“I raise five.”
“I call,” Eli said.
“Call,” Bailey said.
Hoke showed his cards. Three queens.
“Shit,” Bailey said, dropping the three tens he’d been dealt onto the table.
“Damn,” Eli said, tossing his two pair.
Hoke raked in his matchsticks, took the wet one from his mouth, dropped it onto the floor, and replaced it with one of the new ones.
“We’re gonna run outta matchsticks you keep doin’ that,” Eli said to him.
“We’ll have plenty of money to get more when this is all over,” Hoke said.
“We got money now,” Bailey groused.
“We can’t touch it yet,” Hoke said. “I told you when we took that first payroll that there would be more.”
“I still think it’s crazy to stay around and try again,” Bailey said.
“You’re free to take off, Bob,” Eli said.
“Yeah, without my cut of the first job,” Bailey said. “You’d like that. You get my cut of the first one and the second one.”
“If you’re not gonna leave, shut yer mouth and deal,” Hoke said.
Bailey shuffled and dealt out cards. “But what’re we gonna do about Locke?” he asked without picking up his cards.
Hoke let his cards lie, too. “Look,” he said, “the second payroll’s gonna be two or three times the size of the first one, maybe more. There’s enough money to go around.”
“Meanin’ what?” Eli asked.
“Meanin’ we can get a couple of more men if you fellas are afraid of a washed-up lawman and an over-the-hill gunman.”
“Over the hill or not,” Eli said, “he’s still the Widow-maker.”
Bailey frowned. “I thought the gun was called the Widowmaker.”
“Either way,” Eli said, “don’t make much difference. It’s still him.” He looked at Hoke. “I say we get at least two more men.”
Hoke looked at Bailey. “What about you?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.”
Hoke picked up his cards and looked at them, then folded them into a pile in his hands. Bailey looked at his, followed by Eli.
“I open for two,” Eli said.
“I raise five,” Hoke said.
“Yer bluffin’,” Bailey said. “I call the seven.”
“I call, too,” Eli said.
“How many cards, Eli?” Bailey asked.
“Just one,” Eli said. “Got me a good hand.”
Bailey dealt Eli his cards, then looked at Hoke.
“I’ll play these.”
“A pat hand?” Bailey asked.
“That’s what I’ve got,” Hoke said. He had no expression on his face for the other two men to read.
“Damn,” Bailey said. “I’ll take three.”
“I check to the raiser,” Eli said.
“Thought you had a good hand?” Hoke asked.
“Not as good as a pat hand.”
“He’s bluffin’,” Bailey said.
“I bet twenty,” Hoke said, pushing twenty lucifers into the pot.
Bailey bit his lip, looked at his cards, and said, “I’ll call.”
“Me, too,” Eli said. “Let’s see ’em.”
Hoke put down four deuces, and an ace.
“Four of a kind?” Bailey said. “Shee-it.” He tossed his cards onto the table, facedown.
“Why didn’t you take one card?” Eli asked, dropping his two pair facedown.
“How would that improve my hand?” Hoke asked, raking in his sticks. “I didn’t need another card.”
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll bring in two more men, but they don’t get any cut from the first job.”
“That’s fair,” Eli said.
“Maybe we shouldn’t even tell them anything about the first job,” Bailey said.
“Everybody knows the first payroll was hit,” Hoke said.
“They don’t know it was us, though,” Eli said.
“That’s true,” Hoke said, shuffling the cards, “but anybody we bring in is gonna figure us for the first one.”
“So, what do we do?” Bailey asked.
“We let ’em figure what they want,” Hoke said, “and we don’t tell ’em nothin’.” He dealt out the cards. “We just keep our mouths shut about the first job. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Eli said.
“Bob?”
Bailey looked up from his cards and said, “Huh? Oh, yeah, I agree.” Nervously, he picked up five matchsticks and tossed them into the pot. “I bet five.”
Eli looked at Hoke, and both men said, “I fold.”
TEN
Locke made sure that Cooper was sober and clean when they walked to Molly Shillstone’s house for dinner. He had bought them each a slicker so they’d be dry for dinner. It was still drizzling when they made their walk, and Molly took their slickers when she answered the door.
They had passed some homes along the way, and Molly’s was easily the largest in town—two stories and built with good, new lumber rather than reused wood, like many of the others. In other words, she had an honest-to God house, not a shack.
“Somethin’ smells good,” Cooper said as they entered.
“I’m a good cook as well as a good businesswoman,” Molly told them. “Please, come into the living room.”
They followed her into a sparsely furnished room with bare floors. George Crowell was seated on a sofa, holding a glass of brandy.
“I had the furniture brought in from St. Louis,” she said. “There’s not much of it, but I’m not finished.”
“You must plan on being here awhile,” Locke observed.
“I don’t anticipate my mine playing out for quite some time,” she said.
She had poured two brandies and carried them to the two men. Before Locke could stop him, Cooper had accepted. He didn’t think Molly knew what she was doing.
“I have to check on dinner,” she said. “I’m sure George will keep you entertained.”
As she left the room, Locke and Cooper looked at George Crowell. He was duded up in a suit and tie, while Locke and Cooper simply had their best trail clothes on.
“Don’t have a suit with me,” Cooper said lamely.
“That’s all right,” Crowell said.
“She seems to be a remarkable woman,” Locke commented.
“She’s more than that,” Crowell said. “She’s amazing.”
“Have you worked for her long?”
“I worked for her father. I’ve been with her for years now,” he said. “We came here to Turnback Creek together.”
“Is there one?” Locke asked.
“One what?” Crowell asked.
“Creek.”
“Yes,” the man said. “You’ll cross it on your way to the mine.”
Locke knew the question had been inane, but this was not where he was at his best. He’d accepted the invitation because he wanted to get to know Molly Shillstone and her manager a little better if he was going to risk his life taking their payroll up the mountain for five hundred dollars.
Cooper walked over to an overstuffed chair and sat down. For Locke’s money, the man was paying entirely too much attention to his drink. Also, sitting in that chair put him closer to the decanter the brandy had come out of.
Locke remained standing. “Mr. Crowell,” he said, “why don’t you tell us what you know about the first payroll that got hit?”
“There’s not much to tell,” the man replied. “It didn’t arrive at the mine so they sent some men out to look for it. They found the two men who were delivering it dead along the way, and the payroll was gone.”
“How were they killed?”
“Shot.”
“Where?” Locke asked.
“Um, out in the open.”
“I mean, in the back? Front?”
“Oh, I see,” Crowell said. “I’m not sure, but I don’t remember anything about them being shot in the back.”
“I’ll check with the sheriff tom
orrow,” Locke said, “or the undertaker. You do have an undertaker, don’t you?”
“Oh, uh, yes, of course we do,” Crowell said. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help you with that.”
At that point, Molly came out of the kitchen and announced, “If you’ll all come to the dining room, dinner is served.”
Locke made sure he got between Cooper and the brandy decanter on the way.
ELEVEN
Molly had made a perfect pot roast, surrounded by all kinds of vegetables. She also announced that there was a pie in the oven for dessert.
During the dinner conversation, Locke learned that Molly’s father, Arthur Shillstone, had started the family in the mining business and that George Crowell had worked for him for many years. When her father died, Molly took over the business.
“That was five years ago,” she said. “This mine has been my most successful to date. That’s why I can’t afford to have my people walk out on me. I’ve got everything invested in this mine.”
She seemed so sincere Locke wondered why she had been so willing to depend on Cooper—even if all she was depending on him to do was bring in someone like Locke.
He suddenly realized that not only Molly Shillstone’s but, apparently, her father’s life’s work depended almost solely on him. He was going to have to make sure that Cooper stayed sober—and he also had to find out just how much ex-Marshal Dale Cooper had left.
After dinner, Molly served up slices of huckleberry pie and cups of coffee. Following that, the men repaired to the front porch, where George Crowell produced cigars, which Locke and Cooper accepted.
“I wanted to go with you, you know,” Crowell finally said.
“That’s what Molly said,” Locke answered.
“You can come,” Cooper said.
“She doesn’t want me to.”
“He’d be in too much danger, Dale,” Locke said. “He doesn’t handle a gun well.”
“I don’t handle a handgun at all,” Crowell said, “but I can use a rifle pretty—”
“That’s okay, George,” Locke said. “Coop and I can handle it.”
“We don’t really have any idea how many men hit the first payroll,” Crowell said.
“Did the sheriff ride out there to have a look?” Locke asked.
“He did.”
“Well, then, we need to talk to him,” Locke said, looking at Cooper. “See what he was able to figure out.”
“That’s right,” Cooper said. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Locke noticed that the hand Cooper was holding the cigar with was trembling.
“Maybe we should be getting along,” he said. “We’re going to have an early day tomorrow, getting ready for Fri-day.” That was the day the payroll was supposed to be arriving at the railhead.
“You can’t leave yet,” Molly said, coming out the door behind them. “I haven’t had my cigar yet.”
She walked over to Crowell, who took out another cigar, snipped the end for her, and held a match to it while she got it going to her satisfaction.
“How long have you smoked cigars?” Locke asked. He assumed she was trying to shock them.
“I used to light them for my father all the time,” she said. “And I mean that I would snip the ends, put it in my mouth, and get it going for him. I always liked the taste.” She drew on the cigar and exhaled the smoke in a blue cloud. “I have one every so often now.”
“I see.”
She smiled. “You thought I was doing it for shock value?”
“Well …”
“I don’t do anything for shock value, Mr. Locke-may I call you John?”
“Why not?”
“With me, John,” she said, “what you see is what I am. I don’t know any other way to act.”
“Then we have that in common, Molly,” Locke said. “I’m very much the same way.”
Locke finally grabbed Cooper and headed back to the hotel.
“Why don’t we stop in the saloon—” Cooper started.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Coop.”
“Just one drink before turning in, John,” Cooper said.
“I keep earlier hours these days, anyway.”
“Dale,” Locke said, “a lot of people’s lives and livelihoods are riding on this—not to mention ours. I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“That glass of brandy you had tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s consider that your last drink for a while.”
“What?” Cooper asked. “That wasn’t even a decent drink.”
“Look,” Locke said, grabbing his friend’s arm and stopping both their progress. “I saw your hand shaking tonight just holding that cigar. How’s it going to be when you have to hold a gun?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I want to find out for sure,” Locke said. “You and I are going to do some target shooting in the morning, so you better get yourself a good night’s sleep.”
“John—”
“If you can’t hit what you aim at tomorrow, Dale,” Locke said, “I’m out. You got that?”
“We’re getting five hundred doll—”
“I’m not doing this for the money, Coop,” Locke said.
“I’m doing it out of friendship—but I’m not getting killed for friendship, understand?”
“All right,” Cooper said. “I understand. I’ll go back to my room and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you’ll see I’m as good with a gun as I ever was. Better than you, if you remember.”
“I remember,” Locke said, and they continued on to the hotel.
TWELVE
Once they were in their hotel rooms, Locke had a look out his window. He hadn’t seen anyone, but he had the feeling all day that someone was watching them. Word had probably gotten out that they were going to escort the payroll up to the mine, just the two of them. If they had more time, Locke would have considered bringing someone else in, somebody about whose ability with a gun he had no doubt. Tomorrow would tell just how much he was going to be able to depend on Dale Cooper.
Locke couldn’t see anyone from his window, but all the doorways across from the hotel were dark. He was considering whether or not to go to the nearest saloon. His one-beer-a-day limit had been reached already, and some brandy had already been added to that, but he wasn’t ready to turn in. Maybe he’d even pick up some useful information.
He successfully talked himself into leaving the hotel and walking over to the Three Aces Saloon.
When he walked into the Three Aces, the place was in full swing. Music came from a corner piano, poker and faro were being played all around him, and in another part of the room, a roulette wheel was spinning. Even above the din, he could hear the ball bouncing around.
He walked to the bar, elbowed his way in, and ordered a beer. The bartender from that afternoon, Al, was not working. A man standing next to him turned to look at him, apparently didn’t like what he saw, and looked away, giving Locke as much room at the bar as he could.
Locke turned to face the room, holding his beer mug in his hand. Three girls were working the room, all tired-looking but attractive. He wasn’t interested in women at the moment, though. He was checking to see if anyone was interested in him.
Throughout his life, John Locke was a man who either drew stares or caused men to avert their eyes. At the moment, no one seemed to be looking at him, but on the way to the saloon from his hotel, he’d still had the sensation of being watched—not necessarily followed but definitely watched.
As he worked on his beer, the batwing doors swung inward, and Sheriff Hammet entered. He stopped just inside the door, looked around, spotted Locke, and came walking over. “Mr. Locke,” he said.
“Sheriff.”
The sheriff reached past Locke and accepted a cold beer from the bartender. “I’ve been hearing interesting things about you and the marshal,” Hammet said.
�
�Have you?” Locke asked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re working for Molly Shillstone,” Hammet said. “Gonna deliver her payroll day after tomorrow.”
“We’re going to try.”
“You and Marshal Cooper, right?” the lawman asked. “Just the, uh, two of you?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a brave man.”
“Why’s that?”
“Takin’ all that money up the mountain with only a drunk to watch your back?”
“I’d rather have Dale Cooper watching my back than any man alive,” Locke said coldly.
Hammet backed off. “Hey, no offense meant,” he said.
“Offense taken.”
“Let me buy you another beer to make up for it.”
“I’m still working on this one.”
“I was just goin’ by what I saw,” the lawman said. “Your Marshal Cooper has been here for some time. I didn’t know who he was, but he really didn’t lift his head up off the table very often.”
“I know a way you can make it up.”
“How?”
“Tell me about the first payroll being hit.”
“Not much to tell,” the sheriff said with a shrug. “Molly sent two of her own up there, and they were ambushed.”
“Back shot?”
“One of ’em, yeah,” Hammet said.
“Any sign up there?”
“I ain’t much for reading sign on rocks,” the lawman said, “but near as I can figure, there was two of ’em.”
“Nobody came forward with any information?” Locke asked. “Nobody was flashing money, maybe gambling beyond their means?”
“I’m just a humble mining-town lawman, Mr. Locke,” Hammet said. “I ain’t no detective. All I can say is, somebody hit that payroll and got away with it. Nothin’ I can do about it.”
“And I guess you’ll say the same thing if this second one is hit, too,” Locke commented.
“I’m afraid so.”
“So, Cooper and I are on our own.”
“And getting paid for the privilege, as I understand it—probably more than I make in a year,” Hammet said. “I ain’t about to go up that mountain with a bunch of money and risk my life for my salary.”
Turnback Creek (Widowmaker) Page 4
