She was feeling grotesquely unhappy and was about to call it a night and force H.L. to leave with her, when all of a sudden he seemed to stiffen slightly. He relaxed almost at once, then spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t turn to look, but I think our quarry just came into the room through the front door.”
Being casual about it even though her heart had almost jumped out of her chest at H.L.’s words, Rose glanced in the direction he’d indicated. She stifled a cry of amazement.
There he was! He was huge, too: A sunburned, barrel-chested ape of a man with a black moustache, grizzled dark hair, a beer belly, and a wooden leg. He swaggered up to the bar and knocked on it with a fist the size and color of a roasted turkey. She heard him bellow “Rye!” at the bartender.
“He’s with the man Milk-Eye Pete told me to watch for, too,” H.L. said under his breath. Rose heard the quiver of excitement in his voice.
“I see,” she said. “What should we do now?”
“Wait,” he told her. “Wait until they leave. Then we’ll have to follow them.” He gave her a wink. “Are your tracking skills well honed?”
“They certainly are.” She meant it, too. She wasn’t going to allow those two evil-looking scoundrels to get away with snatching one of her friends.
Chapter Thirteen
H.L. hoped Rose could stay awake long enough to follow the kidnappers if they ever left the tavern. She looked as if she was about to fall face-first onto the dirty table, overcome either by fumes or sleepiness.
He hardly blamed her. She probably wasn’t used to staying up until all hours of the morning, like he was. Plus, he imagined there wasn’t much oxygen in the tavern, since it was filled as full as it could hold with smoke. This was definitely an unsavory place, and he thought Rose was a real trouper to have stood it so well for so long.
“You doing all right?” he asked, leaning over the table and whispering.
The room had thinned of company in the couple of hours they’d been there, waiting for black-mustache to leave the place. Unfortunately, old blackie seemed determined to play cards and drink for the rest of his life.
“I think I’m going to die of suffocation if we don’t get out of here soon,” she muttered. “But I guess I’ll last a while longer.”
“Good.” He reached over and gave her hand, which was resting on the table next to her now-flat beer—which probably didn’t hurt it any—a pat. “You’re a real sport, Rose Gilhooley.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t sound overwhelmingly grateful for his praise.
H.L. chuckled. He really liked Rose Ellen Gilhooley. She was a trump. Better than a trump, really, when he put together what he’d learned about her as they’d sat here pretending to drink.
He’d used his time to good purpose, persuading Rose to consent to be interviewed in order to pass the time. After taking out his notebook and jotting a few things in it, he’d surveyed the room and decided nobody was paying any untoward attention to his scribbling, from which he surmised that literacy wasn’t an entirely unknown quantity in this vicinity. He kept tabs on people’s reactions to his activity for almost an hour, but finally gave it up when he realized nobody cared what anybody else did in this place, as long as it didn’t involve them. After that, he’d openly taken notes as he and Rose talked.
H.L. had been surprised at some of the things Rose had told him about herself, and not surprised about others. His overall impression was of a gallant, big-hearted, big-spirited girl who’d had to shoulder responsibilities far greater than most young people of either gender were expected to do at far too early an age. He admired her. A lot.
She’d been embarrassed when he’d asked her about her education, or lack thereof. He’d tried hard to let her know he didn’t think less of her for not being well educated. “Hell, that’s not your fault,” he’d told her at one point when he’d become impatient with her self-abuse. “You had better things to do with your time.”
He’d seen the appreciation in her expression, although she hadn’t voiced it. He’d also gotten the impression she didn’t really believe him.
“Annie has helped me with my reading, writing, and ciphering,” she’d said, lifting that little chin in her characteristic gesture of pride and defiance.
H.L. had experienced a mad desire to grab her out of her chair and kiss her silly. Unfortunately, that desire was becoming his constant companion these days. There was something about Rose Gilhooley that appealed to just about every aspect of his being, and he was getting worried about it.
She’d retrieved a big checked handkerchief from a pocket an hour or so earlier, and had started wiping her eyes at intervals. The smoke was hard on her. H.L. wished he could remove her from this foul den of thieves and cutthroats, but she’d never consent to go until they’d fulfilled their mission. She wiped her eyes again now and muttered, “Do you think that horrid man will ever leave?”
“I’m sure he will.”
She allowed her gaze to drift around the room. With a disgusted sneer, she said, “Maybe he’ll just pass out like everybody else is doing.”
H.L. guessed he couldn’t refute her observation. “I hope not. If he does, there may be a way to intervene, although it would be risky.”
She eyed him as if she didn’t believe him. “How?”
He shrugged. “We can get rid of his companion and drag him off. Maybe say we’re taking him to his quarters or something.”
“That could be really dangerous. If anybody else in here knows the man and where he lives, they’d know we were lying.”
“Yeah, yeah, well, let’s not borrow trouble. With luck, he’ll leave pretty soon, and we can follow him.”
“If I can still see by that time.”
H.L. chuckled. “You’ll do fine.”
“A lot you know about it.”
Oops. She was getting crabby. H.L. hoped like thunder their quarry would oblige them and leave the tavern in the next little while, before she became unmanageable. He’d have liked to walk up to the fellow and dump him out of his chair, but knew he couldn’t do anything so drastic; not and live to tell the tale, at any rate.
He was gazing blankly at the wall behind Rose, trying to think of more questions to ask her about her life with the Wild West, when she suddenly uttered a muffled cry. “Look!”
When H.L. started to turn around, she grabbed his shirtsleeve. “No! Don’t look.” Her voice was a harsh rasp he could barely hear. “But he’s getting up.”
“Maybe he’s just going to the bar again.” God, he hoped not. What he hoped was that the villain was finally aiming to depart this God-awful place. H.L. was beginning to feel as if he were suffocating, too.
“No! No! He’s not going to the bar. He got his coat from the back of his chair. I think he’s actually going to leave!”
She sounded so excited, H.L. hoped the bastard wouldn’t disappoint her. “I’ll be discreet. I’m going to turn around and pretend to look at the bar.”
“Be careful,” she hissed.
He was careful. And he had to admit that his own mood jumped up a few pegs when he saw that Rose had deduced correctly. The son of a bitch was going to leave the tavern! Thank God. H.L. didn’t know how long he himself could have withstood the deadly atmosphere of the place, and he was used to doing stuff like this. Poor Rose must be near to dying.
The disreputable-looking peg-legged person snarled something to the man who’d come in with him. H.L. couldn’t catch the words, but the voice fitted the man. It was rough and gravelly and sounded as if it had been dragged over a rocky beach several times before being presented to its present owner.
The man’s companion snarled something back. He sounded as if he’d swapped voices with some old tar’s pet parrot.
Pegleg evidently didn’t like what the other man had said, because he leaned close and snarled something else. Parrot-voice jumped to his feet and assumed a belligerent pose. He looked sort of silly, since he probably weighed a hundred pounds le
ss than Pegleg and was a foot shorter, but he didn’t back down. That signified extreme bravery or extreme stupidity to H.L., and he had a feeling he knew which one he’d pick if anyone asked.
But Pegleg didn’t pop him one, or even knock him back into his chair. He only flapped a huge hand in the air in a gesture of disgust, spun around on his peg, and stomped toward the tavern’s doors. Parrot-voice sank back into his chair, grumbling.
Rose and H.L. exchanged a glance. H.L. patted the air with his hand to signify they should stay put for another couple of seconds. “So as not to arouse suspicion.”
He saw Rose glance around the room and twitch her mouth in a moue signifying disagreement with his order. He glanced, too, and decided she was right. Nobody would know if they left the place, mainly because they were either too drunk or too occupied in playing cards to care.
Scraping his chair backward, H.L. decided to take no chances. In case anybody was listening or watching, he said, “Come on, little brother. It’s past your bedtime.” He guffawed and sneered, to let everyone know he was joshing.
“Sez you,” Rose mouthed as she, too, got up from her chair. She sounded like a hoodlum from the back slums, and H.L. almost smiled. H.L. shrugged into the jacket he’d slung over the back of the chair.
Rose hadn’t dared to take her own jacket off, for fear, H.L. presumed, that somebody would notice her shape. Lordy, she must honestly and truly be smothering, he thought with sympathy. It was more than close in the room. It was hot and disgusting, and he wished he could offer Rose a warm bath and a bed. Preferably with him in it.
God almighty, where had that come from? Irked with his carnal side, which seemed to jump out and attack him at the least favorable times, H.L. shoved it aside unmercifully. He had to keep his wits about him now, more than ever. That one-legged man was no one to trifle with.
“I hope we didn’t wait too long,” Rose said as soon as the tavern doors closed behind them. H.L. heard her suck in a lungful of almost-fresh air. “Oh, my, I don’t think I’d have lasted much longer in there.”
“Keep your voice down,” H.L. reminded her, although it was hardly necessarily. Her voice had suffered greatly from the contaminated air of the tavern, and she could scarcely scrape out a whisper at the moment. Nevertheless, he figured her lungs would unclog eventually, and he didn’t want her hollering or anything.
“Right,” she said. “Be quiet now, because I have to concentrate.”
H.L. watched her with interest. She had to lean way over, since the night was dark and the fog was still as thick as barley water. Gas lighting fuzzed weakly through the haze, but didn’t penetrate far enough to illuminate the walkway.
“Bother. It’s so dark out here.” Rose inched along, searching the ground. H.L. couldn’t even guess what she was looking for, but she apparently found whatever it was a moment later.
“Aha!” It would have been a cry of triumph, if she’d been able to cry.
“What?”
“His tracks.” She pointed. “Clear as a bell. All right, follow me.”
She sure didn’t waste any time. By the time the me part of her sentence hit the air, Rose had vanished from H.L.’s sight. He rushed to catch up with her, suddenly panic-stricken by her disappearance. He caught up with her at once. “Damn it, don’t leave me like that!”
Shooting him a nettled look over her shoulder, she snapped, “Keep up, then. There’s no time to waste, and I have no idea how difficult it is to track people in the city.”
In spite of her caution, she seemed to have no difficulty whatever in following Pegleg. Down one dark alley after another, she led H.L., until they ended up at a hovel attached to a warehouse on the dock.
“I know this place,” H.L. whispered to Rose when she stood up from her stoop and pressed a hand to her back as if it ached, which it probably did.
“You do?” She looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Row upon row of warehouses lined this section of the dock area. Businesses stored excess goods here and the owners of fishing fleets kept supplies here. During the day, the place teemed with activity. At night, it was dismal and dreary and dangerous.
“He went in there.” Rose pointed at the hovel. No lights were visible. Either the windows were covered or no lanterns had been lit when the man entered the building.
“You sure? How can you tell?”
“The tracks lead right straight here. And see? You can tell the door’s been opened within the last few minutes.”
“You can?” H.L. couldn’t.
“Well, I can,” she amended.
He didn’t argue.
“Oh! And look here!” She pointed at something else that was invisible to H.L.’s eyes. “Bear’s in there!”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s left his mark.”
Oh. Well, damn. There was more to this tracking business than H.L. had hitherto imagined. Rose had started smiling, which he took as a good sign.
She brushed her hands together. “So, what do we do now?”
Reaching into his pocket, H.L. reassured himself that a Colt revolver he knew how to use in a vague sort of way still resided there. He’d practiced, although he wasn’t a great shot. “I’m going to try the latch and see if it’s open. If it isn’t, I guess I’ll have to kick the door in.”
“We’d best make sure that’s possible before you try it.”
Their voices were so low, H.L. could scarcely hear them himself. “How do you propose doing that?”
“Let me do it.” She didn’t explain, but he watched with fascination as she silently perused the door latch, lifted it, and then inspected the door itself as well as its hinges, all in absolute silence. When she was through, she nodded. “It’ll give way if you aim at the center panel and kick it hard enough. Do you have the strength to do that?”
Irked, H.L. said, “Of course, I do.”
“Don’t get upset. I just wanted to make sure. We don’t want to make any noisy mistakes and alert that horrid man, do we? After all, Bear is probably tied up, and we can’t afford to waste any time.”
“I suppose not,” he grumbled. He knew she’d used the royal we so as not to ruffle his feathers. Damn it, you’d think he was the woman here and not her, the way she talked to him. He realized he was miffed because she was the more competent tracker of the two of them. She was probably the better shot, as well.
Well, hell, a man couldn’t be all things to all people. H.L. May was a damned good reporter, and that’s what mattered to him. He still felt sort of small and insignificant, but he vowed not to allow the feeling to interfere with his mission.
“Let me get ready before you kick in the door,” Rose whispered.
H.L. goggled as she pulled a revolver from her jacket, shrugged, and reached around to the back of her trousers to retrieve another one. She looked like a dime-novelist’s conception of Billy the Kid, standing there in her trousers and Stetson, aiming two guns at the dilapidated door of the hovel. He decided, What the hell, and drew his own gun out of his pocket. Who was he to buck tradition?
“Ready?” he asked. His heart started scrambling to catch up with his breath. He’d never performed a rescue before; it was tough breaking new ground, especially when there probably wouldn’t be any room for error.
Rose nodded. She looked more grim than H.L. had ever seen her, even when she’d been angry and hollering at him for some reason. He backed up, braced himself, sucked in a bushel or so of air, nodded once, quickly plotted his trajectory, and said, “Here goes nothing.”
With his gun held out before him in both hands, he made a dash at the door, raised his foot and flexed it so that the sole of his shoe would make contact with the wood, and with all his weight behind him, smashed into it. A deafening crash ripped through the air as his foot ripped through the rotten wood. The accompanying bellow of rage and alarm from Pegleg made for a truly horrific din.
H.L. hadn’t counted on getting his foot stuck in the splintered wood. Swearing a blue streak, he ex
tricated himself, aware as he did so that little Rose Gilhooley had already rushed past him into the room.
“Stop right there, you!”
When he got himself upright again, which didn’t take more than five or six seconds, H.L. was aghast at the spectacle of Rose aiming two revolvers at the enormous gut of the one-legged man. Unfortunately, Pegleg in his turn had what looked like a cannon directed straight at Rose.
“Get out of here, little lady, and take that skunk with you.” Pegleg sneered at Rose and jerked his head at H.L.
H.L., scared to death on Rose’s behalf, decided this wasn’t the time to dally. Lifting his revolver, he aimed straight at the villain’s ugly face and pulled the trigger.
An explosion so loud it made his ears ring filled the room, along with a whole lot of black smoke.
“Shit! You scurvy cur, you shot me!” Pegleg roared.
Something hit H.L. in the stomach, sending him over backwards. H.L. realized a second later that it had been Rose. His brain scarcely registered her weight on his body before another explosion, louder even than the one from his own gun, boomed through the air.
“Get Bear, Mr. May! I’ll take care of this man!”
Huh? His head swimming, H.L. scrambled to his feet in time to see Pegleg swat Rose away as if she’d been a fly. Rage consumed H.L. in that instant; a rage so large and fierce, it later scared him because he hadn’t realized he was capable of such mindless fury.
With a roar that matched Pegleg’s in volume and ferocity, H.L. plowed into the huge man’s belly, head first. With a grunt, Pegleg staggered backward, fetching up against the wall behind him. Drawing on a youth spent defending himself from taunts about his name, H.L. didn’t give the scoundrel time to recover, but attacked him with lefts and rights and upper cuts and jabs, whaling away at Pegleg’s face and body with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.
“Mr. May!” Rose screeched at his back, but H.L. didn’t care. He was going to kill the man who’d hurt Rose or know the reason why.
Through teeth clenched so tightly, his jaw ached, H.L. managed to pant out, “Get the kid.”
Coming Up Roses Page 19