Iverson’s lips pursed. “Sounds like a contest only a rube would fall for.”
“Rubes, hell! Wyatt Earp hisself was there. It was a slow night at Bessie’s, as I recall,” Zumwalt continued with a nostalgic chuckle, “when in walks the biggest damn Injun y’ever saw—this was before we knew it was Blue, y’see—and he was askin’ if there’s any cockfights or such around. And when a big’n like that’s got questions, ya damn well better answer ’em.”
Devereau kept his grin carefully controlled as Ollie Zumwalt brought the memory back. The blacksmith’s eyes shone with the telling, and even Gabe looked more interested in the past than the present, so he slipped another twenty into the jackpot. The others followed his lead without paying much attention, as he’d hoped they would.
“Well, the Injun and Devereau got to talkin’ about racin’ ants against lice, of all things,” Ollie continued, “and we shoulda knowed it was a setup, seein’s how Blondie here wouldn’t have no truck with lice, for Chrissakes, but we didn’t know they’s friends at the time. Well anyway, Devereau bet the Injun that a ant would have sense enough to git offa hot plate faster’n a dumb ole louse would. And while Blue went to find ’im a louse—prob’ly one of ’is own—Dillon stepped outside for a ant, and Bessie herself was heatin’ up a china plate to run the race on. Me and Wyatt and th’ other boys was arguin’ pretty hot, and of course we plunked our money down for Devereau.”
Iverson rolled his eyes behind his veil of cigar smoke as Fred McCurdle looked from one man to another, awaiting the story’s outcome. Dillon tossed another bill into the kitty. “Still in,” he said quietly.
Gabe glanced briefly at his cards and went along; McCurdle followed without a moment’s consideration.
“Me, too,” Ollie said as he tossed in his money.
“So I s’pose by the time Devereau and Blue come back there was a thousand dollars or more—”
“Fifteen hundred,” Dillon corrected.
“—ridin’ on a damn ant and a louse. Bessie got that plate good ’n hot, and when the two critters was dropped in the center of it there was hollerin’ like you wouldn’t believe. Fellas was shovin’ each other aside so’s they could see the race, and before ya know it, the whole thing was over. Damndest con I ever saw. ’Bout sliced Devereau’s head off, throwin’ that plate at ’im.”
McCurdle scowled. “Why? What happened?”
Ollie let out a grunt. “That damned ant got to th’ edge of the plate and kept circlin’ like a brainless idjit, and the louse, he waddled to the edge and fell off! So a Injun who we first saw only ten minutes before walked out with fifteen hundred of our dollars and a helluva smile, I can tell ya. Bessie offered drinks on the house—didn’t want her fancy place smashed up, ya know. And it woulda worked, ’cept Devereau excused hisself real quiet-like insteada actin’ as upset as the rest of us. He didn’t spend another night in Wichita, becuz we run ’im out on a rail!”
Fred cleared his throat uncertainly, but rather than ask the obvious question, he studied his cards.
“I went out back of Bessie’s to split the take with Blue,” Dillon explained. “Not one of my smoothest moves.”
Their host’s eyes widened with comprehension while Gabe stubbed his cigar in his ashtray. “I repeat,” the railway overseer muttered, “that only a rube would fall for such an unlikely contest. Who’s still in, gentlemen? The pot’s up to two hundred fifty dollars.”
“How the—” Zumwalt covertly eyed his hand and his pile of money. “I’ll fold.”
“Me, too,” said Fred in a bewildered voice.
Gabe’s hooded expression told Devereau the portly dealer was aware of how the stakes had gone so high, and he wasn’t surprised to see Iverson toss in another twenty dollars.
They were silent as Dillon pretended to ponder his hand. Iverson could afford to lose, because his Kansas Pacific salary allowed for mistakes at the game table; his bushy beard concealed any bluff that didn’t show in his deep brown eyes. And for all Dillon knew, the three men had stacked the deck so the hand would come to just such an early showdown. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll see your twenty and raise it fifty.”
“Got you this time, Mr. Devereau,” Gabe replied, fanning out his cards to reveal three queens.
“Never knew ya to be such a ladies’ man, Gabriel,” Zumwalt quipped. “Can ya beat that, Dillon?”
Suppressing a grin, Devereau laid out his hand without flourish and began picking up the kitty.
“Three kings? How the hell—” McCurdle stared pointedly at Dillon. “You wearing one of those holdout gadgets underneath that fancy vest, Devereau? Seems to me the only way—”
“I’ll remove my vest if everyone else will,” he said with a shrug. He returned each man’s gaze, and when none of them reached for their front buttons, he tossed a ten-dollar ante into the kitty again. “I didn’t come to start any fights, gentlemen. Just wanted a friendly game and a little information. Your deal, Fred.”
McCurdle nodded nervously and began shuffling the deck. Gabe and Ollie put in their ante, and then Gabe clasped his hands over the front of his fashionable tweed suit. “Would this information be about your mother-in-law, perhaps?” the railroad overseer asked. “Most men would be pleased if theirs disappeared.”
Glad to see his companions relaxing, Dillon pulled the photograph from his coat pocket and slid it toward Zumwalt. “Have you seen this woman? Her name’s Marcella Scott but she also goes by Maggie Wallace. She and her escort—”
“Had I seen the likes of her, I wouldn’t forget it,” Ollie replied with a shake of his head. “Her sister lookin’ for a man? I’m still available, ya know.”
“That’s a separate likeness of herself, blended in from a different negative.” Devereau was watching Iverson’s reaction, which was encouraging. “Recognize that man, do you?”
“Every agent of the Kansas Pacific knows Erroll Powers,” Gabe replied dryly. “Just yesterday I learned the government is on his trail—finally waking up to the way he’s been double-dealing. Why on earth do you want to find him?”
He didn’t want to go into all the details, because he suspected this hand would be decisive where Zumwalt and McCurdle were concerned. “Let’s just say I have a personal score to settle,” he commented, “and when my wife learned what sort of man her mother was associating with, we thought we’d better talk some sense into her.”
Iverson raised an eyebrow as though he didn’t quite swallow this explanation. Fred finished dealing and laid the deck down before gazing thoughtfully at the photograph. “You know,” he said slowly, “I recall seeing this woman just a day or so ago. Matter of fact . . . yep, I’m sure it was her I saw talking to that Indian friend of yours.”
Devereau masked his surprise. “Blue’s in town?”
“He drops in every now and again,” Ollie spoke up. “Last time he had me shoe that damn stallion, I told ’im the price was double. ’Bout lost both my feet that day.”
Nodding absently, Dillon wondered if the scout was keeping track of Marcella or of him. “You wouldn’t know what they were discussing, would you?”
“Nope, I was clear across the street,” his host answered. “But I’ve seen him with another gal—the whore who stuck around after the houses in Delano closed down.”
“He’s still lookin’ after Lula?” Ollie asked. “Damn! Don’t know how he could give her the time of day if he’s got the likes of this Marcella woman interested in ’im.”
“It’s the scar,” Fred answered matter-of-factly. “Draws women like a magnet. Mildred says so herself.”
The thought of McCurdle’s hefty wife—a pillar of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, who spoke out against every habit Jackson Blue held dear—made all of them except Fred fight a smirk. The bets went around the table twice and Dillon folded, allowing Zumwalt to claim a smaller pot this time. Then Devereau picked up the cards to shuffle. “Any idea where Powers went when he left Wichita?”
“Dodge,” Gabe a
nswered. “I doubt he’d venture south to Caldwell again, after the stunt he pulled during his last visit. That’s in Indian Territory, and rumor has it he and the government agent there sold off the cattle and commodities shipments. Told the Indians it never arrived. Powers barely escaped with his life, so I hear.”
“Yep, them tribes is pretty hungry and damn restless,” Ollie said with an emphatic shake of his head. “Seen more aimless redskins hangin’ around than I care to lately. What sort of trash did you deal me here, Devereau?”
Letting the blacksmith’s last remark pass, Dillon gave two cards to McCurdle and two to Iverson. His own hand was as well populated as he’d planned. “Can’t blame them for being angry,” he said when his strategy was intact. “I don’t recall a single promise the government has kept since they herded the Indians onto reservations. Red men resent being dependents, just as you and I would.”
“Which is why the Cheyennes’ chief, Dull Knife, wants to lead his people back north, to their original territory,” Iverson commented as he unwrapped a fresh cigar. “No doubt in my mind things’ll flare up. Too many hungry braves’ll raise hell if the government won’t let them go.”
“Saw two of ’em hangin’ around town just yesterday,” Zumwalt added. “And you can bet I told the sheriff ’bout ’em, too.”
Dillon considered this information as the bets were seen and raised around the table. He recalled the redskins Zumwalt referred to, the hapless desperadoes who’d stared openly at Charity, and he was glad his wife was at the revival. The unsavory pair wouldn’t dare approach her with so many people around.
Gabe cleared his throat and didn’t bat an eye as he tossed a hundred dollars into the kitty. “Looks like it’s between you and me again, Mr. Devereau. Make it worth my while. Double or nothing.”
Dillon lowered his cards to his vest. “No, thank you. I have a wife to support now.”
Iverson snickered, triumphantly revealing his hand. “Full house—tens and jacks. You can’t beat that!”
Devereau smiled politely. “I believe I have. Royal flush.”
“What the—”
“How the hell did you—”
“Cheated!” Iverson yelled, standing so suddenly his chair clattered backwards onto the floor. “By God, Devereau, there’s no way you could’ve—”
“Mildred!”
The parlor rang with McCurdle’s stunned exclamation and then became uncomfortably silent. Fred’s wife was framed in the doorway, surveying the gathering with small, glittering eyes and fists on her ample hips. “I—I thought the revival would last much longer, so—”
“Obviously.” Mildred McCurdle peeled the white gloves from her pudgy hands and looked at each man in turn. “But without a piano player, even the Reverend Scott can only hold an audience for so long. So how do you explain—”
Devereau’s heart constricted. “But she had to be there. When Noah asked her to—”
“The Reverend Scott excused his daughter by saying she was spending the afternoon with her new husband,” Mrs. McCurdle replied archly. She flicked a crumb from her cushiony bosom, looking sourly at Fred. “She’ll learn soon enough what a waste of time that is.”
Dillon stood up and hurriedly scraped his winnings together. “Excuse me, but I really must go—”
“Like hell you will!” Gabe barked. “If you think we’re going to let you run like some damned rabbit—”
His heart was indeed fluttering like a frightened animal’s as he stuffed the money into his vest pocket. “We’ll have to finish this game another time, gentlemen. Mrs. McCurdle,” he added with a nod, “it was a pleasure to see you again, and I hope—”
“Sit down, Devereau!” Zumwalt ordered. “You ain’t leavin’ till we get the chance to—”
“I’m leaving now—and I’m probably too late,” he muttered. Then it struck him, why his friends were staring at him so heatedly. “I am Charity Scott’s new husband,” he explained, “and I have a feeling she’s been kidnapped.”
It took utmost control not to dash through the McCurdles’ home, and when Dillon reached the street, he broke into a run. Rain splashed his face, and he dodged people carrying umbrellas. If those two savages had abducted Charity, he’d stop at nothing short of war until she was safely recovered.
Devereau threw open the Occidental’s front door and bounded up the stairway to pound on Noah’s door. “Scott, open up! Charity—are you in there, honey?”
The Reverend answered with a puzzled frown. “Whatever’s the matter? I just got back from—”
“When McCurdle’s wife said you had no pianist, I—where is Charity?” Dillon gazed earnestly at the minister, his worst fears confirmed when Noah’s eyebrows furrowed above his spectacles.
“I thought she was with you. When I saw the clinch you had her in after dinner, I assumed the two of you—”
“She’s gone,” Devereau interrupted, “and she’s probably the hostage of a couple worthless Indians I saw watching her yesterday.” Dillon removed his dripping hat to rake his hair back. “Pack your things—and ours—while I try to find Jackson Blue. I’ll be back within the hour.”
“You’re saying Indians kidnapped my daughter, and you’re trusting that savage to find her?”
“Do you have a better plan? Chief Dull Knife is preparing to take his tribe north,” Devereau exclaimed. “If you want to see Charity again, we have to move quickly. Be ready when I return!”
Without waiting for any further objections, Dillon rushed out onto Douglas Avenue. The search for his wife made a horse a necessity; he selected one and also paid the stable man handsomely for his boot-length duster. Dillon then cantered west toward the suburb known as the Delano district, where the bawdy houses were clustered a few years back. Lula Rails hadn’t improved her standard of living, if she still allowed the likes of Blue to come and go, and he prayed the scout was with her now.
Wheeling his mount to a stop before her tawdry little shack, Dillon crinkled his nose. Even the pouring rain couldn’t wash away the stench of chamber pots emptied too close to the house. He took the unpainted stairs two at a time and pounded on the door.
After several minutes he was greeted by a sloe-eyed blonde wearing only a rumpled chemise. She looked him up and down with a distracted glance. “And what can I do for you?” she slurred..
Dillon searched the dim, smoke-filled room behind her. “Where’s Blue? It’s urgent that I see him.”
“He left town,” the Indian replied sarcastically from the shadows. “In search of friends who honor their debts and possess enough integrity to—”
“You damn—they’ve kidnapped Charity!” Dillon snapped. “She’ll be some drunken Cheyenne’s whore if we don’t find her in time.”
He heard the stealthy creak of floorboards, and then Jackson Blue appeared behind the bedraggled woman, holding a long, carved pipe. “Language like that won’t win you any favors, Devereau,” he said with a smirk. “Come in out of the rain and renew the ties that bind. Lula says my pipe makes the earth move and she sees God. Does your woman ever tell you that, Dillon?”
The sharp, sweet peyote smoke made him turn away in disgust. “This is no time for games, Jackson. My wife’s in danger, and I need your help. I’ll give you that damn money as soon as I have it, if you’ll—”
“Is Scott going?”
Dillon blinked. “Of course. He’s packing our things so we can be on our way.”
The dark scout slipped a hand into Lula’s chemise and eased her against his bare chest with a chuckle. “You swore you’d have me arrested if I saw the Reverend again. So you’re on your own, Mr. Devereau.”
Chapter 17
Hell can’t possibly be any worse than this, Charity thought, and as her body went numb from the endless hours she’d spent on horseback, she welcomed the lack of feeling. Now there were only the relentless sun, the viselike arm around her midsection, and the ceaseless pounding of the ponies’ hooves on the plain beneath them.
When she reali
zed she was being kidnapped, Charity had fought and struggled—clawing her captor’s cheek had earned her the binding around her wrists, and her outcries got her gagged. Both constraints were torn from the hem of her green gown, which was now clinging to every perspiring inch of her. Why couldn’t she have been wearing the calico dress? Dillon had taken such pains to outfit her fashionably.
The thought of her debonair husband made her squeeze her eyes shut against tears. Neither he nor Papa knew where she was. She would probably never see them again.
The two Indians rode in silence toward the sunset, across a prairie scattered with buffalo bones and past an occasional caved-in sod house. The horizon remained unchanged from one hour to the next—only her captors knew what lay beyond this vast, treeless range—and Charity wondered if their tongues felt as thick as hers did. It was good she’d used the privy when she did, but even so ...
The headbanded brave who held her raised an arm, signaling. His companion broke into a gallop, his braid flying behind him, and left Charity and her escort in a cloud of dust that made her eyes sting. Their pony snorted as though he, too, desperately needed a rest. Then he strained forward, as though anticipating an oasis, and when she squinted at the painfully bright sky, Charity thought she could make out a low, square building. It looked miles away in the shimmering heat, yet it held the glimmer of a promise: perhaps a place to spend the night?
She noticed shadows circling the ground a short distance in front of them: vultures. Charity’s stomach lurched when she saw the advance rider dismount to inspect the birds’ dinner. The dead animal’s condition apparently suited him, because by the time they reached him, he’d dispatched the carcass. She couldn’t tell what sort of meat it was and didn’t care. Only the knowledge that they’d have to rest while it cooked gave her any hope.
The structure she’d spotted turned out to be an abandoned soddie. Charity gasped when her prickling, rubbery legs would barely support her as she slid off the pony. Both braves snickered as she tottered around; she entreated them with grunts and wide eyes to unbind her wrists and remove the gag that cut her face in two. They sensed the source of her most urgent discomfort, though, and kicked at the shredded hem of her dress to make her dance between them.
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