High Wild Desert

by Ralph Cotton

  “You might just be doing that before this is over,” Teague said.

  “Yeah?” said Rudabough.

  “Yeah,” said Teague. “Meanwhile, Fenderson said hire Coyle, so that’s what we’re going to do. Pour us some whiskey. We need to make some plans for this gambling fool. I’ll fix his lucky streak for him.”

  Chapter 5

  Instead of going to the room where he knew Anna Rose lay waiting for him in her feather bed, Oldham walked to the dark, quiet end of a hallway and looked out a window onto an empty alley below. He took out chopped tobacco and paper and rolled himself a smoke. He didn’t like it when things started moving too fast on him. Yesterday, he was on the desert floor wondering how he and his men would manage to ferret out the mine payroll and ride away with it. That much was done. Now the mine payroll was waiting for him.

  Good luck? Damn right it was, he told himself, drawing deep on the cigarette. But that was only part of it. The last time he’d sat down to play poker, he’d lost everything—couldn’t get a break. Today, he’d been the cock of the walk, the big winner. He had money piled up and waiting for him in the young dove’s room. And that wasn’t all he had waiting for him. He smiled to himself, imagining the warmth, the feel of her as he turned back the covers just enough to slip in beside her. More good luck?

  Please . . . He chuffed at his question.

  He realized Anna Rose was a dove, doing what a dove does for money. But he also knew that women like her could choose their clients. She could sleep with whom she wanted to and turn away the rest. Yet, with her pick of the room, she had waited all this time for him while he swilled rye and played poker. That wasn’t just good luck, he told himself. That was falling into a golden jackpot. He grinned to himself, studying the dark alley below.

  His luck had changed—not just changed, actually shot straight up like a Chinese skyrocket. He blew out a stream of smoke in exasperation. So what was that gnawing deep inside his belly? Why didn’t he feel right about all this? What was missing?

  Damn it, he hated this feeling.

  He’d waited some time for his luck to turn around again, and now that it had done so, he felt as if something was missing. He’d seen himself win a thousand times like this only to lose again, because no matter how much his luck changed, it was never enough for him. He had to push it further, take in more, squeeze the luck until it turned bitter in his hands. Not this time, though. He had learned his lesson.

  Jesus. What was it about losing that always left him feeling fuller than winning ever did? He drew deep on the cigarette and blew out a stream against the dusty windowpane. He didn’t know the answer, but he did know that this time he wasn’t about to push his luck.

  “Look at you,” he murmured, half in disgust, eyeing down the front of his dusty shirt, his trousers, his dirty boot toes. This is crazy, too crazy to even think about, he decided. Settle yourself down, go to her room, slip into the bath, slip into her bed. Stop feeling like a fool—stop acting like a fool.

  He took three more puffs on the cigarette, stubbed it down onto the windowsill. All right. Anybody can be a good loser. They learn it from plenty of practice. Being a good winner requires something different, a whole other kind of light in your head, he thought. It’s a different feel in your guts. It isn’t hard to quit when you lose because you’re forced to quit when there’s nothing left.

  But winning? He let out a long breath. Damn! Winning took more of something, though he wasn’t sure what. Enough of this. He dismissed the matter, turned and walked straight to room seven, where Anna Rose told him she would be.

  “Now you’re starting to make sense,” he said to himself under his breath. He turned the knob on the unlocked door, stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

  Anna Rose was lying in a large feather bed. In the soft flicker of a candle lantern, Oldham watched her throw back a sheet, stand up naked from the bed and walk to him. Through the half-opened door to a smaller room, Oldham saw an ornate bathing tub. Steam curled up from a frothy head of hot, soapy water.

  “Well, there you are,” she said softly. “I was starting to feel neglected.” She stopped close in front of him and tugged his dusty shirttail up from his trousers. On the nightstand beside the flickering candle lantern, Oldham saw his winnings neatly resting in four stacks.

  “God forbid such a thing while I’m around,” he said to her, his arms wrapping around her, feeling her skin warm and creamy against him.

  She pressed her face into his chest.

  “Take off your boots. I’ll take off the rest,” she whispered, drawing circles on his chest lightly with her fingertip. “Let me get you lathered, rinsed and dried, all very slowly.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Oldham smiled as she stepped back enough for him to pull off his dirty boots. She took his hand and led him into the other room, to the steaming bathtub. She unfastened his gun belt and set it aside. She loosened his trousers and started to pull them down. He smiled a little to himself, seeing a bottle of rye standing on a small table beside the tub.

  Oh yes, you’re on a streak, pard, and this is what winning’s all about.

  But before Anna Rose could lower his trousers, he put his hand on hers, stopping her.

  “Wait,” he said, “there’s something I’ve got to do first.”

  She watched him fasten his trousers and walk around to the bottle of rye, pour himself a double shot in a glass and swirl it around.

  “Drink up, there’s plenty more,” she said, and added, “I drink too.” She smiled.

  “Sorry,” Oldham said, quickly upturning another clean glass and pouring rye into it for her. She noted a seriousness that had suddenly set in on his face. His hand quickened, almost shook a little as he poured the rye. His eyes grew remote, distant, as he turned and handed her the glass—something she never saw men do, especially with her standing naked in front of them.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, reaching a hand up, cupping his cheek.

  “No, not at all,” he said. But instead of responding to her advances, he sipped the rye, stopped, then tossed it back all at once. He turned away and poured himself another drink.

  Yes, something was wrong. She’d seen men act this way before. She sipped her rye and observed for a moment while he drank in silence and stared down at the glass in his hand. Had she pushed him too much, too far at once? That was something a girl had to be careful not to do. Some of these men hadn’t seen a woman in weeks, months. For many of them the drinking and gambling had to come first.

  Some men had to first sate themselves with their other vices before they could handle a woman. This one had not struck her as being that way, but maybe she’d been wrong—she’d been wrong before.

  She set her rye down and stepped closer.

  “What do I have to do to get you between my knees, cowboy?” she asked softly. She reached for the waist of his trousers, but he stepped away, turned and walked toward the bed.

  Okay, maybe he couldn’t wait, she thought, so perhaps the hot bath would have to. She could go that way. It wasn’t her first choice.

  Oldham stopped and picked up two of the four stacks of cash from the nightstand beside the bed. Next to the cash were six stacks of chips. Yet he didn’t even touch the chips. Here it is, she thought. She slumped and drew a patient breath.

  “I’ve got something I have to do,” Oldham said, his voice sounding changed, harried. He picked up his shirt and walked about the room gathering his clothes. “I won’t be long, Anna Rose, but I’ve got to go do this.”

  “A gambler . . . ,” she whispered under her breath.

  Oldham offered a tormented smile.

  “No, I mean it,” he said, hurrying with his clothes. “I won’t be long.” He nodded at the money and chips still lying on the nightstand. “Watch that for me. Take whatever you need, but wait for me.”

  “Whatever
you say.” She picked up a nightshirt and slipped into it. “I’ll wait for you.” She stopped and gave him a serious look. “It’s going to cost you plenty, but I’ll wait.”

  • • •

  At the bar, Karl Sieg and Little Deak watched as Oldham walked back down the stairs and weaved his way across the crowded saloon to the gaming table he’d left not more than a half hour earlier. From the table in the rear corner, Teague and Sonny Rudabaugh saw him too. Teague sat holding his glass of rye, a cigar hanging between his fingers.

  “Look at this, Sonny,” he said. “I told you this dog hadn’t gone off the hunt, didn’t I?”

  “Yep, you did,” said Sonny with a thin smile.

  “I’ll be honest, though,” said Teague. “I thought it would be longer than this. What kind of man leaves a pretty little dove like that one lying in bed alone?”

  “Beats me,” said Sonny, watching Oldham Coyle pull out an empty chair, sit down and flop a stack of cash onto the tabletop. “You want to do like you was saying, set him up to lose, maybe see about slipping some dope into his whiskey?”

  Teague puffed his cigar, watching Coyle, considering it. Finally he let go a long stream of gray smoke and gave a thin smile.

  “Naw,” he said, “this guy won’t need setting up. I’m betting he’ll beat himself without our help.”

  “What about doping him?” Sonny asked. “You know, just enough to keep him from being able to handle his play?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Teague, watching. “There’s some men you don’t need to dope to make them lose. They go around carrying their own poison.” He puffed on his cigar in satisfaction. “Some men you don’t have to do nothing but stand back out of their way. Sooner or later, their nose hits the floor.”

  “All right, then, what do you want me to do, Henry?” Sonny asked, looking back and forth almost nervously.

  “I just said nothing,” said Teague. He reached out and filled both their glasses. “For the time being anyway. Let’s just relax, have our rye and enjoy the show.”

  • • •

  Across the floor at the bar, Little Deak and Karl Sieg stood watching the poker platform as the dealer, Ozwald White, slid six stacks of chips across the tabletop to Oldham. Little Deak sat on the edge of the bar top facing out across the crowded floor. Beside him stood Blind Simon, looking back and forth at the dark shadows interwoven with streaks of pale light moving around before him.

  “This is what Dave told us to watch out for,” Sieg said sidelong to the dwarf beside him. “I don’t like being put on a spot like this. Oldham’s the boss. We shouldn’t be asked to report his carrying-ons to his brother.”

  “That’s so,” said Little Deak, “but we were asked. So let’s get it done.” He hopped down from the bar top and adjusted his Colt across his belly.

  “Where we going?” Simon asked.

  “Karl and I are going to find Dave,” said Deak.

  “What about me?” Simon asked.

  “Wait here and keep an eye on things,” Deak said.

  “You’re being funny, huh?” said Simon, his face still turned as if observing the crowded saloon.

  “Sorry, Simon,” said Deak. “Sometimes I forget.”

  “Be glad I don’t forget sometimes,” Simon said, “and wind up pissing in your ear.”

  “We could be a while, Simon,” Deak said, letting the insult go. “But there’s still plenty of rye in the bottle and money on the bar if you need it for more. Are you good?”

  “Get out of here. I’m good,” Simon said, his face still turned to the swirl of shadows and light in front of him.

  Deak looked up at Sieg and nodded toward the door.

  At the bar, even amid the din of the crowd, Simon listened to the sound of Deak’s and Sieg’s footsteps walk away and out the front door. He stood with his glass of rye in hand, his tapping stick leaning against the bar beside him. Now that he was alone, his position staring at the crowd from behind his dark spectacles soon drew attention from some of the faces in the crowded saloon. After a few minutes, three miners half circled him, prowling back and forth across the floor like nosy wolves, held hesitant only by the big Dance Brothers pistol holstered on Simon’s hip.

  Finally one of the miners gathered the courage to move in closer in spite of Simon’s big gun. With his right hand rested on the handle of a large bowie knife standing in a fringed sheath on his belt, he stopped a few feet in front of the imposing blind man.

  “Are you looking at me, mister?” he asked.

  Blind Simon didn’t answer. He judged the closeness of the man by the volume of his voice, by the whiskey and beer on his breath, by the smell of his clothes, the lingering odor of lye soap, kerosene and unearthed sandstone.

  Three feet? Four . . . ? Yes, four, he decided.

  “I said, are you looking at me, mister?” the miner repeated in a firmer tone.

  “I expect I am at that,” Simon said flatly.

  “What did I do that strikes your attention?” the man asked gruffly.

  “Nothing,” Simon said. “Your face just offends me.”

  “Oh?”

  The sound of steel drawn quickly from its rawhide leather sheath whispered in Simon’s ears. With it came the sound of a gasp from much of the crowd, even as the player-piano rattled on in its far corner. In reflex, Simon’s right hand snapped tight around the bone handle of his big Dance Brothers revolver.

  “Let’s do it,” Simon growled fearlessly.

  The young miner in front of him crouched. Simon saw the dim shadow lower in the backlight of the candle – and lantern-lit saloon. A knifer? He didn’t care; he’d just pull iron and start shooting. Odds were at this distance he’d hit something.

  “Hold it, Hawk,” said a voice farther to Simon’s right. “This sumbitch can’t see a lick.”

  “What are you saying, fool?” the knife wielder asked, tense, his brain and spleen a-boil on rye, anger and fear.

  “I’m saying, he’s blind, Hawk! Damn it, he can’t see you. He can’t see scat! Can you, mister?”

  “I can see just fine,” said Simon. Palm upturned, he flagged the knifer to him with his fingertips. “Are you coming on with that pigsticker, or you going to go whittle with it?”

  “He sees me, Tinker,” the knife wielder, Dale Hawkes, said to his comrade. He retightened his jaw and tensed for a lunge.

  “No, he’s blind!” Tinker called out. He gestured toward the long stick leaning against the bar. “Look, he uses that to move around with, keep from knocking his teeth out.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, fellow,” Simon warned, half turning to the sound of the other man’s voice, “or it’ll be your teeth all over the wall.”

  The few onlookers drew back in a wider circle.

  From the poker platform, playing at a fevered pitch, Oldham Coyle neither heard nor noticed the disturbance at the bar, nor did much of the crowded saloon, except for those nearby.

  “Is that true, mister?” said Hawkes, easing up a little. “Are you blind?”

  “Make your move and find out,” Simon said, defiant to the last word. He heard a letup of tension in the man’s voice. Guessing that the man had lowered the knife an inch, Simon let his hand slide slightly off the handle of his gun.

  Hawkes gave Tinker an uncertain look, unable to determine if indeed this man was blind or just playing some strange killing game with him.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Tinker asked quickly, raising his middle finger toward Simon with a half-teasing grin. He bobbed the finger a little; laughter rippled.

  Hearing the muffled laughter, Simon caught on and played a hunch. “Keep doing it, I’ll clip it off for you.”

  Tinker’s hand came down fast.

  “Damn. Maybe he sees us after all,” he said.

  “This is crazy,” said Hawkes, cooling, losin
g interest in spilling blood. “Lift your spectacles, mister,” he said. “I want to see your eyes.”

  “Go to hell,” said Simon. But Hawkes noted that whatever fury had been in this stranger’s voice had dissipated. Seeing that Simon had let go of his gun handle, he sheathed his knife and ran a hand across his moist forehead. “If you’re not blind, why do you carry that long stick around?”

  “If you’re not stupid, why do you keep running your mouth?” Simon shot back at him. These men were young and drunk, he decided—not that it made them any less dangerous. Just a little less cause for concern.

  “That’s it,” Hawkes said in exasperation, “he’s blind. I’m not fighting no blind man.” He looked at his friend Tinker and another miner named Paul Rosen. “He is blind, right?” he said.

  “Jesus! Yes, he’s blind,” Rosen said adamantly. “What’s it going to take?”

  Simon couldn’t help giving a slight chuckle, seeing the trouble was at an end. On either side of the would-be combatants, what few onlookers the incident had gathered began to wander off.

  “He thinks this is funny,” said Tinker.

  The three watched as Simon raised his spectacles enough for them to see his dull, dead eyes.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” said Hawkes. “I would never have lived this down.”

  “What’s that?” Simon said. “Getting your ass whupped proper by a blind man?” As he spoke, his hand felt over beside him, picked up the bottle of rye and held it out at arm’s length.

  Hawkes shook his head and chuffed in submission.

  “Hell, I guess so,” Hawkes said. He stepped in to reach for the bottle. “Are we drinking with you now?”

  “Yep,” said Simon, turning the bottle loose to him. “See the poker game going on over there?” he asked.

  “What about it?” asked Tinker, his hand reaching out for the bottle when Hawkes finished with it.

  “Every now and then, I’d appreciate one of yas telling me what’s going on over there. I’m waiting on a friend who’s in that game.”

  Hawkes looked over at the poker table. He grinned.