Diablo (33 page)

John Yancy had watched the tall, blue-eyed man leave the saloon after exchanging glances with the saloon woman. It wasn't the first time he'd seen those intimate exchanges, and jealousy and envy ate into him. The woman had ignored every one of his own overtures, and he wasn't used to that. What right did any saloon whore have to reject him?

The man bothered him, too. He had an air of authority, though he was doing his best to disguise it. He also wore a gun as if he knew how to use it. Yancy would bet his last dollar that the man wasn't an outlaw. That left one likely alternative.

But what interested him most was the woman's connection to Sanctuary. Yancy was tired of waiting for one of Sanctuary's guides to appear. He had planned to follow the man back to Sanctuary, then ambush Thompson. But perhaps there was another way, a faster way. Mary May Hamilton probably knew Sanctuary's location. She also probably knew who—and what—her lover was.

He wanted to know the answers to both questions.

He slipped into the seat left by the man who so interested him and started fishing. “That gent didn't stay long,” he observed.

“Smith?” said one of the other players. “He doesn't play much.”

“Smith?” Yancy grinned. “Real fashionable name.”

“Ben Smith,” said another loquacious player.

Yancy didn't miss the sharp glance the woman sent him. It was a “mind your own business” warning, and the player shut up. But it was enough. Ben. Suddenly, he knew where the familiar feeling came from. Fort Smith. He'd been holding over in Fort Smith when a U.S. marshal brought in a prisoner. Yancy had only gotten a quick look at the lawman, who was dirty and bearded, but he remembered the name, Ben Masters, and the cut of him. Wouldn't Thompson be interested in knowing someone who worked for him was whoring with a U.S. marshal?

He won the poker hand, lost another, and called it a night. He went outside and looked around until he found what he wanted. A drunk who wouldn't remember much. “Tell Mary May that Ben Smith is waiting for her at his hotel,” he told the man, giving him enough money for several drinks.

“Yes,
sir.”

Yancy knew where Smith was staying. He'd watched him cross from the hotel to the saloon often enough. There was an alley, a dark path between buildings she would have to pass through. And then he would find out everything he needed to know.

Mary May received the message with a smile. She had missed her usual afternoon drink with Ben. He had never asked her to his room before. They had always used hers, and she was pleased to be invited into his private quarters.

She was also hungry for him. She was always hungry for him. No one had ever satisfied her as he did, perhaps because she liked him so much. No man had ever treated her as an equal before, had listened, had really seemed to care about her beyond the sensuality they shared.

And he had been so good with Sarah Ann. She could still see him sitting in the neat bungalow, Sarah Ann giggling on his lap. The memory warmed her.

But then she went cold as she thought once more about her problem. What to do with Sarah Ann? How to find a decent home for her? Part of her mind went to Ben, but what man would want a woman like her for more than what they already shared?

She hurried toward his hotel. She always felt good with Ben, as if everything would work out. Even if he was a lawman, he was unlike any other she'd ever met. He hadn't used her, he hadn't threatened, and he had accepted her refusal to help him with equanimity.

Mary May was thinking about his eyes—the way they had warmed when he had looked at her daughter—when she heard someone behind her. She started to turn, and she felt a knife at her throat and an arm around her waist, pulling her to the dark alley between buildings. Then pain erupted in her head, and everything went black.

She woke to blinding agony. Her head was pounding fiercely, and when she tried to move, she couldn't. Water splashed on her, and she felt a rough hand slapping her face. She opened her eyes.

John Yancy's face was inches from hers. A long, narrow candle cast just enough light for her to see the malevolence in his eyes. Fear filled her, almost suffocating her. She feared for her own life, but even more for Sarah Ann's. What would happen to her daughter if she died?

She tried to stay calm. What did he want? And where was she?

She tried to look around but she was hogtied, her hands bound in front with a rope that led to another binding her ankles. Her dress was up around her hips. She was in some kind of abandoned building, lying on a dirt floor.

“What do you want?” she said finally, forcing boldness into her voice.

“The whereabouts of Sanctuary.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she bluffed.

His expression grew uglier, and he backhanded her across the mouth. The blow split her lip and she tasted blood. “Let's try that question again,” he said. “Where's Sanctuary?”

Mary May knew the general vicinity of Sanctuary for a variety of reasons, mostly by keeping her ears open. Calico had dropped several bits of information over the past several years, and she'd once met Nat Thompson fifty miles north of Gooden. But she didn't know the exact location. She thought about giving Yancy directions to nowhere. But she knew she couldn't do it too soon or he would be suspicious. “Thompson will kill you for this.”

“So you know Thompson, do you? He one of your lovers, too? Like that lawman you're whoring for?”

The fear deepened, seeping through every pore of her body. She saw in that instant that he wasn't just after Sanctuary; he was furious that she had refused his offers. “I only pass on messages,” she said.

“You're a liar,” Yancy said, taking a knife from his belt and touching it to her cheek, pressing it downward just enough to draw blood. “If you know Thompson, you've been there. He never leaves Sanctuary.”

“You're wrong,” she said. “We met at a rendezvous in Indian Territory three years ago. I've never been to Sanctuary.”

“I think you're lying,” he said, the knife pressing deeper into her skin.

“I can't tell you what I don't know,” she said, panic coloring her voice.

“What about Smith?” he said. “Were you planning to betray Thompson?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

The knife moved to her clothes and Yancy sliced away at them, uncaring when the blade cut her. She heard herself whimpering.

“You must think I'm stupid,” he said.

“No,” she said, her voice rising now, part of it a scream as the knife moved down to her stomach. She felt blood flow from her cheek and shuddered. What had he done to her face? “I would tell you if I knew. I don't owe either of them anything.”

“I saw the way you looked at that marshal. I remembered his name, and it ain't Smith. It's Masters.” He watched her face. “What is he after?”

“Could be you,” she said spitefully, and the knife bit into her abdomen.

“Could be I'll slice you wide open, too,” Yancy said.

Mary May tried to think. She could scream, but then no one in Gooden paid much attention to noises like screams, or shouts, or gunfire. Where was Ben? Dear God,
where was he?

“No smart reply to that?” Yancy taunted, and the knife started tearing at the top of her dress.

Time. She needed time. Maybe Ben would come looking for her. She already felt blood leaking from her body in a number of places, and she felt lightheaded. “Indian Territory,” she said, hearing her own voice weaken, almost break.

“You have to do better than that, whore.”

“I only know part of the way.”

His knife stopped biting into her. She closed her eyes and pictured Sarah Ann, the curly red hair and bright green eyes. She heard her daughter's deep giggle, and felt warm arms around her neck.
You have to survive
, she told herself. For Sarah's sake.
Ben will come. I kown he will come.
She didn't know why she was so sure of that. She hadn't relied on a man since her husband died, but now she was bone-sure Ben would find her. The question was whether it would be too late.

“Start talking,” Yancy said as his knife pressed deeper into her abdomen.

“The Glass Mountains,” she lied. If she told the truth, then Thompson would come after her. “Arkansas River.”

“Where in the Glass Mountains?”

“Map. There's a map in my room.”

“If you're lying …”

As if to punctuate his threat, the knife pressed farther into her stomach. Mary May was feeling faint now. She had always been a fast bleeder, her small cuts producing copious amounts of blood. “Not lying …”

“I'll be back if it isn't.” Yancy put the gag back in her mouth.

Mary May watched him leave. He wouldn't find a map. But she had some time now. A little. She fought to keep awake. She had to keep awake. For Sarah Ann. But her eyelids were so heavy and everything was going gray.

Then she saw Sarah Ann. She was standing there just feet away. She tried to reach out, but she couldn't. “Sarah,” she whispered. “Sarah …”

It took Ben thirty minutes of intense effort to free himself. O'Brien had been too much in a hurry to do an expert job of tying him.

What in the hell had prompted O'Brien's attack? Or who?

Ben had seen the horror in his face, then the anguish. It had been so stark that his blows had been totally unexpected. Ben wished like hell the man trusted him, but then he really had no reason to do so. As far as O'Brien knew, Ben Masters wanted only to use him, and had dangled a life in front of him to accomplish that aim. Ben wouldn't trust a man who'd done the same to him, but it had seemed the best way at the time to accomplish two very difficult and different objectives.

Now O'Brien was gone, and Ben doubted seriously that he would return. O'Brien would be hunted and his friend would die. As for his own career, it would be ruined, but he really didn't care at this point. He had one chance to salvage things, and that was Mary May. She knew something. If she could only guide him in the right direction, he might be able to find O'Brien before it was too late.

He rubbed his wrists as he made his way to the Blazing Star. Mary May wasn't there. He asked Sam, the bartender, who looked at him with amazement.

“She went to see you. Right after you sent the message.”

Ben went rigid. “I didn't send a message.”

“Somebody did, and she lit up like she always does when she sees you. Said she would be gone a few hours.”

“Upstairs?”

“She went out the front in a real hurry.”

“Who brought the message?”

“Sandy … you know the old drunk that waits outside hoping someone will buy him a drink. Well, someone paid him to bring the message, 'cause he bought two drinks. He's down at the end of the bar now.”

Ben saw the man and went directly to him. “You brought a message for Mary May,” he said abruptly. “Who gave it to you?”

Sandy looked at him through bleary eyes. “What business is it of yourn?”

Ben fought to keep his temper. He dug in his pocket and brought out a five-dollar piece. “What about this?”

“Sounds like your business all right,” the man said with a drunken grin. “Tall, thin gent. Been hanging around the last few days. Pale blue eyes. Real gent, though.”

Ben felt sick. Yancy! He'd bet anything he had on that. But why? Unless he wanted information, and Mary May knew about both him and Sanctuary. “Where did he go?” he asked the old man.

Sandy shrugged indifferently.

Christ, how could everything be going so wrong? First O'Brien. Now Mary May.

He would try Mary May's room first. He made for the stairs and walked swiftly to her room, stopping abruptly as he heard noises inside. He drew his six-shooter and tried the door. It was unlocked. Ben threw it open and stared at Yancy, who was tearing the bed apart. Yancy turned, saw Ben and went for his gun. Ben shot, aiming for the shoulder. He didn't want Yancy dead, not yet.

Yancy dropped his gun, his hand going to his shoulder, as he swore a string of oaths. Ben moved next to him, and put a gun to his chin. “Where's Mary May?”

Yancy spit at him, and Ben hooked a leg around Yancy's, tumbling him to the floor. Then he quickly went over and closed the door and locked it. “Don't care about dying, huh?” Ben said when he returned. “What about something real sensitive?” He lowered the gun, aiming it at Yancy's crotch.

“You won't. You're a lawman.”

“Hell, I won't. You're wanted dead or alive. I don't mind taking you back in pieces. Where is she?”

Yancy's face turned pale. Ben meant every word, and Yancy heard the ring of conviction in it. “The old livery at the end of town. She's all right.”

Ben knew the building; it had been partially burned, and what remained was none too solid. He heard voices outside the door, a crowd drawn apparently by the shot. Moving toward Yancy, he used the butt of his pistol on the back of the man's head. Yancy collapsed into unconsciousness.

Ben opened the door to face a hallway full of men. “Caught the bastard rifling Mary May's room,” he said. “I suggest you take him outside of town and leave him there. I'll find Mary May.”

“I say we kill him,” one man said. Mary May was a real favorite. There were murmurs of assent.

Ben shook his head. “We don't want the law here. Just dump him outside town.”

There was an authority to his voice that overrode the budding vigilante spirit. Several of the men nodded; they liked Gooden as it was.

Ben passed by them. He had to get out of Gooden before Yancy could tell the self-appointed vigilantes who Ben was, or they stopped long enough to listen to him. If Yancy was lying about Mary May, he would search the outlaw out and kill him, inch by inch. But now he had two other people to worry about: Mary May and O'Brien.