They might even be able to grab the other four young women, as they had tried and failed to do earlier.
Big doings in Silverhill these days, all right, Armbruster thought as he swung up into the saddle . . . but the people who had flocked here didn’t know just how big those events were going to be.
CHAPTER 28
The Territorial House had a small, unpretentious dining room attached to the lobby, and that was where Bo and Scratch escorted the five young women for breakfast the next morning.
The ladies all looked lovely, of course, but to Bo they didn’t appear all that well rested.
“How did you sleep?” he asked the group as they sat down at a round table already set with cups of coffee and plates of ham, eggs, and biscuits.
“I was rather restless,” Cecilia replied. “I suppose seeing a young man shot down right in front of my eyes has that effect on me.”
“That did make it harder to sleep,” Jean said. “I don’t believe he meant any harm. He was just excited about . . . about, well, seeing us there. In the flesh, so to speak.”
“He should have backed off,” Rose said. “Even if he hadn’t been drunk, I don’t think he would have stood a chance against Bouma. That man is fast.”
Luella said, “Like one of your dime-novel gunfighters?”
“That’s right. I’m not sure even Smoke Jensen could have matched his speed.”
Scratch said, “I don’t know about that, Miss Rose. Our trail’s never crossed that of ol’ Smoke—the real fella, I mean, not the dime-novel character—but we’ve heard enough about him from hombres who’ve seen him in action to figure he’s just about the fastest there is.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that someday,” Rose said. “Smoke Jensen in action, I mean.”
Cecilia shook her head and said, “Not me. I’ve already witnessed enough violence during this journey to last me the rest of my life.”
Bo hoped that would be the case and Cecilia would never encounter any more trouble. Out here on the frontier, though, that was a lot to hope for.
They dug into the food, which was good. Rose and Beth had the best appetites among the ladies, with Jean being the pickiest eater in the bunch.
As they were finishing their meal and lingering over the cups of coffee, Forbes Dyson walked into the dining room, carrying his hat in one hand. He didn’t have one of his usual cigars burning at the moment.
He came to the table and greeted them by saying, “Good morning, ladies.”
Bo thought Dyson had a slightly dissipated look about him. This was probably a pretty early hour for a saloonkeeper to be up and around.
“Good morning, Mr. Dyson,” Cecilia said.
“You slept well, I trust? Not too disturbed by the unfortunate events of yesterday evening?”
“We’re fine,” Cecilia said coolly.
The others just nodded in agreement, even Jean. Bo was somewhat touched that they had been more open and honest with him and Scratch about how the shooting had affected them than they were being now with Forbes Dyson.
“I thought you might like to come over to the Silver King with me and meet some of the men who’ll be playing in the poker tournament,” Dyson said.
Scratch said, “This is sort of early for most of the poker players I’ve known. Unless they’d been up all night in a big game, that is.”
“Most of them are normally night owls, all right,” Dyson agreed. “That just goes to show how excited they are about this opportunity.” He smiled and gestured with the hat he held in his right hand. “What do you say, ladies? I’m sure the competitors would appreciate the visit.”
Jean said hesitantly, “I don’t believe I’ve ever set foot in a . . . an actual saloon.”
“The Silver King is a classy establishment, not the sort of squalid dive you read about in popular entertainment,” Dyson assured her.
“We’re finished with breakfast,” Cecilia said, “so I suppose we can go.” She drank the last of her coffee and set the empty cup back on its saucer.
The others finished their coffee, as well, and stood up. Dyson ushered them out of the dining room and through the lobby. Bo and Scratch trailed behind, spreading out slightly so they could cover both flanks in case of any trouble. Bo didn’t really expect any, but it was better to be prepared.
Silverhill wasn’t roaring like it had been the night before, but quite a few riders and wagons were moving along the street, and the boardwalks were busy, as well. This morning, though, it looked more like a normal boomtown.
Despite that, the ladies drew a crowd as they crossed the street toward the Silver King with Dyson, Bo, and Scratch. Most of the men in town were interested in getting a good look at them.
No one approached too closely, though, maybe remembering what had happened the night before to that eager young cowboy who’d had too much to drink. Bo hadn’t seen Jack Bouma so far this morning, but that didn’t mean the gunfighter wasn’t around. Bo was sure he would show up if anything threatened Forbes Dyson or his plans.
Bo and Scratch hadn’t been inside the Silver King before, so as they entered the saloon, they took a good look around. From the outside, it appeared to be an impressive place, and the interior confirmed that impression. The Texans had been in fancier saloons, but this one was mighty nice, especially considering its location.
The gleaming hardwood bars, one on each side of the room, were mostly empty at this time of day. One bartender was on duty at each, and they were busy pouring cups of coffee for the handful of customers.
Some of the coffee in those cups got a sweetening jolt of Who-Hit-John from various bottles of whiskey, Bo noted. That was one way to start the day.
To the left, in a raised section behind carved wooden railings, were half a dozen baize-covered poker tables. The roulette wheel and the faro and keno layouts, also in that section, were deserted at the moment, but men sat at four of the six poker tables, and cards were already being shuffled and dealt.
“We’ll open up the other two tables as it becomes necessary, to accommodate the contestants,” Forbes Dyson explained as he led the ladies up three steps into the gambling area.
The dealers stopped in the middle of what they were doing as they caught sight of the five young women. All eyes turned to them. Several of the players got to their feet politely, and that caused the others to stand, as well.
“Gentlemen, I’d like to present the finest ladies ever to grace Silverhill with their presence,” Dyson said. “Miss Cecilia Spaulding, Miss Jean Parker, Miss Luella Tolman, Miss Beth Macy, and Miss Rose Winston.”
A stocky man in a cream-colored suit plucked a wide-brimmed hat of the same shade from his head and gave them a courtly bow. He had a rugged, deeply tanned face under graying red hair. When he spoke, his voice held a soft Virginia drawl.
“Ladies, it’s an absolute honor and privilege to meet you,” he stated. “Having you here definitely raises the stakes in this game.”
“Don’t be crude, O’Keefe,” Forbes Dyson said.
“Crudity is the farthest thing from my mind, I assure you. I meant only that a mere smile from one of these ladies would be a great prize indeed.”
Still down on the saloon’s main level, Bo leaned toward Scratch and said quietly, “That fella’s got a silver tongue, just like you.”
“Yeah, but he ain’t near as handsome,” Scratch said.
The other players were a mixture of well-dressed hombres who had the look of professional gamblers, Silverhill businessmen, and miners and cowboys who must have scrimped and saved their wages for quite a while to be able to afford to buy into this game. All of them were fascinated by the young women, and when Dyson told them to go back to their games, some of them seemed to have a hard time focusing their attention on their cards.
Instinct soon took over, though, and they concentrated on the hands they had been dealt.
“If you ladies would like to watch, I’m sure these men wouldn’t mind having an audience,” Dyson said.
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“I don’t think we need to be distracting them,” Cecilia said. “We can go back to the hotel.”
“Why not allow me to show you around the town instead?” Dyson suggested. “After all, once you’re married, Silverhill is going to be your home.”
Rose said, “Yes, let’s do that. All right, Cecilia?” Cecilia nodded and said, “I suppose that will be fine,” but she didn’t sound or look too enthusiastic about the idea.
Dyson led the way out of the saloon as he had led the way in. Bo got the idea that the saloonkeeper really enjoyed being at the head of this parade of beautiful young women. All eyes were turned their way, and that appealed to Dyson’s vanity.
As they headed up the boardwalk, he pointed out the various businesses. After a while they came to a large barn with attached corrals, and an adobe office building beside the barn. A sign on the building read ANIMAS FREIGHT COMPANY.
Smiling, Dyson said, “Now, right here is probably the most important business in Silverhill . . . and I’m including my own saloon in that. George McCallum’s freight wagons carry all the silver that comes from the smelters up to the railroad at Lordsburg. Other freight lines bring in supplies from there and from El Paso, but it’s the silver shipments that give the town its life.”
Several men sat in chairs on the porch of the freight company’s office. They had shotguns and rifles across their laps, but they stood up and held the weapons at their sides as the ladies approached. Their faces were solemn as they took off their hats and nodded politely.
A portly man with a mostly bald egg-shaped head and pince-nez spectacles came out of the office and said, “Good morning, Mr. Dyson. I take it these are the lovely young women I’ve heard so much about?”
“They certainly are, Mr. McCallum,” Dyson replied. He introduced each of the ladies in turn.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies, and an honor, as well,” the freight company owner said.
“Are you involved in this . . . competition . . . Mr. McCallum?” Cecilia asked.
McCallum laughed and shook his head. “If you mean, am I taking part, then good heavens, no, my dear. I already have a wife, a dear lady to whom I have been happily married for nearly thirty years.” He raised a finger. “Ah, but if I was thirty-five years younger, I might well risk competing for a chance at wedded bliss with one of you ladies.”
“If you were thirty-five years younger, that might be all right,” Rose said with her typical bluntness.
McCallum cocked his head to the side for a second, as if puzzled, then laughed again. “Your honesty is very charming, my dear,” he told her. “I wish all of you the best, and I hope the contests turn out to your satisfaction.”
Dyson asked, “Are you going to be watching any of them, George?”
McCallum shook his head and said, “No, I’m afraid not. This is a pretty busy time for us right now, you know.”
“Well, we’d best be on our way and continue our tour of the town,” Dyson said to the ladies.
As they started to turn away, Cecilia said over her shoulder, “It was nice to meet you, Mr. McCallum.”
“Likewise, my dear, likewise,” he called after her.
As they were crossing the street, Rose dropped back a little and said to Bo and Scratch, “Who are those men with rifles and shotguns, sitting out in front of the freight office?”
“Guards,” Bo said.
Scratch added, “I reckon McCallum must have some silver in there he’s gettin’ ready to ship to Lordsburg.”
“You may have noticed that there’s no bank here,” Bo said. “In cases like that, where a bank hasn’t been formed yet in a community, the freight company office usually has a safe, or at least a room with a good sturdy door and walls, where valuable cargo can be locked up.”
“Those men looked really serious . . . and dangerous.”
Bo smiled and said, “They’re not a threat to anybody. . . unless you’re trying to rob the place.”
It was past midmorning before Dyson finished the impromptu tour of Silverhill, including the old Spanish mission, which had some beautiful stained-glass windows, golden candleholders, and paintings and tapestries, which had been faded by time but were still quite impressive.
As the group walked back toward the Territorial House, the crowd that had been following them earlier had thinned out to only a few curious onlookers. The novelty of having the ladies in town had worn off a little, Bo mused . . . but it would come roaring back once the contests that involved more than playing cards got under way. He expected those other competitions would have plenty of spectators.
He and Scratch were still alert. Officially, the job they had agreed to do for Cyrus Keegan was over, but they still felt a considerable amount of responsibility to look out for the young women, who had become their friends.
Because of that wary attitude, Bo spotted the group of riders reining to a stop in front of the hotel. They were covered in dust, as if they had been on the trail for quite a while, and the horses looked tired, like they had been pushed long and hard. The six men swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the hitch rail, then stepped up onto the porch.
As they did, one of them glanced along the street and stopped short at the sight of the young women. He straightened, a determined expression coming over his face.
It was a face that Bo recognized, despite the trail dust and beard stubble. So did Scratch, judging by the way he muttered, “Oh, shoot,” under his breath.
Hugh Craddock took a step off the porch and said to tthe ladies in a loud, clear voice, “There you are, Miss Spaulding. I knew I’d catch up to you. I’m not just about to let the woman I’m going to marry get away from me!”
CHAPTER 29
The five men with Craddock were cowboys from his ranch. Bo vaguely remembered most of them from the encounters in Fort Worth.
They spread out in a line behind Craddock, clearly ready to back any play that he might make.
Forbes Dyson had come to a stop, too. He regarded Craddock with a cold stare as he moved smoothly to get between Craddock and the five young women.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Do you know these ladies?”
“Of course I do,” Craddock snapped impatiently. He stepped to the side to look around Dyson and went on, “You remember me, don’t you, Miss Spaulding?”
“Unfortunately, I do,” Cecilia said.
“Now, that’s no way to talk about the fella you’re going to marry!”
“The only one who’s ever said anything about the two of us getting married is you,” Cecilia told him. “I have no intention of taking you as my husband, Mr. Craddock.”
“That’s right. You need to go back and marry that poor woman you brought out West and then abandoned,” Rose added.
Craddock pointed a finger and said, “Now, that was Keegan’s fault for letting that old maid fool him. Once I saw her in person, there was no way anybody could’ve blamed me for not wanting to go through with the arrangement.”
Dyson moved again to block Craddock’s path.
“I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about, friend,” he said, “but you definitely have the wrong idea where Miss Spaulding is concerned. You can’t marry her, because she’s come here to Silverhill to marry someone else.”
Craddock sneered and demanded, “Who? Sure as hell not you, fancy pants!”
Dyson’s jaw tightened. At the same time, Bo saw a lean figure appear on the hotel porch.
He wasn’t surprised that Jack Bouma had put in an appearance just as the confrontation between Dyson and Craddock started to heat up.
The gunman was behind Craddock and the cowboys he had brought with him from Texas. Bo could tell they had no idea the sort of threat that lurked at their backs.
Cecilia must have seen Bouma, too, and she knew the danger he represented. She stepped forward quickly, planted herself beside Dyson, and said, “Mr. Craddock, I’m willing to talk with you, but I make no other promises. Right now, t
hough, you must let us pass. I’ll send word to you when we can meet. Where will you be staying?”
Before Craddock could answer, Dyson said, “You don’t have to do that, Miss Spaulding. You don’t owe this man anything, whoever he is—”
“If this is where you’re staying, then I am, too,” Craddock broke in. “I’m not going to let you slip away from me again.”
“You can’t stay here,” Dyson said. “The hotel is full.”
“Reckon I’ll find that out for myself,” Craddock snapped.
Bo stepped forward and said, “Dyson’s telling you the truth, Craddock. In case you hadn’t noticed, the whole town’s pretty much full.”
Craddock stared at him in surprise and said, “You’re still here?” His gaze flicked toward Scratch and back. “And that other old pelican, as well? I figured the two of you would have started back to Fort Worth by now.”
“We’re stayin’ around here for a spell,” Scratch drawled. He had both thumbs hooked in his gunbelt, so his hands weren’t far from the Remingtons.
Craddock looked around, obviously puzzled by the crowd and the festive atmosphere, and said, “What in blazes is going on in this town, anyway?”
“You can ask anyone about that,” Dyson said. “I’m sure there are plenty of people in Silverhill who would be glad to tell you. Now step aside.”
For a moment, the two men stared at each other with hate in their eyes. It had to be a purely instinctive thing, Bo thought, since Dyson and Craddock had just met.
Up on the porch, Jack Bouma was like a string pulled taut, ready to snap. And if he did, guns would blaze. Bo was poised to grab Cecilia, who was closest to him, and drag her to the ground, hopefully out of the line of fire. He knew Scratch would do what he could to protect the other young women.
Then Hugh Craddock said, “All right, but this isn’t over.” He looked at Cecilia. “I’ll send word to you here at the hotel once we’ve found a place to stay.”
Have Brides, Will Travel Page 19
