“I don’t warrant the courtesy of the term ‘Reverend’,” he hastened to inform her. “Not being duly ordained in any—uh—specific denomination …”
“In plain language,” she prodded, “you’re just another itinerant preacher—on the drift and delivering sermons wherever you can find an audience.”
“Congregation,” he corrected, with a wry grin.
She smiled at him again.
“Mr. Rand, I like you. I’ve known too many clergymen who seem to have forgotten how to smile, and it’s obvious you do have a sense of humor.” She put a hand on his arm, nodded towards one of the archways. “Through there is another of my enterprises—the restaurant. It’s a little early for supper, and I know you’re a teetotaler, but can I at least offer you a cup of coffee?” Her smile was roguish now. “Or shouldn’t a saloonkeeper offer hospitality to a preacher?”
“This preacher,” he blandly assured her, “is mighty partial to hospitality—any way it comes.” He gestured to the archway. “After you, ma’am.”
He paused twice on his way to that archway. Benito had discreetly disappeared, probably to tally the collection. Very quickly, the patrons of the Lucky Chance had resumed their drinking and gambling; it was as though there had been no fracas at all. What caused his pauses was the amount of cash being wagered at the gambling tables. It wasn’t the first time he had seen hundred dollar bills changing hands across a faro, roulette or dice layout, but such sums were usually wagered by men wealthier than mere ranch-hands. Many of the men brandishing thick wads of banknotes wore the look of ranch employees; their headgear, rough shirts and batwing chaps were typical.
Trying to sound casual, he remarked on the affluence of the cowpokes, while seating himself opposite the redhead at the table in the dining room. She crooked a finger at an aproned waitress.
“Coffee, Hannah.” Then, crossing her legs, she shrugged and drawled a rejoinder. “Well-heeled? Yes, I’d say so.”
“It’s hard not to be curious,” said Jim, “about forty-a-month cowhands who can afford to bet in the hundreds.”
“You haven’t always been a preacher,” she opined. “I get the impression you’ve been around, lived a lot, learned a lot.”
“I’m not exactly a youngster, ma’am, as you’ve probably observed,” he grinned.
“You’re not exactly old either,” she retorted. “I’d say you’re at an interesting age.” She didn’t fire her sharp-pointed barb until the waitress had delivered their coffee and had moved out of earshot. They were the dining room’s only occupants at this time. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Rand. A very interesting age—and a very interesting profession.”
He took a pull on his coffee. It was to his liking; he felt relaxed. Also he felt the urge to smoke, but wasn’t sure if the rolling and lighting of a cigarette would seem in accord with his new identity. He eyed Cass in polite enquiry. “Interesting profession, ma’am?”
“That’s what I said,” she nodded. “And I don’t mean religion, Mr. Rand. I’m talking about your real profession.”
SEVEN
FRIEND OR ENEMY?
“My real profession? You speak in riddles, ma’am.”
“Call me Cass,” she offered. “Everybody else does, so why should you be any exception—Jim?”
“All right, Cass,” he frowned. “But I still don’t understand ...”
“Don’t lie,” she chided, smiling. “A preacher ought never lie, Jim.” She drank her coffee, leaned forward with her elbows on the tabletop, her green eyes still searching his face. “That was quite an exhibition of brute strength. You put Murle and Durango away in no uncertain terms, which proves you’re handy with your fists and no stranger to a bar-room brawl. Also you put a Colt .45 alongside of your Bible. I haven’t known many preachers who toted a handgun. As for the sermon, it was good—maybe too good.”
“That’s a peculiar kind of complaint,” he suggested.
“Who’s complaining?” she countered. “No harm done. You got rid of a couple of trouble-makers without damaging my equipment, and now it’s business as usual.”
“Is there any law says a preacher hasn’t the right; to defend himself?” he demanded. “With fists or a gun?”
“I’ll concede you look like a preacher—some of the time,” said Cass. “But your brand of curiosity is more typical of a lawman than a clergyman. Is that your real trade, Jim? Are you a lawman in disguise—or what?”
“If I was,” he growled, “and it isn’t likely—but if I was—you wouldn’t expect me to answer your questions, would you? You’re a stranger.” He grinned companionably. “Mighty beautiful, and mighty hospitable, but still a stranger.”
“Not all saloonkeepers,” she drawled, “are in cahoots with the local hardcases. You don’t need to be on guard against me.”
“Take my word for it,” said Jim. “I’m no lawman.”
“Nor a preacher,” she retorted.
“All this suspicion,” he challenged, “just because I tangled with a couple of rowdies?”
“I noticed other things,” she frowned. “For instance you were interested in the amount of dinero being thrown around by those Rafter 7 boys.”
“Idle curiosity,” he shrugged. “You don’t often see ranch hands flashing hundred dollar bills.”
“Funny,” she mused. “I’ve been curious about that for some little time, and you’re the only party whoever remarked on it.”
“I still say it’s unusual,” said Jim.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Unusual.”
He finished his coffee, set his cup down and fought back the urge to produce Durham sack and papers. It seemed a good time for changing the subject, so he made the effort.
“Your husband co-operates in the management of your enterprises, Cass?”
“I’m a widow.”
“Oh? Well—I’m sorry …”
“No need to be. He was a good man. I miss him sometimes, but I’ve gotten over my grief. Yes, Duke founded the whole set-up and I keep it in operation.”
“You’ll probably marry again, Cass. I don’t see how you could stay a widow the rest of your days. You must be mighty popular.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” she murmured. “Well, I think I can guess What’s in your mind. An unattached woman running a profitable business. Sure, I’m in demand, and you’re bound to hear a few fancy rumors about me, if you plan on staying in Brigg City awhile. Do me a favor, Jim. Don’t believe all you hear.”
“I was never partial to gossip,” he assured her.
“And you aren’t a man who’d confide in strangers,” she observed. “That’s pretty obvious.”
“Well …” he began.
“Also,” she added, “you’re an expert at changing the subject. All of a sudden we’ve stopped talking about those high-stake gamblers from the Rafter 7.”
“It’s no business of mine,” he shrugged. “I guess Rafter 7 is winning a fat profit from the sale of payherds. Some ranchers pay a handsome bonus to their hired hands.”
“Some,” she agreed. “But not many, Jim. Not many.”
“Could it be,” he prodded, “that the Rafter 7 bunch aren’t exactly your favorite customers?”
“They spend freely in the Lucky Chance,” she frowned. “The house always stays ahead of the game, and I guess F should be satisfied with that, but …”
She paused, and he fell into the trap.
“But?” he asked.
“You see what I mean?” She chuckled triumphantly. “You keep giving yourself away, Jim. Your curiosity …”
“Idle curiosity,” he insisted.
“No.” She shook her head. “Professional curiosity. It’s a matter of instinct with you lawmen.”
“Cass—as the Lord is my judge …” He produced the Bible, placed his hand on it and eyed her steadily, “I’m no lawman.”
She was silent awhile after he returned the Bible to his inside pocket. Then: “The world is full of men who’d lie under oath,” she mused, “bu
t I have a hunch you aren’t one of them.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” he muttered, as he rose to his feet.
“Call again,” she invited. “It’s a pleasure to trade words with a good conversationalist. And please remember what I asked of you.”
“What was that again?” he enquired, as he fumbled with his hat.
“Don’t believe all you hear about me,” she begged. “Especially if you hear my name coupled with Todd Ellinger, the owner of Rafter 7.”
“One of your admirers,” he supposed.
“He has a wife,” she frowned. “Are you surprised that I’m squeamish about that? Well, the heck with it. I am squeamish. I’m as vain as any other woman, Jim, and I guess I thrive on flattery and declarations of affection—but not from married men. Todd Ellinger holds my hand and talks up quite a proposition—and all the time I’m thinking of his wife, thinking that he should be saying those words to her instead of to me.”
He stood and waited a moment after she stopped talking. She remained silent until he bade her good afternoon and repeated his thanks for her hospitality.”
“One thing you forgot to ask me,” she jibed, with a bantering smile. “Aren’t you supposed to warn me, tell me not to repeat a word of our conversation to a single living soul?”
“Cass,” said Jim, “I don’t reckon I need to ask. I’ve already decided you’re a lady of discretion.” He nodded and smiled. “So long again.”
“So long,” she nodded, “Reverend.”
Outside the Lucky Chance, as he moved down to the hitch rack to untether the sorrel, he was quietly accosted by Benito.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim.”
“Saludos yourself,” growled Jim. “Is nothing sacred to you? I saw you in there—passing your hat while I preached.”
“Was one fine sermon,” leered Benito. “I think somebody ought to pay for it, no?” He patted his hip pocket, “Seven Americano dollar and forty-two cents.”
“Only seven dollars and forty-two cents?” jibed Jim. “I’d have thought the Lucky Chance was a pickpocket’s paradise.”
The little Mex grimaced uneasily.
“Many vaqueros with heavy pockets, sí, but these are muy malo hombres—bad medicine.”
“I did notice,” grunted Jim, while slipping his rein, “that all the gun-toters of this territory have plenty dinero for the spending.”
“You are interested, no?” prodded Benito.
“Some,” nodded Jim.
“I have heard many things before you come,” muttered Benito. “In such a cantina, these vaqueros talk loud and free.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Jim.
“Is best we talk now, I think,” suggested Benito. “There is, close by, a small posada.”
“All right,” said Jim. “We’ll need a place to stay, and a boarding house is good enough.”
It proved to be a small, run-down establishment, but good enough for Jim’s current purposes. Would a preacher on the drift check into a more expensive place? They took adjoining rooms on the first floor and, after stowing their gear, held a council of war in Jim’s room. The Mex was congratulating himself on his skill at acquiring information the easy way. He had asked no questions at the Lucky Chance. Just by using his ears and his ever-questing eyes, he had learned quite a few interesting facts.
“These vaqueros with so much dinero to spend—they all ride for the same hacendado, the Señor …”
“Señor Ellinger,” grunted Jim, as he scratched a match for a much-needed cigarette.
“Sí.” Benito nodded and grinned. “The Señor Ellinger, of …”
“Of the Rafter 7 outfit,” drawled Jim.
Benito stopped grinning, frowned reproachfully. “Everything I tell you—you already know?”
“Maybe not,” shrugged Jim. “Keep talking. What else have you learned?”
“I have listened to the talk of other vaqueros,” said Benito. “Those who ride for the other rancheros?”
“And?” prodded Jim.
“I heard one say …” Benito made quite a melodrama of peeking out into the corridor and re-securing the door to ensure they could not be overheard. Jim relaxed on the bed, puffing at his cigarette, pensively surveying the fly-specked ceiling. Squatting beside the bed, Benito continued his report. “I heard one say that this Señor Ellinger employs more men than he needs—to tend such a rancho.”
“How many?” frowned Jim.
“More than a dozen,” said Benito. “Fifteen or so.”
“For how big a herd?” demanded Jim.
“No more than three hundred!” whispered Benito.
Jim pondered that inconsistency awhile. He had no first-hand experience of the workings of a cattle spread, but was dubious as to whether a rancher would need the services of so large a band of riders to tend a herd that size. Also, there was the interesting fact that, according to Benito’s unintentional informant, all the Rafter 7 men went heavily armed.
“So all the local hardcases ride for Rafter 7?” challenged Jim.
“Por cierto,” grinned Benito. “Already you have fought with two of these bravados.”
“The two I tangled with were Rafter 7 riders?” frowned Jim. “Well, damnitall, why didn’t their friends buy in?”
“You are too modest, Amigo Jim,” chuckled the Mex. “After watching you, after seeing how hard you punch, who would want to risk such treatment?”
Jim sat up, swung his feet to the floor and nodded affably to his small shadow.
“Every once in a while,” he conceded, “you can be mighty useful.”
“This information is muy importante, eh?” suggested Benito.
“Muy importante,” nodded Jim. “Go on. What else have you heard? How about the soldados? Is there an army post in this area?”
“Brigg City is more—how you say—isolated?”
“Uh huh. Isolated.”
“More isolated than it looks to be. Mail is sent out by stagecoach, but there is no telegraph. The nearest army post is far to the north.”
“That would be Camp Benedict.”
“Sí. And the nearest town with telegraph is called Hollisburg. This also is north—about eight hours’ ride.”
“That’s something to remember,” mused Jim. “To contact the army, I’d have to send a courier to Hollisburg to telegraph Camp Benedict..”
“One last information.” Benito flashed him a crafty leer. “This I have saved till last.”
“All right,” growled Jim. “Don’t get coy about it, cucaracha. Just spill it out.”
“This old hombre drinks with his amigo, tells of what he has seen,” grinned Benito. “I listen.”
“You’re good at that,” Jim conceded. “So? What did you hear?”
“The old one is much puzzled,” muttered Benito. “He has seen soldados passing through this territorio—small groups.”
“Is that so now?” Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Well, well, well.”
“But these soldados do not come into Brigg City, and the old one does not understand this,” said Benito. “Is unusual, no?”
“They could’ve been part of the Camp Benedict outfit,” Jim reflected, “but I don’t think so. I don’t see why they’d be sending a scouting party so far south.” He frowned moodily at the tip of his cigarette. “Small groups, you said? Well, it doesn’t add up. Put a troop of soldiers within riding distance of a town, and they’ll detour long enough to look the town over and buy a few drinks.”
“This old hombre says he has never seen soldados right here in town,” offered Benito. “Never.”
The dark suspicion was building up in Jim’s mind moment by moment. At the outset, it hadn’t occurred to him that his quest might be of short duration, that he might stumble upon the lair of the bogus soldiers in double quick time. Now, he was wondering if he need search any further than Brigg County.
“Interesting, eh?” grinned Benito.
“That’s putting it mild,” muttered Jim. “You and the Senora Bro
derick have told me plenty—more than enough to start me suspecting Rafter 7.”
“Ah!” Benito smacked his lips, kissed the tips of his fingers. “So pelirrojo, this señora. ¡Muy bello!”
“Quite a looker,” agreed Jim.
“Many hombres envy you,” declared Benito, “when the viuda takes you to the restaurante.”
“So you know she’s a widow?” prodded Jim.
“Sí,” nodded Benito. “Also it is well known that the hacendado—this Señor Ellinger—is much in love with her.”
“Well, that’s just too damn bad for the Señor Ellinger,” drawled Jim, “because the widow doesn’t cotton to getting courted by a married man.” He stood up, ambled across to the window and thoughtfully surveyed this section of the main street. “I wonder how many of Ellinger’s hardcase crew will come to town tonight.”
“Not so many, I think,” shrugged the Mex. “Is not Saturday—when most vaqueros come to town.”
“Is not Saturday,” said Jim. “But then these Rafter 7 jaspers might not be ordinary cowhands.” He threw Benito a sidelong glance. “Suppose, for instance, all those bank robberies have been pulled by Rafter 7 riders rigged in army clothes—and that stage hold-up too. They’re well-heeled. They’re carrying a dozen times more dinero than any regular cowhand is apt to have in his jeans. They can come to town and celebrate as often as they please.”
“Maybe,” frowned Benito.
Jim drew up a chair and sat by the window.
“Reckon I’ll take it easy till after sundown,” he announced.
“I should be a spy again, no?” suggested Benito. “Later, I should find out how many Rafter 7 pistoleros have come to town?”
“That would help.” Jim nodded and grinned. “That would help a lot, cucaracha.”
An hour later, when Jason Croll and a half-dozen Ellinger riders arrived, Jim was still seated by the window. He studied them with keen interest, while considering the prospects of a substantial supper. The ugly hombre chewing on the unlit cigar—had he seen him before? He was looking at Croll as that thought came to him, looking at Croll and trying to picture him in a peaked cap and the tunic of an N.C.O.
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