High Wild Desert (5 page)

“Give your gunmen a sign so we can talk,” said the first man.

“Yeah,” said the younger man, “if we wanted you dead, you'd be dead already.”

“You think?” Oldham was skeptical. But the bearing of the men gave him pause, the one with the scar seemingly familiar.

“Let's not weigh each other's nut sacks, Sonny,” the older man said to his partner. To Oldham he said, “This is Sonny Rudabough. I'm Henry Teague. The man we work for wants to pay you to do him an important service.”

“A job?” Oldham appeared almost offended.

“Can we talk, off the floor somewhere?” Teague asked. He gave Anna Rose a passing glance, then brought it around to Oldham.

Oldham recognized the name Henry Teague. He spoke sidelong to Anna Rose without taking his eyes off the two men.

“Anna Rose, why don't you gather the chips from that table yourself, count them and cash half of them in for us? I'll be right on up.”

“Remember, room seven. I'll be waiting in my warm feather bed.” Anna Rose gave him a smile and slipped way, back toward the poker table.

Teauge and Rudabough gave each other a look.

“If you can't trust doves, what's the world come to?” Oldham nodded toward a table in the far corner where a miner lay facedown on a crumpled hat. He looked at the crowded bar and gave Sieg, the dwarf and the blind man a sign that everything was all right. The three stayed at the bar drinking, but Deak and Sieg kept watch as Oldham and the two men weaved their way across the busy room.

At the table, Oldham lifted the drunk to his feet, placed his hat on his head, turned him and gave him a slight shove. The miner staggered forward into a large timber post and clung to it to keep from falling over. Sitting down, Sonny Rudabough gave Oldham a smirk.

“You got to be crazy, Coyle, trusting a whore with your money that way.”

Oldham just stared at him.

“Sonny,” said Teague, “why don't you go get us a bottle and some glasses?”

The young gunman seethed but did as he was told. He stood up and walked to the bar. When he was gone, Teague let out a breath and shook his head.

“You'll have to overlook him,” he said. “He keeps a mad-on at the world. Never knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

“I've got a man like him who rides with me,” Oldham commented. “What's this job, and who's offering it?”

“You know Hugh Fenderson?” Teague asked.

“Know him, no,” said Oldham. “Heard of him, yes, I expect everybody has.” He paused, then said, “He wants me to work for him? I got the idea he wanted me dead a couple years back, wanted to pay three thousand dollars bounty to anybody who'd burn me down.”

Teague gave a thin, tight smile.

“Yet here you are, still alive,” he said, “in spite of some of the fastest guns out there trying to pour it on you. Mr. Fenderson found that admirable after a while. Said you killed so many of his gunmen he had to give the rest of them a raise in pay.”

Oldham gave a shrug.

“He's willing to forgo any malice toward you,” Teague said, “and put five thousand dollars in your hand if you'll kill an Arizona Ranger for him.”

Five thousand dollars!
Oldham just looked at him, remaining calm and stoic. “This Arizona Ranger is Sam Burrack, I'm going to guess,” he said.

“It is,” said Teague. “You interested?”

“Five thousand . . .” He let his words trail, giving the matter close consideration. Finally he said, “No, I pass. I'm on a big winning streak right now. I don't want to do anything to break it. Anyway, I'm a thief, not a hired killer. I don't want to get started at it.”

“You know what I think, Coyle?” said Teague, taking on a stronger tone. “I think you'd better think about it a minute longer, and say yes. You don't want to disappoint Hugh Fenderson.”

“I did think about it,” said Oldham, catching a threat in the gunman's tone. “My answer is no.” He stood up as Sonny Rudabough returned carrying three glasses and a bottle of rye. Sonny turned and watched Oldman walk away toward the stairs.

“What happened?” Rudabough said.

“He turned us down cold,” said Teague. “Said he's on a winning streak and can't turn it loose.”

“Damn it, now what?” Sonny flopped down on a chair.

“Simple enough,” said Teague, “we bust up his winning streak for him. I think I've got this
hombre
figured out. He's here in New Delmar to rob something, and it's not hard to discern what.”

“What?” Sonny asked with a dumb expression on his face. He pulled the cork from the bottle of rye.

“The big English mines are the only thing around here with lots of money,” said Teague. “Coyle always goes for the big money.” He narrowed his eyes, considering the possibilities.

“I can't see why I don't kill this damned lawman for us,” Sonny said, “collect the money ourselves.”

“You might just be doing that before this is over,” Teague said.

“Yeah?” said Rudabough.

“Yeah,” said Teague. “Meanwhile, Fenderson said hire Coyle, so that's what we're going to do. Pour us some whiskey. We need to make some plans for this gambling fool. I'll fix his lucky streak for him.”

Chapter 5

Instead of going to the room where he knew Anna Rose lay waiting for him in her feather bed, Oldham walked to the dark, quiet end of a hallway and looked out a window onto an empty alley below. He took out chopped tobacco and paper and rolled himself a smoke. He didn't like it when things started moving too fast on him. Yesterday, he was on the desert floor wondering how he and his men would manage to ferret out the mine payroll and ride away with it. That much was done. Now the mine payroll was waiting for him.

Good luck?
Damn right it was
,
he told himself, drawing deep on the cigarette. But that was only part of it. The last time he'd sat down to play poker, he'd lost everything—couldn't get a break. Today, he'd been the cock of the walk, the big winner. He had money piled up and waiting for him in the young dove's room. And that wasn't all he had waiting for him. He smiled to himself, imagining the warmth, the feel of her as he turned back the covers just enough to slip in beside her.
More good luck?

Please . . .
He chuffed at his question.

He realized Anna Rose was a dove, doing what a dove does for money. But he also knew that women like her could choose their clients. She could sleep with whom she wanted to and turn away the rest. Yet, with her pick of the room, she had waited all this time for him while he swilled rye and played poker. That wasn't just good luck, he told himself. That was falling into a golden jackpot. He grinned to himself, studying the dark alley below.

His luck had changed—not just changed, actually shot straight up like a Chinese skyrocket. He blew out a stream of smoke in exasperation. So what was that gnawing deep inside his belly? Why didn't he feel right about all this? What was missing?

Damn it, he hated this feeling.

He'd waited some time for his luck to turn around again, and now that it had done so, he felt as if something was missing. He'd seen himself win a thousand times like this only to lose again, because no matter how much his luck changed, it was never enough for him. He had to push it further, take in more, squeeze the luck until it turned bitter in his hands. Not this time, though. He had learned his lesson.

Jesus.
What was it about losing that always left him feeling fuller than winning ever did? He drew deep on the cigarette and blew out a stream against the dusty windowpane. He didn't know the answer, but he did know that this time he wasn't about to push his luck.

“Look at you,” he murmured, half in disgust, eyeing down the front of his dusty shirt, his trousers, his dirty boot toes.
This is crazy, too crazy to even think about,
he decided.
Settle yourself down, go to her room, slip into the bath, slip into her bed. Stop feeling like a fool—stop
acting
like a fool.

He took three more puffs on the cigarette, stubbed it down onto the windowsill.
All right.
Anybody can be a good loser. They learn it from plenty of practice. Being a good winner requires something different, a whole other kind of light in your head, he thought. It's a different feel in your guts. It isn't hard to quit when you lose because you're forced to quit when there's nothing left.

But winning? He let out a long breath.
Damn!
Winning took more of something, though he wasn't sure what. Enough of this. He dismissed the matter, turned and walked straight to room seven, where Anna Rose told him she would be.

“Now you're starting to make sense,” he said to himself under his breath. He turned the knob on the unlocked door, stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

Anna Rose was lying in a large feather bed. In the soft flicker of a candle lantern, Oldham watched her throw back a sheet, stand up naked from the bed and walk to him. Through the half-opened door to a smaller room, Oldham saw an ornate bathing tub. Steam curled up from a frothy head of hot, soapy water.

“Well, there you are,” she said softly. “I was starting to feel neglected.” She stopped close in front of him and tugged his dusty shirttail up from his trousers. On the nightstand beside the flickering candle lantern, Oldham saw his winnings neatly resting in four stacks.

“God forbid such a thing while I'm around,” he said to her, his arms wrapping around her, feeling her skin warm and creamy against him.

She pressed her face into his chest.

“Take off your boots. I'll take off the rest,” she whispered, drawing circles on his chest lightly with her fingertip. “Let me get you lathered, rinsed and dried, all very slowly.”

“I can hardly wait.” Oldham smiled as she stepped back enough for him to pull off his dirty boots. She took his hand and led him into the other room, to the steaming bathtub. She unfastened his gun belt and set it aside. She loosened his trousers and started to pull them down. He smiled a little to himself, seeing a bottle of rye standing on a small table beside the tub.

Oh
yes, you're on a streak, pard, and this is what winning's all about
.

But before Anna Rose could lower his trousers, he put his hand on hers, stopping her.

“Wait,” he said, “there's something I've got to do first.”

She watched him fasten his trousers and walk around to the bottle of rye, pour himself a double shot in a glass and swirl it around.

“Drink up, there's plenty more,” she said, and added, “I drink too.” She smiled.

“Sorry,” Oldham said, quickly upturning another clean glass and pouring rye into it for her. She noted a seriousness that had suddenly set in on his face. His hand quickened, almost shook a little as he poured the rye. His eyes grew remote, distant, as he turned and handed her the glass—something she never saw men do, especially with her standing naked in front of them.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, reaching a hand up, cupping his cheek.

“No, not at all,” he said. But instead of responding to her advances, he sipped the rye, stopped, then tossed it back all at once. He turned away and poured himself another drink.

Yes, something was wrong. She'd seen men act this way before. She sipped her rye and observed for a moment while he drank in silence and stared down at the glass in his hand. Had she pushed him too much, too far at once? That was something a girl had to be careful not to do. Some of these men hadn't seen a woman in weeks,
months
. For many of them the drinking and gambling had to come first.

Some men had to first sate themselves with their other vices before they could handle a woman. This one had not struck her as being that way, but maybe she'd been wrong—she'd been wrong before.

She set her rye down and stepped closer.

“What do I have to do to get you between my knees, cowboy?” she asked softly. She reached for the waist of his trousers, but he stepped away, turned and walked toward the bed.

Okay, maybe he couldn't wait, she thought, so perhaps the hot bath would have to. She could go that way. It wasn't her first choice.

Oldham stopped and picked up two of the four stacks of cash from the nightstand beside the bed. Next to the cash were six stacks of chips. Yet he didn't even touch the chips.
Here it is,
she thought. She slumped and drew a patient breath.

“I've got something I have to do,” Oldham said, his voice sounding changed, harried. He picked up his shirt and walked about the room gathering his clothes. “I won't be long, Anna Rose, but I've got to go do this.”

“A gambler . . . ,” she whispered under her breath.

Oldham offered a tormented smile.

“No, I mean it,” he said, hurrying with his clothes. “I won't be long.” He nodded at the money and chips still lying on the nightstand. “Watch that for me. Take whatever you need, but wait for me.”

“Whatever you say.” She picked up a nightshirt and slipped into it. “I'll wait for you.” She stopped and gave him a serious look. “It's going to cost you plenty, but I'll wait.”

•   •   •

At the bar, Karl Sieg and Little Deak watched as Oldham walked back down the stairs and weaved his way across the crowded saloon to the gaming table he'd left not more than a half hour earlier. From the table in the rear corner, Teague and Sonny Rudabaugh saw him too. Teague sat holding his glass of rye, a cigar hanging between his fingers.

“Look at this, Sonny,” he said. “I told you this dog hadn't gone off the hunt, didn't I?”

“Yep, you did,” said Sonny with a thin smile.

“I'll be honest, though,” said Teague. “I thought it would be longer than this. What kind of man leaves a pretty little dove like that one lying in bed alone?”

“Beats me,” said Sonny, watching Oldham Coyle pull out an empty chair, sit down and flop a stack of cash onto the tabletop. “You want to do like you was saying, set him up to lose, maybe see about slipping some dope into his whiskey?”

Teague puffed his cigar, watching Coyle, considering it. Finally he let go a long stream of gray smoke and gave a thin smile.

“Naw,” he said, “this guy won't need setting up. I'm betting he'll beat himself without our help.”

“What about doping him?” Sonny asked. “You know, just enough to keep him from being able to handle his play?”

“I don't think so,” said Teague, watching. “There's some men you don't need to dope to make them lose. They go around carrying their own poison.” He puffed on his cigar in satisfaction. “Some men you don't have to do nothing but stand back out of their way. Sooner or later, their nose hits the floor.”

“All right, then, what do you want me to do, Henry?” Sonny asked, looking back and forth almost nervously.

“I just said nothing,” said Teague. He reached out and filled both their glasses. “For the time being anyway. Let's just relax, have our rye and enjoy the show.”

•   •   •

Across the floor at the bar, Little Deak and Karl Sieg stood watching the poker platform as the dealer, Ozwald White, slid six stacks of chips across the tabletop to Oldham. Little Deak sat on the edge of the bar top facing out across the crowded floor. Beside him stood Blind Simon, looking back and forth at the dark shadows interwoven with streaks of pale light moving around before him.

“This is what Dave told us to watch out for,” Sieg said sidelong to the dwarf beside him. “I don't like being put on a spot like this. Oldham's the boss. We shouldn't be asked to report his carrying-ons to his brother.”

“That's so,” said Little Deak, “but we were asked. So let's get it done.” He hopped down from the bar top and adjusted his Colt across his belly.

“Where we going?” Simon asked.

“Karl and I are going to find Dave,” said Deak.

“What about me?” Simon asked.

“Wait here and keep an eye on things,” Deak said.

“You're being funny, huh?” said Simon, his face still turned as if observing the crowded saloon.

“Sorry, Simon,” said Deak. “Sometimes I forget.”

“Be glad I don't forget sometimes,” Simon said, “and wind up pissing in your ear.”

“We could be a while, Simon,” Deak said, letting the insult go. “But there's still plenty of rye in the bottle and money on the bar if you need it for more. Are you good?”

“Get out of here. I'm good,” Simon said, his face still turned to the swirl of shadows and light in front of him.

Deak looked up at Sieg and nodded toward the door.

At the bar, even amid the din of the crowd, Simon listened to the sound of Deak's and Sieg's footsteps walk away and out the front door. He stood with his glass of rye in hand, his tapping stick leaning against the bar beside him. Now that he was alone, his position staring at the crowd from behind his dark spectacles soon drew attention from some of the faces in the crowded saloon. After a few minutes, three miners half circled him, prowling back and forth across the floor like nosy wolves, held hesitant only by the big Dance Brothers pistol holstered on Simon's hip.

Finally one of the miners gathered the courage to move in closer in spite of Simon's big gun. With his right hand rested on the handle of a large bowie knife standing in a fringed sheath on his belt, he stopped a few feet in front of the imposing blind man.

“Are you looking at me, mister?” he asked.

Blind Simon didn't answer. He judged the closeness of the man by the volume of his voice, by the whiskey and beer on his breath, by the smell of his clothes, the lingering odor of lye soap, kerosene and unearthed sandstone.

Three feet? Four . . . ?
Yes, four, he decided.

“I said, are you looking at me, mister?” the miner repeated in a firmer tone.

“I expect I am at that,” Simon said flatly.

“What did I do that strikes your attention?” the man asked gruffly.

“Nothing,” Simon said. “Your face just offends me.”

“Oh?”

The sound of steel drawn quickly from its rawhide leather sheath whispered in Simon's ears. With it came the sound of a gasp from much of the crowd, even as the player-piano rattled on in its far corner. In reflex, Simon's right hand snapped tight around the bone handle of his big Dance Brothers revolver.