Since Ace was standing by the cell door, Deputy Sutherland slid the tray through the opening to him. On it was a plate heaped with flapjacks and bacon. “You can eat that without a fork. I’ll get the other tray, then bring each of you a cup of coffee.”
“We’ve stayed in hotels with worse service,” Chance said.
“Worse food, too,” Ace said around a mouthful of flapjack.
The coffee tasted as good as it smelled. It didn’t come from the café. Deputy Sutherland had brewed it on the potbellied stove in the marshal’s office.
The deputy propped a shoulder against the jamb of the open cell block door, sipping from a cup of his own. “I hear you boys tangled with Pete McLaren and his bunch.”
“That’s right,” Chance said. “They’re the ones who ought to be locked up in here, not my brother and me.”
“Well, I reckon Marshal Dixon did what he thought was proper. Never knowed him to do otherwise. But the judge’ll sort out all o’ that in a little while. The marshal will be here around nine to take you over to court.” Sutherland took another sip of coffee. “Just between us fellas, though, I don’t blame anybody for wallopin’ Pete McLaren. You can tell that varmint’s got it comin’ just by lookin’ at him.”
“He was manhandling one of the saloon girls, and he was rude to the young woman who was singing.”
“Well, gettin’ manhandled now and then is sorta part of a saloon gal’s job, I reckon, but there’s such a thing as bein’ too rough. McLaren’s got a reputation for treatin’ gals poorly. Of course, he treats just about ever’body poorly except for those no-account pards of his.”
“This was a girl with blond, curly hair,” Ace said.
Sutherland nodded. “Dolly Redding. Not a bad sort. Not as brittle around the edges as most o’ that kind. Not yet, anyway.”
Since the deputy seemed to enjoy talking, Chance asked him, “What do you know about the singer?”
“Really good-lookin’ gal with brown hair and a little mole on her face? That’s Fontana Dupree. Wouldn’t surprise me if that isn’t her real name, but it’s what she’s gone by ever since she showed up in Lone Pine so that’s what ever’body calls her. When she sings, it’s like a little bit o’ heaven.”
“You won’t get any argument from me about that,” Chance said.
Sutherland grinned. “Fell in love with her as soon as you laid eyes on her, didn’t you? Well, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Most fellas around here fall in love with her right off. It don’t get ’em nowhere. Fontana’s friendly to ever’body but don’t get too close to nobody. She don’t do nothin’ but sing in Hank Muller’s place, neither. Nobody takes her upstairs. Her singin’ and the way she looks is enough to draw fellas in there, so I reckon Muller’s satisfied with the arrangement.”
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her sometime,” Chance hoped.
“You just go on thinkin’ that,” Sutherland said, “for all the good it’ll do you.”
Ace and Chance had finished their breakfasts and were lingering over the coffee when Marshal Dixon came into the office. They heard the front door open and close, and then the grizzled old lawman appeared in the cell block doorway, followed by Deputy Sutherland.
Dixon had the key ring in one hand and a shotgun tucked under his other arm. “You fellas ready to go to court?”
“We’re ready,” Ace said, although his reply was somewhat dispirited. They might be able to scrape up enough money to pay their fines if the judge didn’t come down too hard on them, but throw in the damages to Hank Muller’s saloon and it was unlikely they’d be able to manage that. They might have to throw themselves on the mercy of the court.
Dixon handed the keys to Sutherland and stepped back to cover the prisoners with the shotgun while the deputy unlocked the cells. Ace and Chance straightened up their clothes, swatted at hair made unruly by restless sleep, and put on their hats.
“I don’t think you boys plan on trying anything,” Dixon said, “but just in case I’m wrong about you, I’ll have this Greener pointed at you the whole way. You’d do well to remember that.”
“It’s hard to overlook a shotgun, Marshal,” Chance said.
“We’re not going to give you any trouble,” Ace added.
Dixon marched them out of the building, leaving Sutherland to hold down the fort. The town hall, where the judge would hold court, was almost directly across the street.
Ace felt a lot of eyes on them as they crossed the street. He couldn’t blame the townspeople for gawking at them. Life on the frontier was monotonous. Anything out of the ordinary, even something as simple as a couple hombres facing charges for disturbing the peace, would attract quite a bit of attention.
Something about the sensation he felt at the moment was different, though, Ace realized as the hair on the back of his neck stood up and the skin prickled. It wasn’t just ordinary curiosity that he was feeling.
It was more like somebody had painted a big fat target right in the middle of his back.
CHAPTER SIX
Pete McLaren’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl as he watched Marshal Dixon escorting the Jensen brothers to the town hall. McLaren stood at the window of a second-floor room in the Melodian with the curtains pulled aside enough for him to look through the gap. He wore only the bottom half of a pair of long underwear.
His head throbbed from all the whiskey he had put away the night before. His vision was a little blurry, but he could see well enough to make out those damned Jensens. He had a clear angle at them and could have put bullets in their backs. They never would have known what hit them.
McLaren didn’t want that, though. He wouldn’t mind seeing them dead, but he wanted them to know who was responsible.
Besides, if he picked up his revolver from the dresser where it was lying and gunned them down, he’d have to get out of Lone Pine in a hurry. True, the marshal was an old codger, one of the deputies was a grinning half-wit, and the other was a greaser, but taken all together they might be able to cause some trouble for him. McLaren didn’t want that yet. He had plans.
“Pete, come on back to bed,” Dolly urged sleepily from the tangle of sheets where she lay with her blond hair spread out over a pillow.
McLaren glanced over his shoulder. He could see the curve of a pale, smooth-skinned hip protruding from the covers. It was a tempting sight. He looked out the window again and saw that Dixon and the prisoners had reached the town hall and were going in.
A woman crossing the street toward the town hall caught his attention. The angle of her path told him she could have come from the saloon. Her trim shape and brown hair made him realize he was looking at Fontana Dupree, even though he couldn’t see her face.
What was that snooty bitch up to this morning, he wondered?
Well, it was none of his business.
When Dolly said in a pouting tone, “Peeete . . .”, he let the curtain fall closed and turned away from the window.
A quick step took him to the side of the bed. His hand flashed out, the palm landing with a rousing crack on that bare hip. Dolly yelped and jumped.
McLaren grinned when he saw the red mark his hand had left on her skin. “Now that you’re awake good and proper . . .”
* * *
Judge Alfred Ordway was a scrawny little gent with thinning hair, pince-nez spectacles perched on his nose, and a sour look on his face. Ace had a bad feeling as soon as he got a good look at the jurist.
Ordway seemed like the sort of fellow whose only pleasure in life would be handing down harsh punishments to those unlucky enough to come before him in court. He sat behind a table at the front of the room. Two tables were arranged before it for the prosecution and the defense, and several rows of chairs had been set up for spectators, as well as a railed-off jury box to one side.
It was just a simple hearing so there were no spectators or jury or even a prosecutor . . . just the judge, the marshal, and the two prisoners.
Marshal Dixon herded Ace a
nd Chance up to the open area between the defense and prosecution tables and told them in a quiet voice, “This’ll do.”
Ordway continued studying some papers on the table in front of him for a moment longer, then looked up, grasped the gavel lying beside the papers, and rapped the table sharply. “Court’s in session,” he said in a voice as sour as his expression. “I see by these documents before me that these two young men are charged with disturbing the peace.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Dixon said.
“Said charges stemming from an altercation at Henry Muller’s Melodian Saloon.”
Even though it wasn’t really a question, Dixon said, “Yes, sir.”
“Were they fighting each other?”
“No, sir. It was these two against Pete McLaren and his friends—um, Russell, Merritt, Severs, and”—he hesitated a moment—“Dunn. That’s the other one’s name.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with all of them. They’ve appeared before this court in the past on a variety of charges.” Judge Ordway squinted through his pince-nez. “I must say, I’m a bit surprised not to see them, since they were involved.”
“According to all the witnesses, this fella here threw the first punch, Your Honor,” Dixon said with a nod toward Chance.
Ordway sniffed. “State your name, young man.”
“It’s Chance Jensen, Your Honor.”
Ordway glared at him. “Are you trying to tell me that your mother named you Chance?”
“Um, no, Your Honor, my real name is Benjamin Jensen, but I’ve never really used it.”
Ordway looked at Ace and snapped, “And you?”
“William Jensen, sir. But I’ve always gone by Ace.”
Ordway leaned back in his chair and said, “It’s not relevant to the case, but this is my courtroom, so I’ll ask . . . why in heaven’s name?”
Ace glanced at Chance, then said, “You mean, why are we called Ace and Chance? Well, you see, Your Honor, our mother, um, passed away when we were born. We were raised by a friend of hers, and he’s the one who gave us those nicknames. We never really knew anything else.”
“This friend of hers . . . I take it he was a gambling man?”
Ace wondered if that was going to make the judge even more disposed not to like him and Chance, but he had to answer the question honestly. “Yes, sir, he was. But he always played a straight game.”
“And taught us to do the same,” Chance added, which Ace thought might not have helped that much.
“All right, but your names are being entered in my records as William and Benjamin Jensen. Now, do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
Chance said, “Just that there were . . . what do you call ’em? Mitigating circumstances, Your Honor. That’s it. Mitigating circumstances.” He paused while Judge Ordway waited. “What I mean to say is, Your Honor, I might’ve thrown the first punch, but that fella McLaren had it coming.”
“I’ve no doubt about that, but it’s our duty as civilized citizens of society to allow duly established authorities to deal with those who ‘have it coming.’” Ordway looked at Ace. “You stepped in to help your brother, I presume?”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor.”
“A somewhat lesser offense, in the eyes of this court, than striking the initial blow, even though the charges are the same. Therefore, Benjamin Jensen, I find you guilty of disturbing the peace and fine you twenty-five dollars. William Jensen, I also find you guilty of disturbing the peace and fine you ten dollars.”
Ace started to breathe a little easier. They had about thirty dollars between them, and he had a spare ten-dollar gold piece hidden in his boot that Chance didn’t know about, so they would be able to pay their fines. It wouldn’t leave them with much.
Then he remembered there were damages to consider, too, and he had to bite back a groan of despair.
Ordway turned to Dixon. “Marshal, have you established the amount of damages incurred by Mr. Muller in the course of the altercation?”
“I talked to Hank—I mean, Mr. Muller—this morning, Your Honor, and he said fifty dollars would cover it.”
“Very well, then. Plus another five dollars for court costs, coming to a grand total of ninety dollars. You may pay the marshal, gentlemen, and you’ll be free to go.” Ordway picked up his gavel to signal that the hearing was at an end.
“Uh, Your Honor,” Ace said before the gavel could fall. “I’m afraid we don’t have that much. We can pay the fines and maybe the court costs, but the damages . . . well, we just don’t have it.”
Ordway looked more than ever like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “In that case, I have no choice but to sentence you to—”
“That’s all right, Your Honor,” a new voice came from the back of the courtroom. “I’ll pay the fines, the damages. All of it.”
Ace, Chance, and Marshal Dixon looked around, and Judge Ordway craned his neck to see who had spoken. Fontana Dupree stood just inside the door, wearing a brown tweed outfit much more demure than the silk gown that had been clinging to her the night before. She looked just as lovely as ever as she stood there holding a small, beaded bag.
Judge Ordway cleared his throat. “Miss . . . Dupree, is it?”
She favored him with a dazzling smile. “That’s right, Your Honor. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard me sing—”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, my dear.”
The judge still had blood flowing in his veins, so Fontana had the same effect on him as she did on every other man, Ace supposed. At least, Ordway looked considerably less prune-faced.
He hadn’t forgotten his legal responsibilities, though. “You say you intend to pay what these two young men owe?”
“That’s right.” Fontana came forward and opened the bag. “Ninety dollars, I believe you said?” She took out four double eagles and a ten-dollar gold piece and dropped them into the palm of a visibly startled Marshal Hoyt Dixon. “I think that’s the correct amount?”
Dixon looked down at the coins in his hand. “Uh, yes’m. It sure is.”
Chance said, “We can’t let you do that—”
“Nonsense,” Fontana interrupted him. “It’s the least I can do. I know you got involved in the first place because of the way McLaren was treating poor Dolly, but you never took a swing at him until he insulted my singing.” Something sparkled in her eyes as she added, “I can’t allow such gallantry to go unrewarded.”
Chance looked like he wanted to argue some more, so Ace said quickly, “We’re mighty obliged to you, Miss Dupree. We’ll pay you back just as soon as we can.”
“I’m not worried about it. But if you’d like to discuss the matter . . . you can come to the Melodian again this evening.” She was smiling at Chance as she spoke.
Ace recognized the look on his brother’s face. Chance was in love, or what passed for it, anyway, given his fiddle-footed nature.
Judge Ordway said, “Given that the fines and damages have been paid, this case is closed and court is adjourned.” The gavel smacked down on the table. “All of you can get out of here now.”
Ace, Chance, and Fontana left the courtroom and stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Marshal Dixon followed them and warned in a stern voice, “You boys don’t give me any reason to arrest you again, you hear?”
“Don’t worry, Marshal,” Ace said. “We’re peaceable men. And we intend to be the most law-abiding folks in Lone Pine from now on.”
“You do that,” Dixon said. “Come by the office and pick up your guns anytime you’re of a mind to.” With a curt nod he walked off toward his office and the jail.
“That was a noble sentiment you expressed,” Fontana said to the Jensen brothers, “but I’m not sure you’ll be able to live up to it.”
“Why not?” Ace asked.
“Because I think Pete McLaren might have something to say about that. He’s not the sort of man who takes it lightly whenever someone crosses him.”
“So you think he’ll try
to stir up more trouble?” Chance said.
“I think you can bet that hat you’re wearing on it,” Fontana said. “But in the meantime, you’re coming to the Melodian tonight to hear me sing again, aren’t you?”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Chance said with a smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ace and Chance walked into the lobby of the Territorial House a short time later.
From his usual post behind the desk, Colonel Charles Howden said, “Good morning, gentlemen. I heard about the unfortunate events of yesterday evening, so I knew you wouldn’t be using your room last night. I held on to it for you, though, since you’d already paid for it and left your belongings there.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Ace said. “I hope having a couple convicted jailbirds here doesn’t bring disgrace on your hotel.”
“Oh, far from it!” Howden exclaimed. “I don’t think there are many of the so-called respectable citizens of Lone Pine, myself included, who wouldn’t have liked to punch Pete McLaren in the face at one time or another.”
Chance chuckled. “I got the feeling he’s not well-liked around here.”
“You can say that again,” Howden agreed. “Too many of us have been around long enough to remember when this place was called Buzzard’s Roost, and Otis McLaren was the king of the roost.”
“Otis McLaren?” Ace repeated.
“Pete’s older brother. Although there’s enough difference in their ages it’s more like Otis is Pete’s uncle or even his father. He was even worse than Pete, if you can imagine that.”
“He must’ve been a real hell-raiser.”
“That’s right. He was rumored to have been behind all sorts of lawlessness back in those days. A regular road agent.”
“What happened to him?” Chance asked.
“Gone,” Howden replied with a shake of his head. “No one knows where. My theory is that he decided the pickings were too slim in these parts—he was crooked and ambitious—so he took off for greener pastures and probably got himself killed . . . or he went to Washington, changed his name, and became a politician.”
Twelve Dead Men Page 4