The mug hadn’t broken. Braddock hit the gambler again, and this time the blow laid the man out.
The wedge-faced man was on his feet, gun in hand, but he didn’t fire. Instead he pouched the iron, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the senseless form on the floor.
A couple of rough-looking men came forward, grabbed the gambler’s arms, and hauled him to his feet. The gambler groaned and his head wobbled back and forth as he tried to regain his senses.
As the two men started to half-carry, half-drag the gambler toward the door, the man at the table told them, “Make it clear to him he don’t ever show his face around these parts again. Break a finger or two while you’re at it, so he won’t be so fast to palm those jacks.”
“Sure, Dex,” one of the men said.
Then the wedge-faced man looked at Braddock and said, “You. C’mere.”
Braddock looked down at the beer mug, which was nice and thick and still hadn’t shattered. The beer had spilled from it, leaving it empty. He set it on a table where several men were drinking and then walked toward the poker table.
The man greeted him with a cocky grin. “I’d say I’m obliged to you, but I would have killed the son of a bitch, so there wasn’t really any need for you to step in.”
“Looked to me like he had you shaded,” Braddock said. “Maybe I was wrong.”
Anger flared for a second in the man’s eyes but then faded as he laughed.
“We’ll never know,” he said. “My name’s Dex Wilcox.”
“George.” That really was Braddock’s first name, since the G.W. stood for George Washington.
“First or last?”
“Enough.”
“That way, eh? Fine. Let me buy you a drink, George, even though I don’t really owe you anything. I’m just the hospitable sort.”
“Well, since I lost the rest of my beer trying to keep that tinhorn from shooting you...”
Wilcox jerked his head toward the bar.
As Braddock walked across the room, which was now loud and jovial again, he thought about the man beside him. He had never crossed trail with Dex Wilcox, but he knew the name. Wilcox had a reputation as a gunman and hardcase. Rumor said he had been a member of Black Jack Ketchum’s gang of train robbers over in New Mexico Territory.
The things he had said to the gambler made it sound like he now worked for Shadrach Palmer. Braddock had taken note of that at the time, but he hadn’t expected to have the chance to make use of the knowledge quite so soon. It was certainly possible Wilcox was working for Palmer, given the saloon owner’s rumored connection to all sorts of crimes.
Wilcox signaled to one of the bartenders, who placed two glasses on the bar and then reached underneath it to take out a bottle.
“Hope you don’t mind the good stuff,” Wilcox said as the bartender poured.
“Well, I may not know what to do with whiskey that doesn’t taste like rattlesnake heads and strychnine, but I’ll try to manage.”
Wilcox laughed. He picked up his drink and raised the glass to Braddock, who returned the gesture. Both men threw back the liquor.
It was the good stuff, all right. Braddock couldn’t help but lick his lips in appreciation.
“I told you.” Wilcox nodded toward the gun on Braddock’s hip. “Are you as handy with that as you are with a beer mug?”
“Handier, I’d like to think.”
“Looking for work?”
“That’s why I drifted this way. It’s a far piece from Arizona.”
“A mite warm over there, is it?”
“It’s always hot in Arizona,” Braddock said. “You know of any work in these parts?”
Braddock kept his voice casual as he asked the question. He had come here to Casa de Palmer to poke around a little and see if he could pick up any information on those stolen rifles. However, good fortune had put him in the right place at the right time to maybe find out even more. He couldn’t appear too eager, though, or he might waste this opportunity.
Wilcox seemed to be thinking about the question Braddock had asked him. After a moment he said, “I know somebody who’s always looking to hire good men. You want to meet him?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Braddock said.
“Put your glass down, then. He’s right upstairs.”
Chapter 7
Shadrach Palmer looked more like a shopkeeper than a criminal. A short and pudgy man, he had a few strands of dark hair combed over an otherwise bald pate. He wore a simple dark suit and no gaudy jewelry, just a simple stickpin in his cravat.
The eyes made the difference. Braddock had gazed into a rattlesnake’s eyes more than once, and Palmer’s eyes had that same flat, dead look to them.
He sat at a writing desk on one side of the suite’s sitting room, an open ledger book in front of him. On the other side of the room, a woman relaxed among the cushions of a divan with her legs up. Someone less beautiful would have seemed to be sprawled there, but on her the pose looked elegant.
She was a mulatto, Braddock decided. Just a touch of coffee in the cream of her skin. Waves of dark brown hair framed her lovely face. She wore a silk dressing gown open at the throat just enough to hint at the glories underneath.
It took a man damned dedicated to making money to be studying a ledger book with a woman like that in the room, Braddock thought.
“Got somebody I’d like for you to meet, boss,” Dex Wilcox said. “Fella’s name is George. That seems to be his only handle.”
Palmer didn’t get up, but he nodded cordially enough.
“George,” he said. “I’m Shadrach Palmer. This is my place.”
Braddock returned the nod but didn’t take his hat off. He said, “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Palmer. Pleasure to meet you.”
The woman cleared her throat. Palmer smiled, nodded to her, and said, “This is Elise.”
Braddock reached for his hat this time. He held it in front of him and said, “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
“You cowboys are so polite,” she said.
“George ain’t a cowboy,” Wilcox said. “He’s in the same line of work I am, from over Arizona Territory way.” The gunman paused, then added significantly, “Or at least so he claims.”
Braddock’s eyes flicked toward him. “Wouldn’t be calling me a liar, would you?”
“Nope, just...what do you call it...pleadin’ ignorance. After all, George, all we got to go by...is your word.”
“You’re the one asked me to come up here,” Braddock said, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Said you wanted me to meet your boss. Why’d you do that if you didn’t believe me?”
“Don’t get testy, George,” Palmer put in. “Dex didn’t say he didn’t believe you. It’s just that sometimes men boast about things they can’t back up.”
Braddock shook his head slightly and said, “I didn’t make any boasts.”
Palmer pushed back his chair and stood up. “Let’s cut through all this. Why did you bring George up here, Dex?”
“You know that gambler Ballantine? He slipped an extra jack into the game I was sittin’ in on. I called him on it, he backed down, so I told him to get out. Then as he was leavin’, he tried to spin around and gun me.” Wilcox didn’t say anything about how his words had goaded Ballantine into drawing. He nodded toward Braddock and went on, “George walloped him with a beer mug before he could pull the trigger.”
“Saved your life, eh?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Wilcox said, looking annoyed at the suggestion.
Palmer turned to Braddock. “Did the beer mug break?”
“Nope,” Braddock said. “It was good and solid.”
“Good. If it had, I might have been forced to take the cost out of Dex’s wages, since you acted on his behalf, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have liked that.”
“Blast it!” Wilcox said. “I would have killed that tinhorn before he gunned me.”
Palmer chuckled and said, “Take it easy, Dex. We all know what a
dangerous gunman you are.” He faced Braddock again. “So Dex brought you up here to meet me out of a...sense of gratitude? He thought you would enjoy making my acquaintance?”
“He asked me if I was looking for work, and I told him I was.”
“Ah,” Palmer said. “I see. Well, I suppose I could always use another bartender, or a man to help unload cases of liquor and sweep out the place—”
Braddock had figured out by now that Palmer was the sort of man who liked to get under people’s skin, mostly for the sheer meanness of it. Ignoring Palmer, he turned to Elise, nodded, and interrupted the saloon owner by saying, “It was a real pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady, ma’am. I’ll be going now.”
He clapped his hat on and turned toward the door of the suite.
“Now wait just a damned minute,” Wilcox began. “You can’t—”
Palmer silenced him with a lifted hand. “That’s all right, Dex. I admire a man with the guts to call my bluff...every now and then.” He faced Braddock. “Let’s talk plain, shall we?”
“That’s the way I like best.”
“You do gun work.”
“I do.”
“And I can always use a man who’s quick on the shoot and who isn’t overly burdened with, shall we say, moral compunctions.”
“Far as I recall, nobody’s ever accused me of that. The moral part, I mean. The quick on the shoot part, that’s true enough, I reckon.”
Palmer put his hands together in front of him, patted them lightly against each other, and said, “There’s one good way to find out on both accounts. I want you to kill a man for me.”
Chapter 8
Braddock kept his face impassive, but inside he thought this was more than he’d bargained for when he agreed to help Elizabeth Jane Caldwell avenge her brother.
Of course, there was more to it than that. There were all those other soldiers who’d been killed, and the carnage those rifles could wreak if they got into the wrong hands had to be considered, too.
But Palmer seemed to be talking about murder. Braddock might be an outlaw Ranger, but he still tried to uphold the law.
He didn’t let any of those thoughts show as they flashed through his mind. Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt anything to find out more.
“Who did you have in mind?” he asked coolly.
“There’s a man named Larkin. He used to work for me.”
Wilcox said, “I’ve told you, boss, I can take care of Larkin any time you say the word.”
“But I haven’t said the word, have I?” Palmer snapped at the gunman. “Maybe I’ve been holding the problem in reserve for just such an occasion as this.”
Braddock asked, “What did this hombre Larkin do?”
“He decided he could go out on his own and compete with me.” Palmer spread his hands. “I bring in certain...commodities...from across the border and then have them transported to other distribution points.”
“You’re talking about smuggling.” Braddock made a guess. “Opium?”
The flicker of surprise in Palmer’s eyes told him he was right, but the man said, “That doesn’t matter. What’s important is that Larkin betrayed me, and I can’t have that. Other people can see what he’s done, and if he gets away with it, that will only lead to more trouble for me in the future. It’s an annoyance, and I can’t have it. Not right now.”
Palmer made it sound as if he had a lot bigger deal on the table than just this business with Larkin. Like moving a thousand Krags across the border, maybe?
“Take care of Larkin for me,” Palmer went on, “and I’d say you have a job for as long as you want it.”
“Answering to you,” Braddock said, “or to Wilcox?”
“Now wait just a damned minute,” Wilcox said again, clearly displeased that Braddock seemed to be trying to go around him.
“Dex is my chief lieutenant when it comes to matters like this,” Palmer said. “You’d answer to him. Do you have any objection to that?”
“None for now,” Braddock said.
That didn’t do much to mollify Wilcox. He still glared at Braddock when Palmer went on, “Most nights, you can find Larkin at a place over in Juarez owned by a man called Hernandez. I’m not sure it has a name, but Dex can show you where it is. When do you plan to go over there?”
“Nothing wrong with tonight, is there?”
Palmer raised one eyebrow. “So soon?”
“I never believed in wasting time.”
“Apparently not.” Palmer looked at Wilcox. “Did you have any further plans for the evening, Dex?”
“No, I reckon not.” Wilcox’s eyes were still narrow with anger as he looked at Braddock.
“Very well, then. Come see me when you get back, George.”
“I’ll be here,” Braddock said.
He turned toward the door. Elise said, “It was nice to meet you, George. Maybe we’ll get to know each other better in the future.”
Braddock looked back at her and smiled. “Yes, ma’am, maybe.”
Palmer frowned a little.
Braddock got out of there. Wilcox followed right behind him.
“You’re pretty damned sure of yourself, aren’t you?” the gunman said as they walked toward the second floor landing.
“I’ve never seen any reason not to be.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you will tonight. Larkin’s generally not by himself. He’s liable to have a couple of men with him.”
“I take things as they come.”
“You’d better not be thinkin’ about the woman like that. Palmer wants Larkin dead for hornin’ in on his business. He’d want considerably worse for anybody who tried anything with his woman.”
“What’s considerably worse than being dead?”
“You don’t want to know, but trust me...it’s out there.”
Braddock didn’t say anything else as they went down the stairs and crossed the saloon’s main room to the entrance. His mind raced.
He had just agreed to go across the river into Mexico and kill one man, maybe more. If Palmer had told the truth about Larkin—and Braddock’s gut told him Palmer had—the man smuggled opium across the border, causing a considerable amount of misery among those addicted to the stuff and their families. In all likelihood, Larkin had committed murders as well.
So the world wouldn’t miss the man. Braddock often went after that sort, anyway. Considered against the lives in the balance because of those stolen rifles, the deaths of a few criminals didn’t mean much.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Wilcox asked when they reached the street.
“I’m ready,” Braddock said.
Chapter 9
Their bootheels made echoes in the night as they crossed the wooden bridge spanning the Rio Grande. A lot fewer lights burned in Juarez than in El Paso behind them, but one building not far from the river was well lit, a sprawling, two-story adobe with a balcony along the front that overhung its gallery.
“Hernandez’s place,” Wilcox said as he nodded toward the building.
“A cantina?”
“And a gambling den and a dance hall and a whorehouse.” Wilcox laughed. “The boss and Hernandez sort of occupy the same position on each one’s side of the river. They ain’t partners, exactly, but I guess you could say there’s a truce between ’em, for the greater good of both.”
“But now Hernandez has thrown in with Larkin?”
“Not yet.” Wilcox dug in his left ear with his little finger. “But he might be thinkin’ about it. I figure he’s waitin’ to see what Palmer does about Larkin. In the meantime, he lets Larkin drink and gamble at his place.” Wilcox shrugged. “One man’s money is as good as another’s, I reckon that’s the way Hernandez sees it. And I sure as hell can’t argue with that idea, either.”
They had almost reached the big building. Braddock slowed and looked over at Wilcox.
“You’re going to back my play in there?”
Wilcox hooked his thumbs in his gun belt.
“Now, what sort of a test would that be, if I was to save your bacon? You’re the one who talked big. Now you got to back it up.” Wilcox laughed again. “But don’t worry, George. If Larkin or one of his boys kills you, that’ll give me all the excuse I need to kill them. The boss gets what he wants, either way.”
“And that’s what’s important, right?”
“As long as he’s payin’ the wages, it is.” Wilcox leaned his head toward the river. “It ain’t too late to go back across and say the hell with it. Get on your horse and ride out of El Paso. Nobody’ll try to stop you.”
“I say I’ll do a job, I do it,” Braddock replied.
That was the reason he carried a Ranger badge with a bullet hole in it, tucked away now in a hidden pocket cunningly concealed on the back of his gunbelt. He had sworn an oath, and no damned dirty politicians could ever change that.
He pushed open one of the big double doors at the entrance to Hernandez’s.
Music rushed out, guitar and piano blending in a staccato rhythm. With it came talk and laughter and tobacco smoke, along with the sharp tang of highly spiced food cooking.
The smell wasn’t exactly the same as that of a saloon north of the border, but it had certain similarities. Braddock had been in enough cantinas to recognize it. Here the aromas were just exaggerated, because Hernandez’s place was bigger.
Braddock and Wilcox moved inside and let the door swing closed behind them. No one seemed to pay any attention to their entrance, but Braddock would have bet some of the men in the room noted it. He paused to take a look around for himself.
The long mahogany bar stretched most of the way across the back of the room. At either end, a staircase rose to the second floor balcony. The side walls were divided into alcoves where tables could be dimly seen through the beaded curtains hanging over the openings. People could meet in those alcoves to talk, eat, and drink—or whatever else they wanted to do—in private.
The musicians, a piano player and two guitarists, were tucked into a rear corner. Near them, a Mexican girl danced, her colorful skirt swirling around slim brown legs that flashed back and forth in intricate patterns as she moved around a small open area.
Gun Devils of the Rio Grande (Outlaw Ranger Book 5) Page 3