Robbers Roost

by James Reasoner

  A chuckle came from the shadows. "You did, did you? You a miner, boy?"

  Fox nodded. "My family and I are working a claim over in Alder Gulch."

  "And bein' out in the middle of nowhere, you got the hankerin' for a woman, is that it?"

  "Yes, sir. That's right."

  The man, who was evidently a lookout of some kind, laughed shortly. "I reckon you're harmless enough. Go on inside. Anybody bothers you, just tell 'em Ace says you're okay."

  "Yes, sir, I'll do that. Thank you."

  Fox had taken one step toward the open door when the man's voice stopped him again. "One more thing, boy. You got money?"

  Pox's head bobbed up and down. "Yes indeed. I knew to bring cash with me."

  "Good man. Head on in."

  Fox stepped inside, coughing somewhat as the harsh smoke that filled the air hit his lungs. He waved a hand in front of his face, blinked tears out of his eyes, and tried to orient himself.

  One huge room took up the bottom floor of the building. There was a bar along most of the back wall, plenty of tables scattered around the hard-packed earthen floor, and a small raised platform in one corner where several old men scraped on fiddles. The piano was there, as well, being assaulted by a drunken cowboy. The fiddlers ignored him and played whatever they chose.

  Half a dozen men were at the bar drinking whiskey. Several others were gallivanting around the open space that served as a dance floor, clutching heavily painted women tightly to them.

  Illumination came from candles and lanterns, and the harsh red glare in combination with the smoke from numerous quirlies made Fox's eyes hurt. He squinted, his gaze drawn to the women.

  Now he could see why the one he had seen from outside had struck him as strange — she was an Oriental. All of the gaudily-dressed trollops he could see, save one, had a decidedly Far Eastern cast to their features. Fox had seen Oriental men before, but never females.

  He found their appearance strangely exciting.

  "Something we can do for you, sonny?" a voice said at his elbow.

  Fox looked around, expecting to see a man, judging from the deep timbre of the voice. Instead he saw a thick-bodied woman wearing the same sort of dress as the whores. Considering her girth, it was probably a good thing that it was cut a bit more decorously. Her hair was red, but it was a much brassier shade than Celia's.

  "I-1 suppose I'd like to start with a drink," Fox said when he regained the use of his tongue. The words sounded funny to his ears.

  "That's always a good place to start, all right. Come on." As she led him toward the bar, she went on, "New around here, ain't you?"

  "Yes. I told your man outside my family and I have a claim over in Alder Gulch. He said to tell anyone who asked that Ace said I was okay."

  "That's fine by me. Long as your money's good and you ain't packin' a star, you're welcome here."

  A trace of a grim smile played over Fox's lips. Now that he was here, he was getting over his nervousness as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He carried no star, but just the same he represented the forces of law and order.

  And he would bring that law and order to Robbers Roost, he thought cockily.

  When they reached the bar, the woman caught the eye of one of the filthy-aproned bartenders. When he had come over to them, she said, "This young fellow wants a drink."

  "What'll it be?" the burly bardog asked Fox.

  "Whiskey." Fox kept his voice firm.

  The bartender spilled liquid from a bottle into a filmy glass and shoved it across to Fox. "Six bits," he informed laconically.

  Fox dug coins out of his pants pocket and paid the man, then picked up the glass and regarded the drink. The glass could have been much cleaner, but surely the fiery liquor would kill some of the germs on it.

  He tossed the drink down his throat.

  Suddenly, his eyes widened and an explosion seemed to go off deep within him. His stomach twitched and cramped in protest. He gasped as the glass clinked back onto the bar. With his other hand, he grabbed the hardwood to hold himself up.

  "They call me Madame Varnish," the woman beside him boomed. "Reckon you can tell why. They could sure use that whiskey I sell in place of it, couldn't they?"

  "I-Indeed," Fox choked out, tears in his eyes again. "Quite a potent libation."

  "Ain't it, though? Well, what else brings you here, boy? Or do you just intend to get walleyed?"

  Fox shook his head. "I thought . . . I thought I might see about . . . uh . . ."

  "Gettin' laid? Sure thing. Mostly yellow meat we got here, but the boys don't seem to mind. Some of 'em say it's mighty tasty."

  Fox fought down the embarrassment he felt at having to listen to such crudities. He was, after all, supposed to be a lust-crazed miner. Actually, considering his lack of expertise in this area, he was acutely uncomfortable.

  He willed a grin onto his face. "Bring 'em on," he made himself say. "Color don't matter none, long as they're lively." He didn't notice that he had changed his manner of speech as he tried to imitate the ruffians he had heard in other dives like this one.

  Madame Varnish drooped one eyelid in an elaborate wink. "Got just the thing for you," she said in a conspiratorial voice. "Just between you and me, she ain't been at this long. Why, hell, she's the next thing to a virgin!"

  Fox nodded, suddenly anxious to see this harlot the madame had in mind for him. Perhaps if she was as inexperienced as Madame Varnish claimed, he would not feel quite so nervous about pretending to be a potential customer.

  The big woman turned and called across the room, "Ching Ping! Get your tail over here, girl!"

  Fox swiveled away from the bar to watch the Chinese whore make her way across the room. He saw her come out from behind a burly man who barred her way for a moment.

  And gasped when he got his first good look at her.

  Ching Ping was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The prostitute called Ching Ping came to a stop in front of Fox and Madame Varnish and put a sultry smile on her face. "Yes, madame?" she inquired in a low, husky voice.

  Her long shining hair was the color of a raven's wing. It framed her face and hung down her back in a shimmering curtain. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes looked up at Fox from beneath heavily-painted lids. The rouged cheeks and red slash of her lips gave her features a slightly doll-like appearance.

  She wore a dress of emerald silk that clung tightly to the curves of her young body. Fox found his eyes drawn inexorably to the swell of her breasts. Like the other Oriental women in the room, her bosom was small, but to Fox's eyes, perfectly shaped and utterly inviting.

  Madame Varnish slapped Fox on the shoulder. "Well, what do you think? She's a beauty, ain't she?"

  Fox struggled with his tongue for a moment before finally getting it under control and stammering, "Y-yes. She certainly is."

  "Thank you, sir," Ching Ping said with a demure smile.

  "You like the looks of the boy, hon?" the ma-dame asked her.

  Ching Ping reached up and rested her hand on Fox's chest. Her eyes frankly appraised him for a moment, and then she nodded. "Very much," she murmured. She appeared to have no trouble with her English.

  Madame Varnish's grin was more of a leer. "All right, get on with it, you two."

  Ching Ping took Fox's hand. "Come with me. What is your name?"

  Fox swallowed hard. "P-Preston. Preston Colfax." How he found the wits to maintain his cover identity at that moment, he didn't know.

  He was lost, swept away in the mysteries of those dark eyes and that lithe, tanned body. His intention in coming here had been to subtly discover the information he needed to track down the payroll thieves. He had never intended to actually . . . to actually bed down with one of the soiled doves!

  But he made no protest as Ching Ping led him across the barroom to the staircase. He was beyond the point where he could have protested.

  Just before they reached the stairs, a large man tur
ned away from the bar, a drink in his hand. He frowned as he spotted Fox and Ching Ping. His free hand came out and poked against Fox's chest, bringing both he and Ching Ping to a stop.

  "Here now," he growled. "What's this?"

  Fear flickered briefly in Ching Ping's eyes as she answered, "Customer, Mister Jack."

  "Customer, eh?" The man glared at Fox. "Haven't seen you around here before. Who the hell are you?"

  Some of Fox's reason came back to him as he began to resent being accosted like this. "My name is Preston Colfax, sir," he said coldly.

  The man called Jack looked him up and down. "Miner, are you?"

  "My family has a claim over in Alder Gulch, if it's any business of yours."

  "I'm makin' it my business. I'm right fond of this here gal. Like a daughter to me, she is." The way Jack leered at Ching Ping was anything but paternal, however.

  "Please, Mister Jack. Madame Varnish picked me out for this gentleman — "

  Jack waved a hand. Fox thought for an instant that there was something strange about it, but before he could look closer, he was distracted by Jack's profane growl.

  "I ain't worry about Madame Varnish," Jack went on when he had finished cursing. "I just want my lil' China gal to be happy."

  "Oh, I am, I assure you, Mister Jack." Ching Ping tugged on Fox's arm. "Come on, Preston," she said urgently.

  Fox didn't care for Jack's attitude, but he recognized the danger of pressing the matter under these circumstances. Undoubtedly the big ruffian had plenty of friends in the room.

  As Fox and Ching Ping started up the stairs, Jack called after them, "Make sure he pays first!"

  When the two young people had disappeared into the gloom of the second floor, Jack turned back to the bar and ordered another drink. He was lifting it to his lips when Madame Varnish said from beside him, "I saw that little scene, Jack. And I didn't appreciate it."

  "Don't get your back up, Varnish. I was just funnin' those youngsters."

  "Sure," Madame Varnish snorted. "Don't think I don't know how you feel about Ching Ping. I'm beginnin' to think you like her better than me!"

  "Aw, now, don't be like that, Varnish. Just because I took a turn or two with the gal don't mean anything. We've been a team for a long time, and it'll take more than some Chinese whore to break up Madame Varnish and Three-Fingered Jack!"

  He tossed off his drink and then drew the madame close to him, pressing his right hand hard against her back.

  The lack of his index and middle fingers didn't seem to hamper him in the least.

  Upstairs, Ching Ping took Fox to one of the little rooms where the prostitutes carried on their ancient profession. As she shut the door behind them, Fox looked around the tawdry cubicle.

  The room was lit by a single candle on a stand next to the bed. The bed itself was a rusted metal framework topped with a sagging mattress. There was a soiled blanket wrapped around the mattress. Except for the bed and one chair, there was no other furniture in the room. On the far wall was a closed door that Fox realized must lead to the balcony he had seen on the front of the house.

  Several nails driven into the logs of the wall serve as hooks. "You can hang your clothes there," Ching Ping told Fox in a soft voice as she moved back in front of him.

  A small part of Fox's brain told him that he should ask his questions of the girl and then make some excuse to leave. He didn't have to go through with this sordid masquerade.

  Fox ignored the little voice in his head. The growing excitement within him completely overpowered it.

  "How-how much?" he asked. He remembered Jack's comment about making him pay first.

  Ching Ping shrugged, keeping her eyes downcast. "I like you," she whispered. "I would not charge you-only if I did not, Madame Varnish would be unhappy with me."

  "Does she beat you?" Fox asked.

  The young Chinese girl shrugged again.

  Fox gave up trying to guess her age. She was younger than him, but he could not pin it down any farther than that. "Is five dollars enough?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  She was a harlot, he told himself. Her claims of liking him and not wanting to charge him were all part of the act, he told himself.

  No. She meant it, Preston Kirkwood Fox decided. Prostitute she might be, but at heart she was an innocent.

  Much like himself.

  Nervously, he shifted from foot to foot. Ching Ping held out her hand, and Fox abruptly realized she was asking for the money. He dug out the coins and passed them over to her. She lifted her dress momentarily and did something with them — he had no idea what.

  "Now," she purred. "Shall I undress you?"

  Fox nodded jerkily. He summoned up his courage as Ching Ping began to toy with the buttons of his work shirt. "There's something I have to tell you," he said.

  "You can tell me anything, love," she murmured.

  "I . . . I've never . . . well, done this before."

  The admission shamed him. He could have visited the bordellos in any of the towns near the forts where he had been stationed and relieved that situation, but he had never given in to those urges. Now, he wished he was more experienced-like the girl facing him.

  "Do not worry, Preston." She spread his shirt open and rested her fingertips lightly on his chest for a moment before drawing the nails down to the sensitive skin of his belly. "I will take your hand and show you the path to paradise."

  He caught her wrists before she could delve any lower. "Could I see you?" he asked urgently.

  "But of course." Ching Ping smiled and stepped back slightly. She reached behind her and did something at the back of her dress. It fell away from her bosom. She bunched the material at her hips and then pushed it down over her thighs. It slid down her smooth legs to land in a silken heap on the floor around her ankles.

  Fox tried to lick suddenly parched lips, but he found that his tongue was nothing but a dry husk in his mouth.

  She stepped close to him again, bringing the rich golden mysteries right into the circle of his arms. "Paradise," she repeated in a whisper.

  "Paradise," Fox rasped.

  He drew her to him .. .

  Fox would never have believed that the rundown bed could be so comfortable. As he lay there after their lovemaking, Ching Ping's tiny, incredibly beautiful form nestled in his arms, he contemplated his life up to this point and came to the inescapable conclusion that it had been an utter, complete waste.

  Ching Ping had showed him what really mattered. She had opened his eyes to the importance of love.

  And Preston Kirkwood Fox was in love. There was no mistake about that.

  He rolled his head to the side and gazed adoringly at Ching Ping's head, which was pillowed on his shoulder. The fragrance of her hair filled his nostrils and massaged his senses. He slid his hand down the silky skin of her flank.

  She stirred against him. "We must get dressed and go back downstairs," she said sleepily. "Madame Varnish does not like it if we spend too much time with-"

  "Customers. You can say it, Ching Ping." Harsh reality intruded coldly into Fox's brain. "I understand that this was a business transaction.

  Her head jerked up so that she could look into his eyes. "No!" she hissed. "At first that is what it was, but not now! You . . . you are different, Preston."

  He wanted desperately to believe her, but he could not. "I'm sure you tell all of your customers that," he said bitterly.

  Ching Ping shook her head. Anger burned in her dark eyes. "I tell you the truth," she said. In her agitation, Chinese words began to spill from her painted mouth.

  Fox tightened his arms around her. "Hold on," he soothed her. Could it be? Could it be that she was telling the truth, that she actually cared for him?

  He felt her tears against his bare chest, and the wetness seemed to scald his flesh. "It was different," she sobbed. "You are so sweet, so tender — I have never been treated so by the brutes who stay here . . ."

  She was telling the truth. Fox was con
vinced of it now. And the part of him that was still Operative D of Powell's Army saw an opportunity to perhaps learn something.

  "Most of the men here are outlaws, aren't they?" he asked off-handedly, as if he was only casually curious.

  Ching Ping nodded. "Bad men. Desperadoes, they are called. There is a reason this place is known as Robbers Roost."

  "I imagine they have plenty of money to throw around, though."

  "Yes, most of the time. But that does not make them any better. You would be a good man even if you did not have any money, Preston."

  His heart swelled at her praise. He had won her over.

  "Did you happen to notice any of the men spending some new banknotes over the last few weeks?"

  The question made her look up again and frown. "I do not understand. Why does this interest you?"

  "Oh, no particular reason." He tried again to sound casual. "I was just curious. I would think that a lot of men would have gold dust or nuggets rather than banknotes, at least around here in mining country."

  She began to regard him with something like suspicion. "You are a strange man now, Preston. I do not like this talk." Ching Ping leaned over and kissed him on the chest, her lips soft and moist and warm. "I like the language of love much better."

  She was trying to distract him, Fox realized, to get his mind off the questioning. That meant she must know something she didn't want to tell him, something that would get her or someone else into trouble. He was convinced that he was on the right track.

  But the hot urgency of her mouth was just too much to resist. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her up to him, his lips finding hers in desperation.

  There would be time enough for more questions later.

  Loud voices outside the doorway roused Fox from his sated sleep. He felt Ching Ping stirring beside him and knew that she heard the shouting as well. He heard a familiar voice calling her name.

  The big burly man called Jack . . .

  Ching Ping sat up and shook her head to clear the cobwebs from it. Fox thought proudly but fleetingly that he had performed more than adequately, judging from her impassioned reactions during their two bouts of lovemaking.