Kingsley didn’t answer.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” Mosley asked.
“Seems to me like you’re the one doin’ all the talkin’,” Kingsley replied. “Go on, if you think you got it all figured out.”
“I got it all figured out, all right. By the way you was lookin’ over them horses out front, I know you was plannin’ to. Which one was you goin’ to take? Calhoun’s horse? I seen the way you was a’ lookin’ at him.”
“My horse?” one of the men in the saloon said. “You son of a bitch! You was plannin’ on stealin’ my horse?”
“I ain’t stole no horse,” Kingsley insisted.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I just put you in jail? Then when the judge gets here next month, you can tell him that you wasn’t plannin’ on stealin’ a horse,” Deputy Mosley said.
“You ain’t puttin’ me in no jail.”
Kingsley started for his gun and, seeing him, Deputy Mosley made his own move. The lawman was exceptionally quick for his size, and his hand moved toward the long-barreled Colt as quickly as a striking rattlesnake.
Kingsley was almost caught by surprise. He hadn’t expected the deputy to be that fast. But as it turned out, the deputy wasn’t fast enough. Kingsley’s draw was smooth, and his practiced thumb came back on the hammer in one fluid motion. His finger put the slightest pressure on the hair trigger of his Colt. There was a blossom of white, followed by a booming thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand. The deputy tried to continue his draw, but the .44 slug caught him in the heart. When the bullet came out through his back, it brought half the deputy’s shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.
“Son of a bitch! This feller just kilt Deputy Mosley!” Calhoun said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw the bartender reaching under the bar. Knowing that many bartenders kept shotguns under their bars, Kingsley swung his gun around and fired a second time. The bartender, with the unfired shotgun in his hand, fell back against the liquor shelf, bringing it down and causing a dozen or more bottles to come crashing to the floor.
Kingsley turned his gun toward the others in the saloon, but, with their hands up, they backed away.
“Don’t shoot, Mister!” Calhoun shouted. “We ain’t a’ plannin’ on stoppin’ you.”
Kingsley glared at them, then turned and ran out the front door. Mounting the horse the deputy had identified as Calhoun’s, he turned his pistol on the other two and shot them down, to slow down any immediate pursuit.
As Kingsley galloped out of town, he left heading west. But once out of town, he made a wide turn, then circled back to the east and south, pausing just long enough to light up a cigar. If a posse came after him, they would be looking for him in west Kansas, but he was planning to go to Missouri. He hadn’t been in Missouri since the war, and as far as he knew, nobody was looking for him there.
Chapter Six
Cheyenne
The Cheyenne Club on the corner of Seventeenth Street and Warren Avenue was established in 1880 by twelve Wyoming cattlemen. Equipped with two wine cellars, double parlors, a dining room, library, smoking room, and billiard room, it was “the” place to be for cattlemen from all over Wyoming. At the moment, Duff was in one of the club’s parlors, enjoying his cigar and a Scotch as he engaged in convivial conversation with some of the other cattlemen.
While in Cheyenne, Duff always stayed at the Inter Ocean Hotel which was advertised, with some justification, as the finest hotel between Chicago and San Francisco. Built by Barney Ford, a black man and former slave, the hotel had hosted such notables as President Grant and General Sherman, and writers Charles Dickens and Samuel Clemens, as well as actors Edwin Booth, Sara Bernhardt, and Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister. The latter two happened to be Duff’s cousins.
“How is your cattle ranch coming along, Duff?” W.C. Irvine asked. Irvine, who was one of the top cattlemen in Wyoming, was with the group of cattlemen enjoying their evening at the club.
“I’ve grass and water,” Duff replied. “Aye, and there is shelter from the winter’s blow. I have everything on my cattle ranch that you might want, except for one thing.”
“And what would that be?” one of the other ranchers asked.
“I don’t have cattle.”
All the others in the parlor laughed.
“Ah, but ’tis a small oversight,” Duff assured them.
“You think no cattle on a cattle ranch is a small oversight?” Irvine asked. “So tell me, Duff, would no apples in an apple pie be but a bit of an oversight as well?”
“It is a condition soon to be remedied,” Duff said. “I intend to purchase cattle from the Kansas City Cattle Exchange.”
“Duff, why would you buy stock from the Kansas City Cattle Exchange when you can buy all the cattle you might need, right here in Wyoming to start your ranch?” Francis Warren asked. Like Irvine, Warren was one of the leading cattlemen in the ter-ritory.
“Yeah,” Joe Carey said. “Isn’t that a bit like carrying coal to Newcastle?”
“Och ... Newcastle is in England,” Duff replied. “What care I about Newcastle?”
The cattlemen laughed at Duff’s response.
“But, to answer the question you have posed. Kansas City is the only place I can buy a certain breed of cattle, a breed that does not now exist in Wyoming, but one which I shall introduce.”
“If you’re talking about Herefords, I’m running them on my own ranch,” Converse said.
“So am I, along with the Longhorns,” Irvine said.
“No, I’m talking about Angus. Black Angus. Developed in Scotland, they were, and an animal far superior to that English breed, Herefords.”
“Black Angus? Black cows? You’re going to fill the range with black cows?”
“Aye.”
“And they are all black, you say?” Converse asked.
“Aye, black as a raven’s wing, and shining in the sunlight. Beautiful animals, they are. I had them on m’ place in Scotland.”
“You make ’em sound so pretty you may have to keep a look out for bull buffalo,” Warren said. “A big buff might come along and make a cuckold of your seed bulls.”
The cattlemen laughed again.
“When are you going to Kansas City?” Converse asked.
“’Tis not my plan to go to Kansas City. ’Tis my plan to have them put the cattle on the cars and ship them here to Cheyenne. Then I will drive them up to my ranch.”
“Well, I wish you good luck with it,” Irvine said. “Wyoming is a big and empty territory. I expect there’s room here for about ever’ breed of cow there is. And the more the merrier, I say.”
“How many head you plannin’ on buyin’?” Converse asked.
“Five hundred head, I think.”
Warren whistled. “Five hundred? Damn, you’re getting a running start, aren’t you?”
“Aye, with this many I expect that within five years, I’ll have five thousand head.”
“That’s going to cost you a ton of money to get started,” Warren said. “If you need to borrow some, and are willing to take a note on your property, I’d be happy to make you a loan.”
“’Tis grateful I am for the offer, Francis, but I’ll be all right.”
If the ranch had not made Duff any money yet, his gold mine had, though he had never shared with any of these men the secret of the mine. He knew that the other ranchers had speculated that he may have come from a wealthy family in Scotland, and though it was not true, Duff did nothing to dissuade them from that belief. The fewer people who knew about the mine, the better off he would be.
At that moment, one of the employees of the club came into the parlor. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Dinner is being served.”
As Duff went in for dinner at the Cheyenne Club, a few blocks away in the Eagle Saloon on Fifteenth Street, Tyler Camden was playing a game of Ole’ Sol. Actually, he would have preferred to be playing a game of poker, but no one wo
uld play with him, for he was known to have a vicious temper. Last year, he’d killed a man in a poker game after the man accused him of cheating. Of course he had been cheating, but he couldn’t let the accusation go unchallenged. Quicker than anyone could react, Camden had reached across the table, grabbed the man by his shirt front, lifted him up, and plunged his knife in through the man’s ribs. Quick and silent. The man was dead before most of the people in the saloon even knew what had happened.
The man Camden had killed had made the mistake of saying, “Where I come from, cheaters get shot.”
Others at the table had heard him say that, and while that wasn’t a direct threat, the quickly assembled court had declared it sufficient justification for a case to be made of self-defense.
There was a very strong rumor that Camden had also stabbed a man down in Colorado last year, and though neither of the two men he had killed were known to be gunfighters, they were, nevertheless, victims, and that was enough give Camden the reputation of someone to be feared.
Camden counted out three cards, but couldn’t find a play. The second card of the three was a red nine. There was a black ten on one of the stacks where he could have used the red nine, but the nine was one card down, and thus, useless to him.
Or was it?
With a shrug of his shoulders, Camden slipped the red nine out from under the black queen, and played it on the black ten.
Dingus Camden and Lee and Marvin Mosley came into the saloon then, and seeing his brother playing solitaire, Dingus walked over to him.
“Me and Lee and Marvin is goin’ to take the cars over to Laramie,” Dingus said. “They got some new sportin’ girls in at the Rocky Mountain House. You want to come along?”
“Nah,” Tyler said. “I reckon I’ll spend a little time with Libbie.”
“She done told you she didn’t want nothin’ to do with you,” Dingus said. “Why don’t you come along with us?”
“She’ll come around,” Tyler said.
“All right, but you’re goin’ to be missin’ out on a good time,” Dingus said. “All right, boys,” he said to his two cousins. “The next local is no more’n half an hour from now. Let’s go.”
Tyler watched them leave, then thought about Libbie. He had seen her go upstairs with a cowboy about half an hour earlier and had tried to get her attention, but she wouldn’t look at him. He wasn’t worried, though. Once she was through with the cowboy, she’d have to come to him. He had already intimidated everyone else into staying away from her, so if she wanted to make a living with her whoring, she would have no choice but to accept him.
And it was damn well going to be on his own terms, too. He would see to that.
Examining the cards he had spread out on the table, he found a needed black five. It didn’t matter where it was, it was where he was about to put it that counted.
Camden had just played his card when he heard laughter at the top of the stairs. Looking up, he saw Libbie coming down the stairs, arm-in-arm with the cowboy who had taken her up.
“I tell you what, darlin’, that was just a real fine time me ’n you just had,” the cowboy was saying as they came down the stairs side by side. “Damn me if I don’t believe that the next time I have me enough money, why, I’ll just be comin’ back to see you again.”
“Anytime, cowboy,” Libbie said.
Camden waited until the cowboy left, then he walked over to Libbie.
“Let’s me ’n you go upstairs now,” he said.
“I told you, I ain’t goin’ with you no more,” Libbie replied.
“What do you mean, you ain’t goin’ with me no more? I got the money. I got the money right here.”
Camden stuck his hand down in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of dollars. “See? This here is more than enough for you to go upstairs with me.”
“I don’t want nothin’ to do with you anymore, Camden. And neither do any of the other girls who work here. You get drunk and you hit us. We ain’t gettin’ paid to be beat on.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t drunk now,” Camden said. “I’m sober as a judge.”
“I told you, I ain’t goin’ upstairs with you, and that’s that.”
“All right, fine. Try and make it without me,” Camden said. “Because here’s the truth: ’ceptin’ for that cowboy that just left, there ain’t nobody else goin’ to touch you with a ten-foot pole. And while you’re wastin’ away to nothin’ over here, I’ll be takin’ my business to the Tivoli.”
“Ha! The Tivoli?” Libbie said. “Lots of luck with that. There won’t be a woman over there who will have anything to do with you,” Libbie insisted.
After dinner was served at the Cheyenne Club, most of the members returned to the parlor for conversation or cards or billiards, but Duff decided he would visit the Tivoli Saloon. He did this not only because it reminded him of the White Horse Pub back in Donuun, but also because he enjoyed being among a more diverse group of people than could be found at the Cheyenne Club.
There were several saloons in Cheyenne, from the Eagle Saloon, which was in a part of town frequented by rough men and soiled doves, to the Tivoli, which was an exceptionally nice establishment. The Tivoli featured an elaborate wood back-bar, a shining brass footrail, and customers’ towels hanging from bass rings on the front of the bar. The towels were kept fresh by frequent changing. The saloon also had electric lighting, a feature not enjoyed by some of the more pedestrian saloons.
Upstairs in the Tivoli, there were several rooms called “visiting parlors.” In these rooms, gentlemen could enjoy a conversation with some of the women who worked at the Tivoli, as long as they understood that it was conversation only. A printed sign on the wall of each of the visiting parlors laid that out.
We select our young women
from the best backgrounds.
They are attractive, intelligent,
and well versed in enough subjects
to provide stimulating
conversation with our guests.
There is a three drink minimum
required
to use one of these rooms.
Please act as GENTLEMEN,
and respect the LADIES,
who are here to make your visit
with us more pleasurable.
Tyler Camden, having made good on his promise to come over to the Tivoli was, at the moment, in one of the visiting parlors. He had already exceeded his three-drink minimum, and things were not going well for him. He was with two girls, Cindy McPheeters and Polly Fenton, but it seemed that the only thing they wanted to do was talk. Finally, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
“Look here, ain’t there some rooms up here where we can go?” Camden asked.
Cindy laughed. “What do you mean, are there any rooms up here? You are in a room up here, silly.”
“Nah, I ain’t a’ talkin’ about that. What I’m a’ talkin’ about is a room with a bed, so me ’n one of you,” he smiled at both of them, displaying a mouth full of yellowed and broken teeth, “could go split the sheets. An’ I don’t care which one ’tis, ’cause either one is fine by me.”
Polly and Cindy looked confused.
“Mr. Camden, is it possible that you don’t understand?” Polly asked.
“Don’t understand what?”
“We don’t do that.”
“What do you mean you don’t do that? That’s what all whores do, ain’t it?”
“We wouldn’t know about that,” Cindy said. “We aren’t whores.”
“What do you mean, you ain’t whores? What the hell are you doin’ up here, if you ain’t a whore?”
“Didn’t you read the sign on the wall?” Polly asked, pointing to the sign.
“No, I didn’t read no sign, on account of I cain’t read. What does it say?”
“It says we are here for conversation only.”
“Look here, I done spent me three dollars since I come up here.”
“Yes, you have. You spent it on drinks f
or you and for us.”
“Well, what the hell? You say I’ve spent it on drinks for you two, why would I do that iffen I wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ somethin’ out of it?”
“You have gotten something out of it,” Cindy said. “You’ve had our company and our conversation.”
“That ain’t enough. One of you get out of here. The other’n stay. If you ain’t got no place else to go, we’ll just do it here.”
“We will both leave,” Cindy said.
As the two women started to leave, Camden reached out and grabbed the nearest one, who happened to be Cindy, by her arm.
“You ain’t leavin,’ bitch, ’til I tell you you can leave!” he said angrily.
Reacting quickly, Cindy used her free hand to rake her fingernails across his cheek, leaving four deep and bleeding scratchmarks.
“Damn you!” Camden shouted. Pulling his knife from its sheath, Camden made a quick, totally unexpected slash, cutting open Cindy’s throat.
With her eyes opened wide in shock and the realization of what had just happened, Cindy put her hands to her throat. Polly watched in horror as blood gushed through Cindy’s fingers. Cindy’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she fell.
Polly screamed.
Chapter Seven
Duff had been at the saloon for about half an hour, during which time he was nursing a single beer and visiting with some of the other customers. He drank only one beer, not because he was cheap, but because he didn’t want to get drunk. He was about to leave when a woman’s scream brought all conversation to a halt. A moment later, Duff and all the other patrons of the saloon looked up and saw a woman appear at the railing on the balcony that overlooked the grand floor. There was a man behind her, and he was holding a knife to the woman’s neck.
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Page 6
