, cadaverous fellow he'd seen earlier was back at the bar, though. Jesse accidentally caught his eye. The man stopped with a glass halfway to his mouth, set it down with a clatter, threw a coin on the bar, and hightailed it out the swinging doors like dogs were gnawing on his ass.

  Interesting.

  Jesse stood up and waved his hand at the other chair. "Have a seat, Miss Cady?" She looked back and forth between the chair and him. No, thanks was on the tip of her tongue, he could tell. "To prove to 'em I don't bite," he threw in, jerking his chin at the handful of customers she had left.

  She thought about that, nodded, and sat.

  "Drink?"

  "No."

  Reaching for the bottle to pour one for himself, he missed and knocked it over with the backs of his knuckles. McGill caught and righted it before too much bourbon spilled on the table. Goddamn eyepatch, he cursed for the thousandth time; damn thing threw off his perspective. He felt like an ass, but the blunder did have one side benefit: he got to see her tattoo again. Not for long, just a flash of bluish bird against white skin, but it was worth it.

  "Mr. Gault, I have to ask you a favor."

  'Name it."

  "Don't take this the wrong way," she cautioned, plucking nervously at the links of a silver bracelet on her wrist. "Nothing personal, but would you mind moving to another hotel?" He lifted an eyebrow, and she started talking faster. "The Dobb House is right up the street—you probably passed it on your way in. It's a lot quieter, plus it's got a restaurant, you'd—"

  "I like noise. A saloon makes me feel right at home."

  She looked at him speculatively. "Then you'd probably like Wylie's. In fact, you'd love Wylie's. It's bigger. Much noisier. Yeah, I think Wylie's is definitely the saloon for you."

  He grinned. "Then I could scare away his customers."

  She gave him a half smile, not denying it. "You really don't work for him?"

  "Never met the man."

  "Then who did hire you?"

  Time to clam up, get evil. She was getting too bold, too free with her questions, she wasn't nearly scared enough of him. But he just said, "How do you know anybody hired me? Maybe you shouldn't jump to conclusions."

  She raised an eyebrow of her own and didn't answer.

  He reached for one of his thin black cigarettes. He'd taken to rolling them ahead of time, without witnesses, because he was still all thumbs at it; it took him five minutes to do one, concentrating hard and using both eyes. Sticking it in the corner of his mouth, he got a wooden match from another pocket. This move he was good at: with great nonchalance, he flicked his thumbnail across the head, and it fired up in one try. Staring into McGill's direct, dark-eyed gaze, he held the match to the cigarette tip and inhaled. Nothing. He inhaled some more. Still nothing. Turning his head a fraction, so he could see with his working eye what the hell he was doing, he realized he had the match a good inch down and to the left of the cigarette.

  Ow. "Shit."

  He dropped the match and shook his stinging fingers. When he blew on the still-flaming match, he spit the cigarette out on the table. He picked the glowing match up—ow—and dropped it in the ashtray, brushing ash off the table with the side of his hand. Retrieving his unlit cigarette, he thought about throwing it across the room.

  He finally got up the heart to look at Cady. She stared at him without blinking, almost without expression. Almost. Was she smiling? No, but she looked like she was trying hard not to.

  He stuck the goddamn cigarette back in his pocket and pulled his hat down over his eyes, his absolutely meanest look according to the mirror he occasionally practiced in front of. He ought to say something vicious now, put the fear of Gault back into her. Too bad he couldn't think of anything.

  "How did you hurt your eye?" she asked interestedly.

  She'd never have dared ask him that before. He'd lost a lot of ground, bad guy-wise, but somehow he didn't really regret it. "The war."

  "You must've been very young. Very young."

  Yeah, about nine. "War makes you grow up fast," he whispered. "Sure I can't interest you in a drink?"

  "No, thanks, I don't drink. Maybe a beer on a hot day," she elaborated, "but that's it."

  Since they were being so chatty, he said, "Mind if I ask how you got in your current line of work, Miss McGill?"

  "What's wrong with it?" she said, bristling.

  "Nothing. Not a damn thing."

  "I inherited the place."

  "Your father?"

  "No, a friend."

  "Ah. A friend."

  She smiled at him cynically. "Maybe you shouldn't jump to conclusions, either, Mr. Gault."

  Immediately he was sorry for using that slick, knowing tone. He didn't want McGill smiling at him cynically.

  The little boy, Ham, came over at just the right moment. "Hey," he said shyly, leaning against Cady's chair. Jesse winked at him. He looked pretty brave with Cady's hand resting on the back of his neck, but his eyes on Jesse were still wide as half dollars.

  "Hey," Jesse returned. "Look what I found on the floor just now. I don't know how you missed it when you were sweeping."

  "Whose is it?" Ham asked, staring at the quarter Jesse laid on his palm.

  "Well, I reckon it's yours now."

  "Golly! Thanks, Mr. Gault."

  "Don't thank me. Finders keepers."

  Cady, he noticed, was looking at him with soft eyes, which was a first. And what eyes they were, when they weren't guarded and suspicious. Dark warm brown, true brown, the color of polished saddle leather. You could fall right in those eyes and make yourself real comfortable.

  "Did you get your meal and your bath, Mr. Gault?"

  He roused himself to say yes and tell her about the steak dinner he'd enjoyed at Jacques'. Ham hung on his every word, and Jesse thought of himself at his age, when his sister had whispered to him in Sunday
school once that Sister Mary Aloysius was just like a regular person—she ate food, slept in a bed, went to the privy, everything. Gault the gunfighter was a legend to Ham, a myth right up there with Johnny Appleseed or Wild Bill Hickok. And yet the legend ate rib-eye in the restaurant across the street, and got naked to take a bath in the back room of Cuomo's barbershop. Jesse sympathized with his amazement.

  "If you're still looking for a poker game," Cady said, "those boys over there play for pretty fair stakes. They start every night around ten or so. They're not high rollers, but the play's square. I don't put up with any brace games in my place."

  "That's good to know." She looked like she didn't believe him, but it was true. He was a pretty good poker player, but a lousy cheat.

  "Then of course, there's always blackjack." She smiled, daring him.

  "I don't think so," he said, smiling back.

  "No?"

  "Don't think I'd care for the odds."

  "Never know till you try."

  "I make it a point never to play against the house."

  "It's riskier," she conceded. "But if you win, the "payoff's a lot bigger."

  They just looked at each other for a while. Something fun was going on under this conversation, and it wasn't blackjack. Even Ham could tell.

  "Well," said McGill, and pushed back her chair. He could swear she looked reluctant. He'd made headway, considering she'd sat down in the first place to ask him to leave. He wished she'd stay longer; except for Ham, he hadn't talked to anybody for this long in weeks.

  "Don't suppose you'd care to show me around the town tomorrow, would you, Miss McGill?"

  What a boneheaded move. The expression on her face brought him back to earth with a thud. She got up fast, remembering all of a sudden who she was dealing with. "No, sorry," she muttered, not looking sorry at all, "I'm busy tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow's Saturday," Ham pointed out. "What you busy doing, Miz Cady?"

  "Things."

  "What things?"

  She took in an exasperated breath. "Important things."

  Jesse stuck his feet up on the chair she'd just left.

  "Never mind," he said carelessly. "I just remembered, I got important things to do, too."

  Now she looked uncomfortable. Regretful? "Well," she repeated. He didn't help her out, just glared at her with his evil eye. " 'Scuse me," she finally said, and went away.

  Soon after that, Ham deserted him, too. Jesse thought about getting drunk, just for the hell of it, then decided it wasn't worth it. In a foul mood, he threw money on the table and walked outside for some fresh air.

  This was the quiet end of town. Down the street to his right, a few faint drunken shouts sounded from time to time—Wylie's customers, probably—but for the most part Paradise had gone to bed at a decent, law-abiding hour. A sliver of new moon hung over the church steeple like a platinum comma, still too thin to shed much light. He strolled to the railing at the edge of the board sidewalk in the black shadow the porch roof cast. He didn't notice the man leaning against the upright post until the tip of his cigar glowed in the dark, and by then they were almost side by side. "Evening," Jesse muttered absently, resting his hands on top of his guns and taking in a deep breath of the clean night air.

  The man didn't answer. His slowness in turning drew attention more than any quick move would have. Unwillingness showed in every line of his body, every deliberate inch he turned. He moved as if he was greeting the devil, or his own certain death. In a spill of light from the saloon, Jesse finally recognized him: the gaunt-faced man at the bar. The one who kept trying to avoid him.

  "Doc," he whispered cautiously, remembering the bartender calling him that. He slipped a cigarette out of his pocket. "Got a match?"

  It took forever, but the doctor, if that's what he was, finally fumbled a match out of his pocket and lit it on the porch railing. His right hand shook so badly, he had to use his left to steady it. He was clean-shaven and pale as death, with black hair growing straight back from a high forehead. In the brief flare of the match, his eyes gleamed eerily from the shadows of his sharp-boned, corpselike face.

  Jesse took a deep drag on his cigarette and waited.

  It didn't take long. "I haven't had a drink in eight months," Doc announced in a low voice, staring up at the moon instead of at Jesse. "Since that night. Not one drop."

  A long silence.

  "Did he tell you she might've died anyway?"

  Jesse kept quiet.

  "No, I reckon not. It's true, though. Even if I'd gotten there on time, even if I'd been sober through the whole labor, she probably wouldn't have made it. The child..." He hunched his shoulders, holding on to the rail with both hands. "The cord was around its neck, it might've been dead already. That happens sometimes. Jeffers knew that, knows that, but he... well, no sense telling you what he's like." He straightened up with slow arthritic movements. "How'd you find me?"

  Jesse said nothing.

  Doc's long, thin upper lip lifted in a sneer of pure contempt. "Proud of yourself, Mr. Gault? Like the way you make your living? I made a bad mistake once, but at least I was trying to save a life. You..." He turned his head and spat in the street.

  Jesse didn't move and he didn't speak. He couldn't think of anything to say.

  Doc backed up against the rail again. The fight went out of him; he wilted, folded up on himself. "How do you do it?" he asked disinterestedly. "Shoot me in the back? Challenge me to a duel?" He laughed, a rough, ugly sound. "I could've made it easy for you a couple of times. Not that long ago. Done it myself, I mean," he explained with a sick grin. "Now... tell you the truth, I don't want to die. That make it harder for you? Or better? Not that I give a good goddamn."

  Jesse said, "Listen."

  "No, you listen, you son of a bitch. Look here— this is what I've got. A hundred and seventy dollars. Took it out of the bank today when I heard you were here. Every cent I own. I was going to send it—well, never mind what I was going to do with it. It's not much, but I figure it's more than what my life's worth. If you'll take it, I'll be gone by morning." When Jesse didn't move, the doctor slammed the wad of bills down on the rail in front of him. "What's it to you? Jeffers won't know. Maybe you just want to kill me. Or you want to hear me beg first, that it? Well, you can—"

  "I'm not here for you."

  "What?"

  "You've made a mistake. I don't know any Jeffers."

  He had to look away when the older man started to tremble. Holding on to the railing, Doc stumbled over to the steps and dropped down on the bottom one, thin legs seeming to give out under him. With his elbows on his knees, he stared at the ground between his feet. His shoulders shook as if he was laughing, but he didn't make any sound.

  Jesse took the money and set it down beside him. For a long time neither of them said anything. Then Jesse spoke quietly, not looking at the doc but straight ahead, at the shadowy storefronts across the street. "I guess you made a mistake once. None of my business, but it sounds like you haven't finished paying for it. Inside, I mean. I don't know anything about you, but if you came here to... work it off or something, maybe start over, I'm saying that's fine by me. None of my business. And what you just told me—it never happened. We never talked. We never even met."

  Very slowly the doc raised his head and looked at him. There was color in his face for the first time, and his dark, sunken eyes glittered. With tears? "I—"

  "Well, g'night," Jesse muttered, backing up, panicky. Embarrassment flooding through him felt like scalding water. "Gonna take a walk, stretch my legs. See you around." He felt like running, but forced himself to stride off at a reasonable pace. But he had to get away before the doc said the two words that would've just about killed him: Thank you.

  Three

  "Yup, Peg's just fine, Mr. Gault, fine and dandy. Gave him oats and clover like you said, and no timothy. He—"

  "What did you call my horse?"

  The liveryman, who went by the name of Nestor Yeakes, stopped
dead with a plug of tobacco halfway to his open mouth. "Peg? I thought you—"

  "He didn't hear you call him that, did he?"

  "Why—why—yeah, he did, 'cause I was brushin' 'im, talkin' soft, you know, tryin'—"

  "And he didn't kill you?"

  "What? What? No, he—"

  "Mister, you are one lucky son of a bitch."

  "I am?"

  Jesse ducked through the dark doorway and moved down the dusty corridor to Pegasus' stall, while behind him Nestor hurried to keep up. "Last man to call my horse P-e-g only called him that once. After that, he didn't call anybody anything." Poor Peg, he thought; it'd hurt his feelings to hear Jesse slander him like that.

  "Hey, fella," he crooned, and the stallion bobbed his handsome black head three times over the stall door before setting his chin on Jesse's shoulder and snuffling in his ear. Beautiful boy, he'd have called him, and big black baby, if he'd been alone. Baby talk would spoil his image, though. Not to mention Peg's.

  "No timothy?" he said in a warning tone, running his hands down the sides of the horse's sleek, muscular neck.

  "No timothy!" Nestor swore, spitting on the floor for emphasis.

  "Well, he looks good," he finally begrudged. "Looks real good. I think he's happy here. Think that's a happy look in his eye? Right there, see that gleam?"

  "Yessir, I did notice that! Fact, I caught him smilin' right after his ground oats yestiddy."

  Jesse checked the liveryman's round, beard-stubbled face, wondering whose leg was getting pulled now. "Take him out for a run for me today. In the afternoon, after it cools down."

  "You want me to ride this horse?" he asked, pointing, as if Jesse might be talking about some other horse.

  "You ride, don't you?"

  "Yeah, sure, but—"

  "Just remember what I said, and you'll be okay."

  "Don't call him P-e-g?" Nestor whispered, wary.

  "Right. Not if you value your life. He's smart as hell and he's got a lot of heart, but that's the one..." He trailed off, squinting in the dimness at the stall next to Peg's. "What the hell is that?"

  Nestor shuffled his feet, stared at the ground, and spat again. "Horse," he mumbled. "Name's Bell Flower or something like that. She—" He jerked his head up when Jesse made a fast movement in his direction. "I didn't do it! I was to put some salve on her when you come in!"