Bucking the Tiger

by Marcus Galloway

  Responding to that commotion, the squat man who worked at the hotel’s front desk walked outside and took a look around. “What the hell was all that?”

  “Did you see where Miss Deno went?”

  “Lottie? Sure I did.”

  Caleb wheeled around so he could look directly into the shorter man’s eyes. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know if anything happened, but she left a bit before you got here.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “No. There were some other fellas with her.”

  “What others?” Caleb asked while trying not to lose too much more of his patience. “Did you know them?”

  The clerk thought it over while rubbing his chin. “Don’t believe I seen ’em before.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Aw, the hell if I know,” the clerk replied as he quickly reached the limit of his own patience and turned to walk back into the hotel. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Following the man inside, Caleb asked, “Was one of them tall with a fancy suit?”

  “No,” the clerk replied quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you just saying that, or are you really sure?”

  “Jesus Christ, if I knew you’d be all riled up like this, I wouldn’t have said a damn word. Whatever she’s doing with those fellas, I’m sure she’ll be back before too long. She seems like a good woman, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

  By this time, the man had settled in behind his desk and found a drink that was kept out of plain sight. After taking a quick sip, he looked up and seemed surprised that Caleb was still there. It wasn’t the good kind of surprised, either.

  “I’m worried that she might be in trouble,” Caleb said. “Did it look like those men were taking her somewhere she didn’t want to go?”

  “Not hardly,” the clerk grumbled.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just what I said. She wasn’t smiles and laughs, but she wasn’t kicking and screaming, either. If she was, I’d have fetched the law and told them about it rather than poke my nose outside just to tell some lunatic pounding against the front of my hotel. What kind of man do you take me for, anyway?”

  Caleb leaned with both hands flat against the top of the desk. He took a few seconds to breathe deeply before asking, “Think you could tell me where they went?”

  “Ain’t my business.” Suddenly, the clerk’s eyes shot open and he straightened up as if something had bitten his toe. “I almost forgot!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a message for you.”

  “Is it from Lottie?”

  “No, no,” the clerk replied with a dismissive wave as he turned and dug through a small pile of papers behind him. “Someone’s been coming around looking for you.”

  Caleb’s eyes narrowed as he asked, “Who was it?”

  Muttering under his breath until he found one particular slip of paper, the clerk held it up, stared at it, and shook his head. “Name he left was…Tom Mackey.”

  “Tom Mackey?”

  “Don’t you know him?”

  Shaking his head, Caleb asked, “What did he want?”

  “See for yourself.” With that, the clerk flipped the paper across the top of the counter so it could fly right into Caleb’s chest. “And don’t bother me anymore with what Miss Deno’s doing and don’t pound yer fists against my walls like some goddamn animal. This ain’t some whorehouse and Denver ain’t some cow town like you’re probably used to, you Texan son of a bitch.”

  Although Caleb had been pushed way past frustration with the squat man behind the counter, anger wasn’t exactly his next stop. Under normal circumstances, the mix of whining and wheezing in the other man’s voice might have been funny. What he’d seen and heard, however, just made Caleb feel as if he’d been picked up, spun around, shaken up, and set back down again. He was so flustered that it took a moment or two for him to focus on the slip of paper in his hand.

  Sure enough, printed there in handwriting that was much too florid to have been done by the squat man himself, the name Tom Mackey was written plain as day. Beneath that were the words, “Theatre Comique” in somewhat smaller letters.

  “When did he come looking for me?” Caleb asked.

  The clerk shrugged. “It was there when I got here at five.”

  Caleb didn’t have to think much at all to recall where he was at that time. He’d been at the Mint playing five-card draw. In fact, Caleb had been there nearly every waking moment since his arrival in Denver.

  “So you didn’t see this Mackey person?” Caleb asked.

  The clerk shook his head.

  “What about this theater? Do you know where that is?”

  Grudgingly, the clerk leaned forward so he could take another look at the paper. After examining it for a good, long time, he shook his head again. “Nah.”

  “Thanks a lot. You’ve been a big help.”

  29

  Since he didn’t have any better ideas of where to go and he was too tired to head back to his own room, Caleb started asking around about the Theatre Comique. Finding the place wasn’t all that difficult once he asked someone other than the clerk at his hotel. The Theatre was an ornate brick building in a good section of town.

  There was plenty of liquor being poured, cards being dealt, and women being groped, but it was done with a more respectable quality. The music wafting through the air was played on pianos that were actually in tune, and accompanied by violins rather than fiddles. It was a subtle difference, but one that hit Caleb square in the face. He was just walking up to the wide double doors of the Theatre when he was stopped by a firm grip upon his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” came a calm yet insistent voice from behind him. “I’m afraid you can’t go in there.”

  Caleb’s first instinct was to turn around and glare at whoever had stopped him. Luckily, he spotted the badge on the man’s chest before he did anything too stupid. “Why not?” he asked in the most civil tone he could manage.

  The man was in his twenties, but had the smooth face of someone even younger. A well-trimmed mustache complemented rounded features, as well as the expensive cut of his suit. “Are you new to Denver?” he asked. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here.”

  “I’ve been here awhile.”

  “From Texas?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Your accent gave you away. Also, you bow up like a Texan the moment someone tries to keep you from your whiskey.”

  Caleb didn’t know quite what to say to that. At least, he didn’t know quite what to say that wouldn’t end up with him being tossed into a cell for misconduct. Fortunately, he only had to wait a few seconds before the lawman started to chuckle.

  “No offense meant,” the lawman said. “Just testing the waters, is all. Most rowdies or drunks would have slipped up by now. Better out here on the street than inside where ladies are present”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I’ve been to Texas. It’s some beautiful country.”

  Caleb nodded slowly and waited. Once he saw that the lawman was perfectly content to stand and enjoy the night air, he asked, “Was there a reason you stopped me?”

  “Like I said, you must be new in town. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be wearing those in public.” When he spoke, the lawman pointed toward the guns strapped around Caleb’s waist.

  “Is there an ordinance or something against being heeled?” Caleb asked. While doing so, Caleb reached for the guns to tap their handles. His hands froze when he saw the lawman flick open his jacket and place a hand on the pistol holstered there.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that,” the lawman said in a voice that was suddenly devoid of all the friendliness that had been there only moments ago. “You’ll need to hand those over.”

  “If you tell me where your office is, I can run them over—”

  “Hand them over, mister.
Right now.”

  Caleb stood his ground without moving a muscle. His and the lawman’s eyes were locked in a quiet standoff that had plenty of potential to turn ugly at any moment. A few folks on their way into the Theatre had even stopped to watch the show just outside the front door.

  Only after Caleb eased his arms away from his guns did the lawman follow suit. The smile that came back on the lawman’s face seemed as relieved as it was amicable.

  “I apologize for the display,” the lawman said. “But there’s been too many problems with guns in this area.”

  Caleb eased his holster from around his waist and handed it over. “I just hope I’m not the only one to be disarmed around here.”

  “Take a look around and point out another man who’s sporting pistols, and I’ll go have a word with him.”

  Just to be difficult, Caleb took a look around so he could point to the closest armed man he could see and watch what the lawman did about it. When he didn’t find anyone carrying a gun, he took another look. The second try was as successful as the first, prompting Caleb to look back to the lawman. With nothing else left to do, Caleb shrugged.

  “You can pick these back up at the office down the street,” the lawman said. “Or, if you plan on staying in Denver for a while, you can leave them with us and we’ll keep them safe.”

  “I guess if you’re thorough enough, there shouldn’t be much cause for worry.”

  “That’s the idea.” With that, the lawman tipped his hat and slung Caleb’s holster over his shoulder. “You have a good night.”

  Caleb watched his guns be carried away, wondering what the hell had just happened. Although he wasn’t completely helpless, he knew that walking around without his guns was akin to crawling past a bear’s den while covered in honey. Or, more likely, a tiger’s den.

  Pulling his jacket closed to cover the spot where his holster was normally buckled, Caleb walked into the Theatre Comique and put on his most convincing confident face.

  The Theatre was pretty much what he’d expected from the name. It was a large, open room with a second-floor balcony wrapped around nearly all of its perimeter. Most of the main floor was dominated by the large stage, which came complete with dark velvet curtains and a fairly elaborate backdrop, which currently displayed a nicely painted ocean scene. The stage was lit by a row of hooded lanterns at the feet of a large group of singers composed of men and women dressed in what appeared to be long underwear.

  A small orchestra accompanied the singers as they went through their finely choreographed motions while gazing back at the brightly painted sun. Caleb wasn’t much for dance troupes, but he found himself watching them long enough to be nudged to one side to clear the doorway.

  A long bar was built against the wall closest to the door and opposite the stage. There were a few tables scattered where Caleb was standing, but most of the real action was taking place farther inside the Theatre. While walking through the place, Caleb spotted at least half a dozen promising poker games being played, some faro tables, and even a couple backgammon tables. Although he couldn’t see the roulette wheels, he could hear at least two of them rattling somewhere in the room.

  Upstairs, things appeared to be a little quieter. There were a few sections of seats looking down on the stage, but most of that second-floor space was occupied by finely dressed ladies and the men talking to them. Those people leaned against the rail to look down on the rest of the Theatre, and behind them were a few smaller doors that led to private rooms.

  Although he could have spent a good amount of time just standing where he was and admiring the sights, Caleb forced himself back to the business that had brought him into the Theatre in the first place. He had his sights set on the bartender when he started walking across the room. Perhaps, that’s why the well-dressed man who stopped him nearly got up to him without being noticed.

  At the last second. Caleb pivoted on his heel and faced the man.

  “Whoa, there,” the man said as he raised his hands a bit and put on a wary smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to welcome you to the Theatre Comique.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I see you got harassed by the law outside. I felt like I was walking with my pants around my ankles the first couple days I went without my gun, but that’s because I spent the last few years in some rough towns in Old Mexico. Where you hail from?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Ah, seems like we’ve been getting a good amount of new faces around here. My name’s Andrew Corday.”

  “Do you run this place?” Caleb asked.

  “I’m part owner.”

  “Do you know anyone named Tom Mackey?”

  Corday cocked his head to one side and put on a sly grin. “Perhaps, but I don’t discuss such matters with strangers.”

  For a moment, Caleb felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Then, he looked down to see Corday offering an outstretched hand. He shook it and said, “Caleb Wayfinder.”

  “Wayfinder? Is that Indian?”

  “Partly.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Caleb. Now that we’re no longer strangers, I can tell you the man you’re looking for is right over there.”

  When he looked in the direction Corday was pointing, Caleb spotted another row of faro tables that he’d overlooked earlier.

  “Which one is Mackey?” Caleb asked.

  “I’d say he’s the one in the dark suit, but that doesn’t exactly narrow down your choices. Why are you looking for him?”

  “Actually, I heard he’s been looking for me.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Morris?”

  Caleb shifted his eyes back to Corday and asked, “What do you know about that?”

  Corday shrugged. “Anyone in my line of work tends to hear a lot about whatever that asshole does.”

  “I’d imagine there’s no admirer of his that owns a piece of any saloon. There’s enough hard work to do without having another prick strut around to collect some bullshit taxes.”

  “Sounds like you know something about it. Most folks think owning a saloon is like running a candy store.”

  Caleb laughed and shook his head. “I owned a place myself.”

  “Really? How’d you like it?”

  “Let’s just say it’s less of a gamble bucking the tiger than it is trying to turn a profit off a bunch of rowdy drunks.”

  Corday laughed and slapped Caleb on the shoulder. “I’d heard you might be trouble, but I can see that was just a lot of smoke.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Your friend Morris. When they’re not taking our money, he and his men do their best to talk folks up or down. He’s not too fond of you, by the way.”

  “I know.”

  “I figured as much. Those tax collectors aren’t exactly subtle.” Keeping his hand on Caleb’s shoulder, Corday turned him so he was facing the faro tables once again. “Mackey is at the table closest to the wall over there. Watch yourself, my friend. I’ve heard some troubling things about that fellow.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Caleb started to walk away, he realized that Corday wasn’t so quick to let go of his shoulder. In fact, he tightened his grip and lowered his voice to a fierce whisper.

  “I know you got more guns on you than what the law took away,” Corday said. “But I got plenty of guns myself, and if you spill blood in my place after I’ve been so civil to you, I’ll make sure you see more guns than you’ll like.”

  Caleb nodded as if he were listening to a recipe for blueberry cobbler. “You’ve got a real nice place here. I won’t mess it up.”

  Shifting back to his neighborly smile, Corday patted Caleb’s shoulder and let him go. “That’s good to hear. You’re a real gentleman.” After that, Corday found someone else in the vicinity to welcome and moved along to do just that.

  As he walked through the milling crowd of people in the Theatre, Caleb checked to make sure that everything was in place. He could still
feel the small revolver in his boot as well as the one kept at the small of his back. Drawing either of them would take slightly longer than pulling one from his holster, but Caleb figured it was only a matter of a second or so difference.

  Caleb made it to the faro table closest to the wall without spotting one familiar face. He had a few ideas as to what to look for and how to react once Mackey showed himself. But none of that preparation was enough to keep him from being surprised once he got a good look at who was sitting at that table between two gamblers and doing a bad job of protecting decent-sized stacks of chips.

  “Doc? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Ah,” Doc said with only a hint of mild interest in his voice. “I see you got my message.”

  30

  It took more than a little prodding, but Doc was finally convinced to get up from his seat After saying his farewells to the other gamblers, he took hold of a polished black cane that had been propped against the table and leaned on its silver handle as he walked. When he got to the bar, Doc produced a pair of twenty-dollar chips in his right hand before making them disappear again with a slight flourish. “I’ve been helping myself to these all night,” Doc said. “Those two on either side of me were playing so badly they never even noticed.”

  “What’s with the cane?” Caleb asked.

  Doc shrugged and then postured like an aristocrat in an old painting. “I find it makes me look distinguished.” After seeing that Caleb wasn’t impressed, he added, “It also makes things a bit easier on my rough days.”

  Caleb knew better than to press Doc on matters regarding his health. Since Doc was clear-eyed and speaking without coughing, he knew the slender Georgian was doing as well as could be expected. “How long have you been in town?”

  “Just a few days. I must say, I’m feeling a whole lot better since I’ve arrived. This mountain air does wonders.”

  “Who’s Tom Mackey?”

  “I am,” Doc replied with a smirk. “I thought you would have deduced that by now.”

  “You took a new name?”