High Wild Desert (4 page)

“Well . . . ?” Dave asked. “How did it go?”

“It went dry and dusty,” said Oldham, his face still coated red-blue. “How else could it go?”

“I mean how'd it
all go
?” said Dave. “Did they believe your story, that your horse died on you?”

Oldham grinned as he walked forward, spread a frayed saddle blanket on the buckskin and pitched his saddle up over the horse's back.

“They believed it enough it got me on the stage,” he said. “They're so skittish about outlaws, or
road agents
as they called them, I even rode guard on their tailgate most of the way here.”

“Did they stop at the Englishman's mines?” Dave asked.

“Yep, they did, brother,” said Oldham, drawing the cinch snug beneath the buckskin's belly. “What we heard is true, the John Bulls are sneaking their payroll money in by stagecoach right now. They rolled in, set off a strongbox and rolled on. Nobody seemed any the wiser for it. Except for me, that is.” He grinned, his teeth looking pearly white against the red-blue dust caked on his face. He swung up into his saddle and sat atop his horse staring from one face to the other. “Boys, we're fixing to become well heeled.”

“
Whooiee!
” said Dave. “It's high time I was struck by some solid good fortune.”

“Here's the deal,” said Oldham. “We ride in, do some drinking, get fed and bred. Tomorrow we ride out to the mines—collect the payroll money from the John Bulls.”

The men smiled and nodded at each other. Little Deak bounced up and down in his saddle, his stubby legs sticking straight out on either side. Reye looked at him, then at Blind Simon, and his smile went flat as he turned and stared at Oldham with his wrists crossed on his saddle horn.

“Not to take on a dark attitude, Oldham, but I've gotta ask, how much of a cut do these two new men get?” He nodded at Little Deak Holder and Blind Simon.

“Come on, Chic, let it go,” said Sieg, getting disgusted.

“Keep out of this,” Reye warned Sieg. He stared at Oldham Coyle for an answer.

“An even split,” said Oldham. “Why?” he asked, sensing something brewing.

“I don't think they deserve full shares, that's
why
,” Reye said bluntly.

“Everybody gets a full share, Reye,” Oldham said. “What's wrong with you anyway?”

“Pay him no mind, Oldham,” said Sieg. “He's had a mad-on off and on, all day.”

“
I said
keep out of it, Sieg,” said Reye. “I still want to know what they're doing riding with us.”

“All right, Chic, since you're questioning my judgment,” said Oldham, stepping his horse closer, “let's see if I can make you understand. Last year, Simon Goss hid me out from a Colorado sheriff and a hanging posse at a place called Apostle Camp, up above Black Hawk. For that, I told him if he ever needed to make a run or two, let me know. So he did a while back. Now here he is. And I'm good for my word.”

“I understand you're good for your word, Oldham,” said Reye. “But the man can't see.”

“We've been through all this,” Blind Simon called out. He turned his head back and forth, singling out the sound of Reye's voice.

“He sees shadows and such,” said Coyle. “More important, he makes up for what he can't see with his other senses. He's got the hearing of a watchdog.”

“Yeah, what else?” said Reye, sounding dubious, unmoved.

Staring at Reye, Oldham called out over his shoulder to Blind Simon, “Point us out the best hot food in this town, Simon,” he said.

The blind man sniffed the air quickly, then raised his arm and pointed a finger in the direction of the town sitting three hundred yards away.

“Any womenfolk?” Oldham asked.

Simon kept his arm raised but moved it slightly to his right, stopping at three different points.

“There, there and there,” he said respectively. “No shortage of females here,” he replied, “but you best like rose-lilac perfume. It smells like there's been a cosmetics drummer through town of late.”

The men all looked impressed. Reye only stared, not giving in yet.

“What's that restaurant serving today?” Oldham asked Simon Goss.

“Rocky Mountain ram shank,” Simon said confidently, “all you can eat.”

“Stewed or baked—?” said Oldham.

“All right, Oldham, I get it,” Reye cut in. “I'm just a son of a bitch sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” said Sieg.

The men chuckled.

Reye paused, then looked at Little Deak and asked, “What about this one?”

Oldham grinned and said, “He's not carrying that Colt Thunderer as a belly ornament. It's there for a reason.”

“Yeah?” said Reye. “Is he just fast, or is he any good?” he asked, looking at Little Deak through new eyes now that Oldham had vouched for him.

“Both,” said Reye. “The best and fastest I've ever seen, and I've seen them all.”

Little Deak just sat staring at Reye with a thin smile that implied that every word Oldham said was true.

“All right,” said Reye. “I had a right to ask, didn't I?”

“You did,” said Oldham. “Now you best put it away. I'm hungry. I don't want to have to stop and bury you before we eat.” He turned his buckskin amid a low ripple of laughter from the other men and booted it toward the main street of New Delmar. The town lay obscure in looming red dust. Dave and the others looked at Reye, still grinning as they turned their horses and fell in behind their leader.

“Damn it,” Reye grumbled to himself. “A man has every right to inquire on things pertinent
to his well-being.”

Chapter 4

New Delmar, Badlands Territory

On the crowded dusty main street running through New Delmar, Oldham Coyle led his five horsemen at a walk, each of them weaving in and out of thick wagon, horse and foot traffic. They advanced like bold explorers arriving in some strange exotic land. Passing a long line of skinned and gutted carcasses, they saw a variety of wild and domestic animals alike, all hung so closely that should some wily butcher slip in the corpse of an unfortunate miner or teamster, no one would take note until time to chop and boil their purchase.

They guided their horses around a tight gathering of onlookers who watched a man jerk and tremor on his way to death in a puddle of dark mud made by the released contents of his bladder and bowels. To the side stood a large Belgium mare calmly chewing on the man's straw hat, having removed him from beneath it with a murderous kick to his breastplate when he'd slapped the ordinarily sedate animal on its unsuspecting rump.

“I always admire a place with a lot going on,” Oldham Coyle said sidelong to his brother, Dave.

“As do I, brother,” Dave Coyle said, looking all around at the horde of humanity.

Farther along the crowed street, they passed a fistfight under way inside a covered wagon. The wagon's tall ribs had been dislodged in the fierceness of the fray, and the ragged canvas now billowed wildly as arms, fists and feet batted rapidly back and forth behind it. Oldham stopped his horse for a moment and stared at the battle until a loud metallic gong resounded and the canvas fell in a slump.

“That's that,” said Karl Sieg, sidling his horse up closer to the Coyle brothers. “Somebody got their bell rung.”

A cheer went up from the gathered onlookers as a naked woman slipped out of the wagon's rear, an iron kettle in her bloody hand. She staggered in place facing the onlookers. Like some ancient warrior wreathed only in victory, she refused a blanket held out to her, turned and walked away as if to continue on some long arduous journey she'd predetermined.

“That's worth a dollar to see any day,” said Chic Reye.

But before the woman had gone ten feet, the onlookers closed in around her like lava, and in their admiration raised her over their heads. Bloody, dirt-streaked, she flailed in misinterpreted protest, shouted, tossed, bobbed and rolled on their hands and fingertips, until she was transformed from warrior to some pale, slick creature plucked recently from the sea.

“Show's over,” said Dave Coyle as the crowd swept their heroine away with them. He started to nudge his horse forward, but stopped.

Beside him, Oldham reached down in the crowd and grabbed a man by the shoulder of his wool shirt.

“Say, pilgrim, where is that Number Five Saloon from here?” he asked.

The man started to get surly about being grabbed in such a way, but upon seeing the faces of the five men, their ample display of firearms, he cooled quickly.

“Yes, sir, she's straight ahead if these bummers and jakes will let you get to her.” He pointed at a giant, freshly constructed and painted wooden beer mug being raised on ropes by men atop a roof facade. Across the middle of the giant frothed mug, bold black paint read NUMBER
‘5'
SALOON.

“We'll get there,” Oldham said, releasing the man's shirt, straightening it a little. “I know there's some fine-looking women there. How's the gambling?”

The man grinned.

“Like everything else here,” he said, “it's hot and fast.”

“How about at the other saloons?” Oldham asked. “I take it there's four more?”

“Used to be, not anymore,” the man said. “Number Five is all that's left.”

Chic Reye cut in with a smug look, “So much for three different places for women.”

“Oh, there's
three
places for womenfolk, sure enough,” said the man. “Aside from the Number Five, there's four doves out of Denver and a colorful young man who presses flowers, working on their own, sort of sharing a small tent back and forth. And there's a baker's wife and her sister doing all they can at a dollar a jump to take up any shortage.”

“There you have it,” Oldham said to Reye, “Simon never misses his call.”

“What happened to the other saloons?” Dave asked the man.

“Two burned,” the man said. “One just fell to the ground for no apparent reason—killed six men inside and a mule standing out front. Number Four's owner got hung, and everybody sort of ran through, took what they wanted and kept going.” He shook his head in shame. “Picked it clean to the frame, stole the boards from the floor and the nails holding them down. I'll tell you what, the Pawnee could learn from this bunch.”

“Is it always this busy here?” Dave asked.

“I've been here nigh on a month, I've seen no letup,” the man said.

“Gold findings?” Oldham asked.

“Lots of promising color,” the man said. “It's got your other hard-rock miners walking off, taking company shovels, picks, mules and whatnot with them. The John Bulls are importing the Cornish to take up the slack. God knows what they're promising.”

“But no big finds yet?” Oldham asked.

“If there is, I didn't hear of it, and I never sleep,” the man said. “You fellows prospecting, are you?” He eyed their rifles and sidearms.

“No, just passing through,” said Oldham. “Figuring on some poker and some man's play before we leave.”

“Well, here's a word of advice,” the man said. “Any money you've got left you ought to pitch it up in the air real quick, save you getting your throat cut over it.”

“Obliged for your advice,” Oldham said. “We'll try to be careful.” He touched his hat brim and nudged his big buckskin forward. Beside him, his brother, Dave, sidled up closer and saw the hungry look in his eyes as he stared in the direction of the saloon. As they drew nearer to the Number Five Saloon, they saw men with hammers beginning to nail the giant frothing mug sign in place.

“Brother, you're not really going to start gambling right off, are you?” he asked.

There was a hungry look in Oldham's eyes as he looked at his brother with a flat, stubborn expression.

“Do I tell you how to spend your money, Dave?” he said.

“No,” Dave came back, “but you should, if I start wasting it gambling away like a fool.”

“Don't call me a fool, brother,” Oldham said. He calmed himself and gave a short, tense smile. “Anyway, lucky as I feel today, you can't really call it gambling—more like reaping rewards on a short-term investment.”

“Jesus, Oldham,” Dave said. “It's always the same four things with you. All you do is rob, gamble, lose and go to jail.”

“Make it three from now on, brother,” said Oldham. “You can mark going to jail off the list.”

“That's damn good,” said Dave. “Now if you can mark off gambling, we'd soon have enough money to buy ourselves a big fine spread somewhere.”

“Look at me, brother Dave,” said Oldham. “Do you really want to punch cattle for a living?”

“Hell yes, I want to punch cattle,” said Dave. “Don't you? That used to be all we talked about, getting ourselves a spread, punching cattle—”

“I'm not punching cattle,” Oldham said, cutting Dave short. “Cattle never done anything to me.” He gave his brother a grin, then reached out and jerked his hat down tightly over his eyes. By the time Dave pulled his hat back up onto his forehead, Oldham had gigged his buckskin through an opening in the crowd.

“Asshole,” Dave said, shaking his head.

The other four men edged up around him as Dave took his hat off, redented the crown and put it back on.

“Is he going to be all right, riding out tomorrow morning?” Reye asked.

“That's a hell of a thing to ask,” said Dave Coyle, looking him up and down. “Sure he is.”

“Did he say how we'll handle it?” Reye persisted.

“No, but he will soon enough,” said Dave.

“We can't wait around,” Reye cautioned him. “Those rock busters could get paid most any time now.”

“He understands that,” said Dave. “He's setting it all straight in his mind right now. He don't like doing something until he's played it all out.”

The men just looked at him.

“What is there to play out?” Reye asked. “The money's there. He saw the strongbox. We ride in, shoot the place up, take the money and ride away. It doesn't take a big thinker and a box of pencils to figure it out. The five of us could do it—I could take
any
four men I know, ride out and rob that damn mine.”

Dave just stared at him for a moment.

“He didn't mean nothing by it, Dave,” Sieg said. “We're all a little edgy, wanting to rob something.”

Dave Coyle ignored Karl Sieg; he continued to stare coldly at Chic Reye.

“I'll tell you what, Reye,” he said. “You go inside the saloon and tell Oldham exactly what you've told me. If you manage to walk out alive, I'll ride out with you and we'll rob that damn mine on our own.”

The men fell silent for a moment.

“You can't keep your mouth shut, can you, Chic?” said Sieg.

Reye looked back and forth in disgust.

“To hell with it,” he said, nudging his horse on toward the saloon. “I'm going to get myself a bath, a woman and a bottle. We get ready to rob something, feel free to let me know.”

•   •   •

It was late afternoon when Oldham Coyle watched the last of the four men he'd been playing with—a whiskey drummer in an orange plaid suit—pitch his cards onto the rough table and push his chair back. At Oldham's side stood the young red-haired dove he'd talked to earlier at the stagecoach. As promised, she had whispered her name in his ear—Anna Rose—in spite of the fact that he still wore trail dust, having only washed his face and hands in a pan of water out back before sitting down to play.

“That's it for me,” the drummer said to Oldham. “You're too damn lucky, even for a sporting man like myself.” He looked at the seven-over-tens full house Oldham had spread out on the table. “I know when I've been had.”

Been had?
Oldham just stared at the drummer. In the far corner a player piano rattled and banged away on its own. Drunken miners watched the piano in awe.

“What do you mean you've been had?” Oldham asked pointedly.

“Whoa, now, don't get your bark on, sir,” the drummer said. “My apologies. I should have said I know when I've been bested.”

“That does have a better sound to it,” Oldham said, cooling quickly. He raked in the chips from the middle of the table with both hands and let out a breath behind a short black cigar.

Seeing the atmosphere lighten, the drummer wagged a finger good-naturedly.

“But rest assured you have not seen the last of me. Losing once only piques my interest. The next time we meet, be prepared for the trouncing of your life—pokerwise, that is, of course.”

“Of course,” said Oldham with a thin smile. “I look forward to it.” He nodded and watched the man turn, walk down three wooden steps from the platform the table sat on and across the crowded floor. Once the man walked out the front door, Oldham picked up a small stack of chips and slid it to the house dealer seated across from him.

“For you, Ozzie,” he said.

“Obliged, sir,” the dealer said as two new players stepped up onto the platform and threw down cash on the table. “Are you cashing in, then?” the dealer asked Oldham.

“You bet he is, if he knows what's good for him,” Anna Rose cut in, before Oldham could answer. “Cash in his chips and send the money up to my room.” She sidled in and looped Oldham's left arm around her waist.

“You heard the lady,” said Oldham. He gave a glance toward the chips on the table, made a quick mental guess and turned away. “But only cash in half my chips. I'll cash the rest in later.” He looked at Anna Rose and said, “Sorry it took me so long. Now show me that bathtub in your room.”

“Right this way, bathtub and feather bed,” Anna Rose said. They started across a floor crowded with gaming tables, drunks and dancing girls. But halfway across the room, on their way toward a set of stairs reaching up to the second-floor landing, two men in black suits and hats stepped out of the crowd and blocked their way.

Oldham's right hand went instinctively to his holstered Colt.

“We're not the law, Oldham Coyle,” said one of the men. He wore a drooping mustache with a fierce scar running through it, circling wide on his right cheek and ending beneath his eyes. Both men held their hands as if in a show of peace.

Oldham caught himself, but stayed ready. At the bar, he saw Sieg, Little Deak and Simon Goss. Sieg and Little Deak stared in his direction. Simon's dark spectacles revealed nothing.

“We're here with an offer for you, one you're not going to want to turn down,” said the second man. He was cleanly shaved, wearing yellow shoulder-length hair, and younger than his partner.