Showdown at Dead End Canyon

by Robert Vaughan

  Ford nervously cleared his throat. “You want me to serve them? Personally?”

  “Yes. You are the one who represents the U. S. government, are you not?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean that I want to—or even have to—serve them personally,” Ford said.

  “Given the rewards, I’d think you would be more than willing to serve the papers,” Bailey said.

  “I haven’t been out here very long,” Ford said, “but I have lived here long enough to know that if you tell a rancher you are taking his land away from him, you’d better get back out of the way. He may not take it all that well. In fact he could get, uh…”

  “Dangerous?” Bailey suggested.

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, you are afraid to serve the papers.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

  “Yes,” Ford replied. “I’m a government official, I’m not a lawman. I wouldn’t know how to handle it if someone decided to put up a fight.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bailey said. “I’ll have Mr. Dancer serve the papers.”

  “Dancer, yes,” Ford replied. “He would be just the one to serve them.”

  From the Green River Journal:

  GREEN RIVER A BOOMTOWN

  From the beginning, the town of Green River could have been classified as hardworking, fairly sober, and almost always conscientious. But recently it has turned into a rip-snorting, hell-raising town, bent upon divesting every citizen who arrives of his poke in the quickest manner possible.

  What has caused this usually mild and law-abiding town to undergo such a change? It is the discovery of gold in the Sweetwater Mountains to our north, and the desire of all to make their fortune.

  And who has come to town, to flood our streets and fill our saloons, cafés, and gambling houses? Those selfsame fortune seekers. There are a good many people here now. Broad-brimmed and spurred Texas cowboys, Nebraska farmers, keen businessmen from Chicago, St. Louis, and even New York, real estate agents, land seekers, hungry lawyers, gamblers, women with white sun bonnets and modest dress, painted women with colorful ribbons and scandalous dress, express wagons going pell-mell, prairie schooners and farm wagons, all rushing after the almighty dollar.

  Already a struggle has begun for control of the soul of our fair town, between the preachers who have come to save us and the gamblers and harlots who have come to drag us into their parlors of sin.

  Green River has many characteristics that prevent its being classified as a town of strictly moral ideas and principles, notwithstanding it is supplied with a church, a courthouse, and a jail. Other institutions counterbalance the good works supposed to emanate from the first mentioned. Like many other frontier towns of this modern day, fast men and fast women are around by the score, seeking whom they may devour, hunting for a soft target, and taking him in for cash. Many is the would-be gold seeker who can testify as to the abilities of these charlatans to successfully follow the callings they have embraced in quest of money.

  Hawke folded the newspaper and put it to one side, then picked up his beer and looked around the saloon. Aaron Peabody was pounding away on the piano, but fortunately there was so much noise in the saloon that his cacophonous efforts could scarcely be heard.

  Libby St. Cyr came into the saloon. She was wearing a low-cut dress that showed a generous spill of breasts at the neckline. The dress clung to her body until just below the flare of her hips, where it became fuller. When she saw Hawke standing at the bar, she walked over to talk to him.

  “That should be you playing the piano,” she said.

  Hawke shook his head. “No, I think not. Not that piano,” he said.

  Peabody hit another sour note.

  “Oh, my, is he that bad, or is it the piano?”

  “Yes,” Hawke replied, and it took Libby a second to understand his answer.

  When she did understand it, she laughed.

  “Could I buy you a drink, Miss St. Cyr?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “From a good bottle,” Hawke said to Jake, holding up a finger.

  Jake poured whiskey into a clean glass and gave it to Libby.

  “Miss, are you looking for work?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, lifting the drink. She smiled at Hawke, then tossed it down quickly. “Why do you ask?” she asked, turning back to Jake.

  “Well, uh, the way you look, uh, I mean…”

  “Oh?” Libby said, pouting. “You don’t like the way I look?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t say nothin’ like that.”

  “You are teasing him, Miss St. Cyr,” Hawke said.

  “I suppose I am.”

  “But I am as curious as the bartender. Why are you in here? I thought you were going up north.”

  “We are leaving tomorrow morning,” Libby said. “But today I’m on my own, so I thought I would come over here and see if I could find a good poker game.”

  “There’s always one going,” Hawke said. “And if you can’t find one, I’m sure you can start one.”

  “Good idea,” she said. She stepped out onto the floor and held up a deck of cards. “Gentlemen,” she called. “I’m looking for three men who aren’t afraid to play cards with a woman. I’ll be at that table right over there.”

  Chapter 12

  BY THE TIME LIBBY REACHED THE TABLE, THERE WERE three men sitting there, waiting patiently.

  Chuckling, Hawke turned back to the bar and ordered another drink. He had just finished it when one of the players got up.

  “I’ve got to make my rounds,” he said. He chuckled. “And it’s a good thing too. If I stayed here any longer, I’d lose a month’s pay.”

  “Why, Deputy Hagen, if you had paid more attention to your cards and less attention to my, uh…breasts, perhaps you would have done better,” Libby teased, and the others laughed.

  “You fellas better watch her,” the deputy called back good-naturedly as he left.

  “Well now, Deputy, that’s the problem. We all have been watchin’ her, and not the cards,” one of the other players said, and again everyone laughed.

  “Mr. Hawke,” Libby called. “There is a seat open at the table, if you would care to join us.”

  “Thanks,” Hawke said. “Maybe I will.”

  Hawke joined the game.

  “Gentlemen, new player, new deck,” Libby said. She picked up a box, broke the seal, then dumped the cards onto the table. They were clean, stiff, and shining. She pulled out the joker, then began shuffling the deck. The stiff new pasteboards clicked sharply. Her hands moved swiftly, folding the cards in and out until the law of random numbers became king. She shoved the deck across the table.

  “Cut?” she invited Hawke. Leaning over the table, she showed a generous amount of cleavage.

  Hawke cut the deck, then pushed them back. He tried to focus on her hands, though it was difficult because she kept finding ways to position herself to draw his eyes toward her more interesting parts. When he looked around the table, he saw that the other players were having the same problem.

  “You aren’t having trouble concentrating, are you, Mr. Hawke?” Libby teased.

  “Not at all,” Hawke replied with a laugh. “Not at all.”

  After a few more hands one of the other players left and a new player joined. He was a big man with red hair and a bushy beard. Hawke recognized him at once as the man he had encountered several weeks ago at the saloon in Sage Creek.

  “Hello, Metzger,” he said.

  Metzger squinted his eyes at Hawke. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  Hawke studied Metzger for a moment, wondering if Metzger really didn’t know who he was or if he was just pretending not to know. Whichever it was, he decided not to pursue it.

  “I must’ve heard someone say it,” Hawke said.

  “Yeah, that must be it, ’cause me ’n’ you have never met before,” Metzger said.

  Hawke knew then, by the way Metzger was so sp
ecific about their never having met, that he was lying. He could also tell by the little twitch in Metzger’s left eye and the sound of his voice. He just didn’t know why.

  “The game is five card,” Libby said, then paused and looked directly at Hawke before saying the next word. “Stud,” she added pointedly.

  “Fine,” Hawke answered.

  Hawke won fifteen dollars on the first hand, and a couple of hands later was ahead by a little over thirty dollars. The other players were taking Hawke’s good luck in stride, but Metzger began complaining.

  “Somethin kinda fishy is goin’ on here,” he said.

  “Fishy, Mr. Metzger?” Libby replied sweetly.

  Metzger looked at Libby, then nodded toward Hawke. “You’re dealin’ him winnin’ hands,” he said.

  “How can you say that?” Libby asked. “The deal has passed around the table, and Mr. Hawke has been winning no matter who is dealing.”

  “Are you trying to tell me his winnin’ is just dumb luck?”

  “No, it’s not just luck, and there’s nothing dumb about it,” Hawke said. “There’s a degree of skill involved in knowing when to hold and when to fold. You obviously haven’t learned that.”

  “Is that a fact?” Metzger asked. He stared across the table through narrowed eyes. “Suppose you and I have a go by ourselves? Showdown for twenty-five dollars.”

  “Showdown?” Hawke chuckled. “All right, I see you’re trying to even up the odds a bit by taking the skill out. But I’ll go with you.”

  Metzger reached for the cards, but Hawke stuck his hand out to stop him. “You don’t think I’m going to let you deal, do you? We’ll let the lady deal.”

  “Uh-uh,” Metzger said, shaking his head. He nodded toward one of the other players. “We’ll let him deal.”

  “All right,” Hawke agreed.

  The man Metzger selected dealt five cards to each of them. Hawke took the pot with a pair of twos.

  Metzger laughed. “Not exactly a big hand, was it? How about another?”

  Hawke won that hand with a jack high.

  “Want another one?” Hawke asked.

  “Yes,” Metzger replied. “You can’t possibly win three in a row.”

  Hawke did win the third, with a pair of tens, and Metzger threw his cards on the table in disgust. He slid the rest of his money to the center of the table. “I’ve thirty-six dollars here,” he said. “High card.”

  Hawke covered his bet, then the dealer fanned the cards out.

  “You draw first,” Metzger said.

  Hawke started to reach for a card, but just as he touched it, Metzger stopped him. “No, I changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll draw first.” Metzger smiled triumphantly, then flipped over the card Hawke was about to draw. It was a three of hearts.

  “What the—” Metzger shouted in anger. “You cheated me, you son of a bitch! You knew I was going to do that so you reached for the low card!”

  “How was I supposed to know that was a low card?” Hawke asked. “The cards are facedown on the table.” Hawke turned over a seven of diamonds, then reached for the money.

  Metzger stuck his hand down into his pocket and pulled out a “pepperbox”—a small, palm-sized pistol.

  “Mister, I ain’t givin’ up my money to a cheater,” Metzger said. “I’ll thank you to slide that money back across the table.”

  “How the hell was he cheating, mister?” the dealer said. “I’m the one who was dealing the cards.”

  “I ain’t figured that out yet.” Metzger smiled. “But it don’t make no difference now, ’cause I’m about to put things right.” He motioned with his other hand. “Push the money over here to me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hawke replied.

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so? I’m holdin’ a gun on you, or ain’t you noticed?”

  “So you are,” Hawke said. “And I’m holding one on you,” he added. “It’s pointed at your belly right now.”

  Metzger started to sweat and his hand began to shake. Glancing down, he saw Hawke’s pistol in his holster.

  “No you ain’t,” he said. “Your gun is right there in your holster. I can see it.”

  “You think you’re the only one with a holdout gun?” Hawke asked. “The difference is…” From under the table came a distinct sound, like the sound of a gun being cocked. “…mine is already cocked, and yours isn’t.”

  Glancing down toward his pepperbox, Metzger saw that he had not yet pulled the hammer back. He moved his thumb toward the hammer.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Hawke cautioned, smiling and shaking his head slowly. “You start to come back on that hammer and I’ll blow a hole in your chest big enough to stick my fist into.”

  Slowly, and with a trembling hand, Metzger put the pistol down on the table. Hawke reached over to pick it up, then handed it to Libby.

  “Break it open and empty the charges,” he said.

  Libby pushed the hinged barrel down and shook out all the cartridges.

  “Now, perhaps we can get on with our game,” Hawke suggested, and he brought his other hand up to the top of the table. He was holding a pocketknife. With his thumb, he flipped the blade open and closed, making a sound exactly like that of a gun being cocked.

  “You…you didn’t even have a gun in your hand!” Metzger sputtered angrily.

  “No, I didn’t,” Hawke replied easily.

  Everyone laughed.

  Metzger stood up and pointed at Hawke. “One of these days, mister, you’re going to try something like that, and it’s going to blow up right in your face.”

  “I suppose there is always that chance,” Hawke agreed. “But then, that’s what makes life worth livin’.”

  Metzger stormed out of the saloon, chased out by the laughter of everyone present.

  Hawke played a few more hands before he excused himself and stepped over to the bar. After a couple of drinks and a few flirtatious exchanges with one of the bar girls, he took a walk around town, then returned to his hotel.

  One of the things he liked most about this hotel was that it had a bathing room, complete with a large bathtub, as well as a water-holding tank and a small wood-burning stove to heat the water. Hawke started the fire, then went back to his room to wait for the water to heat. Standing at the window, he looked out over the town, watching the commerce for a few minutes. He saw Libby coming into the hotel downstairs and chuckled over the way she used her obvious charms to distract the men who played cards with her. He wondered how much money she’d won.

  He didn’t begrudge her her winnings, because, thanks to Metzger, he had done pretty well himself.

  Leaving the window, Hawke lay down on his bed for about fifteen minutes, until he was sure the water would be warm enough for a bath. Then, taking a change of clothes, a bar of soap, and a towel, he walked down the hall to the bathing room.

  A woman was just getting into the tub when he opened the door. She stood there a moment, so surprised by his unexpected appearance that she made no effort to cover herself. She was totally nude, and Hawke breathed in a quick gasp of appreciation for her beauty.

  “Mr. Hawke, as you can readily see, this room is occupied,” Libby said calmly.

  Hawke smiled. “So I see,” he replied. He pointed to the little stove. “I’m sorry, I had built the fire for my own bath, but I see you beat me to it.”

  “Oh, then I have you to thank?” she said. “I thought that was a service of the hotel.”

  “No, lighting the fire is the responsibility of the guest.”

  “I see,” Libby said. “You are staring, Mr. Hawke.”

  “I suppose I am. On the other hand, you have made no effort to deny me the view.”

  Libby laughed, then sat down in the water, restoring a bit of modesty, if not dignity, to the situation.

  “You really should have knocked, you know,” she said.

  “You should have locked,” Hawke replied.

  “But I did lock the door,”
Libby said, pointing to a door at the rear of the room. “I came through that door. I didn’t realize this door had been unlocked.”

  “No harm done,” Hawke said. “I’ll wait until you are finished.”

  “That’s very…decent…of you,” Libby said.

  Hawke opened his eyes. Something had awakened him, and he lay very still. The doorknob turned and he was up, reaching for the gun that lay on a table by his bed. He moved as quietly as a cat, stepping to the side of the door and cocking his Colt .44. Nearly naked, he felt the night air on his skin. His senses were alert, and his body was alive with readiness.

  He could hear someone breathing on the other side of the door. A thin shaft of hall light shone underneath. He took a deep breath, smelled lilacs, then smiled. He had smelled this same perfume earlier.

  “Libby?” he called.

  “Are you awake?” the visitor replied.

  Like the scent, the voice belonged to Libby. It was low and husky, with just a hint of rawness to it.

  Hawke eased the hammer down on the pistol, then opened the door to let a wide bar of light spill into the room. Libby was standing in the doorway, the hall lantern backlighting the thin cotton robe she wore. He could see her body in shadow behind the cloth.

  “Come on in,” Hawke invited, moving back to let her step inside. He closed the door and crossed over to light the lantern on his table. A bubble of light illuminated the room.

  “Oh, my. You aren’t wearing much, are you?” Libby said.

  “Would you prefer that I get dressed?”

  “Why bother?” Libby asked. “You’ll just have to get undressed again.” Crossing over to him, she put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her for a kiss. When she pulled her lips away from his, the very action of pulling her head back pressed her pelvis more tightly against his groin. His reaction was instantaneous.

  “I just came to tell you good-bye,” she said. “Jay has gotten everything together for our trip up to the Sweetwater Mountains, so we are leaving tomorrow.”

  She stepped back from him, then opened her robe and let it fall from her shoulders. As he had already surmised, she was nude underneath, and her body shined golden in the soft light from the table lantern. “I thought I would give you another look, just in case you forgot everything you saw this afternoon.”