Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “A little?”

  They laughed, and the senator refilled his glass. “To old friends,” he said, and started to raise it.

  A girl swept into the room. Her black curls framed a round face that sparkled as bright as the chandelier. She wore a white cotton dress and white shoes. She went from guest to guest, smiling and friendly and bubbling with vitality.

  “Ah, my sweet Roselyn,” Deerforth said. “Our miracle baby, as Ginny likes to call her.”

  Fargo knew it had come as a surprise to the Deerforths to learn that Ginny was pregnant so late in life. That was fourteen years ago, and now the girl was the apple of their eye. They treated her like a princess yet she didn’t act spoiled. Now she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest.

  “Uncle Skye!”

  “We’re not kin,” Fargo always reminded her when she called him that.

  Roselyn stepped back, grinning. “A good thing, too, or when I’m older it could cause a scandal.”

  “That’s no way for a lady to talk,” the senator said.

  They hugged, the adoration in the father’s eyes shining for all to see.

  Fargo left them and mingled. He talked to a few players and came around a high-backed chair and there was Ginny with a glass in her lap. He was mildly surprised. She hardly ever touched the stuff. “What’s the occasion, ma’am?”

  “Old age.”

  “You don’t look a day over forty.”

  Ginny’s mouth crinkled. “Flatterer.” She wagged the glass. “I’m getting into practice. Or haven’t you heard that Marion is retiring?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “With him home all the time, I’ll need it to steady my nerves.”

  “He’s a lucky gent.”

  “No,” Ginny said, “he’s not.” She drained half the glass without batting an eye or coughing.

  “Damn, woman,” Fargo said.

  “It’s not as if I never partake,” Ginny confided. “I like a nip now and then.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “We all have our secrets,” Ginny said.

  They happened to be near a window. About to take a swallow, Fargo glanced out of it and saw two men not twenty yards from the mansion.

  It was Ranson and Jules.

  4

  In the time it took Fargo to reach the front door, the pair had vanished. He went down the steps three at a bound and paused at the bottom.

  The plantation sprawled for hundreds of acres. Most of the land was devoted to cotton. Besides the mansion, there was a stable and more than a score of outbuildings.

  The stable was lit as brightly as the house. Some of the guests were staying at the hotel in town, and carriages were lined up, the drivers waiting. A few had arrived on horseback and their animals were tied to a hitch rail.

  Fargo went to the first carriage. The driver’s arms were folded and his chin was on his chest; he appeared to be dozing.

  “Did you see two men near here a minute ago?”

  The man gave a start and looked up. “What? No, I didn’t, mister.”

  The answer was the same at the next carriage and the one after that.

  Fargo entered the stable. A black man was forking hay. No, no one had come in.

  In a stall partway down stood the Ovaro. Fargo patted it and pondered and went out the back to the corral. Beyond were shacks, their windows aglow, and past them tilled fields.

  Fargo saw no one and turned to go back. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. His hand on the Colt, he approached the corral. A dozen horses milled. A trough was near the gate. He started around it and a figure reared and was on him in the bat of an eye. He got his hand up as a knife speared at his chest and caught hold of a bony wrist. Fingers clamped onto his arm, preventing him from drawing the Colt.

  “Got you now,” Jules said, and kneed him.

  Pain exploded in Fargo’s groin. He tried to backpedal but Jules clung on. The man was strong, and determined. A foot hooked Fargo’s ankle and the next he knew, he was on his back with Jules on his chest and the tip of the knife sinking toward his throat. He held it at bay but it took all his strength.

  “Die, damn you.”

  Fargo was worried that Ranson would join in. He’d be easy to finish off, pinned as he was. To remedy that he bucked and rammed his head against Jules’s chin. It was like ramming an anvil. His senses swam and he almost blacked out. He felt Jules wrench free and braced for the sting of the blade.

  “What the hell is going on here?” a familiar voice demanded.

  Suddenly the weight was off of Fargo’s chest. He shook his head to clear it and saw Jules scrambling over the fence into the corral. Pushing to his knees, he palmed his Colt. Before he could fire, Jules was in among the horses. Fargo lost sight of him. Rising, he spotted a figure going over the rails on the far side. “Damn.”

  Vin Creed came up, a pearl-handled derringer in one hand, an unlit cigar in the other. “I repeat,” he said. “What the hell was that about?”

  “You tell me and we’ll both know.” Fargo shoved the Colt into his holster and turned. “He would have stabbed me if not for you. I’m obliged.”

  “What are friends for?” Creed’s arm moved and the derringer disappeared up his sleeve.

  Fargo had known the gambler for a few years now and considered him one of the best of the breed. But he still had to ask. “What are you doing out here?”

  Creed raised the cigar. “I wanted a smoke and you know how fussy Ginny is.”

  Fargo grunted. He did indeed know that she couldn’t abide the habit; cigar smoke made her ill. The senator had to smoke on their balcony or the porch.

  “I came over to the stable and thought I heard someone out back,” Creed went on. “Reckon I showed up at just the right time.”

  Fargo told him about the earlier attempt.

  “Ranson and Jules, you say?” Creed scratched his chin. “I seem to recollect hearing those names around. Hired muscle, you could call them. They beat up renters behind on their rent. That sort of thing. This is the first I’ve heard of them killing for pay.”

  “They’re moving up in the world.”

  “Why murder you?”

  “You tell me and we’ll both know,” Fargo said again. He was disgusted with himself at how Jules had almost gotten the better of him.

  “You should tell Marion,” Creed advised.

  “Already did.”

  “He has no idea either?”

  Fargo shook his head and rubbed his chest where Jules’s knee had gouged him.

  Creed proceeded to light his cigar. When the tip was glowing he let out a few puffs and remarked, “You know, it’s not as if you haven’t made a few enemies. Maybe one is trying to pay you back.”

  Fargo had thought of that. Most of his enemies, though, were dead. The few that weren’t were either behind bars or far away. “I don’t think it’s someone I know.”

  “Then I reckon all you can do is wait for them to try again.”

  “That’s the hell of it,” Fargo said.

  5

  Fargo liked to stay at the mansion instead of the hotel. The hotel was close to the saloon where the game was held but the mansion had more to offer, not the least of which was a four-poster canopy bed. Lying on it was like sinking into a sea of feathers. He had removed his boots and gun belt and hat and plopped onto his back when someone knocked.

  “You in there, good-looking?” Lacey Mayhare said.

  Her tantalizing perfume wreathed him as Fargo opened the door. He admired the long sweep of her legs and how her lustrous golden hair cascaded over her shoulders. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I’m not ready for bed yet.” Lacey brushed past and moved to a chair. “I thought you might like some company.”

  Fargo shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her suspiciously.

  “What?”

  “You’re up to something.”

  “Me?” Lacey batted her eyes and laughter s
pilled from her smooth throat. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “All you care about is winning,” Fargo said. “You’ll do anything to make sure you do.”

  “It’s against Marion’s rules to try to influence the outcome in any way,” Lacey recited.

  “That didn’t stop you from trying to drink me under the table last year,” Fargo reminded her. She’d almost done it, too. She was the only woman he’d ever met who could drink as much as he did and not pass out.

  “Then I must have been trying to drink myself under the table, as well.”

  “And remember the year before that? You sent a bottle to my room. I didn’t drink it until after, which was lucky for me because it made me as sick as a dog.”

  “Coincidence,” Lacey said. “There was a flu going around.” She ran a hand down her leg and over her knee and smiled sweetly.

  Fargo liked how her dress clung to her thighs. Tearing his gaze away, he said more gruffly than he intended, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the hotel?”

  “Didn’t you know? I’m staying with the Deerforths this year.” Lacey shifted and somehow her bosom was twice the size it had been. “Ginny is such a dear. She invited me in past years but I always said no. This time I decided to take her up on it.” Lacey bent toward him. “My room is right down the hall. Feel free to stop by any time of the day or night.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m here for the game,” Fargo informed her, “and nothing else.”

  “What does that have to do with my invite?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday.” Fargo rose and went to the door. “Out you go.”

  “Honestly, now,” Lacey said. “You’re throwing me out on my ear?”

  “On your ass,” Fargo said, and opened the door.

  “This won’t change anything.”

  “Off you go.”

  Lacey rose and sashayed past and stopped in the doorway. “You’ll regret this in the middle of the night when you want it and can’t have it.”

  “Out.”

  Her dress swirled and she was gone but the scent of her perfume hung in the air.

  Fargo closed the door and leaned against it. “What the hell did I just do?” He couldn’t remember the last time he turned down a pretty woman, or any woman, for that matter. He started toward the bed and stopped at a loud knock. Thinking it was Lacey he jerked the door open, saying, “When I told you to go I—”

  “What was that?” Ginny Deerforth said.

  Fargo glanced right and left but saw no sign of Lacey. “What can I do for you, Virginia?”

  “Marion just told me about that awful business at the corral. And that two men were out to do you harm in town.”

  “He should have kept it to himself.”

  “Don’t be silly. We can’t allow this. I had Marion send for Marshal Moleen. He should be here inside the hour.”

  Fargo sighed.

  “Are you hurt?” Ginny asked, scrutinizing him from head to toes.

  “Tired, is all,” Fargo said. He’d had a long day in the saddle. “I’d like to get some sleep.”

  “After the marshal questions you, you can sleep all you want.” Ginny patted his arm. “I’m sorry about this. So very sorry.”

  “It’s not as if you had anything to do with it.”

  “I know. But to have a guest assaulted at our home. It’s unthinkable.” Ginny wrung her hands. “I apologize for being so flustered. I don’t like violence. It sickens me.”

  “Sometimes a person doesn’t have a choice.”

  “I know that. I’m not naïve. Texas was born in violence. The war with Mexico, the Alamo, San Jacinto. Violence has held the Comanches in check. Violence keeps the outlaws in line.” Ginny did more hand-wringing. “Yes, there are times when it’s called for. I just wish that wasn’t the case.”

  Fargo smiled, thinking she would go, but she wasn’t done.

  “Should whoever is out to kill you succeed, rest assured I’ll personally see to it that you’re buried proper, with a headstone and everything.”

  “How sweet of you,” Fargo said.

  6

  The Cosmopolitan was the fanciest saloon in town. The senator owned it. The tables were covered in green velvet. Behind the mahogany bar was the largest selection of liquor west of the Mississippi. The bartenders wore aprons.

  The annual poker event brought booming business. Folks came from all over Texas and parts beyond.

  Politicians never let a crowd go to waste and the senator was no exception. He always gave a speech at the start of the festivities.

  By Fargo’s reckoning about two hundred people were out in the street listening. He was fond of the man but he’d be damned if he’d listen to him prattle so he sat in the saloon sipping whiskey and riffling cards.

  “Mind if I join you?” Vin Creed asked, and sank down across from him. Creed wore a frock coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. “Ready to lose all your money to me?”

  “That’ll be the day,” Fargo said.

  The same perfume as the night before tingled Fargo’s nose, and Lacey Mayhare came around from behind him and claimed another chair. Today she had on a black dress, her breasts practically bursting from the seams. Her lips were ruby red. “If anyone takes Skye’s poke,” she said to the gambler, “it’ll be me.”

  “Morning, my dear,” Creed said. “Up to your usual tricks, I see.”

  “Tricks?” Lacey said.

  “That pair of watermelons you call tits,” Creed said. “I’m surprised you don’t let the nipples show.”

  Where many women would have been offended, Lacey merely smiled. “Are you suggesting that I wear this low-cut dress on purpose?”

  “I am.”

  “And that I use my watermelons, as you so quaintly call them, to take my opponents’ minds off their cards so they play poorly?”

  “You do.”

  “Why, sir,” Lacey said, and beamed, “you are exactly right. And do you know something?”

  “I know many things,” Creed said. “To which do you refer?”

  “If you had melons, you’d do the same as me.”

  “Perhaps,” the gambler said. “Although I’d like to think I have more dignity.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I rely on skill, my dear. I am, as our mutual friend here will confirm”—Creed nodded at Fargo—“an honest gambler.”

  “There’s no such animal,” Lacey declared. “You’ve never dealt from the bottom of the deck? Never shaved a card?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Lacey switched her attention to Fargo. “Do you believe him?”

  “Just because you cheat,” Fargo said, “doesn’t mean everybody does.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger but it quickly faded. “Perhaps, and I stress perhaps, normally I am not above shading luck in my favor. But not here. Here I play as honest a game as Mr. Creed pretends to.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Fargo said. “Deerforth throws out anyone who cheats.”

  “And they’re never allowed to take part in another of his tournaments,” Creed said.

  “These are grand, aren’t they?” Lacey said, gazing about. “There isn’t a finer saloon anywhere.” She sobered and stared at Fargo. “What’s this I hear about someone trying to kill you?”

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  “Ginny told me this morning. She’s worried about you, the sweet dear.”

  “Ginny is a busybody.”

  “Now, now. You should be flattered she cares.” Lacey indicated a man over at the bar. “You have her to thank for him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ginny demanded that Marshal Moleen assign a man to watch over you. Deputy Gilmore, there, is your protector.”

  “Damn.”

  “I wish I had a protector,” Creed said.

  Fargo glared.

  “Look at the bright side,” Lacey said. “With Gilmore watching your back, you can
concentrate on your cards.”

  Fargo wasn’t about to trust his life to a man he didn’t know. He let it drop, though. He wouldn’t play well if he was angry. And suddenly it hit him. “Bitch,” he said.

  Lacey batted her eyes. “What did I do?”

  “You knew how I’d feel about Ginny and the marshal,” Fargo said.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Creed said. “There’s no end to her tricks.”

  Lacey smiled and ran a hand down her neck and over her bosom. “Why, gentlemen, whatever do you mean?”

  7

  The speech ended and Senator Deerforth led a procession into the saloon. The mayor, the members of the town council and Marshal Moleen were followed by some of the top poker players in the country; Dandy Dan from Saint Louis, Aces O’Bannon from New Orleans, Sly Jackson, known as the King of the Mississippi Riverboats, and others.

  As the spectators gawked, one by one the gamblers filed past Senator Deerforth and handed over the five-thousand-dollar entry fee. The mayor then gave them their chips.

  Fargo’s turn came. He dropped his poke into the senator’s palm and Deerforth turned and added it to the collection of pokes and wallets and purses in a great silver bowl. “Don’t lose it,” he joked.

  “Never fear,” Deerforth said jovially, and bobbed his chins at Moleen. “Our good marshal will personally escort the bowl to the bank where it will be deposited in the safe until the winner is decided.”

  Lacey was next, a leather bag with a strap dangling from her fingers. “Here you are, Marion. I’ll expect it back when I pick up my winnings.”

  “Confidence becomes you, my dear.”

  “Everything becomes me,” Lacey said.

  “Especially those tits of yours,” Vin Creed said as he tossed his poke to the senator.

  Five tables in the middle of the room were reserved for the tournament. Four chairs ringed each table, and on the back of each was a sign with a number. From a hat, the players drew slips of paper with corresponding numbers.

  Fargo drew chair nineteen. He found himself at a table with Aces O’Bannon and two gamblers he didn’t know.

  Sealed decks were placed on the tables.