Val was suddenly cold.
“Val?” Boston caught his sleeve. She looked frightened. “Val, what’s the matter?”
“That’s my mother,” he said quietly, “and the man with her is Prince Pavel Pavelovitch.”
He sat very still, looking at Myra. She was, he admitted, a very striking-looking woman. She was slender and tall, and looked not within ten years of what her age must be. When she looked across the room at them, her eyes met his.
This was his mother, but she was also the woman who had him taken out to be left to die in the snow. This was a woman that even such a man as Tensleep feared. If all he had heard was true, men had died at her hand, yet looking at her now as she came toward them it was hard to believe.
For only a moment she hesitated. Then she walked straight to him and held out her hand. “Val! You’ve grown into a very handsome man.”
She turned slightly. “Val, I want you to meet Prince Pavel Pavelovitch. Pavel, this is my son, Valentine Darrant.”
“How do you do?” Val’s tone was cold, and the Prince looked at him in surprise.
Val turned and introduced Boston … Dube had disappeared.
“May we join you?” Myra asked, and she seated herself without waiting for any word from Val.
Myra ordered tea, as did Prince Pavel. As he was still hungry, Val ordered something more, wondering how he could escape from this situation. Only Boston seemed completely at ease. She chatted gaily with the Prince about Denver, the mountains, and the hotel. When the tea arrived she poured for them all.
During a momentary lull Myra said, “You’re in a very fortunate position, Valentine. They tell me that you own the land needed for the right-of-way.”
He shrugged. “It isn’t important.”
“But it is. If the situation is handled correctly, it can make you independent … even a wealthy young man.”
“I really don’t need very much. I prefer the simple life, except”—he paused—“that I do like to play cards occasionally.”
Boston gave him a quick glance. This was something new.
“We all like to risk a little something occasionally,” Prince Pavel said.
“And in doing so, sometimes one risks too much,” Val replied. “Sometimes one underestimates those with whom he plays.”
“I dare say,” Pavel said, and he looked thoughtfully at Val. Why did the fellow look so damned familiar? And what had he meant by that, exactly?
“You have a chance for a real coup, Valentine,” Myra said, “and if you’d like, I’d enjoy helping you. After all, you are my son.”
“It must be nice,” Boston said brightly, “to discover that you have a son.”
Myra glanced at Boston without expression, then she said to Val, “Or if you don’t want to bother with the details, I would buy you out for a hundred thousand dollars—in cash.”
“It is a nice sum,” Val agreed.
“Then it is a deal?”
“I only said it was a nice sum, and don’t worry about the business part of it, Myra.” He discovered he could not call her mother. “I served an apprenticeship with Stephen Bricker.”
“I heard you had been admitted to the bar,” she commented.
Myra was searching for an opening. She had not believed it would be easy, but she would have expected her son to react in a rather different way. Val seemed in no way impressed.
“I might be able to make a better price,” she suggested.
Val gave her a direct look. “You would have to, Myra. Many times better. I haven’t discovered yet what that property is worth, but I do know it is worth in excess of a million dollars.”
Before she could reply, Val turned his attention to Pavel. “Are you staying with us long, Prince Pavel? The hunting in Colorado is excellent.”
“Mrs. Fossett and I have some business to take care of,” he said. “I doubt if I shall remain longer than necessary. In any event, I am not a hunter.”
“But there are times when hunting can be quite interesting, especially when circumstances contrive to bring the game to the hunter.”
Pavel was puzzled. What exactly did he mean, this American? He asked the question.
Val shrugged. “With deer, it is a bit of cloth on a stick that will bring them near. With men, I suspect that money would do it. Have you ever played poker, Prince?”
“Very often. In fact, it is a favorite game of mine. I learned at Salzburg from an Englishman who had lived in America. It is an exciting game.”
“Then you should enjoy Colorado. They play an exciting brand of poker here.”
Myra was puzzled even more than Pavel. The conversation seemed to have no point, yet she seemed to detect an undercurrent of hidden meanings. But that was absurd. It would have been directed at her, not at Pavel.
There had been little chance to utilize the Prince’s name in New York. They had appeared at the opera, and they had attracted attention, just as she wished. Several invitations had arrived, at least one of them from one of the men close to those with whom she wished to do business. It was from this man that she received the first inkling of something impending in Colorado.
To travel in the West was the last thing she wanted, but when she discovered that it was her own son who held the property needed for the right-of-way, she decided to accept the risk of recognition in that part of the country. After all, years had passed, and she knew that she had changed. When she had worked on the Line she had been considerably plumper. Men who paid for their women liked them well rounded and full. She was fifteen pounds lighter now … everything was different.
It would be only a few days—a meeting with Val, a quick deal, and then a return to the East. The Prince would serve as wonderful window-dressing, and there was also the possibility that he would prove valuable in any subsequent negotiations. Ostensibly, she would be showing the West to the Prince and his cousin.
She had no doubts about success. Even if Val was skeptical of her good wishes, she could always appeal to sentiment. And if all else failed there was always the other way, and whatever he had would automatically become hers.
She was not without contacts in the Rocky Mountain area, though none of them knew who she was, but she had arranged to gather information on mines, railroads, and cattle through them, and to make it worth their whole.
Myra studied Val’s face as he talked to Pavel. Was there any of her in him? If so, she could not see it. He looked like a taller, more handsome version of his father; and something, she had to admit it, of her own father was in his jawline and nose.
She supposed she should feel proud of him, but she did not. Suddenly she felt a pang of jealousy. It was Will Reilly who could feel proud, for after all, Will had raised him, and he seemed to have done quite a job of it.
Val had mentioned poker … was he a gambler, too? But her Pinkerton reports had made no mention of that, and it was something they would not have missed. So if he gambled at all, it was very little. No doubt Will had tried to keep him away from all that.
“If we could talk alone, Val,” she suggested,
“He has promised to go shopping with me,” Boston said.
Myra was growing irritated. The girl annoyed her, and she sensed a like feeling from Boston. “Please”—there was just an edge of sarcasm in her tone—“he can buy you pretty dresses any time. This is business. It is important.”
“You misunderstand,” Boston said very politely. “I buy my own dresses, with my own money. Some girls do, you know.”
Myra stiffened as if she had been slapped. For an instant everything within her was still. Then she felt a shock of cold anger. She started to retort, but cut the words off and forced herself to speak with care.
“That’s very nice, I’m sure.” Then she added, “I suppose you have your own ways of earning money.”
“Yes,” Boston said, smiling, “I mavericked calves, if you want to know, out on the range with a branding iron and a rope.”
Myra looked at her in frank di
sbelief, and Pavel said, “I don’t understand … what is it … maverick?”
“It’s a Texas name for an unbranded calf, or whatever,” Val said. “It got its name from a Texan who didn’t take the time to have his cattle branded, and when he sold the herd, riders moved in and branded every one as one of Maverick’s.
“There are a lot of loose, unbranded cattle around, and although the practice is beginning to be frowned on, it is still the fastest way to build an outfit of your own. Boston is one of the best riders, male or female, I’ve ever seen, and she’s good with a rope and fast with a branding iron, so she has done very well.”
“It is difficult to believe,” the Prince said. “You do not seem the type, somehow.”
“We all work in this country,” Val replied, “and Boston rides like one of your Cossacks.”
Myra sat waiting, fighting down her impatience. The conversation kept wandering away from the subject, and this room would be filling with people at any moment now. Already a few had come in, and she was expecting Masters and Cope.
“We must settle this, Val. If you are going to sell the property, why not sell it to me, your mother?”
Val stifled the sharp answer that came to his lips. “I shall have to think about it. In the meantime, you might decide what is your best offer and make it to Bricker … But don’t waste time returning to the fact that you are my mother. I haven’t had much of an example of that, Myra.”
He got to his feet. “Prince Pavel, if you are interested, there are usually some good poker games around. Don’t bother with Blake Street. You can find a good one right here in the hotel.”
Myra sat very still as he walked out, but her mind was working rapidly. She was going to lose this deal unless she acted swiftly. There was also the matter of the box … she had forgotten about the box temporarily.
Had Val received it? If not, he must be prevented from receiving it. His room must be searched, and then she must get word to Sonnenberg. She had come west so quickly there had been no chance of waiting to learn if they had obtained the box.
“Your son,” Pavel asked, “has he ever been to Europe?”
Her thoughts were elsewhere. “Europe? Of course not. How could he have been in Europe?”
Myra was frustrated and bitter. The breakfast conversation had been inconclusive, to say the least. Valentine seemed in no mood to do business with her, and she dreaded his receiving an offer from Cope or Masters.
First the box. She must have it, or at least examine its contents … And then Val. For Myra Cord, now Fossett, killing had come to be simply a solution to a problem. She got up, waited for Pavel to receive his change, and then left him in the lobby, and went to her room.
She had already taken care to find out which room was occupied by her son.
Chapter Twenty-five.
In the lobby, Val paused and took Boston’s hand. “I was proud of you, but be careful. She’s not like ordinary people, and she has been pretty successful in what she has done. By now she probably believes that she cannot make a mistake.
“Her entire life has been a struggle for money, for power. She doesn’t have to have a reason for killing other than that you are in the way, and I am sure she feels you are, as I am.”
“I’m not afraid of her, Val. I think she is more afraid of me.”
“I’ve got to find Bricker, and tonight I must have a meeting with Pavel.”
“What are you going to do?”
He hesitated. “Boston, I am going to play poker. I am going to play for blood, using everything I have except the ranch. I am going to twist him and break him.”
“Can you do it?”
“I’ve got to try. He had Uncle Will murdered, but there is no way I can prove that here and now, so this will be my way to make him pay.”
“All right, Val. Only be careful. I do not like him.”
Dube met him outside. “Val, you better do as we planned. You grab yourself a horse and light a shuck.”
“I’ve got to see Bricker, then Pavel.”
“I looked him over. I don’t care for that Russky. I’ve known some good ones, but he’s got a mean look under all of that polish.”
“I can’t go now. I’ve got to stay in town.”
“Val, don’t you do it. Light out for Durango. You’ve got business there, anyway. Make ‘em follow you—I mean those gents who want you to sell to ‘em. But you get away from that woman … and from Sonnenberg. I meant to tell you about him. He ain’t alone. He’s got three men trailin’ him around. One’s a kind of crazy galoot they call Tom, then there’s—”
“Tom?” His thoughts went back to the cold winter day when Will and he had driven up to that lonely hideout in the snow, the hideout where Tensleep, Sonnenberg, and … wasn’t the other one named Tom?
“That’s what they called him. Odd-lookin’ crittur. Eyes never stop, one shoulder hangin’ lower than the other, sunken chest, hollow cheeks.”
“Who are the others?”
“There’s a breed called Pagosa, and a long, lean slat of a man named Marcus Kiley. They’re bad ones.”
Dube was silent for a moment. “Well, I told you. That’s all I can do except to have that horse where I planned. It will be there, come midnight, but you do whatever you’re of a mind to.”
By noon Val had located Stephen Bricker, and had made arrangements with him to open negotiations with Cope, Masters, or anyone else interested in the right-of-way.
When Val emerged on the street he paused to take stock of the street and of the windows all around before moving on. He was wary, and he liked the feel of the Smith & Wesson in his waistband. Every bit of common sense he had told him he should do just what Dube had wanted him to do … leave town, leave fast, and by back trails.
He had never been a man who hunted trouble, and as he had not faced Sonnenberg, nobody could ever call him a coward for quietly dropping out of sight. Moreover, he had business in Durango and the vicinity. But the memory of Pavel and how he had bought the death of Will Reilly held him in Denver. There would be a big poker game in the Windsor that night, and if Pavel entered, Val would. And from that moment on, it would be war.
Myra had wasted no time. Val’s room was not far from her own. And she had long possessed five skeleton keys that would open almost any lock. If seen by anyone in the hotel, she had only to say what was true—that she was going to her son’s room.
She opened the door and stepped inside quickly. She stood still for a moment, sweeping the room with her eyes. There were half a dozen suits in the closet, shirts and underwear in the drawers. Her son, she decided, after a glance at the clothes, had good taste. She went through the room working with the skill of a professional. If the box was in the room at all, she was quite sure it would be hidden, and she knew the places where things are usually hidden. She had hidden things many times herself, and she had a devious mind, given to quick apprehension of trick or device. Within a matter of minutes, she was sure the box was not in the room.
Where, then, was it?
She had had no word from Sonnenberg; if he had the box he had not notified her. If he had not been able to get it, the box must be at the bank, in which case the bank must be entered and the box obtained. This part of the affair was in Sonnenberg’s hands.
But what if Val already had the box? If not in his room, where was it likely to be?
In the room of Boston Bucklin.
Myra paused, considering that. To enter the girl’s room was dangerous, too dangerous unless she definitely knew the box was there and the girl was out.
The solution; then, was to get into the room by invitation, and then look around. If she could not see the box, she could, at least, eliminate all but a few hiding places, which could be examined later.
What her son would do with that box and its contents she had no idea, but without it nobody could do anything. Men had died, and by now worms had eaten them, and only Van could name dates and places. Only Van could know or guess where the bodies w
ere buried.
She was positive, judging by his attitude, that he had not yet obtained the box—at least, he had not opened it and studied the contents. She must move quickly.
She listened a moment at the door, heard nothing, then slipped out. As she pulled the door shut behind her she thought she heard the click of a closing door an instant before Val’s closed.
Quickly, she glanced around, but the hall was empty. She walked back to her room, fumbled with the lock long enough for a quick look around again, then stepped inside.
There were five doors along that hall. Surely, Boston’s room was one of them. Had she been watching? Had Boston seen her leaving Val’s room? Or was it that cowhand brother of hers who had come to Denver with them?
For several minutes she watched from a crack of her door, wondering if anyone would come to check Val’s room, but no one did. Whoever had opened and closed the door might have been a stranger … or it might have been her imagination.
After a few minutes she went down to the lobby, inquired for Miss Bucklin, and learned that she was in her room. From a writing desk in the lobby Myra sent out several notes, one to Stephen Bricker, others to Cope and Masters. Another note went to a man on Blake Street.
Cheyenne Dawson did not look the way his name sounded. He should have been a cowhand or a bad man, the “bad” used in the western sense, meaning a bad man to tangle with. Cheyenne was all of that, only he made no show of being tough or mean, or good with a gun.
Cheyenne Dawson held forth in a saloon or two along Blake Street, and was known in all the less savory spots in Denver. He was a huge, sloppy man, wide in the hips, narrow in the shoulders, the tail of his shirt nearly always hanging out on one side or the other.
He had large, soulful blue eyes, was partly bald, and wore a coat that was too big, even for him. He was five inches over six feet, and was said to weigh three hundred pounds.
The years that lay behind him had covered about everything dishonest that a man could do, but his activities usually were those that demanded the least activity. After a spell of smuggling over the border and of rustling cattle, he had decided it was easier to make a living by selling whiskey and guns to the Indians. As the country built up and the Army became more active, he decided there was too much risk in that, so he opened a saloon with a couple of barrels of “Indian” whiskey.
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