“Well, you men are free to go and have fun in our little town, but only if it’s not against the law. If you follow our rules, you’d enjoy yourselves. If you don’t, you’ll spend time in our cells, and you won’t like that one little bit. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” answered Durango. “We’ll respect your ordinances, don’t fret.”
Smith seemed satisfied with the assurance.
“Well, then,” he said, “the town’s open for business. The Drover’s Cottage Hotel and the red-light district are just up that a-ways, awaiting your pleasure. But be cautious if you’re invited to a poker game. Sometimes the other side wins even if you’ve got the better hand, iffen you follow my drift.”
With a friendly nod he continued his way along the street until he reached the next crossroads. A couple of minutes later he was out of sight.
Chapter Three
After sunset Abilene changed completely. The town opened wide and it seemed as if everyone heard the call. Life along Texas Street pulsated, and the many saloons enjoyed good business. The fragranced steam of the bathhouses mixed with the smells of various bars and restaurants, as well as the black smoke from the big locomotives further down at the railway station.
The differences between the North and the South showed openly: the wild freedom-loving cowboys, who loved their life only when they could spend all of his hard-earned money in sinful places, and the cold businessmen from the north, who found satisfaction only in earning as much money as possible. Conflicts between these two groups were normal, but ended quickly. The single most amazing thing was the way Bear River Tom Smith enforced the law. He hardly ever toted a gun, preferring his fists to keep things tamed down.
It’s always the same game, thought Jay Durango, when he closed the curtain in his hotel room. He had watched for quite some time what happened on Texas Street. He had signed the contract and Charlie Swenson had organized the money transfer at the local bank. After concluding this part of the business, they had entered the Drover’s Cottage Hotel and rented a whole floor for the RB outfit. Then Durango gave the cowboys their monthly pay and wished them good luck for the next few days.
Jay’s own need to let off steam had been tempered by age and responsibility. Even so, he began to feel restless, being around civilization after so many weeks on the trail. On impulse he decided to take a turn around town. The RB outfit was already on the way to the red-light district, and he couldn’t help but worry for Billy. The youngster had insisted to accompany the other cowboys, and though Jay had had his doubts, he knew better than to try talking Billy out of it. The boy’s business was his own affair, and Jay had no right to stop him. Billy had to learn. But he had promised Tom Calhoun that he’d make sure no harm came to the boy. It was true that, in the company of his fellow cowboys, Billy should be okay. But Jay knew he’d get no rest until he made sure for himself.
As Jay left his hotel room and closed the door behind, his thoughts turned to Calhoun, his oldest son John and the few remaining cowboys at Rancho Bravo. Tom Calhoun had known plenty of hardship in the early days, and had been forced to fight and fight hard to keep and build his ranching empire down in that godforsaken desert land called Brasada.
On his way out, the desk clerk cleared his throat and called, “Uh, excuse me, Mr. Durango, sir. Don’t forget to hand over your weapons before you enter a saloon or a brothel.” Catching Jay’s look he added, “It’s better not to argue with Marshal Smith about it.”
Jay nodded and left the hotel.
Now he was on Texas Street, the biggest street in Abilene, surrounded by dozens of people, horses, carriages and dust. He passed the two buildings where the town mayor, Theodore C. Henry, had his offices. A drunk cowboy jostled him at the shoulder and murmured a hasty apology, then stumbled into the darkness behind a barn.
Passing a saloon, piano music reached Jay’s ears and he recognized the melody at once. It was The Yellow Rose of Texas, and as looked through one of the dusty windows, he saw that some of the percentage girls were singing along with it. The place was packed to the rafters, or so it seemed.
Suddenly one of the more rambunctious patrons was thrown out into the street by a thick-armed bouncer. The drunk yelled and cussed when he landed in the dirt, but almost immediately stumbled back to his feet and tried to stagger back inside. Unfortunately for him, the bouncer was still blocking the entrance.
“Uh-huh, Carl,” the bouncer said. “I think you’d better head for home.”
“But I just want to...”
“Hush, Carl!” interrupted the bigger man. “Leave now – or you’ll be seeing tomorrow’s sunrise through two black eyes.”
No further words were exchanged. The drunken cowboy turned around and left.
Meanwhile a big crowd had gathered before the Alamo Saloon on the other side of Texas Street. Jay recognized Marshal Tom Smith among them, now bracing a young cowboy who stood motionless before the entrance. He quickly crossed the street, and as he closed on the group he heard the marshal address the cowboy in angry tones.
“Hank, I won’t say this again. You saw the sign at the entrance, boy!”
But Hank only laughed and spat in the dust between the marshal’s boots.
“Smith, I don’t hand over my weapons, not to you nor nobody else! I’ll enter this here saloon and carry my weapons jus’ like I always do. They’re a part of me. Without them I feel naked and ... ”
“Then get yourself a blanket, Hank,” Smith answered shortly. “I mean to have your guns – right now. I’d as soon you hand ’em over peaceable as force me to take ’em off you.”
While he was speaking, he stretched out his right hand for the weapons. As he came nearer, the man called Hank became visibly more agitated.
“Hold it, Marshal,” he said. “One step closer and I’ll give you these guns barrel-first!”
“Don’t you dare, Hank,” said Smith. “You do that, and it’s cold-blooded murder. You’ll face court and hang, you kill an unarmed man.”
Hank became more nervous still. He was in a fix. If he backed down now, everyone would say he was yellow. If he killed the marshal, he’d be arrested, tried and sentenced to death. But the young man had been drinking even before he’d decided to go into the Alamo, and the booze had addled his thinking, making him unpredictable and impetuous.
“I ... I’m gonna shoot you, Smith,” he said, when the distance between him and the marshal was no more than a few steps.
“Nonsense, boy,” said Smith, and to everyone’s surprise he actually grinned. “Abilene has its laws, and all but the worst respect them. And I know you’re a long ways from being the worst.”
And then Smith struck.
He moved so fast that Hank never saw the blow coming. Smith lashed out with his right fist, his knuckled slammed hard against Hank’s jaw and the boy went down in a heap.
The crowd around them was totally silent. Although it was well-known that Smith only used his fists to keep the peace, it was still something to see – an unarmed man going against an armed one with seemingly not the first hint of fear.
The marshal looked into the crowd, then addressed two men directly.
“Joe, Curtis! You two come here and drag this idjit down to the jail. What’re you waiting for? Hurry up, there!”
The men he’d singled out grabbed the unconscious cowboy by his arms and legs and took him to the other side of Texas Street. The jail wasn’t far away.
“Anyone else around here have the same problem?” Smith challenged. “If not, then hand over your weapons and enjoy a happy time at the saloon!”
Smith did not repeat this order again. There was no need. Many of the onlookers turned and drifted away. Those who stayed unbuckled their gunbelts and handed them to one of the saloon’s employees, who was waiting at the batwings to take them.
Turning around, Smith recognized Jay. He greeted the Rancho Bravo foreman with a friendly smile. “How’d your business go, Durango?” he asked. “You make out all right?”
>
“Yup,” answered Jay. “Got a fair deal, I think. Once the cattle are on their way east, we’ll be headed back to Texas.”
“Your first time in Abilene?” asked Smith.
“My second,” said Jay. “I pushed the first Rancho Bravo herd up here last summer, so I knew a few things about this town. But it looks to me as if there’ve been plenty changes.”
“That’s true enough,” nodded the marshal. “This place was turning rougher by the second when I came in. Too many coyotes, too many back shooters. Those few law-abiding townspeople who live here year-round were entitled to a little justice. That’s what I fetched with me.”
“I’ve seen your stone jailhouse,” said Jay. “Pretty impressive. All you had the last time I was here was a glorified timber shack.”
“Well, that’s the thing about stone – you can’t burn it down.”
“Someone burned the old jail down?”
“Oh, some of you wild Texas cowboys, out to make a point,” Smith replied. “It all started with a drunk Negro cook from the Driscoll outfit, who passed out right here in Texas Street. He was sent to jail until he sobered up. But when the rest of the Driscoll outfit heard the news, they decided to take the law into their own hands. They rode into town, freed their buddy from jail and burned it down.”
“Well, I can see why you’d need to make a stand against behavior like that.”
“Damn right. So it’s my intention to tame this Sodom and Gomorrah as soon as possible – and by any means I see fit. Of course, I’m making new enemies by the day, because there’s still plenty folk who like Abilene wild and woolly—they make more money that way. I ’spect there are plenty businessmen in this neck of the woods who’d like to see me take a bullet in the back.”
As the marshal spoke, Jay happened to glance beyond him and with something like dread recognized a man standing beside the saloon entrance. It looked as if the man had been watching Jay and the marshal for quite some time.
“Excuse me, Marshal,” he said. “I’ve just seen someone I need to talk to.”
Without another word he left Smith and crossed the street.
Chapter Four
Rio Shayne raised his glass. “Let’s give a big cheer to our Lone Star State, boys,” he said.
The others were applauding and cheering, for they were all fiercely proud of their Texas heritage. After Jay had paid them off, they’d gone out to see what the town had to offer. They soon discovered that they were spoilt for choice.
By the time they reached the Bull’s Head Saloon a couple of hours later they were all well and truly oiled. But right then the only thing better than whiskey was more whiskey.
Billy Calhoun, however, was still occupied with his own thoughts. Spending this rumbustious evening with his companions had shown him just how little experience he really had, and how little he knew about life. The minute they’d entered the saloon he’d stopped in his tracks, awed by the fine décor. He’d never seen a chandelier so big or so fancy. And the mahogany bar! So long it took three bartenders to dispense cheer along its entire length.
It was a world away from Billy’s formative years, when he had been forced to spend part of his childhood with the Kwahadi Comanches. He had been abducted by Quanah Parker’s warriors about eight years earlier and ended up living with them for two years. When he was found and brought back to his people he never was the same innocent boy ever again. Something in him had changed – had been changed – and there were plenty of times now when he wondered if he ever truly fitted into white society.
“Hey, Billy – what’s wrong?” asked Rio. “Come on, I’ll buy you another drink.”
He told the barkeep to refill Billy’s glass. Seconds later Billy raised it and drank the burning liquid, with the others encouraging him noisily.
If the truth be told, Billy envied his companions. He had more or less grown up around them, but was beginning to grow increasingly distant from them. No one ever said as much, but he often felt they never trusted him completely, and not because he was the boss’s son – but because of his association with the hated Comanches.
He couldn’t entirely blame them. He knew he had changed. But nobody could turn back the wheel of time. So Billy tried to make the best of it, but sometimes, such as now, he couldn’t help but surrender to melancholy.
A stranger further along the bar called, “Hey, you guys look like you’re havin’ fun!” Glancing around, Billy saw that he belonged to another outfit who had entered the Bull’s Head saloon shortly after the Rancho Bravo men.
“We reckon we’ve earned it!” grinned Rio. “It’s been a great evening so far, and the best is still to come!”
“Well, you ain’t seen nothing till you’ve visited the Opera House.”
“What?” asked Rio, who seemed to be having difficulties with his balance. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a fantastic place,” said the cowboy. “And it’s not a far walk from where we are right now, just a few yards up on this side of Texas Street. You got to visit it!”
“What’s this hombre talking about, Rio?” asked red-headed Gus Gentry. “Is that a part of the red-light district?”
Billy sighed impatiently. “An opera house is where singers and such go on stage to act out plays and sing songs.”
“I know such places,” interrupted Dave Harmon. “Back home at Crackersville we had something like that. They sang songs like Green Grow the Lilacs and Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
“I don’t think that was the kind of singing Billy was talking about,” said Rio. “Was it, Billy?”
“Nope. An opera house is something completely different. The actors kind of tell a story through the songs they sing, songs written by folks like Chopin—”
“Who in hell is this Chopain guy?” interrupted Gus. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Tell you what,” said Billy, “the easiest way to explain it to you is to take you along there and let you see and hear it for yourself.”
Gus went for it at once. “Billy’s right. Let’s go down there and see what this here opera house has got to offer us good and honest Texans. Chopain or not Chopain – we’ll find out what’s it’s all about!”
The other men agreed and left the bar. But some of them were already staggering. They tumbled a few times, and without the help of their companions would never have been able to continue their walk. But by this time the talk of this so-called opera house had caught the attention of every man there, and none of them intended to miss out what promised to be a special experience.
Jay Durango stopped before the man standing outside the Alamo, who’d been watching him and Smith. Now he looked into the man’s coolly handsome face, with its deep brown eyes and square jaw, and said, “Lee Kedrick. Well, I never expected to meet you again – especially not in a town like Abilene.”
The man Jay had identified as Lee Kedrick was straight and tall, and his clothes were the pressed black of a gambler. “Life is full of surprises,” he said at length.
“What are you doing here, Lee?”
“Do I have to be doing anything?”
“You forget, I know you of old. I never trusted you then and I sure don’t trust you now.”
Lee Kedrick’s smile did not reach his cold eyes when he answered, “Cool down, Jay. Whatever quarrel we had is in the past now. You believe that, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Well, you should. It’s dead, buried. And you and me, we ought to bury the hatchet, too.”
“I thank you for the invitation,” said Jay, “but I’ll pass.”
“My God, you’re a bitter man, Durango.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to live with that.”
The gambler only laughed. “Hear tell you’re nursin’ cows for Rancho Bravo these days,” he said. “That was a mighty handsome herd you drove in today. Fetched a pretty penny, I’d guess.”
Jay gave him a sharp look. So that was it. Kedrick had seen him drive the herd in, pic
ked up word that it had sold for a fair amount and now had his sights set firmly on getting some, if not all, of that money for himself. And he might just manage it, too, for though he appeared to be weaponless at the moment, he could still be a very real danger, if push came to shove.
Even so, Jay said, “Stay clear of me and my men, Lee, and don’t make any trouble for us with your card-sharpin’ ways.”
“Fair enough,” the gambler answered amiably. “You just go into the saloon and enjoy yourself, amigo. I just wanted you to know that I was glad to run into you again after so many years.”
“I wish I could tell you the feeling was mutual,” Jay replied. “But it’s not.”
That didn’t appear to worry Kedrick. “Well, we’ll meet again, Jay – maybe sooner than you expect. And then you might feel differently.”
The threat behind the words was obvious, but Jay chose to ignore it, for now. And though he knew that Lee Kedrick would happily back-shoot him if there was any profit to be had from it, he felt safe enough right now, with so many witnesses all around them.
Before he turned away, however, he spotted a small orange light in a dark alley on the opposite side of the street, recognized it as the tip of a cigarette and wondered if the man in the shadows there had been watching their exchange.
For all he knew, it might even be Marshal Smith.
He turned again, and saw that Kedrick had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to vanish into the night. That they would meet again, as Kedrick had predicted, he had no doubt.
With a sigh Jay went on his way into the Alamo. But before he could reach the bar, a stocky built man stepped into his path. Durango saw a jumble of guns and holsters set out on a big wooden table inside the doorway, and could guess what was coming next.
“It’s Bear River Tom’s law, Mister,” said the stocky man. “All—”
“I know,” said Jay. “All weapons must be handed over before you go to the bar, right?”
He shucked his gunbelt and handed it over. But it was an uncomfortable feeling to enter a saloon without a weapon.
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