by Jane Toombs
By the end of another hour most of the chips were stacked in front of Campbell and Philippe. It was Campbell's deal. The piano fell silent and, for a moment, there was an unnatural hush in the room. The talking at the bar stopped, and the shouts and clatter from the street lessened. It wasn't because of anything that had happened, Philippe was certain, but purely by chance.
The excitement that had been building in him all day swept upward, peaked and he was suddenly calm. This was the moment he'd been waiting and hoping for. His time had come.
As Campbell shuffled the cards slowly and painstakingly, the deck small in his large hands, the piano came to life again, the talk and laughter at the bar resumed and a muleskinner's curses came from the street. The lamps, all lit now, threw a soft glow over the tables, highlighting the players’ faces.
Philippe looked across at Campbell. The big man shifted in his chair, seeming to sense something extraordinary was happening. He picked up the cards after the cut and held them in front of him.
"Deal,” Philippe told him with quiet confidence. “Deal the cards."
Campbell dealt, his fingers awkward. Philippe watched intently, alert for chicanery, even though Campbell's massive fingers made any sleight-of-hand improbable. There was none detectable and Philippe was never fooled.
"Having trouble?” he asked as Campbell fumbled with the cards.
The big man grunted, but said nothing.
Philippe fanned his cards, slowly revealing a jack, an ace, a nine, another ace and a three. When he opened with twenty dollars, one of the miners dropped out.
"Two cards.” Philippe drew an ace and a jack in exchange for his nine and three. He now held a full house of aces and jacks.
"Two for me.” After he drew, Campbell looked right and left, clearing his throat.
I've got the bluffing bastard, Philippe told himself, careful to give no sign of the strength of his hand. Only four of a kind, a straight flush or a royal flush could beat him. He pushed four ten-dollar chips into the pot. The second miner folded, leaving only Philippe and Campbell in the game. “I'll see your forty,” Campbell said, “and raise you eighty."
Philippe deliberately hesitated a fraction of a second, as though unsure whether to go on. At last he shrugged. “Match the eighty and raise you another eighty."
"Eighty and eighty more.” Sweat beaded Campbell's forehead.
"I'll match you and—” Philippe paused, counted his piles of remaining chips, then pushed them to the center of the table. “And raise you two hundred."
"I'll see your two hundred,” Campbell said, his voice husky. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a thonged pouch, counted out twenty double eagles and piled them on the table. “And jump it another two hundred."
This was it, Philippe knew. His big win. His bonanza.
"Give me a piece of paper,” he said. “I'll write you a marker for the two hundred and for another two hundred besides."
The room hushed as men from the bar gathered around the table.
"I don't play for markers,” Campbell said.
"I don't have any more cash."
"You got something better."
Philippe waited, unsure what to expect.
"You got the woman."
"The woman?” Philippe frowned.
"You know the woman I mean. I one you brought with you to Virginia City. The one you dress like a boy. Bet her. Take back your money. I'll stake all I've got on the table against the woman."
Philippe's heart thudded. This was the hand he knew he would win, was destined to win. Campbell was bluffing, expecting him to crawfish. What did the stakes matter if he was bound to win?
"Afraid?” Campbell taunted.
Looking at him with narrowed eyes, Philippe noted a change. The big man had stopped sweating, seemingly confident. Was it possible Campbell held the cards? No, unbelievable, not when it was Philippe Manigault's turn to win.
"Done,” he said. “I'll call you."
Campbell laid his cards face up on the green felt. He held four fives. Philippe paled. Desperately, he reached inside his coat. The strong hands of miners standing to either side of him pinned his arms to his sides.
Campbell stood, smiling. “Don't hurt the gentleman.” He took two chips from the table and tossed them to one of the onlookers. “Buy him a few drinks on me while I'm collecting my winnings."
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CHAPTER 11
At first, Monique paid no heed to the shouting in the distance. Virginia City, she'd found, was a place of alarms and excursions, of fire bells clanging in the night and of bands of revelers singing drunkenly as they trekked “cross-lots” to their shanty homes.
When the hubbub grew louder, curious, she crossed to the window and looked down at the street. A crowd of men surged toward the boarding house, their bearded faces alternately shadowed and lighted by the glare from their torches and lanterns.
A thrill tingled through her. Philippe? Was it possible his hunch had come true? Had he scored a coup at the gaming tables and was now being escorted to his lodgings in triumph? She searched the faces of the men in the front rank of the crowd, but didn't see him. One man, a burly giant, seemed to be the center of attention. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite remember where she might have crossed paths with him.
As the shouting mob approached the house, men looked up at her window and she drew back into the room. No, it wasn't Philippe. Still, he should be home soon. The sun was long down, and he'd made it a habit to take her to supper each night at the Comstock House.
She returned to the table where, in the light from a kerosene lamp, she'd been reading King Lear. About to sit down, she paused, the name of the big man popping into her mind, along with where she'd encountered him before. Alex Campbell, the man who'd shot down Daggett in cold blood. She grimaced.
Hearing the front door of the boarding house open and footsteps pounding up the stairs, she decided she must have missed spotting Philippe in the crowd, for surely this must be him. The footsteps stopped outside her room and she heard a rising murmur of talk and laughter from the hall. As she started for the door, a fist pounded against it from the other side. Why? Philippe had a key.
"Who is it?” she called.
"Philippe Manigault, who else?” The voice was not Philippe's.
She hesitated, then shook her head. There was no reason to be alarmed. It must be one of the miners who'd escorted Philippe back in triumph from the gambling house. She unlocked the door and threw it open.
Alex Campbell stood in the hallway, flanked by two men holding lanterns. Instinctively, she started to close the door, only to have Campbell put his shoulder to it and barge past her into the room.
"Where's Philippe?” she cried, backing away.
"I've come to claim my winnings,” Campbell said. In the light from the lanterns his fleshy, clean-shaven face looked unnaturally pale, like that of a man who spends most of his life below ground.
Monique rushed at him, placed both of her hands on his chest and shoved. Taken by surprise, Campbell stepped back as the miners behind him laughed.
"You got yourself a handful there,” one shouted.
Before she could whirl out of reach, Campbell grasped Monique by the upper arms, lifted her high off the floor and carried her across the room, setting her back against the far wall. He held her there, his smiling face level with hers.
If only Philippe hadn't sold my derringer to raise a stake, she thought, as she tried to squirm loose. The only gun they had now was his and with him. Wherever he was.
"Put me down,” she demanded, glaring at him, wishing looks could kill the way guns did.
He released her and she dropped to the floor, stumbling against Campbell as she tried to regain her balance. When she hastily drew away from him, he leaned forward and placed both his hands on the wall to either side of her, penning her in.
"What have you done to Philippe?” she snapped, determined not to give way to fear.
"It ain't so much what I did to him,” Campbell said. “It's what he done to you. He went and raised your station in life. You ain't a gambler's woman no more. You belong to me."
She scowled at him. “I don't know what you're talking about. Tell me where Philippe is."
"Your gambling friend's at the Silver Dollar, being royally entertained with drinks paid for by yours truly. Thought he'd get the better of me, Frenchy did. He should've known better. No one outsmarts Alex Campbell.” He glanced at the miners who'd pushed their way into the room. “Ain't that right?"
The men murmured in agreement.
"Lookee here,” one said. “She's been reading Shakespeare."
Monique had realized by now they all knew she wasn't a boy. What was the meaning of this nightmare? Had Campbell killed Philippe? She knew he was capable of it.
"You shot him,” she accused. “You killed Philippe."
Campbell's eyes widened. He shook his head. “The man's alive and well."
A chorus of agreement rose from the miners.
Campbell stepped back from her and bowed. “Here's the way of it, ma'am. Me and your friend Frenchy had us a game of poker. He thought he was going to win big, but it turned out he didn't know who he was up against."
"Alex Campbell's the best poker player in the territory,” a miner said.
"So your friend lost. And what he lost wasn't his money. He's still got that. What he lost was you."
Monique stared at him in disbelief. “You're lying."
"It's God's honest truth."
"Philippe would never do such a thing.” Even as she said the words, a shred of doubt troubled her mind. She raised her chin. “Even if he had the right, which he doesn't, I don't belong to him. I don't belong to any man."
"Ain't what I said the truth?” Campbell asked the men. They shouted assent.
"He won you fair and square,” a miner told Monique. “I seen the whole thing and it was just like he says. He outfoxed Frenchy good and proper. I seen him do it. We all seen him."
"Didn't you hear what I said?” Monique cried. “I don't belong to any man."
As though she hadn't spoken, Campbell said, “So I've come to claim my prize.” He smiled at her.
She spat in his face.
The room quieted, the men looking from Monique to Campbell. Inwardly quaking—how was she going to save herself?—she stared defiantly up at the big man.
He reached into his hip pocket, brought out a red bandanna and wiped his face. Folding the bandanna, he restored it to his pocket. With a slashing swing of his palm, he slapped her face, snapping her head to one side. Tears of pain filled her eyes and her hand flew to her stinging cheek.
"You'll find out,” he said calmly, “what your friend found out. It don't pay to mess with Alex Campbell. Just in case any of you still believe she's a boy...” He let his words trail off as he grabbed her arm and swung her around in front on him so she faced the men, one hand pinning both her wrists. With the other he unbuttoned the shirt she wore, despite her frantic attempts to free herself. He flung open the shirt, yanked up the binding she wore around her breasts and exposed them to the miners’ avid gaze.
"That's all the show you boys are gonna get,” Campbell announced, then ordered Monique to make herself decent.
Trembling with outrage, she turned and put her clothes to order. When she finished, she faced Campbell, ready to fight him off, no matter what he tried. He countered by bending over, putting his shoulder to her midsection and lifted her like a sack of grain.
She flailed at his back with her fists and kicked her feet. He laughed.
"Looks like you got yourself a wildcat,” a man said.
"All the better,” Campbell said. He raised his voice. “Make way for the wildcat tamer.” The crowd parted as he carried Monique through the door and down the stairs.
By the time they reached the street she'd stopped her ineffectual struggling, letting him lift her into a buggy waiting outside the boarding house. He pushed her onto the seat, but, as he started to climb up behind her, she scrambled to the buggy's far side and leaped to the ground.
She ran into the darkness, hearing him swear behind her. A wall loomed ahead of her and she dashed to her right. Another wall. She ran back the other way. Again she was brought up short against the side of a building. Realizing she was in a cul-de-sac, she swung about. Men with lanterns waited at the alley entrance. By that dim light she saw Alex Campbell standing only a few feet away watching her with his hands on his hips.
"I reckon I got a mite more than I bargained for.” He sounded amused.
Taking two steps, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her with him as he strode from the alley, giving her no choice but to stumble after him. When Campbell reached the alley entrance, the men waiting there raised their lanterns and cheered. Falling in behind Campbell and her, they paraded back to the boarding house.
After climbing into the buggy and pulling Monique up behind him, Campbell, keeping her wrist gripped tightly with one hand, raised the other, fist clenched, into the air above his head. The miners pressed close, their eyes glinting in the torchlight as they cheered. They looked like savages gathered around a campfire, Monique thought. No, more like wild animals closing in for the kill.
She shuddered, hunching into the corner of the seat. Campbell sat beside her, his fingers biting into her wrist, and motioned to one of the men. A bearded miner climbed up in front of them, took the reins and urged the horse forward. They clattered over the rough streets as they made their way higher along the side of the mountain. At first the crowd followed, laughing, cheering and shouting profanities.
"Faster,” Campbell ordered.
The driver lashed the horse and, as their pace increased, the crowd fell farther and farther back until at last Monique saw no one behind them. She glanced from side to side at the dark and quiet houses along the street. Above their roofs stars haloed Mount Davidson's black and jutting peak. The buggy swung to the left and she held to the rail as they plunged downhill, crossing one street after another. When Monique smelled incense and a heavy, cloying odor, she remembered the same scents from her visit to San Francisco's Chinatown.
The buggy stopped and Campbell leaped out, pulling her with him, willy-nilly, catching her before she fell and setting her on her feet, never letting go of her wrist.
"Wait,” he told the driver.
He pushed open the door of a two-story frame building. As Monique was forced to climb the stairs behind him, she heard the singsong voice of a Celestial coming through the wall and knew they must be in Virginia City's Chinatown. At the top of the stirs, Campbell paused, cursing as he searched one-handedly through his pockets. Finally, in the dim light from one hall sconce, she saw him pull out a key, unlock the door and shove it open. Darkness waited inside.
He shoved her into the room ahead of him, letting go of her wrist as he did. She stumbled, regained her balance and edged sideways, trying to circle around him back to the door. Her groping hand touched cloth. Pulling it aside, her fingertips pressed against the cold smooth surface of glass. A window. A light flared, showing her where the door was. At the same time she saw Campbell replacing the chimney of the lamp on the table. She dashed past him and raised the latch. The door was locked.
He laughed and headed for her. When he raised his hand, she ducked so she only caught a glancing blow along the side of her face, but it was still strong enough she tasted blood on her lips.
"What are you afraid of, woman?” he demanded. “You got nothing to fear from me, providing you behave. I don't hanker to damage the merchandise."
"I'm not merchandise,” she flared at him. “I'm a woman, not a bolt of cloth to be bought and sold. Philippe had no right to do what he did. You have no right to me. None at all."
"You're a wildcat, sure enough. I suspect you got some French blood in you, too, on account've you were Frenchy's whore."
She gasped. “I'm not a—” It took her a moment to force the word out. “Not a who
re!"
"I figure maybe Frenchy decked you out like a boy to keep anyone from guessing what you were till he found the right place to set you up in a crib. He knew a money-maker when he saw one."
Monique glared at him, fear and anger mixing within her.
"Time you got over there on that bed,” he told her.
She glanced across the room at a high bed with a headboard and footboard of gleaming brass and shook her head. “No."
This time she managed to avoid his blow completely.
"Get on the bed,” he repeated. “I don't want to beat you senseless, but I will if you make me. Now git."
Knowing he could and would carry out his threat, she edged around him, eyeing him warily. When she felt the bed press against the back of her thighs, she stopped, looking past him for a way to escape, seeing only the one locked door and two heavily shrouded windows. He reached out and pushed her back so she fell onto the bed.
"Don't worry,” he said. “I don't mean to do nothing. Not now. I got me some celebrating to take care of first.” He smiled as he looked down at her. “To make sure you'll be waiting for me, I'm just gonna tie you here. Put you on ice.” He yanked one of her hands over her head and used his bandanna to tie it to the metal frame of the bed. Taking a loop of rope from his belt, he raised her other arm and fastened it to the opposite side of the headboard so she lay helpless, her arms spread up and out to either side.
"No need to gag you,” he said, smirking. “These Chinamen know what'd happen if they interfered with a white man."
Campbell crossed the room, pausing at the door to look back at her. “You just better think how you're gonna behave when I get back. If you act like a civilized woman, all well and good. If not, I'll beat you till you won't be able to show your face for a good month. Either way, the end result'll be the same. Understand me?"
"You're an animal,” she told him.
"Maybe so. Been my experience that most women like their men that way.” Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and left the room. She heard the key turn in the lock and the sound of his feet descending the stairs.