‘‘You would have to ask God.’’
‘‘I have, son, many a time. I have prayed and prayed for the answer to that and other questions I have. And do you know what the answer to my prayers has been?’’
‘‘No, Pa. What?’’
‘‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I talk to God like your mother says to do, but God doesn’t talk back.’’
Boone had not known what to say so he had not said anything.
‘‘Maybe it is me,’’ Ned said. ‘‘Maybe I lack something. Maybe that is why God does not talk to me.’’
‘‘Could be,’’ Boone had said since his father was looking at him as if he expected him to say something.
Ned had sighed. ‘‘Religion confuses me. I doubt I will make sense of it this side of the grave, and once I am on the other side it will not much matter.’’
Boone never forgot that talk. It scared the hell out of him.
Now, watching a gambler lay down a full house and rake in a pot, Boone placed his left hand over the poke in his pocket but did not take the poke out. He was thinking of his mother, and perdition.
From the poker tables Boone drifted to the roulette wheel. Like everyone else, he was fascinated by the bright colors, and how the wheel flashed when the dealer gave it a spin. This particular wheel took two bits to bet and paid out as much as ten dollars.
Farther on, a dice dealer placed dice in a metal cage, closed the tiny door and gave the cage a spin. Players waited with bated breath for the cage to stop so they could see if they were winners or losers.
Boone strolled on and was soon confronted by a game he never saw before. The wheel of fortune, it was called. A giant wheel, as high as he was, painted in gaudy colors. Along the rim were small squares with the four suits, diamonds, spades, hearts and clubs, repeated over and over again. The dealer would give the wheel a hard spin and it would whirl around and around, clicking and clacking thanks to a spoke along the outer edge, and finally come to a stop with a pointer over the winning suit.
Boone started to reach for his poke, but once again he stopped himself.
The next table had another game new to Boone. It was called crown and anchor. The dealer set out squares of paper marked with the different suits, and players put their bets on whichever suits they thought would win. Once all the bets were placed, the dealer took a single die that had the suits painted on its sides, put the die into a small basket and shook the basket. Whichever suit ended up faceup was the winner.
Beyond were faro tables. More popular than poker, faro drew scores of players and onlookers. The idea behind it was simple. The dealer had laid out thirteen cards representing the one through the king, and players would place their money on the card they liked. Matching cards were in a small box in front of the dealer. He would slide two cards out and show them.
Whoever had placed a bet on the first card lost. But whoever bet on the second card was a winner. Bets placed on cards that had not been drawn were allowed to ride or were removed.
Someone jostled Boone and he glanced up in annoyance. That was when he noticed that everyone was watching the faro players except a short man with buckteeth on the other side of the table. He was staring at Boone, and when Boone set eyes on him, the man quickly looked away.
Boone moved on to the craps table. He watched a while, and when he saw the bucktoothed man sidle near, he circled around the craps table to a backgammon table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bucktoothed man staring at the backgammon players.
Coming to a decision, Boone took several quick steps as if he were about to hurry off. The man gave a start and came in his direction. Suddenly stopping, Boone wheeled. ‘‘Why are you following me, mister?’’
The man appeared taken aback. ‘‘What in hell are you talking about, sonny?’’
‘‘You have been following me. I want to know why.’’
‘‘Are you loco?’’ the man said more loudly than he needed to. ‘‘I don’t even know you.’’
‘‘You were at the faro table and the craps table,’’ Boone persisted.
The man gestured and practically shouted. ‘‘Look around you, boy. This place is packed. Is everybody here following you?’’
People were staring.
Boone, uncomfortable, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘‘I reckon I could be wrong.’’
‘‘Sounds to me like you are drunk. Do not bother me with your antics again.’’ So saying, the man barged off.
Boone stared after him, conscious of the glances he was getting. He had pivoted to head for the back and the room his brother was in when a warm hand brushed his and the voice of an angel spoke into his ear.
‘‘You better be careful, whoever you are. That there was Sam Jarrott and he is as mean as they come.’’
Boone turned. The angel was a girl not much older than he was. She had big hazel eyes, long eyelashes and an oval face. Her dress gave him the impression it would burst at the seams if she exhaled.
‘‘Jarrott has notches on his six-gun. I saw him earn one of those notches with my own eyes.’’ She held out a small hand. ‘‘I am Lucy, by the way. What might your handle be?’’
‘‘What?’’ Boone said.
‘‘Your name. You do have one, don’t you? Most mothers don’t call their children ‘it.’ ’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Are you addlepated?’’ Lucy asked. ‘‘You do not seem to have all your wits about you.’’
‘‘I have plenty of wits.’’
‘‘You could not prove it by me. But I will try again. Do you have a name or not?’’
Boone forced his tongue to tell her who he was.
‘‘Scott, you say?’’ Lucy repeated, her brow furrowing. ‘‘Land sakes. I suppose it is silly to ask, but are you by any chance kin of Epp Scott?’’
‘‘I am his brother.’’
‘‘You don’t say.’’ Lucy was impressed. ‘‘He is a big man in these parts. Any bigger and he would be governor.’’
‘‘You must have him confused with someone else.’’
‘‘I would not confuse the man I work for.’’
Boone chuckled. ‘‘Now I know you are mistaken. My brother is a rancher. Our stable has horses, not doves.’’
‘‘Try not to make it sound like the plague if you can help it,’’ Lucy said testily.
‘‘I didn’t mean—’’ Boone began.
‘‘A girl has to eat,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘When she is adrift with no family or friends, she cannot be choosy.’’
‘‘You are all alone?’’
‘‘Not all the time. But say. I can’t stand here doing nothing but talk or I will get in trouble with Condit.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Condit doesn’t like it when his doves don’t earn their keep.’’ Lucy grinned and clutched his arm. ‘‘Why don’t you buy us both drinks so I can spend more time with you?’’
His ears strangely warm, Boone said, ‘‘I would like that. But I am not much of a drinker.’’
‘‘You don’t say? Yet here you are in a saloon. When you are on a horse do you say you don’t ride?’’
‘‘Of course I can ride. And good too. I can also rope and throw a steer when I have to.’’
‘‘My, oh my,’’ Lucy said while leading him toward the bar. ‘‘A man of your abilities is apt to turn my pretty head.’’
Boone’s chest grew tight.
‘‘Are you about to be sick?’’
‘‘No. Why?’’
‘‘You were green there for a second.’’ Lucy laughed merrily. ‘‘I like you, Boone Scott. You are not like most men I meet. A good like, not a bad like.’’
Boone spoke before he could stop himself. ‘‘I am glad it is good. And I like you too.’’
Smiling sweetly, Lucy brought him to the end of the bar. She bawled for a bottle, and a bartender promptly brought one over, along with two glasses.
‘‘So, what do you say, Mr. Scott?’’
>
‘‘Call me Boone. And what do I say to what?’’
‘‘The glass or the bottle. I can stay with you longer if it is the bottle.’’
Boone nodded at the bartender. ‘‘Leave it.’’
‘‘I have not been this flattered since I can remember.’’ Lucy winked and rubbed her fingers across the back of his hand. ‘‘How would you like a nice quiet place where we can talk in peace?’’
‘‘I would like that very much.’’ Boone gazed around the crammed saloon. ‘‘But where? Outside?’’
‘‘Do it in the street?’’ Lucy said, and was convulsed with merriment. ‘‘Goodness. You are more bold than I imagined. But no, thank you, I have my limits and a public street is one of them.’’ She tugged on his wrist. ‘‘Come on. There are rooms at the back.’’
Boone let himself be led past the room his brother was in and on down a narrow hall flanked by door after door. She opened one without knocking and playfully pushed him in ahead of her. A small oak table and a bed were the only furniture. On the table was a lamp, already lit.
‘‘They have beds in a saloon?’’
Lucy shut the door and faced him, tilting her head as if she were trying to figure something out. ‘‘The floors are too hard. Not that this bed has much to recommend it. I would not use it but I can do without the chafing.’’
Boone was aghast. ‘‘This is where you live?’’
‘‘No, silly. I already told you. This is where I work.’’ Lucy pulled him with her and they bumped against the bed. ‘‘Have a seat. I will pour.’’
‘‘I would rather stand.’’
‘‘Don’t be silly. We can be comfortable, at least.’’ Lucy gave him a shove.
Boone tried to catch himself, but there was nothing to hold on to. He fell onto the bed and promptly sat up. ‘‘You are a bit bossy.’’
‘‘Some men like bossy.’’ Lucy opened the bottle and filled first one glass and then the other. ‘‘Here you go.’’ She held a glass out to him. ‘‘Drink up. You will need it. If you are what I think you are, I am about to give you the treat of your life.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘Must I spell it out for you? The festivities are about to commence.’’
Shades of Virgin
‘‘This is more festive than I have been in a coon’s age,’’ Boone Scott remarked.
‘‘You might as well get your money’s worth.’’
Boone gave a start. ‘‘That reminds me. We plumb forgot to pay the bartender.’’
‘‘You can pay me for all of it when we are done.’’ Lucy tipped her glass to her red lips and downed the contents in a gulp.
‘‘How do you do that?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Drink like that.’’
‘‘How else does a person drink? We can’t use our ears.’’
The notion made Boone chuckle. He took a sip and winced as the liquor seared a liquid path from his throat down into the pit of his stomach. Coughing, he said, ‘‘Now I know why Indians call it firewater.’’
‘‘You are comical,’’ Lucy said.
‘‘I told you I do not have much experience at this kind of thing. I have only had liquor a few times, and then only a little.’’
Lucy gave him another intent study. ‘‘This is not an act you are putting on? You are serious?’’
‘‘About what? If you want to laugh I could tickle you except it would not be proper.’’
‘‘My God.’’
‘‘What? I was only teasing about the tickling.’’
‘‘Have you ever been with a woman?’’
‘‘I am with you,’’ Boone said.
Lucy set her glass down and leaned against the table, her hip thrust provocatively. ‘‘No. I mean, have you ever slept with a girl?’’
‘‘With my cousin once. But we were eight and there were not enough beds or my ma would never have allowed it.’’
‘‘My God,’’ Lucy said again, and shook her head in bewilderment. ‘‘Can it be?’’ She came over and sat next to him and took his hand in hers. ‘‘I am sorry. I thought maybe you were funning me. Some men do that to get me to treat them extra nice.’’
‘‘You are plenty nice,’’ Boone said.
Lucy gazed deep into his eyes. ‘‘How can this be? Do your folks keep you down in the root cellar all day?’’
‘‘What kind of question is that? Of course not. I work the range with the punchers.’’
‘‘I just don’t get how you can be so innocent about this,’’ Lucy said, and patted the bed.
Boone stared at the bed and then at her and then at the whiskey bottle on the table and then at the closed door and then at the bed again. ‘‘We are not here to talk, are we?’’
Lucy cupped his cheeks in her hands and pinched them. ‘‘Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are?’’
Boone gripped her wrists and removed her hands from his face. ‘‘That will be enough.’’
‘‘Don’t be upset. You are a virgin, aren’t you?’’ When Boone did not reply, Lucy merrily exclaimed, ‘‘I knew I was right! You have never lain with a female and you are afraid to lie with me.’’
‘‘Have you lain with a lot of men?’’
‘‘Land sakes, yes. Why else would I be here?’’ Lucy chortled. ‘‘It is how I earn my keep. I smile and talk nice and get men to spend money on booze. Then I bring them back here and let them think they are having their way with me.’’
‘‘How much?’’ Boone asked.
‘‘How much what? How much money do I earn? That is personal. But I will tell you that in a couple of years I will have enough of a nest egg to move to San Francisco and open my very own sporting house. That is where the big money is. Sporting houses.’’
‘‘How many?’’
‘‘I just told you. I do not talk about my earnings.’’
‘‘How many men?’’
Lucy tilted her head as was her habit. ‘‘Whatever would you want to know a thing like that for?’’
‘‘How many?’’
Something in his tone turned Lucy’s smile into a frown. ‘‘I don’t much like your tone. And I will be hanged if I would say even if I knew. Which I don’t, because I have never counted them.’’
Boone bowed his head and stared at the blanket covering the bed. It was a ratty, moth-eaten thing. He looked at Lucy and saw a mole on her neck he had not seen and lines in her face where he had not seen lines before. He noticed how pale her skin was, as if she had spent most of her life in a cave. He saw that her teeth were not as white as he had thought, and her perfume reminded him of sour grapes. ‘‘Well,’’ he said.
‘‘Well what?’’
‘‘I reckon I will be going now.’’ Boone went to stand, but she grabbed his wrist.
‘‘Hold on. What is wrong? Now that we are here, why not do it? I promise you a good time.’’ Lucy bent close and pecked him on the neck. ‘‘A very good time.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Give me a reason.’’
‘‘You are pretty and all, and you are as nice as nice can be, and I am flattered that you brought me back here.’’ Boone gestured at the ratty blanket and the whiskey bottle. ‘‘But this is not how I want it to be.’’
‘‘Want what to be?’’
‘‘My first time.’’
Lucy recoiled as if he had slapped her. Conflicting emotions twisted her face: anger, amazement, sorrow, puzzlement. ‘‘So I was right.’’
Boone nodded.
‘‘But why not? I mean, we all have to go through it. Why not go through it with me? I will please you. I will make it special.’’
‘‘I would rather not, but thank you.’’
Anger won out over the other emotions and Lucy snapped, ‘‘Why the hell not? What is wrong with me? Or are you a Bible lover, and you think you are too good for me?’’
‘‘I am not too good for anyone,’’ Boone said. ‘‘And I have not read muc
h of the Bible so I can’t hardly thump it.’’ He stood and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Please don’t look like that. I would if I could but I can’t. It is not in me.’’
‘‘You are male, aren’t you? That is usually enough.’’
‘‘I am sorry.’’ Boone turned to go, pausing when he heard a slight sound in the hall.
‘‘Hold on, handsome,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘I am not giving up that easy.’’ She stood and came around in front of him.
At that exact instant the door burst open. Framed in the doorway was Sam Jarrott, his Smith & Wesson level at his waist. He fired from no more than six feet away. The slug intended for Boone Scott struck Lucy in the back. It shattered her spine, tore through her insides and glanced off her hipbone.
‘‘Oh!’’ Lucy said.
Sam Jarrott swore and extended the Smith & Wesson, taking deliberate aim.
Boone’s Colt leaped from its holster. He was not conscious of drawing. One instant his hand was empty; the next the Colt stabbed flame and lead and Sam Jarrott staggered back against the hallway, shock writ on his features. ‘‘Not like this,’’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘‘Not a wet-nosed kid.’’
Boone’s blood was roaring through his veins so loudly that he barely heard himself ask, ‘‘Why?’’
Jarrott looked at him and tried to raise the Smith & Wesson but couldn’t.
‘‘He was right about you.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Damn him and damn you.’’ Jarrott gripped the Smith & Wesson with both hands. It shook as he thumbed back the hammer with an audible click. ‘‘I can still get it done.’’ The muzzle rose.
Boone fired, not once but three times, fanning the Colt as he had practiced doing day after day for the past two years. Practiced until he could hit five cans placed on the top rail of the corral five times out of five. Practiced until he could not only hit them, but hit them close to dead center.
Jarrott grunted and rose onto the tips of his toes. Then he let out a long breath while slowly sinking to the floor. Spittle dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin even as a bright red ribbon trickled down the front of his shirt. ‘‘Hell,’’ he gurgled, and died.
‘‘Boone?’’ Lucy said softly.
Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man Page 3
