The town marshal’s bowler hat shaded the upper half of his face, which he turned to his right as a man appeared out of the alley and stepped up onto the boardwalk beside him.
It was the man who’d been shooting at Sartain from over the rain barrel.
Both men stood facing the Cajun. The sole surviving member of the trio of ambushers was shorter than Leach. He wore a sun-coppered bowler hat similar to Leach’s and a bright green neckerchief. When he’d been closer, Sartain had seen that he had a playing card wedged behind the band ringing the bowler’s rounded crown.
His and Leech’s mouths appeared to move as they conversed. Then they glanced once more at Sartain and walked into the Occidental, the batwings flapping into place behind them.
Sartain looked around.
Save for the two horses standing in front of the Occidental; the street was abandoned. The only movement was the dust being lifted and swirled by the hot, early-autumn breeze. An old newspaper was picked up by one of the gusts. It blew up against the front of the drugstore and then seemed to be sucked through the window broken by one of the two bushwhackers Sartain had shot.
As for the bushwhacker himself, Sartain could see only the gray soles of the man’s boots, which had got hung up in the broken glass.
The door to the town medico’s office opened. Senorita La Corte stepped tentatively out onto the second-floor landing, looking around, her hair blowing in the breeze. She held a brown medical kit low by her side. A broad-brimmed straw hat shaded her face.
Her skirts swirled out from her long legs as she descended the steps, holding the hem of her dress up above her black, high-heeled, gold-button shoes. She glanced toward Sartain with a sour, reproving expression. Then she strode resolutely to the drugstore, casting the Revenger several more disgusted glances, and looked through the broken window.
She glanced once more at Sartain, then continued walking east along the side of the street, dust billowing around her, the breeze by turns basting her skirt against her legs and lifting it above her ankles.
Sartain glanced at the Whiskey Jim’s bar behind him. The barman was gone. The whore peered at him from beneath her table. Sartain went over and gave her his hand. When she stood before him, she thrust out her chest and threw back her hair with a sigh.
“A friend of Juan Largo’s, eh?” she said, looking him up and down.
“Yep.”
“It figures.” She glanced out the window. “Will there be more shooting?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, darlin’. You’d best go on upstairs and stay there. Keep your head down.”
“What’s it all about?” she wanted to know.
“Revenge,” Sartain said matter-of-factly.
“Ah.” The girl nodded her South-of-the-Border understanding of the concept, retrieved a bottle and a glass from behind the bar, and climbed the stairs to the second story.
Sartain walked outside. Boss must have ripped his reins free of the hitch rack when the shooting had erupted. The horse now stood at the west end of town, staring back at its rider, reins dangling. To the east, Senorita La Corte was just then pushing through the batwings of the Occidental Saloon.
Sartain studied the street carefully. Deeming it as deserted as it appeared, he walked over to Boss, swung up into the saddle, and rode through town to the east. As he did, he slid his Henry from its boot, pumped a cartridge into the chamber, set the hammer to half cock, and rested the barrel across the pommel of his saddle. He kept the barrel aimed in the general direction of the Occidental.
He studied the shabby building as he passed, the west-angling sun turning its adobe and weathered wood front to copper. The large window to the right of the batwings was too dusty and dark to be seen through. The sun glinted off the smeared dust.
No sounds issued from inside.
Sartain heard the scratchy strains of a fiddle from farther up the street. They seemed to be coming from the Lincoln County Inn sitting another block to the east on its own sage- and rock-stippled lot. It was the last building on that side of town, just beyond a low, flat-roofed stone structure that a wooden sign, which stretched a few feet into the street on ironwood posts, identified simply as GOLD DUST JAIL.
The two buildings were separated by a good twenty feet and flanked by shacks, small farmsteads, windmills, and stock pens that comprised the rest of the town. They stretched across the low, sage- and yucca-tufted hills, as did the occasional goat and cow. Chickens clucked from somewhere unseen.
The scratching of the fiddle grew louder as Sartain approached the hotel, which was a two-story, barrack-like affair with a rough wooden gallery on both its first and second floors. Its brown adobe bricks were as bulging, cracked, and pitted as an old man’s spine. Its large sign was stretched across the top of the second story, the black-painted letters badly faded against the moldering gray wood.
The fiddling—if you could call it fiddling and not merely the raucous plucking of fiddle strings—didn’t seem to be coming from inside the place, but from outside. And so was the deep, mournful howling of a dog as though in tune—if anything could be in tune with something so out of tune—with the fiddle.
Sartain reined Boss around to the building’s far front corner. Along its east side, a canvas awning had been erected on spindly poles. A large iron range abutted the side wall of the Inn. Gray smoke issued from its chimney pipe and from the spout of the fire-blackened coffee pot residing on one of its iron lids.
An old man with a long, tangled, gray beard sat several feet away from the range, on a ladder-back chair, scratching away on the fiddle while a beefy, dark-yellow hound gave its back to him, staring off toward the ragged southern reaches of Gold Dust, lifting its snout and mournfully howling every ten or twelve seconds—either in time with the old man’s “music” or in protest of it; it was hard to tell which.
A couple of aged horses stood switching their tails in a lean-to shelter behind the inn.
“Holy dung in the Catholic boneyard!” the old man bellowed when he saw Sartain, dropping his fiddle and springing out of his seat to turn toward the stranger, his leathery cheeks above his thick, gray beard flushing sunset red.
He reached for the ’51-Model Colt revolver he had wedged behind a belt holding his patched canvas trousers up on his bony hips.
“Hold on, oldster,” Sartain said, aiming the Henry negligently at the old man. “Keep that old hogleg behind your belt and live to scratch another tune.”
The old dog had sprung to life, as well, facing Sartain and barking angrily, hackles raised. It was an old critter—probably as old in dog years as the old man—with a grizzled snout and a tumor as large as a man’s balled fist bulging just behind its right front leg.
The old man froze with the big horse pistol only half up from behind the belt. He narrowed his watery blue eyes as the dog continued barking loudly. He looked at the Revenger’s rifle and removed his hand from the hogleg’s worn walnut grips.
Shuffling back on his skinny legs, he said, “You one o’ them?”
“One o’ who?”
“One o’ them’s been shootin’ up the town?”
“I reckon so,” Sartain said. “But you got nothin’ to fear from me unless you’re in with Lyle Leach and Scrum Wallace.”
“Leach? Hah!” The old man spat distastefully. “I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with them curly wolves. I’m a law-abidin’ man. Why I run this here hotel, don’t ya know. I’m a respectable citizen of Gold Dust.” He canted his head toward a shoulder, squinting at his tall, broad-shouldered visitor. “Who’re you?”
“Tell that long-toothed mutt of yours to pipe down,” Sartain said, holding Boss’s reins taut in his left hand. “Me an’ this buckskin didn’t wander over here to be barked at.” He glanced at the big pistol behind the old man’s belt. “Or shot at, for that matter.”
The old man turned to the dog. “Pipe down, Spider!”
Immediately, the dog stopped barking. It gave a little mewl, turned a complete circle, and sank to its belly, still reg
arding the stranger suspiciously.
“If you didn’t come to be barked or shot at, what did you come over here for, mister?” the old man asked with a wry twinkle in his eye. “I was enjoyin’ myself just fine.”
“Anyone else enjoy that fiddle?”
“Spider does.” The old man grinned, slitting his long eyes.
The dog gave another quiet mewl and then rested his snout between his paws.
“Why the name Spider?”
“ ’Cause he was bit by a spider when he was just a pup. Head swelled up like a wheel hub. Still deathly afraid of the dastardly things. Scouts a room thoroughly before he lays down in it. Say, what’s your name, anyways?”
“Mike Sartain.”
“Hmmm.”
“You got one?”
“Jordan Pepper. Folks around here call me Pops.”
“To answer your first question, Pops,” Sartain said, “I’d like a room. But only if Spider checks it out first.” He glanced at the large, humble building towering over them. “If you have any rooms to spare, that is.”
“Don’t get smart with me, sonny. I get right busy on weekends and over the Fourth of July.” Pops stepped out away from the building to see down the main street before looking suspiciously back at Sartain. “You won’t make trouble, will you?”
“I won’t make any—no.”
The old man frowned, not sure what to make of the answer.
“Well, all right,” he said. “Take any room you want. You can stable your horse out back.”
As Sartain rode Boss around the side of the building, heading for the stable, Pops said, “What’s your business with Leach’s bunch?”
Sartain glanced over his shoulder. “You know Scrum?”
“Scrum Wallace? Yes, I do,” the old man said, making a sour expression.
Sartain turned his head forward and continued heading for the stable. “I’m gonna kill him.”
Chapter 13
Sartain took a room on the hotel’s second story and far to the east, from which he had a good view to the west of the Occidental Saloon.
He hauled all of his gear, including his Henry repeater, into the room and took a sponge bath in tepid water while staring out into the street through his double windows, neither of which had glass in it. There was a shutter for each, but Sartain had thrown them open to the cooling afternoon air.
Refreshed by the bath as well as the autumn air sifting into the room, he sat in front of the window, his rifle leaning against the wall before him. He nibbled jerky from his saddlebags and sipped lightning from the bottle he’d taken from the Whiskey Jim. So as not to get pie-eyed, he occasionally cut it with water.
He also paced himself.
The giant, orange ball of the sun sank slowly. The western horizon was a painter’s palette of bright colors that dulled slowly until only a salmon streak remained. The salmon streak narrowed, then disappeared, and the stars kindled in the darkening sky.
The town was as quiet as a held breath. It was as if everyone in the surrounding countryside knew about the trouble and steered clear. There were a few riders, but very few, at that: a couple heading for the Whiskey Jim, a couple of others heading for the Occidental—mostly Mexicans but a couple of Anglos, as well. Two of the Mexicans stayed most of the night at the Occidental. There’d been no noise anywhere around the town except for the occasional dog barking, until the Mexicans left the Occidental, both singing softly as their horses clomped slowly back toward the west and likely to the ranchos they worked for.
Just after dark, a slender figure moved toward the Occidental from the west. Sartain couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared to be a female figure. The pretty sawbones left the watering hole about a half hour later, heading back in the direction from which she’d come.
If it was her. Sartain thought it was—thought he’d seen long hair and a billowing, Spanish-style skirt in the dim lamplight pushing through the Occidental’s front window.
Clara had been checking on Scrum.
Sartain found himself hoping the killer hadn’t yet died. He wanted him to linger a good long time. He hoped he was in a lot of pain. The Cajun would stay here until Scrum gave up the ghost or until Sartain got the opportunity to drill another round into him.
Scrum would not leave Gold Dust alive.
After midnight, Sartain sank back into his chair, took another sip from his bottle, and contemplated catching forty winks. Could he afford to? There was a good chance Leach would try to hit him again. He’d have to sleep sometime, though. He was accustomed to staying awake for days at a time, but the longer he didn’t take at least a catnap, the less sharp his senses became.
Just thinking about sleeping made him yawn.
Then he turned his thoughts to Maggie Chance, and that braced him.
He wondered what was happening out there on the Chances’ ranch. He’d never had two jobs overlap, but it was happening now, and he felt torn. He’d kill Scrum soon, and then he’d look into the Chance situation. Something about that old man’s death didn’t feel right, and it wasn’t just the fact that Sartain had killed him.
There was something else nibbling at the edges of his consciousness.
He stripped down to his summer-weight underwear, which was merely balbriggans with the arms and legs cut off, took a long drink of tepid water, and crawled on top of the bed’s single sheet. He must have dozed because he had the sense that some time had passed before he heard a soft tread in the hall outside his room.
He reached for the LeMat and clicked back the hammer.
The footsteps grew louder until they stopped outside his door.
Two soft taps. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Sartain?”
Sartain stared at the door, which was a black rectangle in the slightly less black wall. “Who is it?”
“Clara La Corte.”
Sartain’s heart thumped at the image of the pretty young woman in his mind.
Still holding the LeMat, he walked to the door, turned the key in the lock, and opened it. The hall was dark. She was a shadowy female figure against it. He could smell the female scent of her. It tickled his loins.
Always cautious, he looked both ways down the hall. No shadows moved.
“Well, senorita,” the Cajun said in his bayou-languid drawl, “what brings you out so late? Change your mind about that drink?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” She held up a bottle by its neck. She held up a paper bag in her other hand. “And I thought you might be hungry. We have a café in town, but it’s out by Sandy Wash, and I doubt you would have found it.”
Just the mention of food made Sartain realize the jerky he’d washed down with tequila had been like throwing a few pebbles into a deep well. It hadn’t come close to filling him up.
“Come in.”
He stepped back, poked the LeMat into the holster hanging off a bedpost, and lit a lamp. The watery light spread across the floor to her standing by the door, which she closed. She wore a white blouse and a spruce-green skirt with black boots.
The blouse was low cut. A gold chain with a small crucifix hung across the high plains of her breasts.
Her recently brushed hair glittered in the lamplight, as did her dark eyes.
Sartain swallowed. She glanced away.
“Forgive me for staring,” Sartain said. “But it’s not every night a man gets a visit from a woman so beautiful as you, Senorita La Corte.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Sartain?”
“I was raised in the French Quarter of New Orleans,” the Cajun said. “I was taught the art of seduction by the very best pleasure girls north of the border. So, in a word, yes. But remember—you came to me.”
It seemed to be the woman’s turn to swallow nervously as her eyes flicked across his broad chest, the hair of which poked out through the gaping V of his wash-worn red undershirt. She looked away again, awkwardly this time, as though not sure where to fix her gaze.
Then she shook her hair back anxiously and
thrust the bag and the bottle toward him.
“Why don’t you eat, Mr. Sartain? That should sate your hunger.”
Sartain took the bag and the bottle from her. It was very much a desirable young woman who’d come to visit him this night, not the rigid and formal Spanish queen he’d met earlier. Why exactly she was here so late, however, he had yet to find out.
He couldn’t have been more intrigued.
He offered her a chair. He sat on the other side of the small half-table from her and ate the bean burrito she’d brought him. It was the best burrito he’d ever eaten—still hot and liberally seasoned with roasted lamb, chili peppers, and onions. Maybe not the best, but it tasted like the best tonight.
He thanked her as he ate hungrily. She chuckled at the fervor with which he tore into the food and opened the bottle of good Spanish brandy, filling two water glasses.
She sat and sipped her brandy and watched him eat, smiling delightedly, her perfect, white teeth gleaming in the light of the guttering lamp.
“You always visit men’s rooms so late?” he asked her when he’d taken the final bite of the delicious food and brushed his leavings off the table with the end of his fist.
Clara La Corte laughed softly. “This is the first time, in fact.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She sipped from her glass, regarding him pensively. She took another sip of the brandy and then slowly lowered the glass to the table. “I was hoping I could convince you to leave tonight, Mr. Sartain.”
“No. I’m sorry, Miss La Corte. You can’t.”
Staring at him, she pulled the corners of her mouth down.
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask?” She paused, incredulous. “Why do I ask?” she said again, quietly berating him with her words. “Because this is my town, and I don’t want to see it all shot to hell. I don’t want to see anyone else killed. Especially innocent old men like Morgan Bentley.”
Sartain glanced away from her, tugging on his earlobe in frustration. There it was again. Bentley. The old man he’d killed, though he wasn’t sure why.
“A killer with a heart,” Clara said softly, speculatively. “How odd.”
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