"Yes, quite," Clarence said with a yawn, stretching. "I would like to make another entry in Father's journal..." His gaze wandered to his bed. "But a nice little nap should be just ducky!"
"Uh-yes, sir." Guthrie stepped aside as his master swaggered over to belly-flop onto the mattress. The old springs screeched and a horrible creaking came from the floorboards.
"Wake me in about an hour, old boy," Clarence mumbled into his pillow.
The butler nodded curtly, moving toward the door. "I'll search that quaint establishment across the street for something edible. Is there anything you'd like me to get for you, Master Clarence?"
But Clarence was already sound asleep, snoring into his pillow. Guthrie almost smiled as he stepped quietly out of the room.
Chapter 18
Can't believe I'm doin' this. Kate Carson grumbled to herself as she hustled across the street as fast as she could, holding the hem of her red satin dress to keep it from dragging through the dust. Since when have I ever cared what happens to a man?
"Howdy, Miss Carson," greeted a grinning cowpoke from astride his horse.
"Howdy yourself," she snapped, passing him by without her usual coyness or seductive smile. Leaving the bewildered fellow to frown after her, she marched up onto the plank sidewalk and shoved the hotel doors wide open. "Slick!" she shouted.
The portly clerk yelped, startled from a deep sleep behind his desk. The newspaper draped over his head fluttered into the air. "Why, Miss Carson!" he gasped. "Whatcha doin' over here?"
"Never mind, you ol' scallywag. Just tell me which room those Englishters are in."
The urgency in her tone and the intense look in her piercing blue eyes kept Slick from asking any stupid questions, which was a relief.
"Upstairs. Fourth door on the left."
Without a reply, she gathered her dress and tramped quickly up the rickety flight of stairs.
"Yer welcome," Slick mumbled. With an oath and a belch, he roughly unfolded the fallen newspaper and glared at the small print. He knew full-well he couldn't read, but he thought it made him look intelligent—even though he happened to be holding the paper upside-down.
"One, two, three," Kate counted the doors as she passed them by. "Four." She pounded on it without a moment's hesitation and gave the plunging neckline of her dress a self-conscious tug upward. "C'mon," she muttered, knocking again.
"Y-yes?" came the muffled sound of the younger Englishman's groggy voice. "Who is it?"
"Kate Carson. Open up."
"Kate who? Oh…" He paused. "Just a moment, please."
Bed springs complained, followed by the thuds of boots with ringing spurs across the creaky floor. The lock switched over, and the door swung open.
"How may I be of service?" Clarence asked with a fair attempt at a dashing smile, seeming to hope their last encounter—and his fainting, in particular—would be long forgotten.
"Is he here?" she asked out of breath, squeezing past him to look the room over.
"I say, who?"
"Walter—your friend," she said. She threw down her arms in frustration. "He ain't here?"
"Uh-no, he's not. I'm not sure exactly where he went," Clarence replied. "I was drifting off to Never-Neverland when he left, I'm afraid. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Do?" she snapped. "There ain't nothin' you can do—except clear outta town before Buck and Burly get here!"
"I must say, I'm at a loss. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"Go ahead." She paced the room, finger to her lips in thought.
He sank onto the groaning bed. "Would you please explain what's going on?" he asked politely.
She halted mid-stride and locked her eyes on him. "Yeah." She returned to the door, hung her head outside to glance up and down the hall, then shut it. "I'll make this quick. We ain't got much time." She sat beside him with another moan from the bed springs. "Listen good. One of the gals over at Percy's told one of my girls, and she told me that Buckeye Daniels and Burly Jones are plannin' to do you and Walter in, that they're gonna say you stole all this stuff—" She gestured at the supplies stacked around the room. "—and that you should be gunned down for it like thievin' skunks!" She tried to read Clarence's blank expression. "Don't you understand?" she pleaded, taking hold of his arm.
"Uh…just a word here and there," he admitted.
"They're gonna kill you!"
"Oh," he replied with a nod, swallowing. "That I understand. What should we do?" he managed, his voice squeaking.
She shook her head and turned away, releasing his arm. "I should never have sent Walter over to see Buck. I shoulda known somethin' like this would happen. Buck's got no conscience. He'd shoot his own grandma if he could gain by it!"
"What a nasty fellow," Clarence commented.
Kate slid off the bed to pace again, her heels thumping across the floorboards. "You sure you don't know where he is?"
Clarence shrugged, offering his hands in surrender. "I haven't the foggiest."
"Huh?" She stopped.
"Uh-I'm sure I don't know."
She resumed pacing. "They ought to be here within the hour. They'll get Slick on their side easy enough, that little devil, and when they bust in here and show 'im all this junk—"
"But we acquired it fairly, in exchange for our stolen luggage!"
"Listen, boy: Buck don't even know the meanin' of the word fair. Besides, it's your word against his." Kate muttered half to herself, "They wouldn't expect me to be here. Maybe I could—"
"Great Scott!" Clarence cried all of a sudden. "By Jove, I remember!" With a proud grin, he charged toward the dust-caked window overlooking the street. "There!" He pointed at the café.
"Cora's? Why, she serves the worst food west of the Mississippi!" She came beside him and peered through their reflections—a young western madam and an even younger English gentleman. They made an odd couple, but he was a handsome one, she had to admit.
"Nevertheless," he said. "Guthrie was hungry."
"I'd sooner eat horse sh—" She covered her mouth and looked up at him sheepishly. "Sorry, boy. I gotta watch my mouth 'round a gentleman like yourself."
"Think nothing of it. I have been known to use a colorful expression or two on occasion myself."
She smiled at that, turning back to the view. "If he's over there, we've got to warn 'im."
"Very well." Clarence turned and swaggered toward the door with spurs jingling.
"No!" She moved quickly to his side. "If you go, they'll have both of you right where they want you. No, I'd better go," she said with a nod.
"But you're a lady!"
"I ain't no lady, boy," she said coolly with a hard edge to her tone. "I've got the men of this town wrapped around my little finger." She patted his shoulder. "You just let me take care of this."
Clarence shrugged. "Very well. You seem to know what you're doing." He folded his arms and leaned back against the bedpost, watching her with interest.
A playful smirk turned the corners of Kate's lips as she approached him. She rested her hand on his chest. "Wish me luck, boy," she breathed.
"Oh-yes, quite. I-I'll do that," he stammered as her fingertips glided down toward his belt.
"You know how to use one of these?" She toyed with the buckle.
"Uh-hmm?"
She took a step back and crossed her arms. "Lemme see your draw."
"My what?"
She sighed, shaking her head. "How can I leave you alone here when you don't even know how to draw?" Her gaze fell on a coiled gun belt sitting on one of the beds. "This'll be a short lesson, but it'll have to suffice." She buckled the leather belt around her hips and adjusted it. "All right. Do what I do, and learn it good."
Clarence nodded straight-faced, even though his instructor knew full well she looked comical in her satin dress and gun belt.
"This here's a draw." Her hand dropped to the holster and the gun came out smoothly in a single motion, ready to fire. "See?" She holstered the gun and repeated t
he action with Clarence watching every move. "Now you try."
"Oh yes, quite."
Clarence stood with his arms dangling limply at his sides. At a wink from Kate, he grabbed for his gun, managed to jam his thumb into the holster and wedge it in between the gun and the inside of the holster, tug his thumb out with a yelp, tug the gun out as well, drop it clattering across the floor towards Kate, scamper after it and come up with it again after half a minute's time.
Kate could only stare as Clarence, a little out of breath, stood with the six-gun aimed directly at her chest. She gently nudged the muzzle aside.
"Well? How did I do?" he panted with an excited grin.
"Uh..." She didn't know what to say. "Swell."
"Rah!" he cheered, attempting to holster the gun—only to have it hit the floor with another clatter. He retrieved it sheepishly and tried to holster it again, but misjudged the angle and sent it straight to the floor again.
"Here, let me." She retrieved the weapon and slipped it into his holster with ease. "Y'know, I've been thinkin'," she suggested, her hands lingering on his hips. "Maybe it'd be best if you laid off the gun play when the time comes. Burly's a retired gunfighter with a draw faster than a streak of forked lightning."
"And how would you rate my draw?" Clarence raised an eyebrow and stood to his fullest height.
"Slower than a crippled mule," she said with an apologetic sigh. She gave his sides a pat and went for the door. "When the time comes, you remember that."
"Quite," Clarence muttered.
"Oh." She remembered the gun belt and unbuckled it from her hips. "This one yours, too?"
"No," he said with a melancholy shake of his head. "It's Guthrie's. He refuses to wear it."
Her face paled. "You sayin' Walter ain't armed?"
But before Clarence could answer, she'd tossed the belt onto his bed and shoved the gun into her garter, charging out the door.
Kate whipped the newspaper from Slick's grasp.
"Hey!" he started.
"Don't you ever get tired of just readin', Slick?" she breathed into his ear as she slid onto his lap. Leaning against him, she twirled his mustache with one finger and kept her other hand behind her back. "Tell me the truth now. Wouldn't you rather be doin' something?"
"Y-yeah!" Wide-eyed, he stared at her, confused by her sudden change in attitude towards him. He'd always dreamed of a moment like this—he let it be known around town often enough—but now that the time had finally come, he seemed oddly paralyzed.
"Why ain't I ever seen you over at my place?" she asked coyly, at the same time bringing her hand around his back.
"Well, I—well, y'know how it is, Kate. I've got this hotel to run and—"
"Work don't stop anybody else in town from makin' a call," she countered with a sigh, fingering his warty lip. "They make time for us ladies." She released a warm sigh into his scraggly face as she whispered, "And I've had my eye on you for quite a spell."
"Y-you have?" Energized now, he wrapped his flabby arms around her and squeezed. "Well then, why don't we—?"
Kate brought the butt of Walter's gun down hard on Slick's head. He slumped forward, out cold, wedging Kate between him and the desk. Grunting as she fought against his weight, she eventually managed to free herself. Adjusting her bodice and returning the gun to her garter, she eyed the unconscious clerk and nodded. That ought to even things out a bit, she mused.
Without Slick as their witness, Buckeye Daniels and Burly Jones were on their own in their quarrel with the Englishmen. But Kate knew better than to hold onto too much hope. This was Santa Fe, after all. Things like this ended only one way here.
In bloodshed.
Chapter 19
Meanwhile, Guthrie had been taken captive by Cora Cook—a rotund, rosy-cheeked, good-natured lady on the prowl for a fine husband—at her café. As soon as the old butler had entered the establishment, Cora's big green eyes had lit up, and she'd ushered him roughly toward an empty corner table. Blockading him with vacant chairs to keep him from escaping, she offered him anything he desired. He had been, and continued to be, the only customer in the small restaurant, so Cora was able to focus all her attention on him alone.
"Want some more stew, Hon?" she bellowed kindly, waddling out from the kitchen with another pot of steaming gruel in her hairy arms. She grinned at Guthrie with delight.
"Oh, no-no, madam!" Guthrie tried to beg politely, as he'd already gagged down five bowls of the stuff. His stomach turned violently, and he could only imagine what another bowl would do to him. "No, I am quite full now, thank you, and I must be going—"
"Sit down!" she roared with a chuckle, shoving him back into his chair with a thick elbow. Dropping the gurgling pot onto the table, she started refilling his bowl, oblivious to his pallor as he watched the sludge slop from her serving spoon. "Builds up your bones and your muscles and fills you out! Heh, I should know. I eat it three times a day!" She laughed, causing the plate glass window beside Guthrie's table to reverberate. "I've been eatin' it ever since I came up with the recipe. It's the best dang stuff I serve!"
Guthrie shuddered to imagine what else was on the menu. Nevertheless, he maintained a gentlemanly demeanor, all the while hoping that something—anything—would save him from a sixth bowl of the steaming green stew. Ingredients unknown.
"Here you go, Hon. Eat up, now. Let's put some meat on them bones!" Her hand shot out and pounded him on the shoulder, knocking him sideways. "Heh, not much to you!" she observed with another big laugh. Then she frowned as he stared at the bowl before him through bleary eyes. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow. "Go on, don't be shy. There's plenty more where that came from!"
Stifling an overwhelming wave of nausea, Guthrie retrieved the tarnished spoon and plunged it into the bowl's murky depths. Despite his churning stomach, he filled the spoon and raised it to his mouth. Proper etiquette had been ingrained so deeply into his character that there was no other option available to him at the moment. The stench of the gruel assaulted his senses and he winced, ever so slightly. Yet the spoon did not waver in its approach. Its arrival was inevitable. And then? Another spoonful, followed by another, until the pot on the table was empty. The determined look on Cora's face made it clear that this was how it would be.
An involuntary shiver coursed through Guthrie. He had no choice. Either he ate the stew, or he faced the wrath of this formidable woman. So he opened his mouth, and the spoon entered—
"Walter!" a sudden voice cried out as the front door flew open.
Guthrie dropped the spoon back into the bowl as Cora's attention shifted to the intruder.
"What do you want, Kate?" Cora snapped with an unwelcoming frown.
"Walter," Kate said quickly, ignoring the giant woman between them. "Buckeye and Burly are gonna kill you!" Her eyes were wide with a look of genuine desperation, her face flushed. "They've got some kind of gripe against you," she explained, "and they're gonna try and prove you're a thievin' skunk so's they can gun you down!"
"The supplies," Guthrie said calmly, wiping his chin with a cloth napkin. "I had hoped Mr. Buckeye would deal fairly with us."
"I know, and I'm so sorry I got you into this! Those two boys are trouble, always have been, and for you to die at their hands on account of me—"
"You are not at fault in this matter, Miss Carson. It's never wrong to think the best of someone."
Kate stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words.
"Pickin' them kinda old these days, ain't you, Kate?" Cora sneered at her, noticing the way she'd looked at the Englishman only to drop her gaze. "Ain't you got enough menfolk over at your place to service already? You really care about this gentleman? Or is it just cuz you think he's got money?"
Guthrie saw the effect these words had on Kate: an urge to flee had flashed through her eyes. "That will be enough, Miss Cook," he said.
Cora turned on the Englishman with a look of sad surprise on her broad face, as if all her romantic hopes and dreams had be
en dashed by his short reprimand. Then a hideous scowl crawled across her brow.
"That'll be three bits, mister," she snapped, holding out her fleshy palm. "C'mon, now. Pay up! You ate my stew, and now you pay—same as you pay over at Madam Carson's. Right, Kate?"
Guthrie eyed the woman coolly. He was already paying for the meal in other ways, but he kept his thoughts—and his cramping stomach—to himself. "Very well."
Cora snatched the coins with a "Humph" and stormed off. She returned to her kitchen, out of sight.
"It appears I've made yet another enemy," Guthrie mused.
"There's plenty to be had in Santa Fe," Kate said. "Let's hope you live long enough to make tracks outta here."
Guthrie nodded, narrowing his gaze as he looked out the front window. "There they are, if I'm not mistaken."
Kate came to his side in time to see Buckeye and Burly swagger across the street from Percy's saloon. They headed straight for the hotel. Their boots seemed to move in some sort of synchronized march, and everyone, including the tumbleweeds, cleared the way for them. The raccoon tail dangled comically from Buckeye's hat, swinging side to side, but there was nothing funny about the big Bowie knife sheathed at the stocky man's belt. And as for Burly—
"He's got his gunfighter duds on!" Kate covered her mouth as she stared, wide-eyed. "He must really mean business!"
"I'm afraid he does, Miss Carson," Guthrie replied. "I embarrassed him rather badly on the train before we reached Santa Fe. He is a man seeking revenge."
Chapter 20
Kate gazed up at the Englishman. It surprised her that a man so completely out of his element didn't look at all afraid. He possessed some kind of inner strength, and it was with a steely countenance that he watched the two men set on killing him.
But that countenance changed suddenly as the men stepped up onto the sidewalk and shoved open the doors to the hotel.
"Master Clarence..."
With a quickness unbelievable for a man his age, Guthrie pushed aside the chairs Cora had used to blockade him and dashed to the door of the café, slamming through it as if it wasn't even there.
Westward, Tally Ho! Page 6
