Crossroads (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 8)

by Logan Winters

  His only thought was to try asking one of the other girls working there where he might find Flower. Looking around, he noticed that most of them seemed very young with here and there what might have been an older matron. Were these girls the slaves of fortune as Flower had been? Their faces were bright only when someone at one of the tables joked with them or made a grab for them as they passed; these were trained smiles—learned, mechanical reactions. When they turned their faces from the patrons they were only pale, expressionless masks, their eyes hollow.

  Watching, listening to the saloon noises, K. John guessed that some of the girls would willingly let Willit trade them away as bondswomen, servants, housekeepers. Some would not have an objection in the world to being a purchased wife. This sort of merry drudgery could have no satisfaction for them.

  A girl, quite young—perhaps eighteen or nineteen—with dark hair and expressionless eyes approached the bar carrying a tray crammed with empty beer mugs, which she placed on the counter, waiting for the bartender. She wore dark-blue silk and a tiny matching hat. Her blouse was worn off her bare, freckled shoulders.

  Stepping up next to K. John Landis she offered him one of her ritual smiles. It faded as he asked, ‘Seen Flower today?’

  Her dark eyes became curious, alert, and then faded to an expressionless stare. The question went unspoken between them—Who are you and why should I tell you anything?

  K. John rushed into the opening her doubt provided. ‘I’m a friend of her father. He sent me to try to find her and take her home.’

  ‘I don’t know ... ’ The girl hesitated, looking around her. The bartender glanced her way. ‘Six mugs for table three, Charlie!’ she shouted in a not-unpleasant voice. The bartender nodded and started filling half a dozen mugs as the girl unloaded the empty glasses from her tray. She wiped her hands dry on a bar towel, avoiding K. John’s eyes.

  ‘I’m new here, I don’t know any Flower,’ she said.

  ‘All right,’ K. John said, patiently, ‘it’s just that her father misses her and I’m sure she’s ready to go home. I need to find her. Can you tell me which room she might be in?’

  ‘Look, mister ... ’ The girl was interrupted as the bartender, holding the ears to six mugs of beer, arrived, placing them on the tray as he gathered the empty glasses. ‘I don’t think I can tell you.’

  ‘What if it was someone looking for you—wouldn’t you want them to be told?’

  ‘I can’t ... ’ One of the older women, matrons as K. John thought of them, was approaching the bar, wondering at the delay. ‘My name’s Barbara Casey,’ the girl said hurriedly, picking up the tray. ‘Meet me in the alley in fifteen minutes.’

  She then spun around and walked away under the matron’s glare, which adjusted itself to include K. John, who looked exactly like what he was: a rambling cowhand who could not afford the price of one of Clyde Willit’s prime herd of women.

  From the roulette table a man in a town suit called out, ‘Fifty dollars on red,’ and the matron switched her attention. This sounded like a more promising prospect for Willit. The man obviously had some money in his pocket.

  Ernie, the slim cowhand at the bar, watched with a tolerant smile as his friends whooped and moaned. K. John waited, sipping at his beer. Barbara seemed willing to give him some information—outside of the saloon. When K. John figured that fifteen minutes had passed, he made his way out, still having not seen Flower, Justine or Clyde Willit—though what he would have done if he had seen any of them was uncertain. Maybe after talking to Barbara he could form a better plan.

  There was a back door to the saloon, K. John saw as he exited the place and went into the alley, and there in the heat of the day Barbara waited, sketching figures in the sandy soil with the toe of her little shoe. She looked up at him shyly, doubtfully, as he strode nearer. He tried to smile to reassure her.

  Three paces on his smile was suddenly erased as something heavy and menacing drove into his back just above the belt line.

  K. John chewed on a curse and spat it out as he was driven face-first to the dust, the weight of his attacker on him. He had been set up and stupidly he had fallen for it.

  Chapter Six

  It was worse than before, much worse. Then the Willit man had just cracked him on the skull with his pistol barrel and sent K. John off to dreamland. He had not fought back then. This time he did, with an impotent fury. There were three of them and they rained down punches on him—jaw, skull, ribs and kidneys. K. John twisted this way and that, trying to fend off his attackers, but it was no use. They beat him into insensibility. Through a curtain of swirling noise, K. John heard their voices.

  ‘Hit him anymore, Hammond, we’ll kill him,’ one of the men said.

  ‘I don’t care if we do,’ a gruff voice answered—the voice of the man who had previously warned K. John off, now identified as Hammond.

  ‘Maybe not, but I do!’ the first man warned.

  ‘You always were soft,’ Hammond answered in a growl. One of the men rose from K. John and a second later a boot was driven with violent force into his already-damaged ribs. ‘All right, let’s go!’ Hammond said. ‘But if I ever see him again, I’ll shoot him dead, no questions asked.’

  ‘What you do then is your business. I just want no part of a killing.’

  ‘I’ll say it again, Bean—you’re just too soft for this line of work.’

  The men grunted, spat and walked away on shuffling feet, their day’s work done. K. John’s hadn’t even begun and he doubted that he was capable of even attempting anything more. Blood mingled with the dust in his nostrils, his mouth. His ribs and lower back screamed out with pain. His skull rang and he had difficulty breathing. Trying to rise, he collapsed immediately, his face again eating dirt. He wanted to roll over but could not. The sun was high, hot and yellow. Someone nudged his boot sole with a foot.

  ‘Well,’ a man said, ‘he’s not dead. Are you sure you want to do this?’

  Whoever the man had spoken to did not answer. Maybe a nod was given. K. John could not turn his head to watch, but he heard the sound of an approaching wagon drawn by two horses. What did they mean to do: escort him to the bone yard or simply take him far out of town, never to return?

  The hands that scooped him up off the ground were more gentle than he had expected, and as he was placed, face-up in the bed of the wagon, he could have sworn he heard the rustling of skirts.

  ‘Flower?’ K. John croaked in a dry voice, but there was no answer. The team of horses was started and the wagon rolled away. K. John had his eyes open, but could see nothing but the back of the head of the man driving the horses. Then they were away from town and, without the shade of the buildings in his eyes, K. John was forced to close them as tightly as he could. He had no idea who these people might be: friends or foes; saviors or members of the same gang that had beaten him? He could do nothing but ride along, his eyes closed, every bone and organ in his body crying out for relief when none could be given. But heading where?

  He did not think of that for long; no good destination occurred to him. He only rode on against the hard boards of the wagon, each bump jolting pain through his body. He was going away from Crossroads, which had no use at all for him, and away from Flower, who even now might be in desperate need of his help. His exhausted body wished for rest, but K. John fought not to give in to that desire. A few miles on, his body submitted and he passed into a deep, dark sleep.

  ~*~

  Where was he? His mind responded as slowly as his battered body. K. John found that he was in a small room constructed of logs. The room was tiny, dark; the bed beneath him was softer than any he could remember sleeping on. There were frills on the yellow coverlet thrown over him, a few pieces of ceramic figures—a shepherdess and a boy with a bugle among them—on the nearby dresser. There was also a faint scent lingering in the air, of the sort no man ever used.

  Had Flower managed to somehow rescue him and bring him home to Warren Tremaine’s farm? That was as far as K
. John’s thinking carried him before the irresistible urge to sleep again overcame him. He drifted off again with one strange memory to accompany him. It seemed to him that when he was nearly asleep a woman had kissed his forehead gently in farewell.

  ~*~

  He recognized the room from the day before, but did not recognize the girl who was standing near his bed with a blue coffee pot and empty ceramic cup. She was not tall, but slender enough so that she appeared to be. She wore blue jeans and a faded light-blue work shirt. Her hair was a dark coppery color—Irish hair—worn in pigtails, and her dark eyes were wide and expressive.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, beginning to pour a cup for K. John.

  ‘Barbara?’ he asked, with a sort of weary astonishment.

  ‘It is I,’ she nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ll be ... !’ He struggled, trying to speak and sit up in bed at the same time. He seemed to have enough breath for only one or the other. His ribs hurt, his kidneys as well, but he felt remarkably well otherwise.

  Sitting up, bolstered by another pillow, he accepted the coffee, sipped it and asked:

  ‘What’s happened? I thought you’d set me up for a beating.’

  ‘I was afraid that’s what you’d think.’

  ‘But then ... where am I?’

  ‘On my ranch,’ Barbara told him.

  ‘Your ranch?’

  ‘That’s what I call it, yes. It’s not as big as some of those Texas spreads, but it’s fairly large for this part of the country.’

  ‘Well, then, why,’ K. John asked, placing his coffee cup aside, ‘were you working at the Double O Saloon?’

  ‘That’s simple. I don’t think we made a hundred dollars last year. I was losing ranch-hands since I couldn’t afford to pay them. I was about to lose the property. I hadn’t the cash money to pay my taxes. There’s only one man anywhere near Crossroads with money to lend. So I went to see Mr. Willit.’

  ‘But, you must have known his reputation.’

  ‘Of course I knew! But what were my options? There were none. I figured that within three months we would sell some beef—you know the army is out here now—and show enough increase to pay him back.’

  ‘How did that work out?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just got back. I’m riding out with my foreman in a little while to take a look around and count steers.’

  ‘I’d like to go,’ K. John said.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to. It would be criminal to take you. You are going to stay around the house.’

  ‘But Flower needs me,’ he objected.

  ‘She doesn’t need you in the shape you’re in. You couldn’t swat a fly.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ K. John was forced to admit. She picked up the coffee pot and cup as if preparing to leave. He had to ask her:

  ‘Barbara what happened yesterday?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ she asked, smiling faintly.

  ‘A part of it … most of it—before you rescued me in the alley.’

  ‘After I told you I’d meet you outside, I slipped through the kitchen to the back door and went out. I was standing there aimlessly when I saw you walking toward me, and from the other direction I saw Hammond, Bean and Dungee approaching. They fell in behind you and the beating started. I ran away,’ she said apologetically. ‘I couldn’t do much to help.’

  ‘Hammond said he’d make me sorry if I hung around town,’ K. John said. ‘But how did I get here? You must have had help?’

  ‘Charlie Drummond, the head bartender, helped me. Charlie’s not as gruff as he acts. He sent one of his boys for a beer wagon, and when it got there he helped me load you in it.’

  ‘Is he still here? I’d like to thank him.’

  ‘No. Charlie went back last night. They’d miss the wagon, and I don’t think he would want to talk to you, anyway.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Barbara sat on a wooden chair, still holding the coffee pot and cup. She lifted her dark eyes to his and asked, ‘Was what you told me about Flower’s father having come to retrieve her, true?’

  K. John frowned. ‘Of course it was. Why would I make up something like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘When you live among liars like I was forced to do at the Double O, sometimes you can’t recognize the truth any more. At any rate it got me to thinking about what I had done to myself. I had pretty much decided that I was going to come home to the ranch before I had talked to you. You sort of helped me to make up my mind. The way Clyde Willit is treating those young girls, the way he is cheating their families, it’s just criminal!’ Barbara paused before continuing.

  ‘Now, I hope that the money I was forced to borrow has made a difference here and I can pay him off. And I will. In the meantime, if Willit decides he wants badly enough to sell me for a slave, he’ll find me surrounded by some men who are ready and willing to shoot if he tries it.’

  ‘So, you’re going to wait him out?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s it. If he wants to send someone after me, he had better have a badge and a warrant. I’d surrender to the law if it came to that, but I won’t be frightened off my ranch.’

  Barbara had spunk, that was certain. But none of this was of any help to Flower—or to Justine Masters. He said as much to Barbara, reminding her. ‘Flower’s time is already up. I’m afraid that Warren Tremaine will just blow up, storm the saloon and get himself killed.’

  ‘Warren?’

  ‘That’s Flower’s father. The worst thing is, he had the money to pay off Flower’s contract, but Willit turned him down because he got there just a few weeks too late with it.’

  ‘What did you have in mind that’s any safer than storming the saloon?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Nothing at the time. You never did tell me which room was Flower’s, and which one Justine Masters is using.’

  ‘Who?’ Barbara looked genuinely puzzled, but then Justine wouldn’t be mingling with the bar-girls yet, according to Flower. K. John described her to Barbara.

  ‘Oh, the prissy one!’ she said, nodding her head.

  ‘I suppose so,’ K. John said, thinking. ‘But she’s her father’s pride and joy as most daughters are.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘At any rate, the girl doesn’t deserve to sink into that swamp Willit has developed down there.’

  ‘No, no one does,’ Barbara agreed. ‘What does Clyde Willit have in mind for Justine?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have a few guesses, but nothing to base them on. I only know that whichever way it goes, Emerson Masters is going to get hurt.’

  ‘Financially? Emotionally?’

  ‘Both, one imagines. Flower feels that Justine is her responsibility, and has given back her own freedom to try to help a woman who seems not to want to be helped.’

  ‘She hasn’t seen enough of the Double O yet,’ Barbara said.

  ‘No, and after she does, she may find herself too ashamed to go home to Oxhead.’

  ‘Oxhead Ranch? Is that where she’s from? Why, that’s a big-money outfit!’ Barbara said, wondering that a woman with all of the advantages of Justine Masters could subject herself to a life like the one she would lead under Clyde Willit.

  ‘Yes,’ K. John said, ‘and from what Emerson Masters told us, it’s about to get richer.’

  Barbara shrugged. ‘Money isn’t everything.’

  ‘No,’ K. John agreed, ‘but then most people who live in reasonable comfort try to shelter their children from the evils of the world so that their sons and daughters don’t even realize how many snakes and coyotes there are prowling around.’

  ‘True, I suppose,’ Barbara answered. ‘I never had such problems. My mother died in childbirth and when I was five years old my father was killed by a gang of would-be rustlers.’

  ‘It sounds like you had it rough.’

  ‘It was all right. Miles Dietrich—he was foreman here under my father for many years until he recently passed away—and his wife Evette always took care o
f me. But,’ she added, looking more directly at K. John, ‘with my father buried out back, you can believe that I knew about the evil in the world.’

  ‘Still you went to Clyde Willit.’

  ‘Yes!’ she said, briefly sparking with Irish temper. ‘For the ranch. For the brand. For my father. I could not lose this ranch. I will not!’

  That was emphatic enough. K. John could sympathize with the woman. This was the only home she had ever had, one her father had built up from scratch in what would have been the rough days. She could not now lose it over one foolish mistake. It was too bad that Justine Masters didn’t have the same sort of insight, appreciation—whatever it took.

  How much of this had Emerson Masters feared? What did he know of Willit and his machinations? Why had it been so urgent for him to get to Albuquerque? K. John shook his head. It was all too much to think about on this morning. Finally rising, K. John made his way painfully to the kitchen. Here, as Barbara had promised, breakfast was served by an elderly, hunched woman who had to be Evette, whose husband had been the long-time ranch foreman. Now he was dead and Evette was just one more lonesome widow of the desert.

  He ate slowly, gratefully. Evette refilled his coffee cup when it was empty. They did not speak a word between them. What was there to say?

  Wandering outside on stiff legs, his side and skull still aching, he found a rattan chair on the front porch and gingerly eased himself into it. Minutes later Barbara rode up, seated on a heavy-legged buckskin horse.

  ‘You’re going to stay here and rest up today, right?’ she asked, though by her tone she indicated something else. K. John nodded. He was already thinking of Flower, though. Barbara smiled as if reading his inner thoughts.

  ‘If you can’t resist the urge to see Crossroads again, you can take either the red roan or the dun pony.’