“That probably won’t be necessary,” Severs said in answer to Merritt’s question. “Barr will spread the word. The rest of them will know they’re taking a big chance if they testify against Pete.”
“Soriano saw the shooting, too, you know.”
“Yeah, but the girl was standing between him and Pete. He can’t swear a hundred percent that he saw Pete shoot the marshal. That lawyer Horton will trip him up, you mark my words. Horton’s slick that way.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Merritt sighed. “I’m glad you’re around to figure out what to do, Perry. Tryin’ to figure it all out would make my head hurt.”
“I’m not that fond of it, either. I’ll be glad when Pete’s loose again and can take care of all that.”
They started walking away from the Barr house. After a few steps, Merritt said, “Perry . . . what if Barr or his missus says it was us who got into their house?”
“They can’t prove a damn thing,” Severs said. “They never saw our faces, and I whispered so they couldn’t tell for sure whose voice it was. The girls slept through the whole thing, right?”
“Not a peep out of ’em,” Merritt assured him. “I sure hope this works.”
“So do I, but if it doesn’t, we’ll try something else. We’ll do whatever it takes. They’ll never hang Pete.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ace took over watching the jail Saturday night. He had a couple unexpected volunteer helpers—Crackerjack Sawyer and Colonel Charles Howden. Howden showed up first to offer his services as a guard, but Crackerjack knocked on the office door—which Ace had locked when the sun went down—less than five minutes later.
When Ace let him in, the liveryman glared at Howden. “What’s that damn Yankee doin’ here?”
“I could ask the same thing about you, you unreconstructed Rebel,” Howden snapped.
“I come to help this young fella keep an eye on the prisoner,” Crackerjack replied as he waved a hand at Ace.
“Well, so did I,” Howden said. “And since I was here first, I don’t think we need any help from the likes of you.”
Ace tried not to sigh. “Take it easy, both of you.”
“You should respect your elders,” the old-timers said in unison. Then they glowered at each other.
“The war was a long time ago, and to be honest, I don’t even remember much about it,” Ace said. “I was too young. I recall hearing people talking about Appomattox, but that’s all.”
“A mighty sad day,” Crackerjack said.
“We’re in agreement on that,” Howden said. “It’s sad it took four long, bloody years to bring you rebels to heel.”
“Damn you—” Crackerjack took a step toward the colonel.
Ace got between them. “That’s enough,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a hunch you two have a lot more in common than you realize. Neither of you want Pete McLaren’s friends busting him out of jail, do you?”
“Durn right I don’t,” Crackerjack said. “That varmint’s finally behind bars where he belongs, and I want to help keep him there.”
“I feel the same way.” Howden frowned. “I suppose we might be able to put aside our differences if it’s for the good of the town.”
“And to see that justice is done,” Crackerjack added.
“That’s what I thought.” Ace nodded toward the rack on the wall where rifles and shotguns were kept. “Grab a couple Greeners and get a pocketful of shells from the box on the desk. If McLaren’s pards show up and try anything, we’ll give them a buckshot welcome.”
“That’s somethin’ we can agree on for sure!” Crackerjack said.
While they were arming themselves, Colonel Howden asked, “Where’s Marshal Soriano tonight, Ace?”
“Getting some rest, I hope. He spent most of the day talking to folks around town, finding out who saw the shooting last night.”
“What about that brother o’ yours?” Crackerjack asked.
That question made Ace smile. “I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet a brand-new hat he’s probably over at the Melodian.”
* * *
With the town’s marshal and the young saloon girl laid to rest only a few hours earlier, a solemn air hung over the Melodian. As Fontana had told Ace earlier, though, life had to go on.
After a while she drifted toward the piano and motioned to Orrie for him to join her.
“What do you want me to play, Fontana?” he asked as he sat down on the bench in front of the keys.
She thought for a moment, then said, “How about ‘Farther Along We’ll Know More About It’?”
Orrie frowned. “A hymn? In this place?”
“Do you know it?”
His narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Sure. I’ve played it before, and once I play a song, I never forget it. My mind’s funny that way.”
“That’s one reason I love having you play the piano for me. Go ahead.”
He nodded. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
His fingers moved over the keys with easy assurance and coaxed out the notes of the hymn. Fontana began to sing.
The conversations in the room died away as her clear, pure voice filled the air. Men lifted their heads from their drinks and looked at her. The serving girls stopped in their rounds and did likewise. The hymn’s sad but hopeful words touched everyone, and so did the sweet voice that sang them.
Chance stepped into the saloon to find everyone watching and listening to Fontana. He didn’t blame them. She was a beautiful sight, standing beside the piano in a dark blue gown, and the song that came from her lips was compelling. Not wanting to break the spell, he sat down at the nearest empty table, took off his hat, and placed it in front of him.
When the song was over, one of the cowboys in the room called softly, “Now sing ‘Amazin’ Grace.’” Several other men murmured agreement.
Fontana looked at Orrie, who said, “Of course I know it.”
He played the introduction, then Fontana sang,
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .
that saved a wretch like me . . .
I once was lost, but now am found . . .
was blind but now I see.”
She continued with the rest of the hymn, and when she was finished, the room was so hushed Chance could hear people breathing. Even though the Melodian was by no means a dive, it was still a frontier saloon, and its patrons were a rough crowd with plenty of sins among them. The same was true of the people who worked there.
But at that moment, all of them were as visibly moved as if they had been devout churchgoers. Some of them probably were, Chance mused, since plenty of frontier folks, like those elsewhere, subscribed to the doctrine of sin on Saturday night and salvation on Sunday morning. He didn’t doubt that they were sincere in what they were feeling right now, though.
The cowboy who had requested the hymn broke the silence by saying, “I ain’t heard that song since I left home. Thank you, Miss Fontana.”
She smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Curly.”
“You done a beautiful job of singin’ it, too. I never heard better.”
Another man said, “Do you know ‘The Old Rugged Cross’?”
Fontana kept smiling, but Chance thought she looked a little surprised.
She said, “I think so . . .” She looked over at the bar where Hank Muller stood.
The saloonkeeper’s forehead creased slightly in a frown. Clearly, neither he nor Fontana had expected a church service to break out on a Saturday night. And when people were sitting around listening to hymns, they weren’t drinking much, which meant the profits went down. But after a moment, Muller nodded.
Fontana looked at Orrie, who gave a little shake of his head in disbelief and started playing.
Chance sat there, watching and listening, as Fontana went through several more hymns requested by the Melodian’s patrons. Growing up as they had, with a professional gambler as their guardian and the closest thing to a father they were ever likely to ha
ve, they hadn’t spent much time in church as youngsters.
Doc Monday hadn’t completely neglected their spiritual growth, however. They had attended a few Christmas Eve and Easter services, when all the saloons had closed down. So Chance had heard all those hymns before, even though he wasn’t familiar enough with them that he could have sung along. Fontana’s voice was so beautiful he figured the time was well spent, no matter what she was singing.
Finally she smiled and told the customers, “That’s all for now, boys.”
The men went back to drinking and talking, although the atmosphere in the saloon was still very subdued.
Chance was glad to see Fontana come across the room toward him, instead of returning to the bar where Muller was. He got to his feet as she came up to the table. “Good evening, Miss Dupree. Would you care to join me?”
“That’s what I had in mind. Where’s your brother tonight?”
Chance held a chair for her and waited until she was seated before he answered her question. “Ace is standing guard over at the jail.”
“That’s right. The two of you are lending a hand to Miguel Soriano, aren’t you?”
“Yep. But we’re not deputies. Not officially.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me if you were.”
Chance shook his head. “We’re not the sort to pack a star. Spent too much time in places like this while we were growing up, I suppose.”
Fontana’s eyebrows rose. “You were raised in saloons?”
“Well, more or less.”
“That sounds interesting. Tell me about it.”
Chance explained how he and Ace had never known their mother or their father. Their mother had died when the boys were born and their father’s identity was still a mystery. All they really knew was their mother’s name was Lettie Jensen, and she had been good friends with Doc Monday, who had taken the little ones to raise.
“It sounds to me like he is probably your father,” Fontana commented.
Chance shook his head. “He never let us call him Pa or Father or anything like that when we were kids, and when we were old enough to understand things, he swore up and down he wasn’t. He told us our mother was, uh, already in the family way when he met her. Her husband had gone off to war and gotten himself killed in the very first battle.”
“Do you think it really happened that way?”
Chance shrugged. “It could have, I suppose. Lots of fellas went to fight and never came back. After a while, it seemed to Ace and me like it didn’t really matter. Doc took good care of us.” He grinned. “Better than anybody would think a shiftless scoundrel like him ever could.”
“Where is he now? Is he still alive?”
“Yeah. He got sick a while back and had to go to one of those sanitariums for what he called a rest cure. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s running an endless poker game for the other patients. We stop by and see him every now and then. We would have stayed there in the same town to make sure he was all right, but Doc wouldn’t hear of it. He said for us to get out and enjoy our lives while we’re young.”
Fontana put an elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand, and smiled. “And have you been? Enjoying your lives, that is?”
“I reckon we have. Except for the parts where people start shooting at us.”
“I think you probably even enjoy that in a way. You strike me as boys who have a thirst for adventure.”
“We’re not really boys, you know. In fact, we’re probably older than you.”
“I’m twenty-two,” Fontana said without hesitation.
“See? We’ve got you beat by a few years.”
“Sometimes it’s not the years that matter. It’s the sort of life you’ve led.”
Chance knew that was true. He didn’t want to pry too much into the life Fontana had led, though. After all, she sang in a saloon for a living, even though she dressed more decorously than the other girls who worked in the Melodian.
Before the moment of silence between them could become awkward, Chance broke it by asking, “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, but thanks. I have to protect my vocal cords, you know.”
“Will you be singing more tonight?”
“In a little while,” she said. “I’ll try to pick something more cheerful.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
José kept casting nervous glances toward the table where Perry Severs, Larry Dunn, Vic Russell, and Lew Merritt were playing penny-ante poker and drinking tequila. Dunn and Russell had been there all evening. Severs and Merritt had joined them a short time earlier, and a few minutes of intense, low-voiced conversation had occurred before the men relaxed and began passing the time with cards and liquor.
A few more men were in the cantina, but they stayed as far away from that table as they could. José wasn’t the only one Pete McLaren’s friends made nervous.
The jug of tequila was pretty much empty. Severs shook the last few drops into his glass, then stood up, carried the jug to the bar, and set it on the planks. “Reckon we’d better have another, José.”
“Sí, señor.” José took another jug from a shelf. His left shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling, but he could manage all right with one arm. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, since he had nobody else to run the cantina and he depended on it for his livelihood.
Severs smiled at him. “You seem a mite jumpy tonight, amigo.”
“Me? Jumpy?” José shook his head, making his chins wobble. “No, señor, I am fine.”
“Bet that shoulder hurts, though.”
Out of habit, José started to shrug, then winced in pain as he realized that was a bad idea. “All of life hurts at one time or another. That is how we know we are still alive.”
“Yeah, I reckon the dead don’t feel a thing, do they? I just thought you might be worried about what happened at that hearing the other day. You know, how you testified against Pete, and now here we are, his best pards, drinking in your cantina.”
“It . . . it did not matter what I said.” José swallowed. “Marshal Dixon and the young Señor Jensen saw the whole thing. To have told a different story would have done no good.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Severs drawled, still smiling. “Certain enough to bet your life on it? You’ll have another chance to tell your story, you know . . . if the whole thing comes to trial.”
“If it comes to trial?” José repeated. He caught the veiled threat Severs had just made without any trouble, but he was puzzled by the man’s other comment. “Why would it not?”
“You never know about these things. How much do I owe you for the tequila?”
“It . . . it is on the house, señor.”
Severs chuckled. “Just like the last jug, eh?” He picked it up and turned away from the bar.
* * *
Giving up on sleep, Miguel sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and reached for his boots.
A few minutes later, he was moving along the street, going about his job the way he usually did. One or both of the Jensen brothers would be at the office, and he instinctively trusted them to look after things. Marshal Dixon had taught him how to be a good judge of character. He would check in at the office later.
A moment later, furtive movement across the street caught his eye and he stopped where he was on the boardwalk. Frowning, he looked closer and saw a man walking through the shadows carrying a long object that looked like it might be a gun.
As Miguel watched, a stray beam of light from a window illuminated the person for a second. He recognized Royal Carhart, the old cowhand who had a saddle shop in Lone Pine.
The thing Carhart was carrying was a double-barreled shotgun.
Miguel couldn’t think of any reason the shop owner ought to be toting a shotgun in town. That, combined with Carhart’s surreptitious attitude, made him suspicious. Staying on the opposite side of the street, he turned around and went back the way he had come, staying across from and just behind Carhart. The sadd
le maker didn’t appear to have noticed that someone was following him.
For a minute, Miguel thought Carhart was going to walk clean out of town and into the hills.
On the outskirts of the settlement, though, the old-timer veered toward a squat adobe building all too familiar to Miguel. Before he had become a lawman, he had spent too much time in José’s cantina, drinking and listening to the stories of the men he admired, men who had been little better than bandits.
The door of the cantina stood open to let in the night air. Carhart stalked into the place with the Greener’s twin barrels shoved in front of him.
Severs stopped short before he took a step back toward the table where his friends sat.
Royal Carhart stood just inside the cantina’s entrance.
The scrawny little saddle maker had a double-barreled shotgun pointed at Severs.
José muttered a prayer in Spanish under his breath and started to edge away from Severs, out of the line of fire.
Over at the table, the conversation had stopped. Dunn shifted slightly in his chair as his hand dropped toward the gun on his hip.
“Larry, stay still.” Sever’s heart had slugged heavily in his chest as soon as he found himself staring down the twin barrels of that Greener, but he kept his wits about him. More than likely, panic would get him killed—whether it was his panic or that of his friends. None of them were fast enough to put Carhart down before he could jerk the shotgun’s triggers.
Severs forced himself to take a deep breath. “What’s this all about, Carhart? I don’t cotton to having a gun pointed at me.”
“You know good and well what it’s about,” Carhart replied as his leathery face twisted in a snarl. “I been thinkin’ all day about what you said this mornin’, and I’m mad as hell. You figure you can come into my shop—my shop!—and threaten me and get away with it?”
Severs shook his head. “I don’t know what in blazes you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t! You warned me I’d better change my story if I knew what was good for me. You want me to get up in court and say I never saw Pete McLaren shoot Marshal Dixon and that saloon gal!”
Twelve Dead Men Page 12
