by Tess LeSue
“You’re interrupting the show, LeFoy,” Pete Hamble grumped, not looking away from the stage. The three moppets were singing as they twirled about, spangles flashing.
LeFoy laughed. “They are a marvel, aren’t they? But they’re just the opening act—wait until you see the French girls. Becky, send a bottle of our best whiskey over, compliments of the house!” He regarded the men in the gallery with a glittering smile, but Ava noticed the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple. He wasn’t a complete fool, then. He knew these were dangerous men to play with.
What exactly was he up to?
“If you want to wait until the end of the show to conduct business, all the better!” LeFoy said, his Adam’s apple still bobbing nervously, belying his confident grin. “It will give the latecomers a fair chance to arrive.”
“Our best whiskey, he says.” Becky stomped out of the bar, bottle in one hand and a teetering stack of shot glasses in the other. “Why not just give them beer? They wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Smile,” Ava heard LeFoy hiss at her as she passed him, but Becky did no such thing.
Ava took hasty notes as she watched LeFoy greet each of the varmints individually. She strained to catch the names. As well as Voss, Hamble, and English and Irish George, the group also included Bucket-eye Bob, Jim Holt and Sweet Boy Beau. They were a terrifying mix of men, and they were armed to the teeth. What on earth were they doing in the same room? What was LeFoy up to?
“There’ll be violence tonight,” Becky said darkly as she returned to the bar. “You mark my words. They’ll shoot up the place, and we only just got it all finished.” Absently, she topped up Lord Whatsit’s glass of sherry. “You can pay this time,” she told him.
“Becky!” LeFoy sailed their way, having caught sight of Ava and the Englishman. “You didn’t tell me Miss Archer was here! I heard you rode into town this afternoon, Miss Archer. Welcome!” He reached for her hand as though they were old friends. She just about stabbed herself with the pencil as he crunched her hand in both of his. “We met back in Missouri!” He gave her a flirtatious smile. “I was devastated not to end up in your book.”
“You need to do something for her to write about you,” Ava heard Becky snort.
“Well, perhaps after tonight?” LeFoy gave Ava’s hand another squeeze before he let it go. He gave her a look that was probably meant to be charming but wasn’t.
She managed to smile, even though she’d taken an immediate dislike to him. Dealing with men like LeFoy was a hazard of the profession. “Perhaps I might,” she agreed. “If you could illuminate me on the specifics of your . . . game?” She held up her notebook and pencil.
LeFoy just about split his skin with pride he got so swollen up. “LeFoy’s Game—makes a good title for a novel, don’t you think?”
“I say, I have to protest. You haven’t heard my story yet,” Lord Whatsit huffed, “and now you’re going off listening to him.” He was rather pink in the face from a tumbler and a half of good Spanish sherry. “You promised to listen if I bought you a drink.”
“You didn’t buy me a drink,” Ava said. “I got my own.” Lord Whatsit got all petulant at that. She really was sick to death of these men. They trailed about after her, yapping at her skirts, demanding her attention. Like they were entitled to it. Like she should devote herself to them, just because they wanted it. Like everyone would be fascinated by them and their little lives. They wanted her to drop everything for them. They didn’t deserve it; they hadn’t earned it; they didn’t care a fig what she wanted. Well, they could go hang, because what she wanted had nothing to do with listening to men like Lord Whatsit and their silly stories; what she wanted was to find Deathrider, the Ghost of the Trails, the ice-eyed killer, the Plague of the West. She wasn’t done writing about him yet. Not when there was a fortune to be made.
She just needed to find the Plague of the West . . . and survive him.
“I’ll have you know that I’m a peer of the realm,” his lordship protested hotly.
“You’re a what?” Becky was pouring more sherry into his tumbler while clicking her fingers for payment.
Lord Whatsit fumbled for coin. “A peer. Of the realm.”
“To each their own. But I reckon that’s illegal round here. Isn’t it, Pete?”
“Pierre,” LeFoy said sharply.
“Sweet Jesus,” Ava said, shocked, as she saw another group of men climbing the stairs. “Is that Bruno Ortiz? The Butcher of Borrego Springs?”
She heard Becky swear. “You’re a madman,” Becky whispered to LeFoy. “You’re going to get us all killed.”
“What on earth are you up to?” Ava asked. Her mouth had gone as dry as a cotton ball, and the pencil was unsteady in her hand. Any single one of these men would be enough to turn her blood cold, but now there were—she did a rough head count—more than a dozen of them here.
LeFoy heard the crackle of fear in her voice and grinned. “Just stay where you are, Miss Archer. You’re going to have the best seat in the house.”
“For what?”
But he was already gone, off to greet the new arrivals. And to Ava’s horror, they weren’t the last. By the time the moppets had finished their act and been replaced with the dancing girls, the gallery was getting crowded. And crowded with the kind of men who usually ended their lives on the wrong end of a rope.
“You might want to get back here behind the bar with me,” Becky suggested as the gallery filled up. “At least then you’ll have the bar between you and them.”
There were a couple more skimpily clad girls back there with Becky now and two burly men, who were mostly there to keep the girls safe from the varmints.
Ava was tempted to take Becky up on her offer but . . . she was A.A. Archer. She couldn’t be seen to show weakness. Even if they didn’t know who she was right this minute, they would soon enough. One flinch and she’d be fair game—for the rest of her life. She knew the score. Your legend preceded you.
“I’ll be fine.” She’d been through worse than this. Although . . . taking in the crowd and the atmosphere of simmering violence, she wasn’t quite sure that was true. The varmints howled and cheered at the dancing girls, who were smiling brightly but starting to look a little skittish. The crowd downstairs had caught the mood, and the whole place had the feel of a tinderbox. It could go up at any moment.
The upstairs bar was snarled with men looking to get liquored up, and Ava didn’t like the way they were looking at her. His lordship was sobered by it too, despite the tumblers of sherry he’d knocked back.
“Is there another staircase? Or is the one I came up the only way out?” Ava asked Becky as the gallery filled to bursting.
Becky was looking skittish herself. “Over there, behind the curtain. There’s a stairway down to the kitchens, and one up to the bedrooms. You know, for later.” She flushed. “When the dancing girls are working late.”
“Come on, your lordship.” Ava snagged his arm and half-dragged him to the curtain. She didn’t know why she bothered, except he seemed so inept. It would be coldhearted to leave him to the mercies of the crowd. “We’ll just stand here,” she said, positioning them directly in front of the curtain. “So we have an escape route . . . should we need it.” She felt better knowing she could run for it if she wanted to. “Are you armed?” she asked him.
“Of course.” He sounded offended again. “You don’t have any idea whom you’re dealing with. I’m no milky fop.”
“Hush, something is happening.”
The show below had drawn to a close with cymbal-clashing fanfare, and LeFoy had claimed everyone’s attention. He stood at the head of the stairs, arms spread, grinning like the cat that had got the cream. From where he stood, he could see every man in the building: in the gallery and on the floor below.
“Welcome one and all!” he said, his showman’s voice filling the hall. “Ton
ight, LeFoy’s Palladium is host to the best, and the worst, of the west!”
There were cheers and the sound of a breaking glass. Ava heard Becky’s groan even through the cacophony. “Not another one! We’re not going to have any glasses left at this rate.”
Whispers swept the floor below as people spotted the men on the gallery. Ava saw Voss puff up; once again his preening put her in mind of a bantam rooster.
“Tonight,” LeFoy proclaimed, “we gather to launch the great hunt!”
A lusty cheer went up.
The great hunt. Ava felt a chill run down her spine.
“What’s he talking about?” Lord Whatsit asked.
Ava wasn’t sure, but she had a sinking feeling in her stomach.
There was a staccato drumroll from the orchestra pit and LeFoy pointed dramatically to the stage. The heavy velvet curtains pulled back to reveal a chalkboard, a table and two bespectacled men. Heavily armed thugs advanced to guard them, standing on the lip of the stage and watching the crowd carefully.
Hell. She couldn’t see properly. Ava grabbed hold of a brass wall sconce and hauled herself up by the strength of her arms so she could see over the ocean of heads. She braced her feet against the wall to keep herself up and strained to see. The chalkboard contained lists of names and numbers; Kennedy Voss was listed, as was Bruno Ortiz . . . as were all of the other bloodcurdling varmints.
Oh my God. Odds. She was looking at odds.
“In a moment we will invite you to lay your bets, gentlemen!” LeFoy trumpeted. “Come daybreak, the hunt for the Plague of the West begins!”
The hunt for . . . Oh. My. God.
“Which of these men can kill the Ghost of the Trails?” LeFoy’s voice sent shivers down her spine. “Who will be the man to bring death to the Deathrider?” LeFoy now flung a hand in the direction of the gallery. Heads turned, and there was a chilly hush as everyone looked up at the gallery. Ava knew what they were seeing: rapists and kidnappers, butchers and gunslingers, thieves and child killers. The very worst the west had to offer, lined up like horses at auction. LeFoy began listing them, reciting a litany of evil. Ava heard him bellow nicknames that she herself had invented. The hair stood up on the back of her neck.
“And who are they hunting?” LeFoy dropped his voice, a seasoned showman in full flight.
“Deathrider!” the crowd roared.
“The man who kidnapped Susannah Fuller!” LeFoy raged. The crowd hissed.
Only Matt Slater said that was a lie. . . .
Ava shook her head. This was no time for her conscience to nag at her.
“The man who shot up Birchville!” Hissing became booing.
Lie . . .
No. It wasn’t. She’d heard it from Fordham Fuller himself.
There’s no such place as Birchville, Slater had insisted. But there was. There had to be. Fuller had said so.
“We have word our quarry is in the goldfields of Mariposa,” LeFoy told his captive audience, “just a couple of days southeast of here.”
Mariposa. So that was where he was. As awful as this farce was, at least tonight was tangible proof Deathrider was alive.
For now . . .
“Tomorrow at dawn,” LeFoy announced, “the starting pistol will fire, and hell will be unleashed!”
Ava’s arms were trembling from the effort of holding her weight, but she held on to the sconce, unable to look away. She’d come looking for a story—and she’d found one. She was ice-cold and prickling with a thrill that was equal parts curiosity and terror. She’d seen bad things in her life, things that could curdle your blood, but this . . . this was something else again.
It would make a sensational book. . . . Maybe even a series . . .
LeFoy’s barking voice continued, hammering away at the seething crowd below, describing the possibilities ahead: all the ways Deathrider might be captured and killed. In some versions Voss was triumphant; in others it was a fight to the death among two or more of them, and all for the pleasure of ending the Plague of the West. “But”—LeFoy paused for effect, his eyes sparkling—“there’s a twist in the tale!”
What more could there be?
“If they manage to bring the Plague of the West in alive, there will be a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bonus!”
Alive . . .
“No one’s dumb enough to keep him alive!” Kennedy Voss hollered, and the room erupted in laughter.
LeFoy gave a rueful shrug. “I just hoped you’d give the rest of us a chance to meet the legendary Deathrider . . .”
“You can meet him when he’s dead.”
More laughter.
LeFoy was losing them, and he knew it. Because once again he upped the ante. “There’s more!”
“What now? A bonus if we bring him in a gilded carriage?” Irish George joined in the heckling. He was a loudmouth who couldn’t stand sharing the attention with Voss.
LeFoy laughed, but Ava could see his eyes darting around the room. “Riding with the killers will be none other than”—LeFoy paused for effect again, and then his voice soared—“A.A. Archer herself!”
Ava lost her breath. What?
The crowd made a noise like the ocean rushing to shore.
“Who better to witness the death of a legend than the woman who made him!” LeFoy turned in her direction, his eyes gleaming. Relishing every minute, he snapped his fingers at the bartenders in the gallery bar. One of the burly men leapt the bar, and she flinched. A rumble ran through the crowd as the bartender lifted her bodily from the sconce and up onto the bar. Ava slapped his hands away, her face burning. How dared they! She wasn’t a piece of meat to be put on display.
And there was no way in hell she had agreed to be any part of this.
“A.A. Archer,” LeFoy continued, “the author of Blood Moon, The Trail of the Dead, and The Wolf of the West.”
Ava kept her head high, even as her knees went weak. Oh, hell. What had she stumbled into? The faces blurred, a nightmarish smear of eyes and leers. The ground telescoped away from her as she heard a bizarre rumbling noise. Don’t faint. Please don’t let me faint and fall face-first off the bar. Through sheer force of will, she managed to steady herself.
“A.A. Archer: the woman who coined the name the Plague of the West!”
The rumble swelled, and she realized that the men downstairs were stamping their feet on the floorboards. It was more visceral than applause; it sounded like a stampede. She put her hand on her Colt, but it didn’t reassure her. The varmints were all staring at her with greedy eyes. Dear God.
Show no fear.
It took every ounce of courage she had to stare them down. She lifted her chin and threw her shoulders back. She hoped her expression showed frosty disdain and gave no hint of the fear sweat that was rolling down her spine.
LeFoy was still talking, as fervent as a preacher in the pulpit. “Whoever kills the legendary Wolf of the West will be immortalized in Miss Archer’s next work . . . LeFoy’s Great Hunt!”
How dared he? Rage bloomed. That manipulative, opportunistic bastard. Rage was better than fear, although it made her tremble with its force.
“That shit,” Becky gasped. She’d moved to stand behind Ava. She must have seen the tremble in Ava’s legs because she reached out and pressed a hand against her calf in a show of comfort.
“What are the rules?” someone shouted.
“What are the rules?” LeFoy was proving to be an expert in whipping up the crowd. The air was crackling, as though a lightning storm was gathering energy. “The rules of the game, gentlemen, are there are no rules!”
The crowd erupted. Ava watched wide-eyed as the hall roiled with bloodlust. The atmosphere was feral.
“Be in the street outside at dawn tomorrow, and watch the Hunt begin!”
The cheers were deafening. And then a cacophony of shouts,
all variations on the same theme: “How will you prove the winner?” “They’re all a pack of liars!” “How do you trust they’ve done what they claim?”
LeFoy laughed, genuinely amused. “How does any hunter prove his prowess? They’ll bring back his head!”
Ava’s stomach lurched. But only for a moment, until she remembered who their quarry was. There would be no head brought to LeFoy’s Palladium, and there would be no accounting of bets. Because this was Deathrider they were talking about. The man was unkillable. He should have died a thousand times over by now, and yet he was still roaming the west, his long shadow falling from prairie to coast.
But . . . oh my God, the bloodlust . . . the butchers arrayed before her . . .
Surely no man could survive this . . . not even the Plague of the West . . .
Someone needs to warn him. The thought came unbidden. Warn him? She was the one who had documented his crimes; of all the people in this room, she knew best that his victims deserved justice. He was a killer, no different from these other butchers and villains. But had he really committed all those crimes? There was that flicker again, the one that had been bothering her of late. Now and again a tremulous whisper tried to interrupt her when she wrote. What if he hadn’t done everything she’d accused him of?
Enough. He had. She had reliable sources; she’d traced his steps and done her research as well as was humanly possible; everything else had simply been embroidering existing facts. He had done it all . . .
Mostly.
But . . . sometimes, maybe, perhaps . . . she had taken a few liberties. For the sake of the story, or when the facts ran out. It was no more than any writer did. Her conscience was bothering her only because this sick circus was anathema to her humanity, that was all. No man deserved this. Not even the Plague of the West.
“At dawn tomorrow the Hunt begins! But now,” LeFoy was bellowing, confident his Hunt was already a roaring success, “now we take an accounting! Gentlemen: the betting is open!”
As Ava watched, the sea of men rushed the stage, waving their hard-earned cash. The bookmakers worked in tandem, adjusting numbers, tabling bets, accumulating a fortune on the desk. The guards had their weapons drawn and kicked the crowd back whenever it roiled too close to the stage.
