Night Hawk (12 page)

Maggie dragged her hands down her face. At least she wouldn't be forced into prostitution, but it made her captivity only mildly more acceptable.
What am I going to do?

“You really sing?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been on a saloon stage before?”

“Yes. Even have my own dress and a pair of shoes.”

“Well, good.” Bunny reached into a desk drawer and handed her a pair of new fishnet stockings. “You get the first pair free. After that it comes out of your tips.”

“Tips?”

“Yeah, you get a small cut for every drink you sell, and any that the customers buy you, too.” Granger takes most of it back for rent and food. If you're frugal you can save a little bit for things like underwear and feminine supplies.”

Maggie found this unbelievable.

“Get dressed and I'll take you downstairs before the place opens up so you can meet Vincent the piano player. He'll want to know what you're planning on singing.”

Maggie was grateful the woman seemed to have a kind heart, but for the life of her couldn't figure out how she was going to get out of this.

Bunny showed her into one of the bedrooms and left her alone to get dressed.

Maggie took the bright red dress out of her pack, along with the matching glittery shoes, and felt the sharp sting of tears. Crying wouldn't help, so she dashed them away and laid the wrinkled taffeta dress on the bed. It needed an iron but she assumed Bunny could supply one. In the meantime, she tried not to think about being held there against her will for maybe the rest of her life, otherwise she'd go screaming out into the streets like a madwoman.

Chapter 12

I
an pushed the food around on his plate with the fork in his hand. He missed her already. Even though she'd been with him less than a week he'd grown accustomed to having her near.
Now she wasn't.

It was his plan to take the train in the morning to Denver. From there he and Smoke would make the long journey home to his ranch. All he had to do was survive the night without her. He was in one of the local boardinghouses. It was small but clean. The woman who ran the place, a widow named Winthrop, had thrown in dinner with the price of the room, along with breakfast in the morning. She'd said there were three other boarders in the house, but Ian hadn't seen anyone else, not that it mattered. The only person he wanted to see was Maggie.

He forked up some of the beef and potatoes. They weren't the best he'd eaten nor the worst. A man entered and walked over to the table. Ian realized it was the gambler from the train.

“Evening, Marshal. Didn't think I'd be seeing you again.”

“Evening.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Ian gestured to one of the empty chairs.

“Let me get a plate first.”

Once that was accomplished, the gambler sat down and introduced himself. “Name's Franklin Denton.”

“Didn't expect to see you again, either. Where're you from?”

“Born right here in the Queen of the Cow Towns. Live in Denver now though. Was back East a few weeks ago, and thought I'd stop in Abilene and see family before going home.”

His suit was well made and gave the impression that his career as a gambler was a successful one. “What brings you to Abilene?” he asked Ian.

“Business with Sheriff Granger.”

“Hope he's not a friend.”

“Why not?”

“Man's a snake.”

Ian went still. “Explain that.”

Denton cut into the slices of ham on his plate. “He's been sheriff here going on four years, and he's owned lock, stock, and balls by Benjamin McQuade.”

“Who's McQuade?”

“Controls the sin trade. Gambling, whiskey, whores. Grew up in a soddie in Nebraska but has made himself over into one of the town fathers. Wants to be governor I'm told. He's the reason I moved away. Gambler can't make a living competing against marked cards, crooked tables, and cheating dealers, all of which is business as usual at his place.”

Ian knew that the crooked gambling establishments were common everywhere.

Denton continued. “My sister, who still lives here in town, said one of McQuade's girls was shot by Granger over the winter, trying to escape.”

“Escape what, jail?”

“No. The Red Garter, one of the saloons.”

Ian was confused. “Why escape from the saloon? Was she being held against her will?”

“Something like that. From what my sister said, Granger reels women in by hook or crook and puts them to work at the Garter or in the whore cribs.”

Ice ran through Ian's veins. “I left Maggie with him a few hours ago.”

“The little lady with the black eye who was with you on the train?”

Ian pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “Yes.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cartridges and began feeding them into his guns.

“Why?”

“She was under arrest.”

Denton cursed. “You'd better go after her. There's no telling what Granger's done with her.”

“For his sake, it'd better be nothing. Where's this Red Garter?”

Denton told him, and a cold-eyed Ian set out.

D
ecked out in her low-cut taffeta dress, fishnet stockings and her worn, red satin shoes, Maggie was doing what Bunny called working the room, which entailed flitting from table to table and flirting with the customers. It was the job of the floor girls to make the farmers, businessmen, and cowhands happy with their attention, and entice them into buying the house's watered-down spirits. If they purchased drinks for the girls all the better, but the ones the girls consumed were tea, so as to keep them from becoming as drunk as the customers. The saloon was loud. Bunny had explained that on a good night, the aging place with its stage and faded red-and-gold drapings could hold as many as fifty people. Maggie guessed there were that many inside presently, if not more. The noise of all the conversations, Vincent banging on the piano, and the high-pitched laughs of the girls, coupled with the clink of glasses and the clouds of cigar and cheroot smoke, were conspiring to make her head ache, but she had to keep smiling, and flirting, and sitting on laps until the time came for her to take the stage and sing.

Presently, the blonde, suspicious-eyed Sylvia was doing the entertaining. While Vincent pounded out “Camp Town Ladies,” she sang along, prancing back and forth. Maggie had heard cats stuck in a fence carry a better tune, but no one in the audience seemed to mind. They were more interested in the way she kept flipping up the hem of her dress to flash them looks at her thighs in the fishnet stockings. She'd then stop and lean over so that the raucously yelling men seated near the stage could peek down the front of her dress. Maggie wasn't looking forward to being next. All evening she'd forced herself not to think about the marshal, how far along on his journey home he might be, or if he was thinking about her or not, because the questions wouldn't get her out of Granger's clutches. She could see him on the far side of the room leaning against the bar. He seemed to be keeping a close eye on her, probably to make sure she didn't run.

To her further displeasure he was now walking in her direction, weaving his way through the tables of drunk men still cheering Sylvia's bad singing performance.

“So Miss Freeman,” he asked against her ear so he could be heard above the din. “You seem to be having a good time.”

Maggie wasn't, but she didn't respond.

“Do you see that man over there in the gray suit?”

She saw a portly but prosperous-looking man sporting muttonchops seated at a table with three other men who looked to be in the business trade.

“His name's Benjamin McQuade and he owns this place. Think of him as your master and me as your overseer.”

Maggie balled her fists to keep from showing a reaction.

“You're a pretty girl. If you're nice to me, I can make life here real smooth for you. Think about that.”

Sylvia was leaving the stage.

“Excuse me. It's my turn to sing.” Walking away, the only thing she wanted to think about was running him over with a train.

D
uring the height of Abilene's reign as the country's premier cattle town, the drunken antics of the thousands of cowboys who accompanied the herds from Texas were legendary. If they weren't drunk and disorderly or having shoot-outs in the streets, they were riding their horses into saloons, guns blazing, and scaring the hell out of folks. As the son of an actress, Ian had a flair for the dramatic, which was why he rode Smoke slowly into the Red Garter Saloon. The look on his face was as deadly as the drawn, sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

Maggie was onstage in the middle of a song. It was hard not to miss a man on a smoke gray stallion entering the center of the room. She stopped singing, Vincent stopped playing, and the room went silent enough to hear a ghost walking as everyone in the place stared with wide eyes. She wanted to jump up and down and cheer.

His voice was low, clear, and sinister. “Name's Preacher. I'm a bounty hunter and a United States deputy marshal. If your name isn't Granger or McQuade, I suggest you leave in the next thirty seconds.”

Men got up and fell over one another trying to reach the exit.

The absolute surprise on Granger's face made her want to cheer again but fear quickly grabbed her upon seeing the bartender raising a gun hidden behind the bar. Before she could call out a warning, the marshal turned and fired. The loud blast from his weapon sent the barkeep running and ducking. The next shot blew apart the big fancy mirror behind the bar, shattering stacks of glasses and bottles of whiskey.

Just as quickly, he leveled the gun on Granger, whose hand was frozen in position on the gun in his holster. Apparently he'd been thinking about drawing, but being caught dead to rights, she was pretty sure he'd changed his mind.

The two armed thugs Granger employed to keep the peace in the place had stayed behind when the other customers fled, but in the face of the marshal's opening act, quickly laid down their guns, stuck their hands high up in the air so that he could see they posed no threat, then slowly backed across the room to the front door and disappeared outside.

Granger and the marshal continued to stare each other down. The sheriff must have decided he didn't want to be in a casket come morning, so he slowly undid the gun belt and dropped it to the floor. Beside him, McQuade was wiping a handkerchief over the sweat pouring down his face.

A concerned Bunny stepped out from the stage's wings in response to all the commotion. “What the hell is happening?” Seeing the marshal, she stopped and asked Maggie, “Who is that?”

Maggie had tears of joy in her eyes. “Deputy Marshal Bigelow.”

“Friend of yours?”

Maggie nodded. Bunny smiled.

He then yelled, “Maggie Freeman! Where are you?”

“Here, Marshal!” She was amused that he hadn't recognized her when he rode in.

He moved his attention to the stage. If he was surprised by her attire he didn't show it. She wanted to jump off the stage and kiss him until she turned one hundred years old.

Ian had trouble reconciling the Maggie he'd left with Granger and the dolled-up woman on the stage wearing a low-cut red dress and fishnet hose, but he'd deal with that later. Now that he knew she was safe, he could direct his anger towards Granger and his keeper. “Why's my prisoner on that stage?”

“It—it was her idea,” Granger said quickly. “She wanted—”

The blast from the shotgun ended the lie, and both he and McQuade screamed like sheep and tried to find cover. They ran into each other, knocking themselves down. Another blast blew up the floor, which caused more screaming.

Having gotten their undivided attention, he quoted Proverbs: “ ‘A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape.' Now, tell me, what did Wells's wire really say?”

Granger didn't look like he wanted to perish. “He—said she was free to go.”

“No restrictions?”

“Just that she should stay out of the state of Kansas for a while in case the Langley charges don't stick.”

Ian wanted to blow him to hell. “Rumor says you're keeping a bunch of women here against their will.”

Both men, now sweating and shaking, looked at each other with fright in their eyes. McQuade, apparently deciding he wanted no further part of this, turned to Granger and asked, “Is this true?”

Up onstage, Bunny shook her head. “Cowardly bastard.” She then called out, “It's true, Marshal! McQuade's lying if he says he didn't know.”

Ian looked to her. “Tell the ladies to get their things. They're leaving.”

Bunny didn't have to be told twice. Waving her hands joyously in the air, she hurried backstage.

Ian speared his prey with hard eyes once again and announced quietly, “This is what's going to happen. Granger, you're going to give the town your resignation.”

“The hell I will.”

“Then I'll arrest you for false imprisonment, abduction, and anything else I can think of, haul you down to Fort Smith, and let you tell Judge Parker what a fine and upstanding lawman you are.”

Granger's lip curled in reaction, but he kept his mouth shut.

“As for you Mr. McQuade, same thing.”

“You can't talk to me this way. Why, I'm a duly elected member of the town council.”

“I hear you're thinking about running for governor.”

“I am, and once elected, I will make sure that crooked sheriffs like Granger never get the chance to terrorize—”

An answering blast from the shotgun sent both men scrambling again. In the tense silence that followed both were trembling. “You either resign or I wire every newspaper from San Francisco to Boston and see what they think about a duly elected official of the state of Kansas keeping a bunch of women locked away like slaves. Reporters will come from miles around to hear you tell your side, but that'll be after Judge Parker sends you to jail. Knowing him, he'll probably see to it that you and Granger share the same cell.”

McQuade puffed up. “How dare you threaten me.”

“And how dare you not remember that the slaves were freed in '65.”

Silence.

By then Bunny had returned with the eight girls. She handed Maggie her saddlebag.

He asked Bunny, “Is that everyone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maggie, you ready?”

“Sure am.”

He walked Smoke over and she climbed aboard, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Tears filled her eyes again as she pressed her cheek against his strong back in silent gratitude.

He directed his attention at Bunny and the girls. “Ladies, after you.”

The women scrambled off the stage and together walked past the stony-faced Granger and McQuade to the exit. Ian and Maggie followed on Smoke, and left behind another chapter in the still-growing tale of the legendary bounty hunter, the Preacher.

Outside, the male customers lining the walk looked on silently. Paying them no mind, but keeping his eyes on the upper windows and doorways of the buildings just in case someone was dumb enough to try and take a shot at him, Ian escorted his party of painted women away from the Red Garter Saloon.

They set up camp at the depot. It was closed for the night, but when it reopened in the morning, they all planned to buy tickets and board the first train to come through. None of the women had enough money to go far but didn't care as long as they put distance between themselves and Granger and McQuade.