Wanted: Sam Bass

by Paul Colt

  He met her eyes. She bit her lip, considering how much to expose. As a rule she didn’t. Beau Longstreet was different. She dropped her lashes, creamy breasts swelled with a sigh. She knocked back her drink and held out her glass. He poured.

  “My husband died back in Missouri. I lost the farm. After that, I drifted west. Thought I might find work in the end-oftrack construction camps. Barely kept myself fed doin’ laundry, mending and such that first winter. Next thing I knew I found myself in Julesburg, hungry and in need of a roof over my head. Somewhere along the way I lost my self-respect. The railroad men had money and needs. It seemed like an easy enough trade. It’s better than starvin’ or freezin’ to death, most of the time.”

  A solitary tear trickled down her cheek. She looked up eyes brimming. She sighed again. “There, is that what you wanted? Now look what you’ve done, ruined my makeup sure enough.”

  He held her eyes unable to answer.

  “My turn. Why on earth would you care to know?”

  “It struck me you didn’t belong here.”

  She bit her lower lip, staring off into the smoky glow of a kerosene lamp. “Time was I thought the same thing. I haven’t thought that way in quite some time. I guess maybe I don’t believe it anymore.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “And maybe you’re Prince Charming and I’m a Fairy Princess.”

  She leaned across the table and kissed him, soft and sweet. Something passed between them, something strong. She felt it too.

  She lifted her lips from his, her expression oddly confused. She sat back and wiped the moisture from her eyes in hope of restoring her composure. “You have made a mess of me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was sweet, even if it was just curiosity. You know what they say about curiosity.” She smiled.

  He smiled, tossed off his drink and poured another.

  “So what brings a handsome Southern gentleman to the Pinkerton agency and an end-of-track stop like Julesburg?”

  “Turn about fair play?”

  “It is.”

  “The war I suppose. We lost. The family lost the plantation. Kind of like you losing the farm. I drifted west too. Went to work for Pinkerton to feed myself and put a roof over my head. Sound familiar?” She favored him with an understanding look he couldn’t describe beyond the echoed feeling of her kiss. “One thing led to another. Pinkerton gave me more responsibility. Then somebody robbed a train at Big Springs.”

  “Now I’m curious. What brought you here, now? When you walked in here and looked my way, I figured you for a man in need of a whore. Now I’m not sure.”

  They sat quietly for a time, connected by some unseen bond. They shared the same story written in different circumstances, one for a man the other for a woman.

  “I asked myself something like that walking over here. To tell the truth, I’m not sure why I came or what I expected to find when I got here. The other night left me with something more I wanted to know. I guess I wanted to know you.”

  She lowered her lashes and clasped her hands in her lap. An innocent widow from Missouri sat in the midst of a rundown saloon, in a dress that made no secret of her sex. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. “Did you find what you came for?”

  The question might have had an edge. Still it felt soft and warm in his thoughts. He reached across the table and took her chin in his hand. He drew her lips to his, holding a mystical connection both strong and delicate. He could feel her breath mingle with his. His lips touched hers. A spark jumped between them. It flared, white hot in an instant. She covered his hand on her cheek with hers. She squeezed it and rose.

  She led him by the hand to the narrow stairway at the back of the saloon, an unremarkable act in the presence of the usual crowd. He followed her up the stairs. Creaking boards heralded the ascent, his every sense alert, raw, exposed. She led him to a room. Her room he guessed. She scratched a match and lit a single oil lamp on a small table cracked and stained. The room was small and spare, a bed, a chair, a dark window. Dresses and women’s things hung on hooks. He’d seen bigger jail cells. She trimmed the lamp, the light softened. She turned to him, her body heat close in the small space. She lifted her lips to his.

  Her kiss ignited liquid fire. Lamplight flared a blinding red haze behind his eyelids. Soft swells, round curves, the crinkle of fabric assaulted his senses. He drew back, measuring his want to her need.

  She looked up, misty-eyed, sensing the difference in him. The soft glow of lamplight played light and shadow in her hair. He kissed the salty wetness at the corners of her eyes. He fumbled at her back, his fingers clumsy, groping at the fastenings. She nibbled his lip, a small voice caught breathless at the back of her throat. Green satin slipped. His fingertips found the silken curve of her back.

  She slipped his coat off his shoulders. His hungry hands left her long enough for it to fall to the floor. She picked his shirt buttons open one by one. He held her taut and warm against his chest. Laces and wriggles, more buttons and boots, he gathered her in his arms. She encircled his neck.

  He kissed her with a gentle urgency unknown in her experience with men. He laid her on the bed, bathed in soft light. He paused to drink his fill. A quiver of anticipation thrilled her. A pulse throbbed at her throat. She’d never thought a man beautiful before. They’d bared their souls. She’d never known nakedness so complete. He crawled onto the bed beside her, his touch soft and gentle. He bent his lips to hers. Her breath caught. He’d touched something deep inside. Oh, yes! Something she wanted him to know.

  Buffalo Station

  Bass turned out in the lobby at six o’clock, bathed, barbered and brushed in clean linen. Abby Stone appeared moments later wearing that smile that said she was privately amused.

  “Mr. Bass.”

  He shook his head. “Remember, it’s Sam.”

  “Very well, Sam.” She took his arm.

  He had the odd sense he was the one being led across the dusty street through the gathering shadows of early evening. The half-curtained window proclaimed Delmonico’s lettered in gold. Inside candlelit tables set the room off in a warm golden glow. Each table was set with fine china plates, silver and crystal. The waiter, a small man in a frock coat nodded.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Stone. Your usual table?”

  “If you please, Alanzo.”

  He directed them to a back corner. He held her chair. “Would you care to see the wine list?” The question was directed to her.

  “That would be fine, unless Sam would like something stronger.”

  Whiskey sounded good. “Wine will be fine.”

  “Very good.” The waiter bustled away.

  “Come here often?”

  She smiled. “I do. I hope you don’t feel slighted by Alanzo catering to your female companion.”

  “Me? No never.”

  “Some men might.”

  The waiter returned with menus and a wine list. He handed the wine list to her.

  “The special this evening is chicken cacciatore.” He glanced at Bass. “Our steaks are always special.”

  “They are, Sam. I’ll have my usual.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Stone. Sir?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “And bring us a bottle of Bordeaux.”

  “Very good.” He disappeared.

  “He called you Mrs. Stone. Are you married?”

  She arched one brow. “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “Good. Widowed actually.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m quite used to it by now. Besides I rather like running the hotel my way.”

  “You own the hotel?”

  “I do.”

  The waiter returned with wineglasses and a bottle he opened and poured.

  She lifted her glass. “To pleasant company.”

  He touched his to the rim of hers. A delicate tinkle followed.

  “So tell me Sam Ba
ss, what brings you to Buffalo Station?”

  He thought fast. “I’m on my way back to Texas. I’ve been visiting my brother in Cheyenne for the past couple of months.”

  “What do you do back in Texas?”

  “Cattle. I took a herd up to Dodge last spring. Once I sold it, I caught a train to Cheyenne for a visit.”

  “So how long do you plan to stay with us?”

  “That depends.”

  She met his eyes. “Depends on what?”

  “All those things you say Buffalo Station has to offer.”

  “Touché.”

  The steaks rescued the conversation. He had to allow Delmonico’s served a passing fair steak though he might not have fully appreciated it for preoccupation with the woman across the candlelit table. Abby Stone was a stunning woman with a bright mind, ready wit and a self-assured bearing he found quite amazing even by his considerable experience with women. They finished the bottle of wine over pleasant conversation and dinner. She assumed a more traditional female posture when the check arrived. He paid with a bright new double eagle.

  She lifted her chin. “Cattle business must be good.”

  He wouldn’t be surprised if she guessed where it came from. “Business can always be better.”

  “It surely can.”

  She took his arm on the walk back across the street. The night man dozed on a stool behind the counter. She paused, appraising Bass as she might inspect a horse offered at auction.

  “I had a wonderful evening.”

  “As did I. It seems Buffalo Station indeed has much to offer.”

  Her lashes drifted lower. “You think so?”

  “I do.” The silence grew awkward.

  She tipped up on her toes and kissed his cheek, turned and disappeared down a darkened corridor.

  He stood there for a moment dumbstruck. Shook his head with a shrug and climbed the stairs to room four.

  He lit the bedside lamp and trimmed the wick. He’d shed his coat and shirt when the knock sounded at the door. Now what?

  “Who is it?”

  No answer.

  He drew his gun on instinct. The law? It couldn’t be. Could it?

  Another knock.

  “All right, I’m coming.” He opened the door.

  She stood there holding glasses and a whiskey bottle. “I thought you might like a nightcap.”

  He stepped back and holstered his gun.

  She glanced at it with that knowing smile. “Jumpy are we?”

  He closed the door behind her.

  She set the glasses on the side table and poured. She handed him a glass and lifted hers. “To tonight.”

  He touched her rim and downed his drink. She took his glass, set it beside hers on the side table and turned into his arms.

  “You are full of surprises, Mrs. Stone.”

  “Oh, please.” She took charge of his buttons.

  ELEVEN

  Big Springs, Nebraska

  The trail broke away from the rail line headed southeast. Cane reckoned they were about a mile west of Big Springs. The tracks were fresher now. He was gaining on them. It struck him as an odd place to turn south if they were truly changing direction. More likely they were skirting Big Springs. That made sense. Sooner or later they’d need supplies. Skipping Big Springs made Buffalo Station a good bet. The distant whine of a train whistle called the wager. Cane spurred his horse into a gallop down the tracks to Big Springs. Thirty minutes later a stockman loaded a lathered Smoke into a stock car for the run to Buffalo Station.

  Buffalo Station

  The train steamed east. The rhythm of the rails accompanied the green-gold rush of Nebraska plains beyond the dust-streaked coach window. Cane sat at the back of the car. The few passengers forward of his seat dozed, or read or spoke quietly with seatmates. Collins and Heffridge were out there somewhere. This gamble would either head them off or lose their trail for good. His chances of picking up Bass’s trail also hung in the balance. The big fish in his search, Bass somehow managed to slip away. Cane’s best hope of picking up his trail rested on the possibility that he and Collins had a plan to meet somewhere. All in all he’d staked a big bet on this train ride. He’d better be right. His gut told him he had one chance.

  Julesburg

  A sage ball blew out of the northwest on a swirl of dust, bouncing across the tracks ahead of her. She held the red checked napkin, covering the hamper to keep it from blowing away. He might be the most decent man she’d ever met, well beyond the station of a soiled dove. She had no airs as to that. She had no girlish sentiment where men were concerned. Men like Cross took their women however they wanted because they could. Who was to stop them? No woman was worth the gamble. Longstreet admitted he didn’t know who Cross was when he stepped in front of him. He did it out of a gentlemanly sense of honor. A rare quality, she marveled, heroic really. She was grateful for it, grateful and more.

  She’d truly been surprised when he showed up at the Rusty Spike looking for her. She’d been even more surprised by his intentions. The whole evening became the stuff of fairy tales. A handsome, refined gentleman saw her for something more than a whore. He made love to her like a woman. She’d never really experienced that before. Her husband had loved her, but he’d been a simple farmer, more intent on breeding than pleasure, at least when it came to her pleasure. For all the others it was an act. Something hollow and meaningless she endured, even suffered for a fee.

  Beau Longstreet made her something she’d forgotten she could be. He changed her taste for the work she needed to do. Damn him! He’d made a mess of more than her makeup. He hadn’t changed her need to work. He’d offered her a gold double eagle. She hesitated, but she’d accepted it in the end. Winter would be here soon enough. Beau Longstreet would be gone long before that. She had no illusions as to that. Still he had her acting like a schoolgirl. He didn’t seem to mind her bringing him lunch. On a day like today they might sit on the station platform to eat and talk. Talk without the bawdy edge that accompanied sex for hire. It passed a pleasant hour for her. For Beau, well maybe it just broke the monotony of another tedious day.

  She climbed the step to the station platform. Her shoe heels clipped the planks as she crossed to the depot door. She took no note of the dark figure watching from the shadow of the blacksmith shop across the tracks at the edge of town.

  Longstreet turned to the sound of the depot door. He pushed his chair back from the small desk and smiled. He eyed the hamper. “You surely are going to spoil me Miss Sadie.”

  She returned his smile. “How many times must I tell you Sadie will do?”

  “Sorry Sadie, old habit I guess.”

  “Gentleman to a fault I’d call it. Hope you like fried chicken.”

  “A taste of home fit for Sunday dinner. What a pleasant surprise for lunch on a Tuesday. You do know the way to a man’s heart.”

  “That’ll be the day. Now let’s eat your lunch before it gets cold.”

  He took her arm and led her out to the platform. They sat on the east edge, putting the wind to their backs. He watched the wind play at tendrils of rich auburn hair.

  She felt his eyes on her. An involuntary little pulse hammered at her throat. Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped fried chicken, biscuits, two cups and a jar of cool tea. She hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Behold a feast fit for a king!”

  She lowered her lashes and shook her head, pleased. “You do go on Mr. Longstreet.”

  “I believe that should be Beau.”

  “Dare I dream?”

  They both laughed. Neither noticed the lone rider headed toward the depot from town.

  Cross’s cuts were healing. The bruises had faded some. His rage had not. He meant to kill the Pinkerton son of a bitch. The sight of him with the whore fanned his anger like salt in his wounds. He lifted the hammer thong and eased his pistol out of the holster. He let the gun hang at his side as he approached the tracks at the west end of the platform. Light knee pressure
guided his horse along the tracks at a slow walk. The horse stopped at twenty-five paces as if understanding his rider’s intent.

  Sadie felt it. She glanced over her shoulder. The dark rider silhouetted in sunlight registered instant recognition. “Beau, watch out!” She swung around the platform edge, shielding Longstreet with her body. The gun plumed powder smoke. She never heard the report. The heavy .44 slug slammed into her breast, pitching her back with such a force her body knocked Longstreet off the platform. He drew his .38 from its shoulder holster and rolled under the platform.

  The whore lay dead. It served her right. The Pinkerton was nowhere to be seen. “You’re a dead man Longstreet.” He cocked his gun and nudged his horse forward.

  Longstreet lay in dim shadow. Sunlight found its way between the planks in an even pattern marred here and there by chinks in the wood. He fixed on the horse’s hooves beyond the maze of platform light and darkness. The beams supporting the platform made narrow channels. He might crawl forward, but the space beneath the beams made it impossible to work his way behind the horse.

  “I know you’re there, Longstreet. I’m comin’ for you.”

  The horse moved toward the east end of the platform. The pistol shot exploded off to his left, the bullet striking the side of the platform at the depot beyond his left foot. Close. He needed to move. If Cross figured out where he was, he’d have damn few options other than serving target practice. The horse moved.

  Cross cut his eyes along the east wall of the depot. Where the hell is he? Behind the depot, that had to be it. He eased his horse away from the platform, angling northeast away from anyone hiding north of the east depot wall.

  The horse moved, away from the platform, out of sight. Longstreet had the advantage as long as he could see Cross and the gunny couldn’t see him. He didn’t like losing his edge. Something dark and liquid splashed beside his cheek. Iron wet the musty scent under the platform. Blood. Sadie’s blood. Rage flared white hot with memory. He worked his way forward toward the trackside edge of the platform. Hardscrabble dirt and stone-pocked ground scraped his cheek and knuckles. Cross appeared in a chink in the platform. He sat his horse, gun trained on the northeast corner of the depot. Not an easy shot from here. Could he get out and into firing position before Cross could get off a shot? He played it in his mind. He couldn’t. He clawed his way to the trackside end of the platform and waited.