by Linda Ladd
Stone Kincaid was very foolish to have drunk so much of the strong spirits, she thought, but in her heart she was glad he was sleeping here in the bed next to hers, instead of upstairs in the bed of the black-haired woman.
"C'mon now, darlin', wake up. I gotta open up for the customers."
Fuzzy-eyed, Stone squinted up at Sweet Sue. She smiled engagingly and waved a blue-speckled mug back and forth before his nose. The aromatic smell of strong, fresh-perked coffee filled his senses.
"You sure tied on a doozy last night, love. What on earth got into you, anyways? I never did see you down so much liquor."
Stone pushed himself up and braced his palm on the bed. He groaned and held both temples with the flats of his hands. His head felt as if a fifty-pound anvil sat atop it. He forced a swallow down a throat that seemed stuffed with thick, gritty gauze, cursing himself as the biggest fool who ever lived.
"Are you feelin' all right, honey? You don't look so good."
Still groggy, Stone focused his eyes on Sweet Sue's concerned face. He took the cup from her, his stomach rolling as he forced himself to take a sip. Even the slight movement of his head as he glanced around made his temples pound.
"Where's Windsor and the kid?" he asked, massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Why, they're gone. Didn't they tell you?" Stone jerked his head up and immediately paid the price. Pain shot through him like a Fourth of July rocket.
"Gone? Where?" he mumbled, cupping his forehead in one palm.
Sweet Sue adjusted her frothy lace wrapper and sat down beside him. She shrugged. "They didn't say much to anybody. They just up and left after all the trouble—"
"What trouble?" Stone demanded, a terrible foreboding flooding through him. He waited tensely, half afraid to hear what she was about to tell him.
"Like I said, I don't rightly know where they went. But Mats—you know him, he's the big Swede who keeps everythin' peaceful 'round here. Anyways, he said the little nun and the Injun got up real early before any of the girls were stirrin' and went outside askin' around about some man. I can't rightly recall his name just now—"
"Emerson Clan?"
"Yeah, that's the one, I think. Anyways, a couple of the boys knew somebody up at the mine who'd been tellin' stories around the bunkhouse about this Clan fella. But you know the boys—they ended up pokin' some fun at the Injun kid. Making fun of that strip of hair he's got running down the middle of his head, and such as that. Most of them hate all Injuns, anyways, since they've been pryin' up the tracks and ambushing the expresses. You should've known better than to bring him 'round here with all that killin' goin' on."
"Dammit, Suzy, get to the point. Is Windsor all right? Did anybody get hurt?"
Sweet Sue's eyes narrowed. "My, my, but that pretty gal has turned your head all the way 'round backwards."
Stone clamped his teeth together, tired of all the chitchat and impatient for an answer. He glared at her until she shook her head.
"Well, no need to get so riled. As far as I know, she's okay. Mats says the two of them went outside, and he heard some sort of scuffle or something, but by the time he opened the door to see what was goin' on, Johnny Holcomb and Dick Foots were already lyin' flat on the ground, knocked out cold. Mats said it took him half an hour just to bring'em around. I guess that Injun kid can use his fists better'n most, 'cause Dickie's known around here for his fightin', 'cause he used to be a boxer back in Philly. And Johnny's as big as a lumberjack."
Stone envisioned a different scenario. "More than likely, Windsor got them with her feet."
Sweet Sue laughed. "Her feet? What on earth do you mean?"
"Never mind. You'd never believe me, anyway." Stone drank more coffee, glad for something to cut through the clouds in his brain. He stood up, stuffing his shirttail into his waistband, then lifting the pitcher from its place on the bed-table and pouring wash water into the matching flower-sprigged porcelain bowl. He cupped his palms and splashed a generous amount of cold water on his face. Revived a bit, he glanced at Sweet Sue as he toweled off his jaw.
"You sure Mats doesn't have any idea where they might have gone?"
"All he said was that when they heard about this man they were lookin' for, they got their horses and rode outta here."
"Which way?"
"Up toward the mine."
Stone grimaced. "What time is it?"
"Near half past noon. I tried to get you up an hour ago, but you weren't hearin' nothin'."
Stone checked his guns, found them in order, then drank the last dregs of his coffee. "I better go find them before they get in trouble with the miners. Something tells me they aren't going to be exactly welcome up there. You have a horse I can borrow?"
"Sure thing. Just ask Mats."
"Thanks, Suzy," Stone said, stooping to kiss her cheek. "And thanks for taking us in last night. Sorry about the trouble this morning."
"Last night all you talked about was wantin' to get rid of the nun and the Injun as soon as you could. So why're you in such a hurry to go after them today?"
"I guess I feel responsible for them," Stone answered, but later that afternoon, as he urged his horse up the steep road that ran alongside the railway tracks, he knew better.
He had told himself a thousand times that he'd be glad to be rid of Windsor, that he'd leave her at the first opportunity. His mouth twisted with derision. Instead, she had left him the first chance she'd gotten. Worse, she'd chosen the worst possible place to go, especially in the company of an Osage.
The men up at the mine hated Indians worse than rattlers, and Sun-On-Wings would be lucky if they didn't lynch him on sight. Suddenly more worried than before, Stone spurred his horse, his eyes riveted on the rooftops clustered around the mine, just barely perceptible in the distance.
The ugly incident with the two big bullies in front of the Pleasure Palace had caused Windsor much worry. She had found there was very much prejudice and hatred in the United States, much more than she had expected. As her beloved Hung-pin had been attacked without provocation, so now had Sun-On-Wings. If one's skin was red or yellow, he was to be hated and ridiculed. She was very worried for her young Osage friend.
"What about Arrow-Parts-Hair?" Sun-On-Wings asked suddenly. "Him be angry him left behind."
Windsor looked at her friend's swollen eye, which was beginning to puff out and turn black-and-blue. It still angered her to think how one of the men had come up behind Sun-On-Wings and held him while the other had hit him in the face with his fist until Windsor had come to his aid. "Stone Kincaid is still dull and lifeless with the juice of madness," she answered finally. "We will return to him after we have obtained the information about Emerson Clan."
"What happen to Evil One when find him?"
"We will kill him because of his crimes against our friends."
Her answer seemed to satisfy the youth, and they proceeded on, both content to embrace their own thoughts. Windsor's mind returned to Stone Kincaid and just how angry he would be when he found them gone. Or perhaps he'd be glad. He had made it clear that he considered them an unwelcome nuisance. But he would not be so intent on traveling alone when she brought back news concerning the whereabouts of his avowed enemy. Then he would appreciate her help, and he would be glad to have her along.
Vividly, she saw him the way he had looked in the saloon, his hands all over the black-haired woman, and she felt sick inside her stomach. She could have been the one in his arms. She had been, for a few minutes, and though it was hard to admit, it had felt good, more than good.
Consciously, she hardened herself against him. Such intimacy between them could not be. She must remain strong and fight her womanly instincts. If she were to become a true disciple of the Dragonfire, such desires were forbidden her. She could never lie with a man. Only the chaste of body and pure of heart could be initiated into the secret warrior sect of her temple. But now that she had met Stone Kincaid, it was very hard to remember those things.
Not far ahea
d, the shingled rooftops of the mining camp loomed into sight, and Windsor was relieved because the steep climb had been difficult in the snow and ice. She could see the shaft now, higher on the mountainside, and the workers laboring to bring out the silver ore. Somewhere far away, she could hear men shouting. Closer to them, a cluster of buildings hugged the rocky slopes, the wooden walls gray and dingy, several feet of snow still piled high on the rooftops. But the same gun-metal gray clouds that had brought so much snow several days ago now threatened to bring more, and she was glad they had almost reached their destination.
A quarter of an hour later, they walked their horses down the street of frozen mud. The entire camp was quiet and deserted. The narrow board sidewalks set in front of the half-dozen small wooden structures were empty, the store windows dark and dreary.
Stopping her horse, she looked around and wondered if everyone in town was at work in the mine. The wind had picked up, reddening her cheeks and nose. The sky pressed down harder, and, having lived in the mountains of Kansu Province most of her life, she knew the signs of a coming blizzard.
The sound of a door closing came to her, and she turned in time to see a bent, wizened old man appear from behind the nearest buildings. He carried a large metal pan, which, judging from the way he struggled with it, was very heavy.
Windsor dismounted and motioned for Sun-On-Wings to do the same. She led her mount toward the old man as he threw out the contents of the pan behind what looked like an outhouse. When he turned and trudged back toward them, Windsor's heart leapt with joy. The little old man was Chinese!
11
Ice pellets whipped by strong gusts of wind slammed against Stone's face. Night had fallen, and he bent his head against the punishing sleet, peering narrow-eyed into what little he could see of the dark, wintry landscape. Ahead of him, faint pinpoints of yellow led him like lighthouse beacons. Hunching his neck farther down into the collar of the heavy wool coat he had gotten at the Pleasure Palace, he pushed onward, hoping Windsor and the kid had made it safely to the mine before the blizzard hit.
Hell, he wasn't even sure they had come up to the Ringnard. Suzy hadn't known for sure, and neither had Mats. Chances were they had, and if somebody at the mine did have information concerning Clan, Stone was going to get it out of him. No doubt Windsor was going there for the same purpose.
For over an hour Stone fought his way up the mountain, following the snow-covered railbed as best he could. He knew the way well; his men had laid the tracks. When he entered the outskirts of the mining camp, the place seemed little changed since he had overseen the survey and construction operations. He rode directly to the most popular saloon and found it had in no way lost its appeal. Nearly every man in town was crowded shoulder to shoulder in the rough-hewn, one-room establishment. He remembered the lean-to stable built against the side, and he tied his horse there, his limbs stiff and half frozen as he dismounted and headed inside.
Pulling off his gloves and chafing his numb hands, he pushed open the door, welcoming the heated air that burned against his chapped face. Other than the warmth he found inside, the atmosphere of the saloon was not particularly desirable; the room was filled with the foul odor of unwashed bodies mingled with the smells of stale beer and smoke. The Staghead Saloon was certainly not in the same league with Sweet Sue's place. No wonder the Pleasure Palace did a booming business, despite its distance down the tracks.
Two dozen men stood around the twelve-by-four plank balanced atop two whiskey kegs that acted as a bar. There were no women; the Ringnard owners in Denver forbade ladies on the premises—no doubt another secret of Sweet Sue's continued success.
When Stone walked in, all conversation stopped as if on cue. Ignoring the curious stares his appearance aroused, he took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh to remove the snow. The buzz of gruff voices resumed as he stepped up to the bar.
Stone chose a deserted spot at the end, careful to keep his back to the wall. As the bartender ambled over, wiping his hands on a dirty white apron tied around his barrel chest, Stone scanned those around him for any faces he might recognize from his stint at the Ringnard. But he didn't expect to see any. Nearly eight years had passed since then, and the men who worked the mountain mines rarely stayed in one place that long.
"What kin I getcha, mister?"
"Whiskey."
The bartender, big, brawny, and long of limb, looked like the kind of man who enjoyed beating up people. As he dribbled whiskey into a shot glass, Stone studied the enormous, detailed picture of a rearing lion etched into the skin on the back of the man's hand.
"Nice tattoo," he commented, picking up his drink.
"Yeah, got it done down San Francisco way. Drunker than the devil, I was."
Stone didn't reply. He welcomed the path of fire the first swallow of whiskey blazed down the length of his gullet.
"Name's Jed," the man offered, leaning a massive elbow on the bar and staring openly at Stone. "Bad night to be traveling, ain't it?"
"Yeah."
"What brings you up thisaway?"
"What's it to you?"
Jed squirmed under Stone's unflinching look. "Ain't nuthin' to me. Just tryin' to be friendly-like, 'sall."
"I have all the friends I want."
Jed sauntered away, picking his teeth with his fingers. A ten-inch bowie knife hung from a fringed leather scabbard on the back of his belt. In the past few years, Stone had seen lots of similar men in lots of similar saloons. Jed would plant his wicked-bladed dagger in Stone's back without a moment's hesitation. So would most of the other men in the place.
Stone leaned back against the counter, examining the men crouching over their beers. The miner who stood next to him was slump-shouldered and small-boned, with long black hair tied into a greasy ponytail. He wore round wire spectacles. The right lens was cracked into the shape of a Y. Stone decided to see if he could find out anything about Windsor.
"I'm looking for a blond-haired woman, small and real pretty," he said.
A heavyset, florid-complexioned man beside the bespectacled miner interrupted the conversation.
"Well, now, ain't we all?" The fat guy guffawed. "Tell you what, mister, if you find one of them pretty yellow-headed gals around here, I get her second."
"She's a friend of mine," Stone said, slicing him with a cold-eyed look. "So if she does show up here, I wouldn't like it if anybody bothered her." He put his hand down on his right thigh, close enough to draw. The red-faced man's cheeks grew a darker shade of crimson. He stared down into his beer mug without another word.
"There ain't no women a'tall in the camp. Ain't allowed," the man with the broken glasses told Stone. "We hafta go on down to the Palace when we want some."
"Yeah. Suzy's an old friend of mine."
At once, the tension surrounding their conversation lessened.
"Well, now, stranger, any friend of Sweet Sue's is sure as hell welcome up here. She's a real woman, that's for sure. She knows how to make a man feel good." He grinned and shook his head, apparently recalling past romantic interludes at the Palace. "Name's Buck Snodgrass," he said, profferring his hand.
Stone shook the man's hand, but he kept his other hand close to his gun. "Stone Kincaid."
Behind the marred lenses, Buck's amiable expression turned wary. His gaze darted down to the other end of the makeshift counter, and Stone tensed as a hush settled over anyone close enough to have heard his name. Several men stepped hastily away from him, but one man remained unmoving, his right hand resting on the base of a whiskey bottle.
Alert with the sixth sense he'd developed in Andersonville, Stone waited. He had never before laid eyes on the man, but there was a mean look about his pointed, fox-sharp features. When he uncoiled and pushed back his coat, an ivory-handled, strapped-down gun was revealed, slung low on his hip.
Shifting slightly so his own weapon was ready, Stone waited patiently for him to make the first move.
"Unusual name, Stone Kincaid," the ma
n said in a deceptively quiet voice.
"My mother liked it."
"Don't suppose too many men would have that name hung on him, though."
"Unlikely."
"A man killed my partner over in Omaha a couple of months back," the gunslinger said very low. "Cut him up real bad with a bullwhip. People around there said his name was Stone Kincaid, too. I've been asking 'round for the bastard. Now I'm wonderin' if you just might be him."
"You've got the wrong man—" Stone began, but before he could finish, the man made a move for his gun.
Stone was faster. Before the man could pull the trigger, Stone had drawn and fired, the bullet striking the man's gun hand and sending his fancy pistol spinning across the floor. The gunslinger fell heavily against the bar, supporting his bleeding fingers with his other hand. The spectators pressed farther back against the walls. Everyone watched Stone.
"Like I said, you've got the wrong man. I didn't kill anybody in Omaha. And I don't want to kill anybody here. The name of the man who killed your partner is Emerson Clan, I'm after him, too, for going by my name."
The gunslinger held up his good hand as if to ward off further trouble, then bent to retrieve his revolver before he threaded his way past the whispering onlookers and out the door.
Stone glanced around to make sure no one else wanted to use his back for a target, then ordered more whiskey. A hubbub of voices filled the room at once, and the saloon quickly returned to normal. Stone was given all the privacy he wanted, and he pretended to concentrate on his drink as he surreptitiously watched the people around him. They were as tough and hard as men could get, and he wasn't stupid enough to trust any of them.
If Windsor made the mistake of walking into such a place, God help her. But apparently she hadn't, or she'd be the talk of the place. Where the hell was she? Unless she and the kid had taken his advice and headed back to the Osage village. Vaguely, he remembered confronting her in the bathhouse, and an even dimmer recollection of holding her down on the bed came back to him, all very fuzzy and indistinct. Again he cursed himself for getting drunk.