The customers indicated their continued trust in the big woman by according her a chorus of cheers.
“As for this sneakin’ tinhorn,” she boomed, “out he goes!”
Larry uncocked and holstered his Colt. With Stretch tagging him, he moved towards the cardsharp. It was their intention to remove Everard from the saloon as a favor to Big Dora—but Big Dora had other ideas. She had never employed a bouncer. When it came to ejecting a troublesome toper, she was more than capable of handling the chore personally. Everard flinched from her, as she descended upon him. Her right hand closed over his coat-collar. She spun him around and, followed by the laughter and applause of her admirers, frog-marched him to the batwings.
He struggled, but he was helpless in her grasp. When he went, he went head-first, hurtling through the entrance and out onto the porch. Big Dora returned to the poker table, acknowledging the applause with a beaming smile.
“You boys that were gettin’ sharped by Everard …” she nodded affably to the Texans and the other players, “belly up to the bar, and have yourselves a drink on the house.”
The poker-players were quick to accept her invitation. They advanced to the bar, all but Larry and Stretch, who hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of seeing a mean-tempered tinhorn thrown into the street—by a woman. Big Dora eyed them knowingly. Her smile broadened, as she declared, “I already pegged you boys for a couple sure-enough Texans.”
“That’s a fact, ma’am,” nodded Stretch. “Texans—and proud of it.”
“Bein’ Texan,” said Big Dora, “is somethin’ to be mighty proud of. And I ought to know, because I’m Texan myself. Put it there, fellers.”
They shook hands with her, and lesser men might have winced at the strength of her grasp. She had, Larry decided, as much honest muscle as honest fat.
“We sure are pleased to meetcha, Big Dora,” grinned Stretch.
“Likewise,” she chuckled. “Go on now. Tell Curly I said give you a couple double shots of my special stock.” She slapped Stretch’s back, whirled and hustled back to the stairs. After helping Stretch to regain his balance, Larry steered him across to the bar, where the bald-headed barkeep grinned a greeting.
“Howdy, gents. I’m Curly Beck. Texans, ain’t you?”
“How’d you guess?” Larry wanted to know.
“The boss slapped your backs,” said Curly. “Any time she slaps a back, I just know for sure she’s met another Texan. One thing I’ll say for Texans, they sure stick together.” He produced a bottle, displayed the label for their inspection. “Big Dora’s special private stock. Okay?”
“Better than okay,” declared Larry. “Start pourin’.”
“She sure is a sociable lady, that big Dora,” opined Stretch.
Curly nodded emphatically, as he filled their glasses. “Damn right, Tex. There’s plenty folks that calls her a rough woman. She’s got no class, they say. But men that know her close—like me and The Professor—we understand her. She’s got plenty class—and a heart of gold.” He poured himself a modest shot, clinked his glass to theirs. “I once heard a feller call Big Dora a rough diamond, and he was dead right. So here’s to her, huh, gents? She’s rough, but she sure is a jewel.”
“Happy days,” said Stretch.
“Texas forever,” grunted Larry.
They sampled the high class bourbon, smacked their lips and traded grins of approval. Stretch asked:
“How soon is she comin’ down again? We sure admire her singin’, on accounta she’s the first female baritone we ever heard. Maybe She’ll sing us a couple Texas songs.”
“She’ll be down pretty soon,” opined the barkeep.
Big Dora was settling herself in the outsized chair behind her desk. Osmond was resuming his relaxed position on the sofa, and paying her a compliment.
“Got to hand it to you, Dora. You sure made short work of that sharper-dealer.”
“How d’you figure a galoot like Quint Everard?” She shook her head worriedly. “I must be losin’ my touch. There was a time I could spot a sharper the first minute I laid eyes on him. In our business, we can’t afford to make such mistakes, huh, Osmond? Well, I was sure wrong about Everard.” She folded her big arms on the desk-top, eyed him steadily. “All right now—what’s your pitch this time?”
“I’m here to make you an offer,” he drawled. “Five thousand—in cash. Five thousand, if you’ll move out at once. We’ll have a bill of sale drawn up. You’ll give me a regular receipt—and that will be that.”
“You think so?” She chuckled, so that her three chins quivered and her massive bosom heaved. “Quite the joker, ain’t you? A week back, you offered me eight thousand. Even if I wanted to sell to you—which I don’t—why should I trim three thousand off the price?”
“Business courtesy, Dora,” he shrugged. “I do you a big favor. You show your appreciation by selling out—at my price.”
“The day hasn’t dawned,” she frowned, “when I’ll need any favors from the likes of you.”
“That’s a rash statement,” he grinned. “You need help—the kind of help I’m willing to offer.” He added, while studying her intently, “Dora Nadine.”
Her reaction convinced him that he had struck a nerve. Her blue eyes widened. Her jaw fell. When she spoke, her tone wasn’t quite as assertive, or as loud.
“What—did you call me?”
“Dora Nadine,” said Osmond. “That is your name, isn’t it? Dora Nadine Green?”
“You drunk or somethin’?” she challenged, as she struggled to regain her composure. “The name is Keen, and you know it. Dora Keen. No middle name.”
“I have strong reason to believe,” said Osmond, “that you are Dora Nadine Green, and that you gave birth to a daughter some twenty-two years ago. She was christened Leona. Her father was none other than the great William Mathew Storley, of the Storley banking empire.”
“By golly,” she breathed. “When you get a fool notion, you sure go bull-headed at it. Me? A mother? Hogwash. I was never married, and I sure never mothered any babies.”
“Dora,” he frowned, “you’d better let me say my piece.”
“Go ahead.” She lifted her fat shoulders in a shrug of indifference. “Talk your fool head off if you want.”
“‘Ever read the San Francisco papers, Dora?” he prodded. “I guess you know Storley is dead. He died a little while after Leona became Mrs. Vernon Dexter the Third. For all those years, your daughter thought you were dead. Well, before he cashed in, Storley told her the truth.”
“Not that I care a damn,” growled Dora, “but what makes you so sure I’m her mother?”
“Storley didn’t give Leona much of a description,” said Osmond, “but it sure tallies. The name. Your approximate age. The fact that you were living somewhere along the California-Nevada border. And something else, Dora.” He gestured to her left hand. “That’s the clincher. Storley happened to remember that you’d lost a finger.”
She grimaced, covered her left hand with her right.
“You’re shootin’ wild, Osmond.”
“Well, if I’m wrong,” jibed Osmond, “you won’t care a damn if the lady comes to New Strike—looking for you.”
“Why in blue blazes,” demanded Dora, “should a high-toned ’Frisco lady come lookin’ for me—in a dump like New Strike?”
“I guess I forgot to mention,” smiled Osmond. “She’s been writing to all the town councilors. Mayor Marriot got a letter today, and he’s well and truly convinced that you’re the lady in question. Of course I could—uh—use my influence. One word from me, and Marriot won’t dare answer that letter. That’s the favor I was speaking of, Dora. You sell at my price, and Leona Dexter—your daughter—will never know you’re here.” He crossed his legs, blew a smoke-ring and watched it disintegrate. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? You couldn’t bear to have her see you now. She’s a lady, wealthy, educated, married to a mighty important man. And you know what you are, Dora. It’s my hunch you’d do anything
to avoid coming face to face with her. So why do we waste time? There’s nothing to argue about.”
“And that’s for sure!” she breathed. “There’s nothin’ to argue about—because you’re dead wrong. You’ve picked a loser this time, Osmond. I never knew any feller called Storley. I never married, never bore a child. If this Dexter gal comes to New Strike, it’ll be no skin off my nose.”
“You’re bluffing,” he accused.
“Try me,” she retorted. “Tell Marriot to write her—and see if I care.” She nodded to the door. “That’s your answer, Osmond. This saloon ain’t for sale.”
Chapter Three
The Threat
A short time after Kurt Osmond had departed, the aged piano-player quit the dais and climbed the stairs to the office. His gentle rapping won a muffled response from the fat woman. He opened the door, moved in, closed the door behind him and stood eyeing her sadly. She hadn’t moved from her position behind the desk. From a drawer, she had unearthed two faded tintypes. He didn’t need to look at them. He had seen those pictures before—one of a handsome, impressive-looking man—the other a small girl aged about eighteen months.
Tears welled in Big Dora’s eyes and trickled down her berouged cheeks.
“Why?” she sighed. “Why’d he have to tell her?”
“Then he did tell her?” asked the Professor, as he came to the desk.
“He surely did,” she nodded, “just before he died. Think of that, Professor. Twenty-odd years ago, he was so all-fired sure that she must never know. He claimed it’d be better for her, and I knew he was right, so I let him go, let her go, too. Why couldn’t he leave it at that? He didn’t have to tell her.”
“Conscience, perhaps,” he suggested. “All men are plagued by their conscience in the hour of death.” He drew up a chair and sank into it. “Dora—does Osmond know?”
“That’s the hell of it,” she fretted. “Leona’s tryin’ to track me down. She’s been sendin’ letters to towns all along the border. Marriot got one.”
“But …” he began.
“It’s no use, Professor,” She frowned. “Will gave her a description—and he didn’t forget about this.”
She raised her left hand, stared morosely at its outer edge.
“Then Marriot will send for her?” The old man sighed heavily. “That would be unfortunate, Dora.”
“Only way I could stop ’em,” said Dora, “would be to sell this place—sell out cheap—to Osmond.” She repeated Osmond’s proposition, and The Professor was unable to hide his disgust. “Yeah, it’s pretty dirty, but that’s Osmond’s way, Professor. He’d stop at nothin’ to be rid of me.”
“He won’t be satisfied,” reflected The Professor, “until he controls both places. The Gold Queen—and yours.”
“Well, the Devil take him,” scowled the fat woman. “He’s in for a big disappointment, because I’ll never sell!”
“And you’ll never admit,” he muttered, “that you are the natural mother of Leona Dexter.”
“Never!” she breathed. “Not to her. Not to anybody.” She gestured helplessly. “It all turned out the way Will wanted. Leona was raised right, grew up to be a fine lady and got herself a real high-class husband. How is she gonna feel, if she finds out her momma is an ugly old hardcase that runs a hell-house in a minin’ town?”
“You’d claim that Will Storley deliberately deceived her,” he frowned, “while on his death-bed?”
“I could claim he was ravin’, couldn’t I?” she suggested. “Sure. That wouldn’t be speakin’ ill of the dead, would it? I could just tell her he made a mistake.”
“The problem is yours alone, my good friend,” he muttered. “You took me into your confidence years ago, but I don’t feel qualified to advise you.”
Abruptly, she dabbed at her eyes and restored the tintypes to a drawer of her desk.
“You’d better get back to work,” she murmured. “Big house tonight. Until those prospectors get too drunk to move, they’ll be wantin’ to dance with the girls.”
He withdrew quietly. A few moments later, she heard the piano again, and the thudding sounds that indicated her customers were dancing to The Professor’s lively tune. Worriedly, she searched her mind, wondering if she should have bowed to the demands of Kurt Osmond. What would Osmond do now? Would he order Mayor Marriot to send for Mrs. Vernon Dexter III? Or would he wait? Of course he could afford to wait—to keep her in suspense.
And, as it happened, this was Osmond’s intention. He said as much to his partner, when he returned to his office above the Gold Queen barroom.
“Keep her dangling, Ranee. I’ll give her two or three days to fret and sweat, and then …”
“Save it,” warned Birell. “We got company.”
Osmond was halfway to the liquor cabinet before he realized that Birell hadn’t been alone. Quint Everard was seated in a chair in the corner, nursing a half-full glass and scowling at the polished toes of his boots. Osmond came to an abrupt halt.
“What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay away from the Gold Queen!”
“Take it easy,” grunted Everard. “I played it smart, came up the fire-stairs to your balcony. When I go, I’ll go the same way.”
“All right,” prodded Osmond. “What are you waiting for? Get out of here, before I …”
“Not before I say my piece,” insisted Everard.
“He got himself fired from Big Dora’s,” sneered Birell.
“I know,” growled Osmond. “I was there. He was thrown out by Big Dora herself.” He went to the liquor cabinet, half-filled a glass and swallowed a few mouthfuls. She fired you, and you’ve come straight to the Gold Queen. Why? Are you fool enough to think I’d hire you?”
“Listen …” Everard rose from his chair, his jaw jutting belligerently. “I didn’t come here to beg for a job, or to be cussed out by you and your partner. What I need is hard cash, enough of it to keep me eating and drinking.” He nodded vehemently and met Osmond’s stare without flinching. “That’s what I need, Osmond, and you aren’t gonna give me an argument, are you now? A couple hundred’ll do for a starter. I got to pay my room-rent at the hotel, and ...”
“Damn his nerve!” breathed Birell. “He pushes too hard! I don’t take kindly to this, Kurt!”
“Simmer down,” frowned Osmond. “Just—simmer down.”
“I figure I got it coming, Osmond,” said Everard. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have learned about …”
“Careful,” warned Osmond. “You are pushing—and I’m a man that can’t be pushed!”
“The least you could do,” asserted Everard, “is advance me a couple hundred. When you’ve got what you want, you’ll be plenty rich. We’ll all be rich. So why should I live poor while we’re waiting?”
“Until we own Big Dora’s property,” scowled Osmond, “your information is useless to us.”
“Is that a fact?” jeered Everard. “Well, all right then. Maybe I could peddle that information somewhere else—maybe to the Haywood Mining Company, or the Humboldt Corporation, or the …”
His voice choked off because, suddenly, he found himself staring into the muzzle of Ranee Birell’s gun, a Smith & Wesson with a cut-down barrel. Perspiration beaded on Everard’s brow. He raised his hands, not daring to reach for his holstered Colt.
“It’s blackmail, Kurt!” gasped Birell. “This sneaking son of a bitch—he’s trying to …!”
“Ranee,” grunted Osmond, “put it away. I said, put it away!”
For a long and tense moment, Birell stood glaring at the gambler. Then, with a grimace of contempt, he returned his gun to its holster, turned on his heel and strode back to seat himself at the desk.
The gambler exhaled noisily.
“This is a helluva way to treat a man,” he complained. “I put you jaspers onto something big. I told you how you could make a fortune—and this is how you pay me off. Shoving a gun in my face …!”
“Ranee lost his temper,” dr
awled Osmond, “and I can’t say I blame him. We’re all in this together, Everard. You’ll be taken care of—at the right time.”
“For me,” countered Everard, “the right time is now. I’m asking for an advance. Hell, Osmond, that’s not asking too much is it? Two hundred? Chicken-feed, when you think of how much we’re gonna get from …”
“I’ll advance you the two hundred,” muttered Osmond. He produced his wallet, extracted four fifties and held them out to the gambler. “But don’t make any more demands on me. Our business arrangement doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, while ever Dora Keen maintains ownership of her saloon. She has to be forced out, tricked out or scared out—and the sooner the better.”
“Well, sure, but …” began Everard.
“We may need help,” Osmond grimly asserted, “from you.”
“Anything I can do,” shrugged Everard. He took the money, stowed it into a pocket. “Like you say, we’re all in this together. If I can help, I surely will.”
“I’ll insist on it,” growled Osmond. “All right, Everard, get going now. You’ll be hearing from me.”
Everard donned his hat, moved back to the window and climbed through to the balcony. Cursing softly, Birell watched the gambler descend the fire-stairs and hurry away along the alley.
“That cheap, sneaking tinhorn …!” he breathed.
“I must admit,” frowned Osmond, “this came as a surprise. It never occurred to me that he’d resort to such tactics.”
“Blackmail,” scowled Birell. “Damn it all, Kurt, we can’t let him talk to any of those big combines—the Haywood Company, the Humboldt outfit …”
“But he might just do that,” opined Osmond. “Especially now—when no local gambling house would dare employ him. How long will he stay quiet for two hundred dollars? Not long, Ranee. He’ll be hounding us again, unless I miss my guess.”
“If he asks us for one more dollar,” raged Birell, “one lousy dime …!”
“Don’t worry. He won’t.” Osmond grinned and winked as he seated himself at the desk.
“What does that mean?” challenged Birell.
Larry and Stretch 17 Page 3