Masterson was looking out the window again. “I see hands from just about every cow outfit there is. That big redhead standing outside the Bon-Ton is Long Tom Feeney, foreman of the Flying H, and the little feller with him is Good Time Charlie Bone of the J and L. There’s a pair of hellers for you.”
“Seems like the wolves are gathering,” Crane said.
“Seems like.” Masterson stiffened. “Somebody’s coming.”
Crane pulled his gun and stepped to the door. He glanced at the sheriff. “Any man who comes through the door who ain’t acting like he’s visiting kissin’ kin—I start blasting.”
“No, don’t. It’s Maxie Starr. She works in the Texas Belle.”
“Friend of yours?”
“You could say that.”
Crane opened the door and the woman stepped quickly inside, the wind bringing a gust of perfume with her.
She crossed the floor quickly and laid a basket on the table. “I brought you some grub, Paul. I know you boys aren’t exactly welcome on the street.”
Maxie Starr was a dazzling blonde, her blue silk dress cut low, revealing the generous swell of her milky breasts. Her glossy hair was pulled back in a ballerina chignon and a thin black ribbon circled her slender neck. Her eyes were sapphire blue, her cheekbones high and beautifully sculpted, and her mouth was wide and generous. The fine arcs at the corner of her lips suggested she smiled often and easily.
Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, Crane decided she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Maxie,” Masterson said.
“And let you starve?”
“If Ben Hollister sees you here it could go badly for you.”
The woman smiled. “He and the others are still early in their drinking. They haven’t yet taken the next step to the amorous stage.”
Masterson gestured in Crane’s direction. “Deputy United States Marshal Augustus Crane. He likes to be called Gus.”
As the marshal touched his hat, Maxie said, “The nuns at the mission were talking to me about you. For some reason I got the impression they fear you. You been hard-talking nuns?”
Crane smiled. “Nothing like that. One of them had a bad dream about me, that’s all.”
Maxie did not return his smile. Her beautiful eyes suddenly looked as unfriendly as the windows of a haunted mansion. “It must have been a really bad dream,” she said, “to scare the sisters like that.”
Dismissing Crane, the woman turned to Masterson. “Paul, every rancher and cowboy from miles around is in town, and riffraff from the mines, willing to shoot anybody for whiskey and ten dollars. Hollister is boasting that he’ll have two hundred fighting men in Rawhide Flat by midnight.”
“Long odds,” Masterson said mildly. He looked at Maxie. “I’m beholden to you.”
The woman smiled. “I owe you, Paul. Remember?”
“Maxie, you don’t owe me a thing.”
“I’d say shooting a miner off me who was all set to carve his name on my belly with a Green River knife is a pretty big debt.”
“It went with the star.”
“Maybe so, but I won’t forget it.” Maxie glanced at the railroad clock on the wall. “I’d better go. I’ll be missed if I stay much longer.” She turned to Crane. “It’s been nice meeting you, Marshal.”
Her stiff features indicated she was not telling the truth. Crane touched his hat again. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
Masterson’s eyes were smiling, seemingly amused at the reserved formality between the two. Crane figured the sheriff was thinking that Maxie had been right—the nun must have had a powerful, bad dream.
Maxie stepped to the door, then ran back and grabbed Masterson’s hands in hers. “Get out of town, Paul, now. Leave Judah Walsh to Hollister. The man means nothing to you.”
“He’s Gus’ prisoner, Maxie. He’ll have to make that decision.”
Maxie looked at Crane but spoke to Masterson. “Gus is a man who’s lost the habit of enjoying life, Paul. Don’t put your fate in his hands.”
Then she was gone and only the lingering memory of her perfume remained.
Chapter 6
Paul Masterson removed the cloth from the basket and looked inside. “See what we got, Gus. Maxie did us proud.” He laid food on the table. “Beef sandwiches, half an apple pie and two bottles of Bass ale. Can’t beat that, huh?”
“And the condemned ate a hearty meal,” Crane said. “I guess I’d better feed Walsh first.”
“I’ll do it. When you talk to him he ends up getting cut with a spur.”
The sheriff took a couple of sandwiches to Walsh and when he returned Crane asked, “How is he?”
“He hears the commotion on the street and figures this time tomorrow he’ll be well on his way to California with a hundred dollars in his jeans and a good horse under him.”
“He could be right.”
Masterson bit into a sandwich and spoke around a mouthful of bread and meat. “Do you make a habit of terrifying nuns, Gus?”
Crane laid his own sandwich and beer on the table. “Not as a general rule.”
He told the sheriff what had happened on the train, then added, “Like I said, the sister had a bad dream. Trust me, I don’t go out of my way to shoot nuns.”
Masterson grinned. “I’d be worried though. Nuns are in good with God. Maybe he really did give the little sister a glimpse of the future.”
“Masterson, don’t you start up. Your friend Maxie was bad enough.”
“Call me Paul.”
“I can’t shorten that name. Pity.”
Crane crossed the floor in a couple of long-legged strides and looked out the window. “Where’s the prisoner’s horse, and yours?”
“The livery of course. Mine’s is a sorrel with four white socks and a blaze face. Walsh was riding a steeldust Morgan. Why do you want to know?”
“Because we’re getting out of here. We’re taking Walsh to Virginia City.”
“Gus, why don’t you just ride away from here, leave Walsh in his cell?”
“I thought about that, thought about it a lot. But if I did what you say, I’d have to turn in my badge because I’d have failed in my duty. The man’s not only a robber—he’s a cold-blooded killer and I can’t turn my back on that.”
The marshal’s smile was slight. “I have enough bad memories as it is. I don’t want to add another to the list.”
“I don’t know you that well, but even so, if you ever want to talk about them, those bad memories I mean, all you—”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Paul.”
Masterson nodded and backed off, giving Crane space. “All right, how do you want to play this?”
“We’ll wait another hour until the boys are well and truly likkered. Then I’ll head for the barn and bring back the horses.”
“I should go. I know the town better than you.”
“Thanks, but I think I can find the livery stable. Just have Walsh out here and ready to go when I get back. We may have to leave in an all-fired hurry.”
Darkness had crowded into Rawhide Flat and the sky was full of stars. A horned moon was on the rise and out among the silvered hills a pair of hunting coyotes called back and forth. The saloons along the street were ablaze with light, jammed with the roars of men and the laughter of women, the laughs ringing false as cracked bells, a discordant counterpoint.
Competing tinpanny pianos battled for space, their notes getting hopelessly tangled, falling into the street like shattered shards of glass.
Crane removed his badge from his shirt and placed it in his pocket. He angled from the jail to the boardwalk and pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes. It was difficult for a man who stood four inches over six feet in his boots to try to be inconspicuous, but it was a risk he’d have to take.
Behind the main buildings along the street lay a crowded warren of shacks and cabins. Blundering through those in the dark was a sure way to attract unwelcome atte
ntion, especially from dogs.
Crane passed a few stores, then crossed the rectangle of yellow light spilling from the front door of the Bon-Ton saloon. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a throng of men standing belly to the bar, girls in silk dresses of blue, yellow and red moving among them like tropical birds.
He had almost reached the point where the boardwalk was interrupted for an alley, when a rough voice hailed him from the shadows. He stopped as a man emerged from the gloom.
“You got the price of a drink?” the man asked. It was more threat than question. His eyes were in shadow, his face heavily bearded and he wore the plaid shirt, heavy canvas pants and lace-up boots of a miner. Greasy hair fell over his shoulders from under a battered plug hat and a revolver in a cross-draw holster was buckled around his belly.
“Sorry, no,” Crane said. He made to move on.
The miner’s hand shot out and grabbed Crane’s by the bicep of his right arm. The fingers of a hard-rock miner are incredibly thick and strong, and they dug deep, the man’s long, dirty fingernails like talons.
It took him about half a second to realize he’d made a bad mistake.
Crane jerked his arm away and down. When his hand came up he was holding his Colt. The marshal crashed the gun against the miner’s temple, drawing blood. The man staggered back a step and Crane followed, swinging again. This time the Colt’s barrel smashed into the bridge of the miner’s nose and he dropped to his knees, then fell on his back, his legs bent under him.
Crane shook his head at the perverse timing of this uncalled-for inconvenience.
The man’s face was a mask of blood and he was moaning softly. The marshal grabbed the miner by the collar of his shirt to drag him into the alley, then grew still as a woman stepped toward him along the boardwalk.
Dressed in a severe brown dress, she wore a hat of the same color, its drabness relieved by a decorative bunch of imitation red cherries.
The woman was one of the town’s respectable matrons, no doubt the wife of a merchant or businessman. Crane shifted his position to shield the miner’s bloody face as the matron walked past him. Her eyes stern, she looked like someone was holding a rotten fish under her nose.
“He’s drunk,” the marshal slurred, “and so am I. Hey, can I buy you a drink, pretty lady?”
Sniffing, the woman moved on. After she crossed the alley and regained the boardwalk again, she turned and snapped, “Disgraceful!”
“Don’t get your corsets in a knot, old gal,” Crane said, playing a drunk to the hilt. “Come an’ have a drink.”
The woman quickened her pace, her boots thudding on the walk until she vanished into the night.
Quickly Crane dragged the miner deep into the alley. He was about to walk away when the man groaned and tried to get to his feet. The marshal pulled his gun again, lifted the man’s hat and smashed the barrel across his head. This time the miner lay still, making no sound.
The man would either wake up with the worst headache of his life or not wake up at all. But Crane told himself he’d had no choice. He couldn’t risk the miner raising the alarm and a bunch of drunken cowboys, ready for any distraction, raising the hue and cry to find his assailant.
“You should have minded your manners around strangers,” Crane said to the man. Good advice, even though he could not hear it.
The marshal turned away and regained the boardwalk. Behind him a drunk staggered from one saloon and into another and a frock-coated gambler stepped to the edge of the walk and lit a thin cigar.
Crane’s confrontation with the miner had not been seen, and for that he was thankful.
The mission of St. Michael the Archangel was in darkness. The nuns would be early in bed, but as Crane passed, he thought he heard a woman cry out in her sleep. A shiver ran down the marshal’s spine.
Was Sister Theresa Campion dreaming about him again?
The windows of the nuns’ quarters were shuttered against the moonlight and around the building purple shadows angled, deep and mysterious. Here the raucous din of the saloons was muted and even the wind was stilled, its breath caught up by the brooding darkness.
The mission itself seemed . . . Crane searched his mind for the right word . . . sinister . . . as though it knew him and was patiently waiting . . . and watching.
But for what?
Shaking his head, Crane dismissed the thought. He was acting like a maiden aunt who hears a rustle in every bush. He was on edge, maybe even scared, but of Ben Hollister and his rough riders, not a tiny, eighteen-year-old nun.
The wind’s pent-up breath escaped in a loud sigh as Crane crossed fifty yards of open ground to the livery. Behind him, at the mission, a shutter had torn free and was banging back and forth like the beat of a demented drummer.
Despite the number of riders in town, there were few horses in the barn and no one was around. Crane let his eyes become accustomed to the deeper darkness ahead of him, then stepped into black ink, thick with the musky odors of horses, dung and hay.
A tiny mewing sound to his left stopped him. He looked down and saw a small calico cat emerge from the shadows, then sit, staring up at him. Crane had met cats before and he had learned that they expect great formality from strangers and a display of fine manners and good breeding.
He got down on one knee, keeping his distance. “How are you, little feller?” he asked. “Sorry I can’t stay and talk. I’m in a hurry.”
The calico’s amber eyes studied Crane’s face for a few moments. Then it rose and pushed against him, purring softly. Figuring that he’d passed the cat test, the marshal picked up the little animal and held it against his chest. He stroked the calico’s soft fur and said, “Let’s find the horses, huh?”
Enjoying the gentle touch of the man’s strong hands, the cat purred happily in reply.
The blaze-faced sorrel was easy to find in the dark and the steeldust occupied the next stall.
Crane put the cat on the floor and whispered, “So long now, little feller. Go catch a mouse.” He rubbed the calico’s head, its little pointed ears brushing against the palm of his hand. The cat stood hesitantly for a moment, then, on silent feet, disappeared into the gloom.
Crane saddled the horses and led them to the door of the stable. He studied the street. The saloons were as busy as ever and if anything noisier, and the boardwalks were now crowded with men moving from one place to another in search of new excitement.
Over at the Bon-Ton the boys had pushed the piano and the pianist outside into the street, and a crowd of men and a few women were roaring “Lily Dale” at the top of their lungs.
As the marshal watched, one drunken rooster detached himself from the throng, drew his gun and took several pots at the sheriff’s office. This drew a huge cheer from the crowd, but Ben Hollister stepped out of the Texas Belle and ordered the shooting to stop.
Crane shook his head and smiled. More than a few of the boys were going to be in no state to fight anybody come the glaring morning light.
Taking the street to get back to Masterson’s office was now out of the question. Crane swung into the saddle of the sorrel and left the barn at a walk, leading the steeldust. He headed north into the darkness for half a mile, then swung west. After a few minutes he rode due south, keeping Rawhide Flat to his left, its lights twinkling in the gloom.
The trail ahead of Crane was a river of darkness, relieved here and there by streaks of iron white moonlight that silvered the branches of piñon, juniper and sagebrush.
The wind was gusting from the east and the marshal fancied he could hear the thud-thud-thud of the stamp mills in El Dorado Canyon a couple of miles away. The Techatticup, Wall Street and Savage mines were operating twenty-four hours a day and Crane had heard they’d already ripped five million dollars in gold and silver from the canyon hard rock.
Hidden in the darkness to the west stretched miles of hill country cut through by a myriad of creeks. As he’d seen from the train, the cottonwoods along their banks, even this late in spring,
had only now begun to leaf out.
The cottonwood knows that winter in northern Nevada ain’t over till it’s over, and the weight of snow on leaves can splinter their weak branches.
Crane left the lights of Rawhide Flat behind him, then looped north again. He rode up to the rear of the sheriff’s office and tied up the horses.
He had not been seen.
Keeping to the shadows, the marshal walked around to the front door and stepped inside. He looked around, at the empty office and at the door to Walsh’s cell hanging ajar. A quick search told him all he needed to know.
Paul Masterson and Judah Walsh were gone. So was the sheriff’s rifle.
Chapter 7
A tangle of worry and anger rode Crane as he sat at the table and tried to plan his next move.
It was no use speculating on what had happened. It was an exercise in pointlessness and in the end all it gave a man was a headache.
The marshal reached into his pocket, found his badge and pinned it to the front of his shirt. It was a big country and he could spend days searching for the missing men and never find them—especially if Ben Hollister had stashed them somewhere.
But sometimes the best solution is to meet a problem head-on and go right to its source. Crane reckoned that this was one of those times.
He drew his Colt, thumbed a round into the empty chamber under the hammer, then crossed the floor and took the Greener from the rack.
He searched the drawers of the rolltop desk and found what he was looking for, a box of twelve-gauge shells. He filled a pocket with the ammunition, then laid the shotgun on the table and built a smoke.
What had to be done had to be done, but he was in no hurry to do it. Walking into a saloon filled with drunken, hostile men, every one armed and willing to kill, was no small thing. The thought was enough to give any man pause, and that’s what Crane was doing, thinking and pausing. He smoked the cigarette and then another.
The clock on the office wall said it was fifteen minutes after midnight.
The noise from the street outside had grown considerably, a strident cacophony of clinking bottles and glasses, hoarse, shouting male and female voices, yammering pianos, the whole rollicking racket punctuated by the festive revolver as drunks took pots at the moon and maybe each other.
Rawhide Flat Page 4