“I’ll be there,” Lee promised.
Allison joined them. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would also be glad to have him for company. Instead, her traitor tongue declared, “Off to the gaming tables, I presume?”
Lee gripped the reins tighter. “I reckon I’ll take in the sights,” was all he would say. By sheer happenstance, a pair of doves in tight dresses sashayed past, one playfully winking at him while the other tittered. Unconsciously, he grinned back.
“Enjoy yourself,” Allison said, her temper flaring. She never had understood women who would sell their bodies for money; she had never been one to throw herself at men for any reason.
Lee’s grin aggravated her further. Men could be such animals! “Come, Papa,” she said, flouncing toward the office. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Scurlock from his carnal pleasures.”
Jim clapped Lee on the leg. “Don’t pay her no mind, son,” he said quietly. “She thinks highly of you. I can tell.”
“She has a mighty peculiar way of showing it,” Lee said, watching her enter the building. “An Apache would treat me with more respect than she does.”
“Some women, and men too, have a hard time coping with emotions that are new to them,” Jim said. “Allison’s problem is that most of those interested in her in the past were mere boys. You’re the first real man to come along, if you don’t count Kemp.”
Lee had no idea what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Do you happen to know where the nearest stable is?”
“At the corner of Cottonwood and Cedar,” Jim said, pointing westward. “The Kayser Livery. The rates are high, but you’ll find that everything in Diablo is spendy. Greed is the order of the day here.” Smiling, Jim walked off.
Kneeing the roan, Lee rode on down the street. As he passed the stage office, he glimpsed Allison peering out at him. She neither waved nor smiled.
Women! Lee reflected. When the good Lord made them, He must have been drunk!
The stable was situated less than half a block from an imposing hotel that called itself the Arizona Imperial. Although it was only a mediocre lodging house, its plump owner acted as if it were the Ritz in New York City.
Lee checked into the Imperial, stored his meager personal effects, shaved, and washed using a basin. After dusting his clothes with his hairbrush, he locked the door and ventured out into the whirlwind that was Diablo.
In addition to the ivory-handled Peacemaker, Lee had wedged the Colt he took from Nate Collins under his belt, butt forward, on his right hip under his coat. It never hurt to have a hideout.
The last lingering rays of sunlight streaked the western horizon with brilliant shades of red, pink, and orange. From the northwest wafted a cool breeze, stirring the sluggish air.
Lee took a walk down Cottonwood until he came to an intersection. Turning southward, he ambled along for blocks until he came to the next broad avenue, designated by a crudely lettered sign: HELL STREET. Under the name someone had scrawled in barely legible handwriting, “Beware.”
The noise rose to a steady din. It was as if someone had opened a floodgate to permit the dregs of the earth to roam loose. Hard faces were everywhere. Drunks were commonplace. Enticing women beckoned from windows and doorways. Shifty no-accounts stood in shadows, their money-hungry eyes measuring passersby for likely prospects. All kinds of humanity mingled freely, reveling in life, in lust, in greed.
Curious onlookers appraised Lee as he went by, and he knew that everyone who saw him branded him as trouble. Which was just fine by him.
A saloon dead ahead arrested Lee’s attention. It was a grand edifice with elegant glass doors and ornate windows.
Lee recognized a quality establishment when he saw one. He pushed through the glass doors to take in a lively scene the likes of which stirred his blood to pump faster.
Off to the left ran a polished mahogany bar crammed with rowdy patrons guzzling their favorite drinks. Gaming tables devoted to faro, poker, and keno filled the center of the spacious room. On a recessed platform at the rear sat a piano player, accommodating requests. And a huge sign emblazoned in gold letters proudly proclaimed that this was the Applejack Saloon.
Lee had taken only three strides when a blond woman in a black skintight dress materialized at his elbow.
“Howdy, stranger.”
The fragrant scent of lilacs tingled Lee’s nose. “Howdy, yourself,” he said as she gently placed her slender hand on his arm.
“Care to treat a girl to a drink?” the blonde asked. When he did not answer right away, she joked, “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.”
“That’s what they all say,” Lee said, drinking in her finely chiseled features. Here was a beauty to rival Allison Hays, but with none of the pretentious airs Allison adopted. Throughout the afternoon he had pondered the enigma of the redhead, how at first she had been warm, then cold, then ice. All because she disliked his being a gambler. Yet who was she to judge him?
“My name’s Nelly,” the blonde said.
“Sure it is,” Lee responded. Often doves took false names, either from shame or to protect the reputations of their more respectable kin.
“Do you have one?”
“One what?” Lee toyed.
“A name, silly.”
“Lee.”
“Lee? That’s all? Very well.” Nelly did not pry. She had been in the business long enough to know that men with shady pasts were not to be grilled. The wrong question could earn a working girl a cuffed ear, or much worse. Although, if she was any judge, the man she had latched on to was not the type to strike a woman. “It fits a handsome hombre like you,” she said, going through the motions.
“One of us is handsome, and that’s for certain sure,” Lee said.
Beaming, Nelly steered him toward the bar. “Want an escort this evening, my fine sir?”
“I’d have to be plumb loco to say no,” Lee said. But even as the words left his mouth, a vivid image of Allison Hays filled his mind and a twinge of guilt pricked him. Why that should be, he couldn’t say. He was under no obligation to her.
Nelly laughed again, her green eyes scrutinizing him with heightened interest. “Well, what have we here, anyway? You don’t smell of cows like most cowpunchers do, and you don’t smell of worse like most miners do.” She let her gaze rest meaningfully on his Colt. “And you’re sure not no tinhorn.”
“What I am is thirsty,” Lee said. Thumping the bar to get the attention of the barkeep, he said, “Care for a drink?”
“My second-worst weakness,” Nelly admitted with a wan grin.
“What’s your first?”
“Handsome desperadoes like you.”
The drinks were served. As Lee tipped his whiskey to his lips, he leaned against the bar and observed the goings-on at nearby tables. A poker game was in progress at one. Four men were beginning a new round of five-card stud. Three had to be prospectors or miners, judging by their filthy clothes. The fourth, a stocky man attired in a Prince Albert coat and a brown bowler, was unmistakably a professional gambler.
The gambler started the bidding at fifty dollars and the pot climbed in short order to two hundred. Two of the miners were forced to drop out, but the biggest, a bear of a man with a yellow beard stained by tobacco smears, stayed in. Three hundred and ten dollars constituted the stakes when the big miner declared roughly, “Call!”
“Read ’em and weep, friend,” said the gambler with a faint brogue as he flipped over his cards. “Three tens and a pair of eights. Where I come from, they call that a full house.”
Snarling in disgust, the miner tossed his hand on the table. “You sure have a nasty habit of winning, Shannon.”
The gambler became as taut as wire, his thin lips compressing. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Wilson?”
Their eyes widening in alarm, the other two miners suddenly looked as if they keenly desired to be somewhere else.
Wilson did not seem to notice the gambler’s tone. “All I’m s
aying is that you win a lot, damn your bones,” he groused.
Shannon had acquired an icy calm. “In some circles that remark could be construed as an insult.”
“What?” Wilson said, looking up from the pile of money he had just lost. Comprehension dawned, and he blanched. “Now, hold on, Shannon. I wasn’t callin’ you a cheat.”
“I hope not.”
The big miner squirmed, motioning at his companions. “Ask them. I know better than to insult you. Everyone knows that you play an honest game. Hell, you’re one of the few who do.”
Deliberately, Shannon rested his right forearm on the edge of the table. An audible sound, like the rasp of metal on wood, let all those present know that there was a derringer up his sleeve. “I’m glad to hear you think that way, because I wouldn’t want to hear that you’ve been spreading stories about me. You lose all the time, Wilson, because you’re a lousy card-player. You never know when to fold.”
“I do so,” Wilson said, but he lacked conviction. Shoving his chair back, he rose. “Anyhow, you have no cause to complain. If I was a better player, you wouldn’t be gettin’ rich off of me.”
Shannon relaxed. Chuckling, he said, “True enough. Tell you what. For being so sensible, take this and treat your friends to drinks and whatever else you’re hankering for.” Counting out fifty dollars, he pushed the coins across the table.
The miners were stupefied. “Thanks,” Wilson exclaimed, scooping up the money quickly as if afraid the gambler would change his mind. Laughing and clapping one another, the three men made off.
Shannon began to stack his winnings, then sensed he was being watched. He saw Lee staring at him curiously and said, “It’s good business, laddie. They’ll tell all their friends what a great guy I am, and the next time they have a full poke and are in the mood for cards, it’s me they’ll come to see.”
It was a new ruse on Lee. Most cardsharps were so greedy, they’d sooner part with their lives than with any of their hard-won earnings. “I bet you’re right popular with the mining crowd.”
“And with anyone else who admires a fair game. Care to try your skill?”
Lee noticed that the Irishman said “skill,” not “luck.”
“Maybe another time.”
Turning his chair, the professional offered his hand. “Ike Shannon, my blessed mother named me. Been playing the circuit long?”
“Lee Scurlock. No. A year or so, is all.”
As Shannon released Lee’s hand, his brown eyes flicked at the Peacemaker, then at Lee’s right side where the spare Colt was neatly hidden. “It’s not an unheard-of handle in these parts, lad. I’ll look forward to taking your money someday soon.”
Two men arrived to take seats, and the Irishman turned to do battle. Lee swallowed the rest of his drink and was going to order another round when he saw that Nelly had hardly touched hers. “Not thirsty?” he said, leaning close to be heard.
The dove tapped her glass and scowled. “After a while you get sick of the stuff. If I wasn’t required to order some, I never would.”
Sensing that she would rather discuss something else, Lee asked, “How long have you been here?”
“In Diablo? Oh, only four months or so. Before that I lived in Denver, and before that—” Melancholy etched her face. “Well, let’s just say that I’m widely traveled, kind sir, and leave it at that.”
It was not Lee’s habit to delve into the personal lives of doves. Most resented it. But he said anyway, “If you don’t like the work, get out.”
Nelly sighed. “If only it were that simple. Besides, what would I do? Where would I go?”
Touched by her sadness, Lee said, “You’re young. You’re attractive. You could go anywhere you want, do whatever you like.” He meant to bolster her spirits, but it had the opposite effect.
“If only things were that simple,” Nelly said forlornly.
Lee was going to inquire why they shouldn’t be when a complete hush fell over the Applejack. All voices fell silent. Dealers stopped shuffling, players stopped clattering coins, even the bartenders paused to do as everyone else was doing and gaze at the glass doors.
A lanky figure stood to the right of the entrance, thumbs hooked in twin gunbelts that slanted over his slender hips. In the holsters rested a matched pair of Colts with mother-of-pearl grips. A black sombrero crowned curly black hair. His clothes were those any cowboy would wear: a brown shirt, jeans, black boots, and a blue bandanna.
“Vint Evers!” Nelly whispered, her voice fluttering with emotion.
“The Texas gunfighter?”
“One and the same.”
Lee straightened for a better look. Vint Evers justifiably rated a reputation as one of the deadliest shootists in the entire Southwest. From the mighty Mississippi to California, from Montana to the Lone Star State, his name was a household word, rivaling Wild Bill Hickok’s and John Wesley Hardin’s. Thanks to dime novels that had embellished his career in sensational tales, Evers was unique in being a genuine legend in his own time.
Lee had heard all the stories. How the Texan had single-handedly cleaned up Bozeman, Newton, and Enid, three of the roughest towns that ever were, how his swift guns were credited with planting more than thirty-six enemies, how he had once held off a war party of forty Comanches with the help of a handful of men. Even allowing for exaggeration, there was no denying that Evers was a man to be reckoned with.
To the Texan’s credit, most of those he was reputed to have shot were slain in his various capacities as a lawman. Constable, sheriff, marshal—he had been all of them at one time or another.
“Vint was in a gunfight several nights ago,” Nelly said. “Right at that table.” She pointed at the one where Ike Shannon sat. “Two lowlifes tried to back-shoot him while he was playing with Ike, but he got wise and slapped leather as they cut loose. One died on the spot; the other will be laid up for months with a punctured lung.” Vehemently, she added, “Serves the bastards right!”
The way she talked gave Lee the impression that she was on more familiar terms with the Texan than he might otherwise suspect. Her tone alone implied that she cared for him—cared a lot, in fact.
As if to confirm the Tennessean’s hunch, Vint Evers spied the blonde and sauntered toward her, his gray eyes shifting back and forth, always razor keen.
Gradually the patrons of the Applejack resumed whatever they had been doing when the living legend entered. Men whispered excitedly behind his back, some pointing, some openly awed. Others, a very few, looked as if they were inclined to test whether the Texan merited his fame.
Evers nodded at the Irishman. Shannon returned the greeting by touching the brim of his bowler. Four paces from the bar, Evers halted and regarded Lee closely. “And what might your name be, stranger?” he asked in a thick-as-molasses Texas twang.
A hint of suspicion laced the query, suspicion and something else Lee could not quite put his finger on. It galled him, being treated so curtly. “My name is my business,” he drawled.
The Texan’s mouth crinkled. “I reckon you know who I am. So you can understand that a person like me can’t be too careful, not if he’s partial to breathin’. I’m bait for any polecat out to make a name for himself. Which makes me naturally curious about anyone who impresses me as being a gun hand.” He paused. “You impress me.”
“Are you saying I’m a polecat?” Lee demanded, louder than he really had to. He couldn’t say what made him do it, unless it was a case of raw nerves.
Suddenly everyone within ten paces was putting more distance between them.
Ike Shannon abruptly rose and moved to the right.
Nelly placed a hand on Lee’s wrist, and he shrugged it off. He hadn’t meant to antagonize the Texan, but that was just what he had done.
For Vint Evers had dropped his oddly slender hands to his sides—those deadly hands that could find his guns in less time than it took a man to blink—and they were ready to draw.
Chapter Six
Ike Shan
non picked that moment to step forward. His head gave a barely perceptible nod, a nod only Vint Evers—and Lee Scurlock—caught.
The Texan slowly relaxed, his thumbs returning to his crossed belts. “Well, now,” he said, “I’d be the last person to insult another without cause. No, I reckon you’re not a polecat.” He tilted his head. “Sure you know who I am?”
“Who doesn’t?” Lee countered.
The flattery rolled off the Texan like water off a duck’s back. “I admire any man who has fightin’ tallow. Something tells me you’d do to ride the river with.” His smile was the real article.
Shannon put his hand on Evers’s elbow. “Vint, allow me to have you make the acquaintance of Lee Scurlock.”
The saloon had come to a standstill, with all eyes fixed on the Tennessean and the Texan. Cards were held in midair, glasses halfway to waiting mouths.
“Are you Doc’s kin?” Evers asked.
“We’re brothers.”
“You don’t say?” The Texan smacked his thigh. “Ain’t it a small world? I met him once down to Tascosa. He’s a straight shooter if ever there was one.”
The praise, from a man of Evers’s stature, sparked a feeling of intuitive friendship in Lee. “How about if I buy you a drink to make up for acting like I’m ten years old?”
“Only if you let me buy you one after,” the Texan said, sidling to the counter. As if on cue, the customers took up where they had left off, the piano player launching into a lively rendition of “The Texas Cowboy.”
Evers glanced at the bartender. “The usual, Hank.”
“Coming right up, Mr. Evers, sir.”
The Texan braced his back against the mahogany and surveyed the room with hawkish eyes that did not miss so much as the curl of a finger. Many customers were openly gawking at him, and at Lee. “What a pack of vultures,” he remarked dryly. “They’d like it better if blood were spilt.”
The drinks arrived. Lee was about to down his when Evers tapped their glasses together in a salute.
“To Tennessee and Texas, the two finest states ever.”
As the tarantula juice seared his throat, Lee commented with a nod at Ike Shannon, “I take it that the two of you know each other?”
Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 6
