Reilly's Luck (1970)

by L'amour, Louis

  “I think,” he said, “you do not understand my position. In my own country—”

  “But you are not in your country,” Myra interrupted, “and you will find little sympathy here. On the other hand, since we like titles over here, and with those scars and all those medals—oh, don’t worry! I’ll not tell anybody how you got the scars—that you were horsewhipped by a gambler.”

  She looked at him, still smiling. “And you may even find it amusing here. The women will idolize you, especially the older ones, or those with daughters who are single. You can make a lot of money; and if you are interested you might marry one of the daughters and get a substantial settlement.”

  Pavel’s mind was reaching for a solution that would save him, but he was realizing that there was none. From now on, until he had money enough to escape from this situation, he was practically a prisoner.

  She was hard—he admired her for that even while resenting it that any woman could outgeneral him. He was, he admitted, a little afraid of her. She had told him a good deal. She had, as these Americans would say, “laid it on the line,” but what worried him were the things she had not told him, the further plans she preferred to keep to herself.

  “I shall need money,” he said, “as long as we are talking money. If this is to be your operation, it is only correct that you should finance it.”

  “Of course.” She opened a drawer and took out a packet of bills. “There are five thousand dollars.”

  Then she said, “There is to be a performance at the opera tonight. We will go … You and your cousin are to be houseguests of mine. You are to accept no invitations that do not include me; however, I doubt if anyone would go to that extreme.

  “If anyone inquires as to how we met, say simply that we have mutual friends.” She took another list from a desk drawer. “I want you to memorize these names. The three men on the left are the men with whom I wish to do business. They operate on a very large scale, they make excellent profits, and no outsider has ever participated in their operations.

  “The names on the right are those of men who belong to clubs to which the men on the left also belong. They are occasional associates of yachting, gambling, hunting, and at social events. Any one of those on the right might introduce you to those on the left.

  “Don’t gamble with them. They are very shrewd, tough gamblers, and any one of them can win or lose enough in an evening to support you for a year—I mean that—and there is no sentiment in their gambling. It is all-out war.

  “If I succeed in what I have planned,” she added, “your share might even come to a quarter of a million dollars. You could return to Europe a modestly wealthy man.”

  “It seems simple enough,” he said at last. “Those people will be at the opera?”

  “They will. They will see you, and they will be curious. I shall see that they know who you are. The rest will follow.”

  He stood up now. “And my cousin, the Princess Louise?” he asked.

  Myra got to her feet also. She was almost as tall as he. “She need know nothing of all this. You have some land in Siberia, I believe?”

  He was no longer surprised, but he had almost forgotten that land himself.

  “You can tell her I am interested in hydraulic mining, and wanted to discuss a deal whereby one of my companies would dredge for gold there. In fact, you can mention this to anyone, if you like. The people with whom we are concerned know that I am a business woman.”

  “These arrangements … they will be here? In New York?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “There is a possibility we may have to travel to San Francisco. One of the men in whom I am most interested lives there.”

  When Prince Pavel was out on the street he stood on the curb for a moment, waiting for the carriage to come around. Ninety days, she had said. Three months—and then a rich man. He doubted many things about Myra Fossett, but he did not doubt the genuineness of her intentions. She wanted to make money and she would; and after all, was not that what he came over for?

  Chapter Twenty-Three.

  The Windsor, in Denver, opened in June of 1880, was the height of elegance, with three hundred rooms and sixty bathtubs, gaslights, and Brussels carpets. The backbone of its business was furnished by mining men and cattlemen, the latter coming from half a dozen states, for Denver was considered by many to be the only city worth visiting between Chicago and San Francisco.

  Denver had the name of being a wide-open sporting town, but Valentine Darrant had no desire to gamble or to visit any of the tough joints on Blake or Holliday streets. He was in town on business, and he was wary of trouble.

  It was a gun-toting town, but the guns were usually kept out of sight, worn in the waistband or elsewhere not visible to the immediate glance. Bat Masterson was in town, and so was Doc Holliday. They were only two of the best-known of the forty or fifty known gun-handlers in town.

  Val was in his room, dressed in a gray suit, with black tie. His black hat lay on the bed. Dube came in, uneasy in his store-bought clothes.

  “Where you goin’ to meet this gent?” he asked.

  “Peck? He should be here now … In Denver, I mean. He was coming down from Empire to meet me here.”

  “He the man you left your money with?”

  “His father, actually.”

  “Lot of eastern folks down in the lobby. Seems like some big mining deal is about to be pulled off. You know anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, those eastern folks do. Come up all of a sudden, they say, and there’s a scramble on.”

  Val was concerned only with Peck. Once their business was completed, he could relax and show Boston some of the town. Dube and Tensleep probably had plans of their own, but there were several places in Denver noted for their good food. Although he had not been in the city for several years, he remembered the City Hotel where Charles Geleichman was chef, he who had been chef for the King of Denmark, or so it was said. There was also Charpiot’s.

  He was combing his hair before the mirror and debating whether he should wake Boston, if she was not awake, when there was a sudden tap on his door.

  His pistol lay on the table, and habit made him pick it up as he moved to the door. Opening it, the gun concealed but ready, he was surprised to see Stephen Bricker standing there.

  “Val!” Bricker stepped in quickly and closed the door. “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  Bricker glanced at the pistol. “Thank God, you’re armed!”

  Bricker was older, a little heavier, but still a fine-looking man. He looked at the lean, powerful-shouldered young man before him with pleasure. The boy he had known had become a man.

  “Val, we’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks! Peck told me what he believed was happening, and I did a little discreet investigating, and whether you like it or not you are right in the middle of one of the biggest railroad-mining fights this country has ever seen!”

  “How could that be?”

  “Look,” Bricker explained, “when you were a youngster you left some money with Peck, senior, to be invested. Am I right?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t much, but—”

  “Val, Peck turned that money over to a banker and he and his son have since acted in a sort of unofficial supervisory capacity. Right at the beginning they bought a pieee of some mining claims—the discoverer needed money—and then because there seemed to be an effort developing to close off access to the upper end of the canyon, they went down below and bought about half a mile of the canyon right where it opened out. Today that half-mile of canyon is worth almost any price you want to ask for it.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The railroads want it. They want a branch line in there to bring out coal. Nobody dreamed that stretch was anything but government or state land, because it was just about useless for anything but a right-of-way. We hoped to let you know what was happening before anyone talked you into signing anything.”


  Val chuckled. “Me? Mr. Bricker, you know I never sign anything. Will Reilly was a born skeptic, and I guess I developed into one.”

  Steve Bricker lit the cigar he had in his fingers. “Forgive me, Val, if I talk like a Dutch uncle. We’ve been friends for a good long time now, and I tell you you are going to have to move fast, very fast.”

  “Why? There seems to be something going on here that I don’t know about.”

  “Val, if anything should happen to you, who would inherit?”

  Val realized, with a kind of startled wonder, that he had never given the idea a moment’s thought. Will Reilly had been his family, and they had been uniquely close, drifting continually as they had, and having no one but themselves to consider.

  “I haven’t given the idea much thought. Of course I’d want it to go to Boston.”

  “But you have not made a will? Is that right?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then who would inherit, Val? Have you stopped to think of that? Who would suddenly find herself the owner of the hottest piece of property in the country? And believe me, Val, it is worth millions.”

  “Myra …”

  Myra was next of kin. If anything happened to him, whatever he had at the time would be hers.

  “Does she know about this?” he asked.

  “Knowabout it? Why do you think she’s coming to Colorado?”

  “Myra is coming out here? She told Van once she would never come west again … never as long as she lived!”

  Bricker brushed the idea away with a gesture. “When she said that she didn’t know how much returning could mean; and after all, she won’t be here more than a day or two. If the Sante Fe doesn’t get that stretch, the Denver & Rio Grande will. She and that prince of hers can arrive here one day and go back the next if she likes.”

  Val thrust his pistol into his waistband and put on his coat. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

  “I had some coffee. I can’t spare the time now, Val, but promise me you’ll keep your eyes open.”

  They went down to the lobby together and Val went in to breakfast. His thoughts were confused, and he needed to think clearly, to decide what he wanted to do. If Myra was coming west, the chances were good that they would meet. The idea of meeting her after so many years was disturbing. Yet, why should it be? To him she was a stranger, a woman whose wish it had been to have him left to die in the snow.

  What Bricker had said was right, of course, and he should have a will drawn up at the earliest possible moment. He wanted nothing of his ever to fall into the greedy hands of Myra Fossett.

  He ordered breakfast and sat staring out of the window, wondering what his next move should be. He should prepare a list of his assets, and then find a reputable attorney. He might draw up the will himself, but he was not experienced in such things, and he wanted a will that was fool-proof.

  He considered his situation. If possible, he wished to avoid trouble. Nothing was to be gained by meeting Myra. What he ought to do was to get the best offers of the companies concerned and settle quickly.

  Once the deal was made, the reason for Myra’s presence here would be gone, and he himself need stay no longer. He should have asked Bricker just who the men were with whom he should deal; it was likely that some were living right here in the hotel.

  Of course, even if Myra were kept out of the right-of-way deal she would still be his heir, in the event of his death. There was a solution to that which would not require the writing of a will. He could marry Boston.

  As he sat there the door of the dining room suddenly opened and Dube came in. He looked exactly what he was, a cowhand in off the range, and Denver knew that a cowhand in rundown heels and faded Levis might be a grubline rider, but that on the other hand he might own five thousand head of stock.

  Dube glanced around the room, where only a few people were eating at this early hour. Then he went across to Val and dropped into the chair opposite him. “You packin’ iron, boy?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, watch yourself. Sonnenberg is in town. I run into him down on Blake Street, and he’s walkin’ wide and mean. He’s a big one, ain’t he?”

  “He’s pretty big, all right. Weighs about two-fifty, I’d say, and he carries no more fat than a jaybird.”

  Val let the waiter fill his cup again, and then he said, “Dube, I want to marry Boston.”

  Dube grinned at him. “You figger that’s news? If it’s news to you, it sure ain’t to Boston.”

  “I haven’t said a word to her. Not exactly, that is. I think she understands, all right, but the point is, it may have to be here … now … if she’ll have me.”

  “Why so sudden? Pa an’ them would sure be put out.”

  Val explained, as briefly as possible, and then he added, “I am going to make a will, but that won’t be enough, if I know Myra Fossett. She would try every trick in the book to break the will, and as she’s a blood relative she could probably do it.”

  “Can she prove she’s your kin?”

  “There may be records up north, but anyway she would find a way.”

  Dube was quiet, and looked his name, which was Dubious. After a while he said, “Val, why don’t you just cut and run?”

  When Val started to protest, Dube interrupted. “Look, you got this friend Bricker. Now, if he ain’t in on the deal himself, he knows who is. Let him handle it for you, subject to your okay, and you just duck out. You don’t check out of the hotel, you just walk out one evenin’ in your fancy duds, but you have yourself a horse staked out, and you run. You make it to Leadville or Walsenberg, or even Durango. Then you just hide out there under another name, an’ let this Bricker handle it for you. Me and Tensleep could keep an eye on ‘em for you, and we could keep you in touch.

  “It ain’t that I’m agin’ you marryin’ Boston,” he went on. “That’s up to her, but we folks set a sight of store by marryin’, and Pa an’ Bets, they’d he almighty put out if you an’ Boston tied the knot without them handy. I mean it.”

  Val stared out the window at the street, considering the idea. It appealed to him, and that disturbed him. Would he be avoiding responsibility if he ran? Did he want to dodge the issue? Would it be an act of cowardice?

  Mulling over the idea, he had to admit Dube had come up with a solution. If he stayed in town there was every likelihood there would be violence. He was not prepared to guess what Myra might plan or attempt; but he was sure that sooner or later he would come face to face with Sonnenberg, which would surely mean a gun battle.

  Denver was no longer the frontier town it had been, but a city with law and order, and some very definite ideas about men shooting at each other to settle personal quarrels.

  To leave would seem to be the wise thing. Stephen Bricker was a trustworthy man, but there were ways in which Val could learn of the prices to be offered other than through Bricker.

  “Maybe you’ve got the right idea,” he agreed, “and if I can bring this thing to a head by nightfall, I’ll do it.”

  “All right,” Dube said, “I’ll stake out a horse for you.”

  Dube got to his feet and Val stood up with him. He had eaten almost nothing, and his food had grown cold as he talked with Dube.

  Suddenly the door opened again and Boston came in, but a different Boston, a Boston he had never seen before.

  Chapter Twenty-Four.

  Val was startled, and so was Dube. Val could only stare. Her black, wild hair had been drawn back and parted in the center; the corwn of her head was covered with curls and there were ringlets down the nape of her neck. The dress she wore was floor length, cut almost like a coat, of black wool rep over black and gray striped satin. The black skirt was draped back over a bustle to expose the pleated flounces of the silk skirt underneath. The waistcoat front was held by a strap of mother-of-pearl buttons. The sleeves were tight, with a silk facing.

  She started toward them, and they stood, while Boston walked up to them and held out
her hand, obviously pleased at the effect she was creating—not. only on them, but on the entire room.

  Val held her chair for her, and when she was seated he sat down abruptly. Dube hesitated, then sat down.

  “Boss, where did you get that riggin’? I never seen the like!”

  “I bought it.” Her chin went up. “You aren’t the only one who can maverick calves, Dube Bucklin! And this isn’t all,” she added. “I’ve got more! I’ve got six new dresses, just like the ones they wear in Paris and Vienna!”

  “You’re beautiful!” Val exclaimed. “Boston, I want to marry you! I’ve just been talking to Dube about it.”

  “Dube! What’s he got to say about what I do?” She gave him a straight, frank look from her dark eyes. “When you ask me that, don’t be looking at the girl in this dress. There’s a lot more to a girl than clothes.”

  “I’m quite sure of that,” Val said.

  She flushed slightly. “I mean, I’m not just a girl who is wearing these clothes, nor just a girl who can rope and brand calves, either.”

  “At this moment,” Val said honestly, “you look as if you’d stepped right out of a fashionable shop in Vienna. Where did you get the dress?”

  “Mel Winslow measured me, and she sent the measurements to a lady right here in Denver. She sews for Mel. She came over from Austria about two years ago and her husband was killed in a mine accident, so she’s had to sew.”

  Boston turned to him eagerly. “Oh, Val! Do I look all right? I mean … I never wore clothes like these before!”

  “You look as if you had never worn anything else,” he said. “If I hadn’t been in love with you for a long time, I’d fall in love with you right now. I couldn’t help myself.”

  She laughed at him. “That’s blarney—I know it when I hear it. But Val! There’s the most beautiful woman here! I just met her in the lobby. There she is now!”

  It was Myra … and she was both beautiful and smartly gotten up, and the tall man beside her was an impossibly handsome man but for the three scars …