Big Win

by Tony Masero

  Justine hovered a moment looking unsurely from one to the other, then she hurried from the room with a swirl of her long skirt.

  ‘A darling girl,’ observed Dupree. ‘Now, cream, sugar?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t want your damned coffee,’ spluttered Joe. ‘I want my money.’

  Dupree calmly poured a cup for himself, ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do and that is to make a settlement. How about twenty-five thousand, would that make you happy?’

  He eyed Joe over the edge of his cup as he tipped it and drank, his eyes gleaming with a teasing twinkle.

  It infuriated Joe and he stepped quickly across the intervening space and dashed the cup from Dupree’s hand sending a spray of coffee spilling across the carpet.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said Dupree, not in the least unnerved.

  ‘You thieving little tyke!’ spat Joe, barely able to control his anger.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ sighed Dupree. ‘This is not going at all well. Not at all like I’d hoped. Soapy said you were not a man to take these things lightly.’

  ‘What’s Soapy Smith got to do with any of this?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Well,’ said Dupree, brushing at the sprayed drops on the front of his jacket. ‘You see, he has taken an interest.’

  ‘I’ll bet he damned well has. That fellow could smell cash money from a mile away.’

  ‘I fear so, and it is a little troubling,’ agreed Dupree. It was the first time Joe had seen a flicker of doubt cross the actors face. ‘But in the meantime he has sent guardians to watch over me. Have to say, I haven’t yet decided if they are quite for my protection or my imprisonment. A watching guard, he calls them but at the moment I would say they are definitely protective. Boys,’ he called to someone behind Joe. ‘I think Mister Alberplas is taking his leave of us just now.’

  Something like a rock hit the back of Joe’s head with a jarring thud and he dropped forward into a black hole that opened up somewhere in the middle of that imported woolen carpet.

  Joe’s head felt like it belonged to somebody else as it lolled on his shoulders. He blinked and got control, dragging himself back from unconsciousness.

  ‘I think our boy’s with us again, Del.’

  ‘So he is, Bartholomew. So he is. Welcome back, my friend. You okay? Old Bart don’t know his own strength sometimes.’

  They were two block-like figures, neatly dressed in suits that looked like they didn’t belong to them and gave both a bizarre appearance.

  The bald headed one called Bart had a broken nose and bent ears and held all the attributes of a bareknuckle fist-fighter. His companion, Del, was an equally well set figure, with rough features and a row of crooked and ill-kept teeth when he smiled, which was often and not always with relevant timing.

  ‘I tell you,’ grinned Del. ‘One time I seen old Bart knock a mule out cold with one blow….’

  ‘Oh, don’t start up with that one, Del. Please, I heard it so many times.’

  ‘Come now, Bart. It don’t hurt to repeat, it does you proud.’

  Joe was still seated on the floor of the parlor and Dupree was nowhere in sight. He rubbed his aching head and looked down to discover that his gun and both his boots and socks had been removed.

  ‘What you done with my boots?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, there’s the thing,’ smiled Del. ‘Will you bring Mister Alberplas’ new footwear over, Bart?’

  As easily as if he were lifting a tin of beans, Bart carried over a small 15-pound anvil, the kind that cobblers and blacksmiths used, and set it down as he knelt with a grunt beside Joe.

  ‘Won’t need no boots, Mister Alberplas,’ Del continued. ‘Not unless you can follow the good Lord in his perambulations.’

  Joe frowned, confused as Bart slipped a pair of manacle leg irons linked by an iron chain from his pocket. One set he fastened around Joe’s ankle the other he threaded through a small carrying hole in the anvil.

  ‘What the hell you doing?’ complained Joe, trying to remove his foot but Bart held it in a grip like a steel trap as he locked the manacles with a turnkey. With a sniff he slipped the key in his vest pocket and climbed to his feet.

  ‘All done, Del,’ he said and Joe noticed that as he rose his jacket slid back and exposed a gun rig with a .44 in the holster.

  ‘Come along then, old fellow,’ Del urged. ‘Pick it up and follow me.’

  Joe felt Bart’s hand on his collar and he was hoisted abruptly to his feet. ‘Where we going?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Get some air,’ promised the grinning Del.

  ‘Move!’ ordered Bart and with difficulty, Joe lifted the hefty anvil and hobbled after them at a crouch.

  ‘Why you doing this?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Orders, that’s all. Don’t take it personal, will you?’

  ‘Who’s orders? Dupree’s?’

  Del snorted a laugh, ‘That pipsqueak? You hear that, Bartholomew? As if we’d be told to do anything by that fancy little squirt. No sir, it ain’t Dupree.’

  ‘Is this Soapy Smith’s doing then?’

  They were strolling through one of the open windows and out onto the lawn with Joe following the two men in a stumbling walk.

  ‘Could be,’ answered Del evasively. ‘All you need to know is that we are duly deputized officers of the law and operate under the directives of the Town Sheriff.’

  ‘That a fact?’ spat Joe derisively. ‘And you’re about to take me in with a hunk of iron on my ankle, is that it? On what charge?’

  ‘What do you think, Bart?’ mused Del. ‘What charge can we lay on the fellow?’

  ‘Being a general pain in the ass,’ theorized Bart.

  ‘Ho-ho, I like it, Bart. Well, he certainly ain’t footloose and fancy free now, is he?’

  They both chortled at that one and a worried frown crossed Joe’s forehead as they led the way onto the small jetty and his suspicions grew.

  ‘Why the boat?’ he asked.

  ‘Quick way across the lake,’ answered Del blandly, with a knowing look across at Bart. ‘Saves time.’

  ‘You aiming to sink me in that water?’ asked Joe looking out across the wide flat dark waters of the lake.

  ‘Why? Mister Alberplas, how could you think such a thing? That would surely be a miscarriage of justice, wouldn’t it now?’

  Del stepped down into the rocking rowboat and sat in the prow, taking up both oars and setting them in the rowlocks.

  ‘In you get,’ he called gaily.

  ‘I ain’t getting in there,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes, you is,’ growled Bart, taking him in strong hands and lifting Joe, anvil and all, bodily into the belly of the boat.

  ‘You fellows knows this ain’t right,’ complained Joe, struggling to keep his balance as the heavy weight of Bart entering tipped the vessel in a slapping rock.

  ‘What is?’ sighed Del, going all philosophical as he set the oars and pulled the boat away from the jetty. ‘It’s a trying question alright. Often, Bart and I have difficulty deciding the right and wrong of it, don’t we, Bart?’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Bart doubtfully. He was standing facing Joe in the rear of the boat and keeping him upright as the vessel swayed and Joe tried to keep his balance with the heavy anvil clasped before him in both his hands.

  ‘We came to the decision it’s best not to decide, didn’t we, Bart?’ he was pulling the boat easily across the still lake and the scent of the disturbed water and the green along the banks filled Joe’s nostrils.

  ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ smiled Del as they approached the middle. ‘I think Mister Alberplas best move to the center of the boat, Bart. Keep us even whilst he takes his little stroll.’

  Stepping over the rear seat, Bart took hold of both Joe’s arms to guide him forward.

  ‘There you go, fellow,’ he muttered.

  Joe let go the anvil.

  The heavy weight dropped on top of Bart’s foot, it crushed the bones and tumbled on to split the bottom boards with a crack. Bart
uttered an ear-piercing shriek and tumbled over grabbing at his booted foot, where blood was already oozing from the split leather.

  Joe leaned across him, hampered only by the weight of the anvil chained to his ankle as it slipped perilously into the hole it had created.

  ‘What? What’s going on?’ cried a flustered Del as he struggled with the oars.

  ‘He’s broke my goddamned foot!’ screeched an anguished Bart, writhing against the bulwarks at the rear.

  ‘So sorry, it slipped,’ apologized Joe. ‘Here, I’ll help.’ He leaned over, bypassing the fallen figure completely and going for the .44 at Bart’s waist.

  The gun was in his hand and Joe turned rapidly, cocking the pistol as he came.

  ‘No! No, don’t you dare,’ shouted Del, the ever present smile dropping from his face as the barrel came around to point at him.

  Joe pulled the trigger and the shot echoed across the lake as Del lost his smile forever and went over the back of the boat and into the water, a bullet lodged firmly in his chest.

  ‘Damn you!’ wailed Bart. ‘You’ve killed him.’

  Joe pointed the pistol menacingly at him. Then he lurched suddenly and dropped the revolver as the anvil finally slid through the broken bottom of the boat and jerked Joe downwards. Water gushed in a fountain around Joe’s trapped leg and began to fill the belly of the vessel.

  Scrabbling, Joe hung onto Bart’s gun belt as his leg was dragged downwards through the hole and his fingers tugged at Bart’s vest pocket, hunting for the key. In a second he had it out and searched underwater for the retaining manacle locked to his ankle. With a twist he unlocked the shackle and with relief felt the anvil drop away and fall into the depths.

  Bart caught him by the throat, ‘Got you now,’ he cried through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll see you dead, you bastard.’

  Joe choked and felt Bart’s powerful squeezing hands beginning to crush his throat.

  ‘You killed my buddy,’ accused Bart. ‘Best friend I ever had. Little asshole like you, killed old Del. Well, I’ll see he gets a companion on his way over.’

  The boat was half full now and settling heavily, in a last desperate measure as Joe felt his consciousness slipping away, he dug down underwater and found Bart’s crushed foot. With a twist he turned it savagely and Bart howled a shriek of pain and let go of Joe.

  Joe tumbled sideways, the boat so low in the water now that he slid easily over the side. Treading water, Joe backed away as the rowboat began its final exit.

  Bart was crying pitifully and calling out for help, ‘I can’t swim,’ he howled. ‘Save me.’

  Even if you could swim, you wouldn’t get far with that foot – thought Joe, as he watched the vessel finally submerge beneath the surface of the lake.

  There was a bubble, a great gush of air rushing up and one final wave of desperate hands then both Bart and the boat vanished from sight.

  Joe turned and headed for the shore, only too glad that he taken time to learn to swim in the fishing hole of his youth.

  Seven

  Padding barefooted and soaked through into the house, Joe found his gun belt lying on the side table in the parlor. Pulling the pistol free he strode out into the hallway.

  ‘Where are you?’ he bawled, standing dripping on the mosaic floor. ‘Come on out, Dupree. I aim to finish this.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said a tentative voice.

  Joe turned to see the maid, Justine.

  ‘He left the minute those two fellows were out of his sight,’ she explained.

  ‘You mean he’s lit out? Permanent?’

  She nodded affirmation.

  ‘Damn!’ cursed Joe, sagging tiredly.

  ‘Owes you money, huh?’ asked Justine.

  ‘He sure does,’ snarled Joe. ‘Everything that paid to built this house and more.’

  ‘Me too,’ she sympathized. ‘I got over a month’s wages due.’

  ‘My end’s a sight more than that. You see where they put my boots?’

  ‘Boots? You want boots? Come on, follow me.’

  She started up the stairway and slowly Joe followed on behind.

  She led him into a bedroom and over to a tall, floor-to-ceiling cupboard, pulling open the doors she showed him shelves stacked with boots of all varieties and every color. Deep, thigh high ones and the shiny, lace-up patent leather variety. Solid high heeled Mexican boots with decorative leatherwork and handmade elastic sided two-tone shoes. A collection, the like of which Joe had only ever seen in a fancy store before.

  ‘Didn’t stint on the spending, did he?’ mused Joe.

  ‘Guess he wouldn’t if it wasn’t his money,’ she observed wryly. ‘Look here, your clothes are all wet, try some of these.’

  With that she swung back more cupboard doors to reveal a hanging array of shirts, vests and suits, hats and a full array of accessories, from stiff collars to tie pins and cufflinks.

  Gasping in awe, Joe crossed over and gaped at the collection, ‘All this for one man? Geez! How many clothes can a man wear in one lifetime.’

  He pulled down a shirt and held it against the wet front of his tall frame. ‘Ain’t no good for me, the fools nigh on a dwarf, I can’t get into any of this gear.’

  Idly he pulled open a drawer from the set at the base of the cupboard and his eyes widened as he saw the contents.

  Dollar bills lay scattered inside, as if the departing Dupree had been in such a hurry he had not bothered to gather them all up.

  ‘These I can handle,’ said Joe, lifting a handful of notes.

  ‘He took most of it I guess,’ said Justine, looking over his shoulder. ‘Went off with a couple of packed holdalls and a small trunk, loaded them all into the surrey and rode away like the wind. Soapy Smith’s gang was leaning on him and holding him here against his will, I reckon. Once their backs were turned he made off.’

  ‘Least I’ll have some travelling money to catch up with him.’ Joe laid aside the pistol and tied up the cash in bundle made from the shirt.

  ‘Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes, I’ll dry them off for you. It isn’t worthwhile lighting out after him now, it’ll soon be dark and he’s got a good lead.’

  Joe looked out of the window and could see she was right; the evening was already closing in.

  ‘I have to get that bastard,’ he muttered.

  ‘With a meal, dry clothes and a nights sleep, you’ll stand a better chance.’

  ‘I’ll need a pony.’

  ‘There’s stables here, everything you’ll need.’

  ‘Okay,’ Joe sighed. He looked at her, as if suddenly remembering her presence. ‘I’m sorry, miss. This must all be a sight rough for you. My names Joe Alberplas. If I came over a mite unpleasant before, I apologize.’

  She flashed him a quick smile, ‘Miss Justine Rowley, pleased to meet you, Joe. And that’s alright, I’ve seen plenty of ‘unpleasant’ before now and you don’t match up to any of it. Come on down to the kitchen, we can hang up your clothes there and I’ll get you a bite to eat.’

  Sitting wrapped in two luxurious bath towels, Joe sat in front of his drying clothes in the kitchen whilst Justine prepared him a meal.

  The kitchen and attached servant’s quarters were large and spacious and separated from the main building by some fifty yards and enclosed in a grove of trees. It was the kind of place that Joe had never entertained and not even his old boss, Mister Main at the Double-Ought’s ranch house matched it in quality and style.

  ‘This place is something else,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Justine, her back to him and bent over the stove as she cooked.

  She seemed an unlikely person for a maid, far too attractive and intelligent for that line of work and Joe was curious.

  ‘You here alone?’

  ‘I am now. He had a stable hand and some kind of butler fellow but they left. Usually there’s a bunch of workmen around but I think that Soapy Smith’s men shooed them off so the place is pretty quiet.’

 
; ‘Must have been lonely for you.’

  She looked over her shoulder and wrinkled her lips in a dismissive smile, ‘Not so I minded. Dupree left me alone and those two thugs were easy to handle. I enjoyed it actually, it was a break from the usual.’

  ‘The usual?’

  ‘Oh,’ she sighed. ‘Regular callers, you know what I mean.’

  Joe shook his head, ‘No, what do you mean? You’re a fine looking woman, Justine, you mean you had a lot of beau’s knocking on your door.’

  Turning back to the stove she snorted a secretive laugh, ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  Joe took it that she did not want to pursue the topic so he went on another tack.

  ‘Are you from Colorado?’

  ‘No, sir. I came with my pa from the east. He was a Baltimore man and after the war my ma died and he wanted a fresh start in new country. So we joined a wagon train heading west.’

  ‘So what happened to bring you here?’

  ‘He got sick of the fever and died on the way.’

  She looked blankly at the black pipe of the stove in front of her and Joe could tell she was remembering.

  ‘You liked your pa?’ he asked.

  She whirled around, a frown on her face, ‘Sure I did, what do you think?’

  There was a touch of anger there and Joe was taken aback.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean any offence.’

  She was damned pretty alright, Joe decided, even with that flash of anger.

  Justine had removed her servant’s cap and let her long curling hair fall freely down her back, she still wore her dress and apron and Joe could see she had a slight but large breasted frame and her hands, although slender and long fingered, were not shy of hard work.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, placing a full dish on the table before him. ‘Just that we were pretty close, pa and me. He was a damned fine man, more like a friend than a father and I miss him something sore still.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. But you must have been pretty young then, how did you manage?’