Arizona Gold

by Maggie James

  It took a while, but he got over it, ultimately deciding the experience was not totally wasted. After all, he had learned how to give a woman the greatest sensual pleasures possible, and the knowledge had served him well, for the rewards had been great.

  Now he hoped the erudition of it all would work for him in a different way.

  He heard the sound of the dinner bell and went downstairs. By the time he got to the dining room, the other six boarders were ahead of him. Already they had heaped their plates with food, and elbows were flying as they eagerly forked it into their mouths.

  He squeezed in at the end of the bench. Reaching for the last piece of chicken on the platter, he wondered if Cora Lucas, the owner, would bring more.

  Breezing in with a plate of biscuits, Cora, a pudgy, no-nonsense widow, saw the disappointed look on his face and knew what he was thinking. “You’d better learn to be on time, mister,” she snapped. “I feed, but I don’t fatten, and what food is on the table when I ring that bell is all there is. If you’re late, you’re out of luck.”

  Ryder shot a glance at the plates around him, which were filled to overflowing. Probably the others had waited in the hall for the bell, then stampeded like cattle spooked by thunder. Now he had another reason for wanting to finish his business in Tombstone and be on his way, because he would sooner starve than fight for his food.

  The men ate noisily, not talking or slowing until they had wiped their plates clean with a last bite of biscuit. Only then did they seem to relax and talk among themselves as they waited for Cora to serve dessert.

  “What’s your business in town?” the potbellied man next to Ryder asked. “The name’s Wister Nichols, by the way.”

  The others turned to stare with interest.

  Ryder took them all to be prospectors, in from their digs to buy supplies, maybe get a bath and a shave, and then wallow in whiskey and women before heading back to the mountains.

  He was finishing up the peas he had managed to rake from the bottom of the bowl and did not look up as he said quietly, coldly, “I don’t have any yet. But my guns are available for the right price.”

  Suddenly he had a few more inches of space on the bench, as the man, along with those seated beyond him, shrank back.

  His meaning was clear. He was a hired gun and would kill for a price.

  Ryder thought for a second they were all going to bolt for the door, but just then Cora came in with a big apple pie and set it on the table. They could not resist and once more dove right in, only this time there was an ample portion left for Ryder.

  The men began to talk among themselves once more. Ryder was only half-listening. Then Wister said something that caught his attention. He was in a hurry, he said, to get to the Oriental Saloon so he could get a good seat for the first performance. The Oriental was where Opal worked, which meant Kitty Parrish might be close by.

  “Is that li’l gal as good as they say?” someone asked Wister. “I didn’t get by there last night. I got tied up in a poker game, ’cause I was winnin’ for a change.”

  “Yeah, what’s she like?” another wanted to know. “I ain’t much on sittin’ around listenin’ to singin’. I’d rather get a gal and dance.”

  “Oh, she dances,” Wister told them, “but up on the stage. She don’t mingle with the customers, and Mr. Earp has a guard posted so nobody can get to her.”

  “What is it they call her?”

  “The Singin’ Angel, and she dresses up like one, too. The other night she was even wearin’ paper wings, painted gold, and the crowd loved that.”

  Cora came with a bowl of cream for the pie. Hearing the topic of conversation, she sneered. “Oh, she ain’t all that good. My man-friend, Boozer, heard her the other night, and all he could talk about was bow pretty she is. Didn’t say nothin’ about her voice. And I tell you one thing—Wyatt Earp better look out, or what he brought in to draw customers is gonna blow up in his face, ’cause everybody’s goin’ to be in front of the stage instead of gathering around the bar or gambling tables.”

  “Well, she don’t perform all the time,” Wister said huffily. “Just twice a night. There’s plenty of time for gamblin’ in between.”

  Ryder did not care about a stage show and asked, “Does the Oriental still have the best faro in town?”

  Wister said, “I wouldn’t know, mister. Faro ain’t my game.”

  Ryder glanced up and down the table. “Anybody know anything about the faro game over there? I heard they had a woman dealer who’s the best around. Can’t recall the name,” he added, not wanting to appear too knowledgeable.

  “You’re talking about Opal Grimes,” a man at the far end volunteered. “And she’s pretty good, I reckon.”

  That was all Ryder wanted to hear. He had ridden by her shanty on his way into town. Children had been playing outside, and when he saw a strange woman call them in, he knew for sure that Opal had moved elsewhere. It was a bad sign, and he had worried ever since that she might have left town and taken Kitty with her. After all, Kitty would probably have had no one else to turn to. But now he could relax. Opal was around, so maybe Kitty would not be far away.

  He wished he could just come right out and ask about her, but there was always the chance she had not made it to Tombstone. She might have been so unnerved by her experience that she turned tail and headed back east. However, if she were in town, he did not want to draw attention to himself by making inquiries. So he had decided to locate Opal and go from there.

  After supper, he headed straight to the Oriental. The faro game had not started up, so he had a drink at the bar.

  A half hour passed, and he noticed how the place was starting to get crowded. Men were pushing into the rows of chairs lined up in front of the stage, and Ryder asked the bartender what was going on.

  The bartender displayed a gold front tooth as he grinned to say, “You must be real new in town, mister, if you ain’t heard of the Singing Angel. She really packs in the customers. I’ll bet if you walk up and down the street, the other saloons will look closed down, ’cause everybody piles in here when it’s time for her to perform.”

  “What makes her so special?”

  “Well, for one thing, she’s a damn pretty little gal, but she’s got a way of making you think she’s singing right to you and nobody else. She got the name Singing Angel, by the way, on account of how she sings to men in the street when they’re dyin’, and they think she’s an angel come down from heaven to serenade ’em home.”

  “Oh, Morton, you got shit for brains,” the man standing next to Ryder sneered. “She only done that once. You make it sound like every time she hears gunfire she runs out to see if anybody’s shot and dyin’ so she can sing to ’em. Hell, if that was so, she wouldn’t have no voice left.

  “Undertaker buried two this morning,” he said to Ryder with a polite tip of his hat. “May they rest in peace.”

  Ryder downed the rest of his drink. He did not care about singing angels, or gunfights, or any other damn thing that went on in Tombstone. All he wanted was to find Kitty Parrish as fast as possible.

  The bartender refilled his glass and went on down the bar to other customers.

  Ryder took his drink and went back to the gaming room, which was still empty. It had become obvious that until the so-called Singing Angel performed, not much else would be going on.

  Glancing about, he did a quick double take as Opal came down the backstairs. She looked stern, as usual, in a conservative gown of deep blue taffeta, the lace collar nearly brushing her chin.

  “Evenin’, Miss Opal,” a man walking by called to her as she descended. “You’re early. Guess you can’t sleep as late now that you’re livin’ up there.”

  “Yeah,” Opal confirmed, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than staying awake worrying an Apache is gonna sneak in and slit my throat.”

  Ryder knew then that his visit as Whitebear was the reason she had moved out of the shanty.

  Opal started by him, then pau
sed to rake him with curious eyes. “I haven’t seen you around before. You waiting to play, cowboy?”

  “Maybe.” He took a lazy sip of his drink. She started on by, and he casually asked, “Did I hear you say something about Apaches?”

  “You sure as hell did. One slipped in on me where I used to live and held a knife to my throat. Scared the grits out of me, it did. But it won’t happen again. Not with old Ben up there keeping an eye on things. Mr. Earp don’t let nobody upstairs that don’t have business up there.”

  Ryder had already spotted the man with a shotgun posted on the upstairs landing. “Do you have many Indian attacks on folks around here?”

  “Well, no,” she said hesitantly. “This was the first I knew of.”

  “So why would one threaten you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. What’s your name, anyhow?”

  “Sam Bodine.”

  “Where you from?”

  He shrugged. “Anywhere. Nowhere. Wherever I can find work.”

  “And what might that be?” Her gaze fell on his guns. “Oh, I see. Gunman, eh? Well, you’ll wind up like the rest of ’em—in Boot Hill.”

  “I doubt it. I’m good. Otherwise, I’d already be there. Besides, I don’t go looking for trouble.” He had tipped back in his chair to prop against the wall. With thighs spread and head cocked to one side, he looked anything but worried about getting killed in a shoot- out.

  “Well, it’d be a shame to see a fine-looking man like you laid to rest”—she grinned and winked—“just like it’s a shame I’m probably old enough to be your mama. Otherwise, I’d give you some trouble—but it’d be the kind you’d enjoy.”

  With hips swaying, Opal continued on her way.

  He heard piano music, and the crowd started yelling and stamping feet.

  Curious as to what had them so enthused, Ryder went and stood where he could see the stage.

  He saw the Earp brothers leaning against the bar, keeping an eye on things. Then gunfire exploded outside in the street, and they took off.

  He heard a man nearby say, “Wish they hadn’t run off like that. There’s always some rowdy who needs his head busted to keep the peace.”

  A roar went up as the curtains finally opened.

  Ryder drew a sharp breath. The woman standing in the middle of the stage was pretty, all right. And she did kind of look like an angel, in gold satin and lace, her chestnut hair curled in ringlets about her sweetly smiling face.

  Her hands were folded beneath her chin as she began to sing. And, like the bartender had said, she did have a way of locking eyes to offer a personal serenade.

  After her opening number, slow and soft, she went into a rousing song and began to prance about the stage. She did a jaunty little dance, lifting her skirt ankle high to show her tapping feet.

  The men sang along with her, clapping their hands over their heads.

  “Sing to me, Angel,” a voice louder than any of the others cried out. “Sing me to heaven or hell. I don’t give a damn.”

  Laughter erupted, and others began calling out to her, each trying to outdo with wit and praise.

  Then someone shoved someone else, and things began to get out of hand. Chairs fell, and the Singing Angel quit singing and melted back to the far wall of the stage in fright.

  The piano player banged all the harder, trying to get people back into the mood of music, but a fight broke out.

  Suddenly a man began pushing his way through as he yelled, “I aim to hear my Angel. C’mere, Angel. We’re goin’ where I can hear you good…”

  He bolted up onto the stage. Ryder saw he had drawn his gun in warning to anyone trying to stop him.

  “You get away from her,” Opal screamed, then whipped around to yell at the guard upstairs, “Ben, get your ass down here now.”

  Ben was on his way, but the man onstage saw him…saw he was carrying a shotgun, and fired. Ben dropped his gun, grabbed his wounded shoulder, and tumbled down the steps.

  Quickly, before anyone else got hurt, Ryder stepped up on one of the chairs. Drawing his right gun, he took careful aim. The man onstage had hooked his arm around the woman’s neck and was trying to drag her off, and Ryder had to be careful lest he hit her.

  He squeezed the trigger, hitting the gunman in his wrist. With a shriek, he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. Instantly, men rushed onto the stage.

  Ryder surged forward with the crowd, wanting to make sure the woman wasn’t hurt.

  Suddenly Opal screamed, “Damn you, Roscoe Pate, you old drunk. You’re gonna get yourself killed one day pulling your crazy stunts.”

  The wounded man sat on the stage floor, his left hand gripping his bloody right. “Aw, hell, Opal, I didn’t mean no harm, and you know it.”

  “You scared her half to death, you ninny. And it’s a good thing the Earps weren’t here, or they’d have shot you dead.”

  “Who did do it?” someone asked. “Damn fine shot, whoever it was.”

  Ryder saw that the Singing Angel, who was being comforted by the piano player, was staring right at him.

  “He did,” she said with a nod in his direction. Then she was ushered away, but she turned to look at him over her shoulder till she faded from sight.

  Opal turned also and blinked in recognition. “Sam Bodine. Well, I thank you for what you did.

  “And thanks, too,” she added, “for not killing this worthless bastard. He really don’t mean no harm. He just does stupid things when he’s drunk.” She turned back to Roscoe with a scowl. “I guess you being here means my no-good brother is back in town. How come he’s not here raising hell, too?”

  “He’s took up with a puta south of the border.”

  “Well, it would suit me fine if he stayed there.”

  A deputy came to whisk him away to jail with the promise he would be there awhile. Ben was helped up and taken to a doctor to treat his wound.

  Things began to settle down, and Opal walked over to the bar, where Ryder was having a drink on the house.

  “Thanks again, mister,” she said, slapping him on the back. “I really appreciate your coming to the rescue. Roscoe wouldn’t have hurt her for the world, but he was scaring her to death.”

  “Glad to do it,” he said. He was also glad to be in her favor, because he intended to figure out a way to ask about Kitty Parrish, and maybe she would cooperate.

  “Yeah, Kitty has been through a lot.”

  Ryder’s stomach slammed against his spine.

  Opal slapped the bar with her palm. “Morton, give me a whiskey. After all that, I need a drink powerful bad.

  “Kitty wasn’t too sure she could do it,” Opal continued, “but she needed a job. Now she’s used to it, and I think she likes it, but many more upsets like that, and she’ll quit.”

  Ryder took a sip of whiskey and rolled it around in his mouth a few seconds in hopes of slowing his throbbing pulse. Then he said, “That’s her real name? Kitty?”

  “Yeah, but Mr. Earp gave her the name Singing Angel, because a man shot down in the street thought that’s what she was when she tried to help him. I’ll have to introduce you later. She’ll want to thank you proper. Right now I’ve got to get that faro game going, or I’ll be out of a job.”

  She took her drink and walked away.

  Ryder stared after her.

  A coincidence, he repeated to himself. There was no way that woman on the stage could be the same bedraggled boy he had held captive.

  “Lucky you,” the bartender said. “Our little Angel has been real standoffish with men since she hit town, but you’ll be on her good side, for sure.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  The bartender scratched his chin as he thought about it, then said, “Oh, a month or more, I reckon. Real interesting story about her, too. She got captured by Injuns—Apaches—but managed to escape.” He held up the bottle. “Want a refill? After what you did, Mr. Earp ain’t gonna care how much you have.”

  Hand slightly
trembling, Ryder covered his glass.

  He did not need more whiskey.

  The world was already spinning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Damn the money, the fancy wardrobe, and all the attention and flattery that went with being a well-liked performer; Kitty was no longer enamored. In fact, she was fed up.

  Stomping around in her room the next morning, she was churning with anger. Feeling life slowly ebbing away as Roscoe Pate’s hold on her neck threatened to crush her windpipe, Kitty had known more terror than she ever had with the Apaches.

  And what if the bearded stranger had missed and hit her instead? She would have been next in line at Boot Hill. Still, she could not chide him too harshly for taking the chance. After all, she had done the same on the stagecoach when she had shot the knife out of Seth Barlow’s hand to keep him from stabbing Lloyd Pendergrass. So thank goodness the stranger was as good a marksman as she was.

  She wished she’d had time to thank him proper. But maybe it was just as well. There had been something about the way he looked at her when their eyes met and held for the briefest of seconds that was strangely unnerving, for he made her feel that she was being looked into…not at.

  Silly. She was being silly, that’s all. He had come to her rescue, and she was grateful but would probably never see him again. Drifters came and went like the wind. She had to stop thinking about him, Roscoe Pate…all of it. Because it was time, she decided, to think about leaving Tombstone.

  Opal’s call brought her from her musings, and she hurried to unbolt the door and let her in. Opal was still wearing her robe, soft blue satin edged in delicate pink lace. Setting down a tray of sandwiches and tea, she said, “I figured you didn’t go down for breakfast this morning.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Still upset over last night, huh? Well, don’t be. Ben’s going to be fine, by the way. It was just a flesh wound.

  “Stupid, stupid Roscoe,” she snorted, disgusted. “He gets drunk and don’t know what he’s doing. He wouldn’t have hurt you, though.”

  Kitty had been standing at the window, holding back the drapes to peer down at the street below. Whirling about, she cried, “How can you say that? He was choking me to death.”