by Jo Goodman
Eli folded his straight and tossed the cards away without revealing his winning hand. It was time to gather his winnings and yank Jesse Snow from between Mary Edith’s thighs.
* * *
Calico and Quill pored over another map, this time in the comfort of their hotel room. It was their third evening in Denver and they were feeling confident that they had enough information to take their search in the right direction. The weather and the trains were their current obstacles. Calico had suggested they buy horses and ride out, but Quill sensibly told her that would only happen over his dead body. She gave him the eye that said she was considering it, but then ruined any chance she would be believed by bursting into laughter. So now they waited, Calico less patiently than Quill, for the weather to break and the trains to move and sometimes for the baby to kick. Although they both knew this last was still months away, it was an event, unlike the others, that they looked forward to with more pleasure than trepidation.
The map was spread out on the bed, and they studied it from their respective corners, Calico in the southwest and Quill in the southeast.
“So we are decided,” said Calico. “We will go to Lansing.”
Quill nodded. “If we can trust what we learned here, then yes, that seems the next logical step. I admit that I entertained thoughts of finding him here, or at least learning that’d he stayed for a time and shared his plans with someone, but that does not appear the case.”
“No, it doesn’t. Israel was dedicated to the play.”
Gaming and whoring, supplemented by the occasional vaudeville act from the East, was largely confined to three notorious streets in Denver: Holladay, Blake, and Larimer. There was so much territory to cover in the tenderloin that Calico and Quill split up, going door to door with an end agreement to meet at Bat Masterson’s Palace Variety Theatre and Gambling Parlor. They secured a private box to watch the entertainment and discuss what they’d learned. A bottle of beer came at the dear price of a dollar, but since they were still there at midnight, they, like all the patrons, were treated to a free meal, which included their choice of succulent roast pork, prairie hen, or venison.
Their exhaustive search had turned up several important clues. Quill found someone at a gaming establishment called Chase’s Cricket Club, who told him that not only did he know Buck McKay, but that he’d also had the pleasure of sitting at a table with him for part of the journey from Saint Louis to Denver. Mr. Adam Randolph left the game before Denver, but he did not leave the car, and he had some regrets about disembarking when he did because the game, as he described it, was a masterfully conducted symphony of card play.
Calico thought Quill made that up, but he swore he was repeating Randolph verbatim. It was obvious that the man took the game quite seriously. Randolph was able to recount several hands in the exact order of play, but other than Buck McKay, who turned out to be the masterful conductor of the symphony, he was less clear about the names of the other players. He thought there might have been someone named Davenport or Cavendish or maybe it was Ravenscroft. Another fellow, whose name he could not recall, said he was a barber. He was fairly certain there was someone named Elijah at the table, and another fellow, who stayed with the game when it moved to another car on another train, by the name of Groom.
It was not, Randolph assured him, a complete list of everyone who bought into the rolling game, but the names he offered were men he could still vaguely put a face to. Quill made notes of the descriptions, although they were rather less helpful than Randolph thought they were. Even Randolph’s depiction of Buck McKay was suspect because Quill could not remember a time when his brother had ever sported a mustache. Quill had to allow that Israel’s incarceration could have changed him at least that much, but there was also the fact that the features Randolph described more closely resembled the royal faces in a deck of cards.
Randolph did, however, impart one other detail that Quill believed he could trust. The players at the table when the train reached Denver all moved to the Jupiter line, and to a man they agreed the game would end in Lansing.
Calico spoke to a whore in Jennie Rogers’s House of Mirrors, who recalled one of her lonely bedmates talking about a rolling game. Apparently it had excited the man to near exhaustion by the time he got to her, but he was still able to recount the game in excruciating detail while he poked her. Fortunately, he had stepped away from the table before he lost everything, and this bride of the multitude earned a generous tip that night. Calico also learned that the whore’s companion had not gotten off the train in Denver like some of the other observers. He followed the game to Lansing, where it ended as the players had agreed. He stayed with the train to the end of the line and then rode back to Denver.
Calico’s prostitute did not know the name of her pleasure-seeker, nor had she ever seen him again, but he had spoken so often of the man who had taken everything off the table that she only required a moment of thought to bring that name to mind: Buck McKay.
Quill folded the map and set it aside while Calico turned back the bedcovers. They spooned comfortably together, Quill’s arm around Calico’s waist. She snuggled her backside into the cradle he made for her and laid her arm over his.
“You know,” she whispered, “Israel’s winnings were considerable. Have you thought about what that means?”
“He did not do it by cheating.”
“I didn’t think he did. You said he was that good and I believe you. He started with a small stake. He only had the money your parents gave him to get a seat at the table, and from the accounts we heard, he walked away a much richer man.”
“Are you wondering what he would do with all that money?”
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m hoping I know. What I’ve been thinking about is the man who lost the lion’s share of what Israel won. There was a player at the table with deep pockets and perhaps an ace up his sleeve; that’s what drew Israel. I’m sure of it. Whoever it was played more or less anonymously. That, and the fact that many players came and went, is why we don’t have a name to attach to him, but he is important, Calico.”
Quill’s chin rested against Calico’s flame red hair. He said quietly, “The loser in a game like that is always important.”
Calico threaded her fingers through Quill’s and squeezed because she knew he was right.
Chapter Twenty-five
Annalea used both hands to pull the barn door open and struggled some to close it again. She looked around but didn’t move away from the entrance. “Willa? Israel? You in here? Pa sent me to look for you on account of I was reading to him from my fifth reader, and he didn’t much care for the information about coffee beans either.”
“Imagine that,” Israel whispered in Willa’s ear. She had her face pressed into his shoulder, but he still could make out her smothered giggle. “Up here, Annalea. In the loft. Careful you don’t miss a step on the ladder.”
“Then I’m invited?”
“Sure.” He grunted softly when Willa jabbed him with her fist as she bolted upright. “If you have that reader with you, leave it behind.”
“Oh, I left it in the house. Pa says he might roast it with the potatoes, which I think is an excellent idea.” She grabbed the sides of the wooden ladder and shook it to make sure it was well positioned. “Is Willa with you?”
“She is.” Israel was watching her pull bits of golden straw out of her hair. As it happened, the bedding was satisfactory for people as well as the animals. He pushed himself upright and ran his fingers through his hair in an absent fashion, leaving it to Willa to pluck out the smaller pieces. He winced as she did this with rather more enthusiasm than was warranted.
“Hello,” said Annalea when her head appeared above the lip of the loft. She cast her eyes from one to the other. “What are you doing up here?”
“I’m avoiding work,” said Israel. “Your sister’s talking about it.
Spring planting. Driving the herd grazing by Settler’s Ridge to town when the thaw comes. Selling two horses to the livery in Lansing—there was an offer made while we were there—and inquiring after someone named Colonel Armstrong to find out if he is ready to take possession of the three that we’ve been boarding for him. Thanks to Cutter, there is elk venison to smoke, and it seems a pig will be ready for butchering as soon as Zach gets around to killing it.”
Annalea shook her head at her sister. “Really, Willa, you do not know how to let a body rest. It’s exacerbating.”
“Exasperating,” Willa said automatically.
“Exactly,” said Annalea, unperturbed and unaware. Israel chuckled, and she smiled at him then accepted his help moving from the ladder and into the loft.
“Sit there, brat,” he said, pointing to the blanket. “Beside your exacerbating sister.”
“For goodness’ sakes, Israel,” said Willa. “Don’t encourage her.”
Annalea folded her legs and dropped beside Willa. “It’s too late. Pa says I’m encourageable, so Israel must be doing something right.”
Willa sighed. “Incorrigible. And you are, but I can’t think of a single reason that matters at the moment.”
Israel sat down on the other side of Annalea, looked over her head at Willa, and offered dryly, “Oh, good for you, Wilhelmina.”
She gave him a sweetly sour look in return and lay down when Annalea flopped backward between them. A moment later, Israel joined them.
Annalea said, “This is nice. I come up here sometimes but always by myself. I can’t bring John Henry with me so I don’t stay long because he usually whines at the bottom of the ladder.”
“I’m sure he does,” said Willa. “Pitiful dog.”
“He is, but I do love him so.”
For a long time no one spoke, and the peace of those moments was something each of them absorbed and appreciated. Willa and Israel were under no illusions that it could last above a few minutes, and when Annalea began to fidget, they knew the fuse had been lit.
“Is no one going to say anything about the Barbers?” The words fairly exploded from her. “I can hear everyone thinking about them and no one says their names when I’m around. I’m the one who saw the Big Bar brand on Mr. Easterbrook’s horse. I don’t think you should keep secrets from me. What if I kept that brand a secret? What then? What if I flustrated you the way you all flustrate me? I bet there would be some words then.”
“Lots of them,” said Israel. Before Willa could insert a correction, he added, “I would be flustered, too, if I were that frustrated.”
Annalea nodded. “Uh-huh. See, Willa? Israel understands.”
Willa’s voice, in contrast to Annalea’s excited one, was calm, and the words were delivered in measured tones. “What is it you want to know?”
“What we’re going to do,” she said, marginally less agitated than she was a moment earlier. “That man works for the Barbers and he tried to kill Israel. It seems we should be doing something about that.”
“There was some discussion about going to the sheriff,” said Willa. “Tell him what we know and let him sort it out.”
“That’s no kind of way to do things.”
“Sometimes it is,” said Israel, “but maybe not this time.”
Annalea was in firm agreement. “Without knowing what you did, it’d be like poking a hive for honey and disturbing a bear instead.”
Israel knuckled the crown of her head. “Probably would. So what we’re going to do is move you and your pitiful dog into town to stay with Mrs. Hamill for a while and invite the Barbers here for a parley.”
Annalea held up one hand with two fingers extended. “Two problems. John Henry and I are not leaving and a parley is for pirates.”
“A parley is a negotiation. Anyone can do it. Scalawags, scoundrels, and diplomats. As for leaving . . . you are.”
Sitting up, Annalea twisted around and rose to her knees. She looked down at Willa and Israel, her narrowed eyes darting back and forth. She finally rested her stare on Willa and made her appeal. “You don’t mean it, Willa. Say you don’t. This is my home. I’m a Pancake. I should be here.”
“It might not be safe for you,” said Willa. It hardly mattered that Annalea was her spitting image; common sense dictated that she be kept away from the scrutiny of the Barbers.
“Safe? Do you mean you expect there will be a showdown?”
Israel’s mouth quirked. “It’s not the O.K. Corral, brat.”
“It could be. We got a corral.”
Israel looked over at Willa. “You take another turn.”
Willa said, “We are not looking for a fight, Annalea. We are trying to stop one. What we want is an explanation. Israel wants to know what happened after he left Chicago, even if it means hearing something he doesn’t like, and I want to come to terms with Malcolm about Monarch Lake, even if it means having to sit at a table with him.”
“Did Pa agree to this? He still talks about shooting Mal . . . odorous.”
“And that’s another reason you can’t be here,” Willa told her. “I can’t depend on you to call him Mr. Barber.”
“Mr. Barbarian is more like it,” Annalea said under her breath. In quick succession, she added, “Mal . . . content. Mal . . . ediction. Mal . . . adroit.” She looked at Israel. “I’ve been studying up.”
“Seems that way.”
“Hmm. Mal . . . eficent.”
“That’s enough,” said Willa.
“I’m just saying that you can make a whole lotta words mean something kinda bad if you put ‘mal’ in front of them. Ezra Barber should have thought of that before he named his son Mal . . . colm.”
Willa covered her eyes with her forearm. Before she did, she saw that Israel had covered his mouth with his. “Enough, Annalea. You asked us to tell you about the plan, and we are getting an awful lot of guff in return.”
“Humph.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “If I can say just one more thing . . .”
Willa lifted her forearm enough to give Annalea a wary eyeful. “Go on. One more thing.”
“Well, it seems passing strange that I tell you that Pa still talks about shooting Mr. Malcolm Barber, and all you pay attention to is me calling the man names. Sticks and stones, Willa. Sticks and stones.”
Israel uncovered his mouth. “I’ll hold her down, Willa. You tickle her until she wets herself.”
Shrieking, Annalea tried jumping to her feet, but Israel was too quick. He snatched an ankle and pulled her down. Willa pounced. Annalea’s fierce giggles filled the rafters with joyful noise.
* * *
Malcolm Barber looked over the letter that Buster brought him not above a half hour ago. He studied the lines and he studied between them, and he could not for the life of him see what he had to lose by accepting Happy Pancake’s invitation. Happy had not penned the letter himself, but it was his signature at the bottom and that meant that he had approved the invitation.
Malcolm wondered how it had come about. Was it Happy’s idea and Wilhelmina put it to paper, or was it Wilhelmina’s idea and Happy merely added his name to it? The answer could assist him in identifying intent. Not being able to see a trap did not mean there wasn’t one.
He had dismissed Buster upon receiving the letter and learning its origins. Zachary Englewood had carried it from Pancake Valley using the road and not the route over the ridge and barbed wire that would have been seen as trespass. Now, except for Harris Garvey rooting around in the kitchen in preparation for making supper, the house was quiet.
Malcolm set the letter aside and picked up his drink. He sipped, swore softly, and then sipped again. Eli had not returned from Jupiter. Malcolm accepted that the recent snowstorm was a factor, but he couldn’t help thinking that if he had sent Buster after the contracts, he would have them by now. At the very least, Buster w
ould have tried harder to get back to Big Bar.
Malcolm wanted to put more responsibility on his son’s shoulders. It was time. Some fathers, his own included, would have said it was past time, but Malcolm had observed a reckless streak in Eli, as well as a petulance in his demeanor when he had to explain himself. That troubled him.
He had tested the waters now and then. Sending Eli to Saint Louis to complete negotiations on cattle pricing, specifically to fix those prices, had been one such test, and Eli had acquitted himself admirably, returning with the entire profit of that transaction. Encouraging Eli to pursue Willa Pancake with the same feverish intensity that he had shown as a youth was another test, but that one had ended badly. Malcolm had no regrets that he put a stop to that ill-advised affair in their childhood—both of them were absurdly naïve—but he did regret that ending it in the manner he did left young Willa with an abiding hatred and him with an abiding hunger.
Malcolm accepted that Eli’s failure to bring Willa to heel was also his failure. And now with the disappointing, even disastrous, news that she had married, it seemed that revisiting those wildly satisfying moments they’d shared were something he should finally put behind him.
He had no idea how to do that. He had meant to punish her all those years ago, to demonstrate in the only way he believed his son’s little whore would understand that he was not to be trifled with. She had been warned to stay away from Eli, and she had come anyway. How pretty she had been, perched like a chickadee in that old cottonwood, fiddling with her braids, humming tunelessly while she waited. The hem of her yellow dress fluttered as she swung her legs back and forth. He’d had a glimpse of long, smooth calves above her ankle boots and a peek at the young flesh of her thighs. The surge of lust she had provoked overwhelmed him, and it was then that he truly comprehended the grip she had on Eli.
He had beaten the truth out of his son before he went to find Willa. It had required half a dozen hard blows across Eli’s naked buttocks to get his confession, but Malcolm believed he knew the ring of truth when he heard it. Willa had been spreading her legs for Eli for months.
