The Bandit Princess

by J. Roberts

  “Other deputies?”

  “Bass Reeves, Addison Beck, a few others,” she said.

  He knew Reeves well, Beck only in passing.

  “Okay,” he said, “so you just wanted to have a beer with me?”

  “No,” she said, “I mean yes, I did, but not just to have a beer. You see, I’ve been after the judge to let me go after Pearl Starr and her gang.”

  “Ah,” he said as understanding dawned.

  “And I knew he was sending for you so he could send you after her.”

  “Ask.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not sending me anywhere,” Clint said. “He’s asking me to go. I don’t work for him.”

  She looked confused.

  “But . . . he’s the judge. Judge Parker. You would say no to him?”

  “I would,” he said, “and I will, if I decide not to go.”

  “B-But—but—”

  This was obviously not a concept she was able to easily grasp.

  “So if I do decide not to go, maybe he’ll send you, after all,” he said.

  “I—I don’t think he, uh, thinks I’m ready,” she said. “But I am.”

  “So what did you expect from me for a beer?” he asked. “You want me to tell him you should go?”

  “No, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to vouch for me when you don’t know me.”

  “Well then . . . what?”

  “I want to go with you,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  FOUR

  “I could watch your back,” she promised.

  “Could you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do I know that?” he asked. “Trusting you to watch my back is the same as vouching for you. I don’t know you well enough to do either.”

  “I realize that,” she said. “I guess what I’m asking is for you to take me with you so I can prove myself.”

  He stared at her, took another sip of the free beer she’d provided.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Why haven’t you gone after the Starr gang yourself?” he asked.

  She looked puzzled again.

  “The judge didn’t tell me I could.”

  “What do you think would happen if you went anyway, caught them, and brought them back?”

  “He’d probably fire me for going against his orders.”

  “Even if you brought them in? Alive? To stand trial?” Clint asked.

  “But if he didn’t give me permission—”

  “Sometimes,” Clint said, “you can’t wait for permission before acting.”

  “But if you’re wearing a badge—”

  “Deputy, the best lawmen have minds of their own,” Clint said. “They do what they have to do to get the job done.”

  “Are you telling me to go after the Starr gang on my own? Against the judge’s orders?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’s not what I’m telling you.”

  “But you just told me to go after the gang anyway.”

  “No, I told you that the best lawmen make up their own minds, and don’t always follow orders.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t suppose you do. Why don’t I buy you a beer?”

  “Can we talk some more?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said, “but somehow, I don’t think it’s going to do any good.”

  With another beer each, they found a table in a corner where they could talk. The saloon was getting busier, but the piano player had not come out yet. Once the music started, talking would be difficult.

  “Deputy—”

  “Call me Alice, please.”

  “All right, Alice—”

  “May I call you Clint?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Thank you, Clint.”

  “Alice, what did you do before you became a deputy marshal?”

  “I taught school for most of my life,” she said, “but I became bored with it.”

  “So you went from teaching to being a lawma—to wearing a badge?”

  She nodded and said, “It seemed a logical choice.”

  “It did? How do you figure that?”

  “They are both positions of authority.”

  He stared at her and then said, “You know? That kind of makes sense.”

  But he wondered what was going through Parker’s mind when he pinned a badge on this woman.

  “What do you say, Clint?”

  “I say no.”

  “But—why?”

  “First of all, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  She sat back in her chair.

  “Do you mean . . . you’d really say no to Judge Parker?”

  “I’ve known him a long time,” Clint said. “He won’t hang me for saying no—I don’t think.”

  She shook her head.

  “You must be very brave.”

  “I might be, but this is not a test of my courage,” Clint said.

  “Then what is it a test of?”

  “My intelligence,” he said.

  She frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d have to be an idiot to say yes to this,” he said. “And then I’d have to be a bigger idiot to take a wet-behind-the-ears deputy with me.”

  “I’m thirty-six years—”

  “I’m not talking about your age,” he said, “I’m referring to your experience—or lack of it.”

  “I can shoot, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes, sir. I can hit what I aim at.”

  “Can you hit what you’re not aiming at?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Finish your beer,” Clint said, “and then come with me.”

  FIVE

  They finished their beers and left the saloon.

  “You know this town,” he said. “We need a big empty space, and some empty bottles or cans.”

  “Come on,” she said.

  They went to the general store, where they were able to get as many empties as they wanted. Then she took him behind the store, where there was a big empty lot filled with debris.

  “What used to be here?” he asked.

  “A whorehouse,” she said. “It burned down a few months ago.”

  “By accident?”

  “Actually,” she said, “some of the wives in town were suspected of burning it down, but nothing could be proven.”

  “Good for them,” he said. “Wait here.”

  He set some bottles and cans up, some low, some high, then kept some so he could toss them into the air.

  “Okay,” he said. “Shoot something.”

  “What?”

  “Anything,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re aiming at so I’ll know if you hit the right thing.”

  “Okay.” She took her gun out of her holster then looked at the empties he’d set up. “That bottle.”

  “Which one?”

  “There, to the left.”

  “Okay.”

  She aimed and fired. The bottle shattered.

  “There, see?” she asked. “Now can I go with you?”

  “No,” he said. “Shoot the can next to it.”

  “Okay.” She extended her arm and sighted down the barrel.

  “No,” he said, “turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn your back,” he said, “then whirl around and shoot the can.”

  “B-But, how am I supposed to see it?”

  “You’ll see it when you turn around.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Deputy!”

  She glared at him, then turned around.

  “Oh, and holster the gun.”

  “Oh, now you’re just being mean!” she accused. “How am I supposed to—”

  “Watch.”

  He turned his back, whirled, drew his gun, and then fired six times. Three bottles
shattered and three cans leaped into the air. Before the last can hit the ground, he had his gun reloaded and back in his holster.

  She glared again, but this time in awe.

  “I—I—I’d never be able to do that,” she complained. “How did you do that?”

  “It comes natural.”

  A dubious look on her face, she turned her back, whirled, and fired once. No bottle shattered, and no can jumped.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t have hit the first bottle you shattered.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Oh, replace that spent shell.”

  She ejected the spent shell, reloaded, and holstered her gun.

  “Then I can come with you?”

  “No.”

  “But you said—”

  “I tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to throw a bottle into the air. If you hit it, you can come with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get ready.”

  She braced herself, her hand hovering above her gun. Picking up a bottle, Clint said, “Ready?” and tossed it up.

  She drew her gun but didn’t fire. When the bottle fell to earth, she walked over to it, pointed her gun at it, and fired. The bottle shattered.

  “What was that about?” he demanded.

  She ejected the spent shell, reloaded, and holstered the gun, then looked at him.

  “I hit it,” she said. “You didn’t say I had to hit it while it was still in the air.”

  Now he glared at her until he realized she was right. He’d simply said that if she hit it after he threw it in the air, she could go with him.

  “We should tell the judge,” she said.

  “You’ll have to wait until I make up my mind,” he told her.

  “But you said—”

  “I didn’t say I’d decided to go,” he said. “I still have to think about it, and the longer you talk to me, the longer it’ll take.”

  “When will you know?”

  “In the morning,” he said. “I’ll make up my mind overnight.”

  She thought a moment, then gave in and said, “All right, I suppose I can wait that long. Shall we have supper?”

  “I have to be alone to decide,” he said. “Making conversation is not going to be helpful.”

  “I’ll keep quiet.”

  “No,” he said, “you won’t.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said. “I wouldn’t. I talk too much, I know, but—”

  “Meet me in the dining room of my hotel,” he said, “at nine a.m. I’ll buy you breakfast and let you know.”

  “All right,” she said. “Nine a.m. I’ll be there.”

  They left the lot, now even more littered than before with broken glass and battered cans.

  When they got to the street, they parted company. She went off to do whatever deputy marshals do when they’re not chasing down outlaws.

  He turned and headed for the saloon. He’d just given himself added incentive to turn Judge Parker down.

  SIX

  Clint had a few more beers and then decided he should probably have something to eat, or else he’d be starving and it’d be too late to get anything.

  “I haven’t been here in years,” he told the bartender. “Where’s a good place to eat?”

  “Whataya want? Steak?”

  “Usually,” Clint said, “but today I feel like something different.”

  “Somethin’ different, huh?” the man asked. “I got just the place. You go out the front door, turn right . . .”

  Clint followed the bartender’s directions and found himself standing in front of a restaurant called Garden of Delight.

  “Chinese food,” he said. “That is different.”

  He’d had Chinese food a few times before, but only in New York and San Francisco. Never anywhere in the South-west, or these parts. He’d seen Chinese restaurants in Denver and Saint Louis, but had not eaten there.

  “Okay,” he said, “why not?”

  He went inside.

  The waitress was a lovely Chinese girl who spoke enough English to wait tables. The cook was an old Chinaman who spoke no English at all. Clint was the only customer in the place, so he was the beneficiary of all the waitress’s smiles and the old cook’s glares.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Clint said, the one-hundredth time the cook stuck his head out the door to stare hard at Clint.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “Even if he hate you, Grandfather cook good for you.”

  It turned out to be true. Clint had a bowl of pork fried rice, another bowl of noodles she called “lo mein,” and she brought him generous portions of pepper steak and orange chicken. There were also snow peas, bamboo shoots, odd vegetables he never heard of, including “bok choy,” which she told him meant “snow cabbage.”

  She also tried to get him to eat with chopsticks, but in the end she relented and allowed him to use a fork before all the food ended up on the table, or the floor.

  Served with the food was hot Chinese tea, and while they didn’t have any beer, she did bring him a pitcher of water.

  He consumed most of what she brought him, telling him that he was eating “family style.” He told her his family had never eaten like this. He didn’t tell her that the only family he’d ever had was an orphanage back East when he was a boy. Back then the biggest or toughest of the children ate the best. He was never the biggest, but he soon became one of the toughest so he wouldn’t go to bed hungry every night.

  “Where are all the other customers?” he asked her when she brought him some more tea.

  “We do not have any,” she said. “You first customer in long time.”

  “How do you survive?”

  “I do laundry,” she said, “and Grandfather very good with his hands.”

  “So you both have work other than this restaurant?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s not right,” he said. “All of this food was delicious. There must be some other customers. The bartender at the Cactus Saloon sent me over here. Doesn’t he eat here?”

  “He eat here once in while,” she said. “He send other men, but they no come in.”

  “Well, they’re stupid,” he said, “or crazy.”

  She giggled and said, “You nice man.”

  “Well, you’re a nice girl, and your grandfather is . . . well, a good cook.”

  “He love restaurant,” the girl said. “He be very sad when we close.”

  “You’re going to close?”

  She shrugged.

  “Have no money to keep open. We close next week.”

  “Well then, I can at least eat here until then, right?”

  “You come,” she said, “I let eat for free. You nice man.”

  “Not if I eat here free, I’m not,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay. In fact—” He stopped short. He had once ended up owning a doomed saloon by rushing in without thinking.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mai,” she said, pronouncing it “My.”

  “I’m Clint. I’ll be back tomorrow to eat. And I’ll pay.”

  “Okay,” she said with another shrug. “I see you tomorrow.”

  Clint nodded and left the Garden of Delight.

  Back at the Cactus Saloon again, he had a beer and thought over the offer he’d almost made to Mai and her grandfather.

  Clint owned saloons and hotels throughout the West—well, parts of them. He had co-owners in all his ventures, and his shares of the profits were banked for him by his partners—all people he trusted—so he could get to them where he was. He had almost offered to buy into the Garden of Delight, but why buy in if it was already doomed? He had to give it some more thought.

  His friend Rick Hartman was a good businessman. He owned Rick’s Place in Labyrinth, Texas, and he owned it free and clear, with no partners. It w
as the only way to succeed in business, he always said.

  “I don’t split my profits with anybody,” Rick said.

  But Rick owned one establishment and ran it himself. Clint owned several and ran none of them. He left that to his partners.

  Up to now he had a piece of three saloons and two hotels. No restaurants. If he decided to invest in the Garden of Delight, it would be his first.

  That is, if they’d have him as a partner.

  He finished his beer, decided that it had been a long day, and left to go to his hotel to turn in.

  SEVEN

  He was reading a short story collection by Robert Louis Stevenson when there was a gentle knock on the door.

  Gentle or violent knocking, he always reacted the same way. He grabbed his gun from his holster, hanging handy from the bedpost, and walked to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It is Mai,” a gentle voice said. “From the restaurant?”

  “Mai,” he said, opening the door. She was standing in the hall with a shawl over her cotton dress. He looked both ways and then back at her.

  “Mai, what are you doing here?”

  “I thought . . .” she said, then stopped. “May I come in?”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, a man’s room—”

  “How would I get into the man’s bed if I do not enter the man’s room?”

  “The man?”

  “You, Clint.”

  He was stunned. She took advantage and slipped in past him. He closed the door and turned to face her.

  “You will not need the gun,” she said, looking amused.

  He walked to the bedpost and holstered it. He was both barefooted and bare-chested, wearing only his Levi’s.

  “You look confused,” she said. “I thought we had a—how do you say it?—a moment?”

  “Mai,” he said, “you’re lovely, but I didn’t expect—”

  “No,” she said, “I did not expect it either. But you are nice man, and you touch me here.” She pressed her hands to her heart. “And I try to be more like Western girls.”

  “Well, most Western girls don’t come to men’s rooms,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “Then I not try to be like Western girls. I just be like Mai.”