The guard didn’t respond, but his face was already pale from loss of blood.
“I’ve got some cloth in the boot you could use as a bandage,” one of the passengers, a pretty redhead, said.
Her luggage was pulled from the boot of the coach, and a swath of cotton was removed. Climbing up onto the stage, Matt made a compression bandage which he put over the wound; then he held it in place by looping the guard’s belt around it.
“Now, Jim, once we get into town, don’t you go hoppin’ down without no thought whatever,” the driver said. “What with no belt on, why, you’re liable to drop your pants right there in front of the whole town.”
The driver chuckled, and Matt was glad to see that Jim smiled as well, showing that he still had his wits about him.
As Matt was tending to the shotgun guard, Crocker, Hawkins, and McCall pulled the hoods off the two dead, would be stagecoach robbers.
“Dusty, none of us know these galoots,” Crocker said. “Have you ever seen either of them?”
Dusty looked down at them. “Can’t say that I have,” he replied.
“Well, there it is, I can’t positively say I’ve never seen either of them,” Hawkins said. “I get so many people coming through the saloon that after a while, they all start looking alike to me. But if I have seen them before, I sure don’t remember them.”
“All right, this should hold him until we get him to a doctor,” Matt said as he finished bandaging Jim. “Where are you headed?”
“To Shady Rest. It’s about ten more miles. Tell the truth, mister, with Jim shot up like he is, I’d appreciate it if you would ride along with us,” the driver said.
“I’m not going to leave you,” Matt said.
“Thanks,” the driver said. “It’ll be a comfort havin’ you along.”
“Do they have a place where I can get a cold beer in Shady Rest? And maybe a place to get a hot meal, and rent a room?”
“Mister, my name is Gerald Hawkins, and I own the Texas Star Saloon,” one of the passengers said. “I don’t know how much you can drink in one day, but seeing as you’re going to be kind enough to ride along with us like the driver asked, then I personally guarantee you that for the rest of this day, you can drink free at my place. And as far as the meal and room is concerned, why there’s places in town that can accommodate you.”
“I’m much obliged, Mr. Hawkins,” Matt said.
“No, sir, we are the ones who are obliged,” the very pretty, young, red-haired woman said.
“All right, folks, now that Jim’s patched up, if you’ll all get back in the coach, we’ll be on our way,” Dusty said.
“What about these two?” Crocker asked, pointing to the two dead men who were lying on the road, one facedown, one faceup. “We can’t just leave ’em lyin’ here, can we?”
“Why not? They won’t mind,” the driver said.
“It just don’t seem right,” Crocker said.
“Don’t worry about it. Ponder will send someone out after ’em,” the driver said. “The county will give him thirty dollars apiece to bury ’em. That’s twice what the town pays him, so it’ll make it worth his time to hire someone to come out here in a wagon to pick ’em up. Now, you folks climb on back in. I need to get Jim here to a doctor, and get you folks home.”
“Home, yeah, that sounds good to me,” Crocker said. He held the door open until Annabelle got in, then he and the other two men climbed in behind her.
Hopping down from the coach, Matt remounted, then nodded toward the driver. The driver called out, “Heeaah!” snapped his whip, and the six-horse team started forward at a trot.
Brax Barlow had ridden off at a gallop as soon as the shooting started.
Then, after waiting about half an hour, he rode back to take a look around. The coach was gone, but his two brothers were still lying there, dead in the road.
“You sons of bitches didn’t even bother to pick ’em up,” he said aloud, conveniently excusing himself for abandoning them when the gun battle had broken out.
For a moment he wondered what should be done about them. Should he bury them? Should he try to take them somewhere? Where would he take them, and how would he explain the bullet wounds?
“Hell, Ben, Burt, it’s your own damn fault,” he said. “What did you start shootin’ for?”
Brax ran his hand through his hair in exasperated frustration. “Like takin’ candy from a baby, you said. Well, it weren’t no such thing, and now you’re lyin’ here, dead.”
That’s right, he thought. They were dead, so it really didn’t matter what he did with them. The best thing he could do for them, he figured, would be to kill the son of a bitch who’d killed them.
He had no idea who that was, but he was pretty sure he could find out if he went on in to Shady Rest. And, because he had been wearing a mask, and had never been to Shady Rest before, he was sure that he could go without fear of being recognized.
“All right, Ben, Burt, this is what I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to find out who the son of a bitch is who done this to you, and when I find ’im, I’m goin’ to kill ’im. That’s the least I can do for you. Oh, an’, Burt, seein’ as you ain’t goin’ to be usin’ ’em no more, I aim to take your boots. That is, if it’s all the same to you.”
Brax took Burt’s boots, and, going through his brothers’ pockets, found a total of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents in cash. He also took both their pistols, figuring he could get maybe ten or fifteen apiece for them.
Chapter Twelve
Shady Rest
When Mutt Crowley awakened that morning, he looked over at the woman who was lying in bed with him. The cover was turned down to her waist and he could see the blue veins of her bulbous breasts. She had a disfiguring scar on her cheek from an altercation with a drunken customer, and as she slept, her lips were fluttering and dribbling spittle.
Mutt wasn’t exactly sure as to how he had wound up with this woman. He didn’t know whether he had been too drunk or too horny when he came up to her room last night, but in either case, he was having a severe case of buyer’s remorse this morning.
It had not been like this, right after the money split. While he’d still had money he’d been able to buy the best-looking whores in the highest-class whorehouses in places like Denver, Flagstaff, and San Antonio. It wasn’t until he reached Shady Rest that he’d realized he was going to have to be a little more conservative with his spending habits.
He had given a passing thought to killing either Fletcher or Carter, or both of them, and taking what money they had . . . but they had been even more spendthrift than he had, and had started out with less, so he actually had more money than either of them. And, being on the run as he was, it was probably good to have them around, people he knew and could trust.
Mutt had a terrible need to urinate, and he got out of bed and looked around for the chamber pot.
“Damn, where the hell is it?” he muttered.
The pressure was building to the point that he couldn’t waste anymore time looking for it. Then, he saw the vase and wash basin. He walked over to them, and he took the vase down and, holding it in position, began to relieve himself.
When he finished, he put the vase back on the chest, then looked back at the woman and smiled over what he had just done. Hell, he thought, someone that ugly, what would it matter if she washed in piss? It couldn’t make her look any uglier.
Mutt put on his clothes, then sat on the edge of the bed to begin pulling on his boots. When he did, it woke the woman. She lifted her arms, and put her hands behind her head. Dark tufts of hair were under her arms. She smiled at Mutt, and he saw that she was missing two teeth.
Damn, how could he have missed all that last night?
“Uhmm, good morning honey,” she said. “Did you have a good time last night?”
“I don’t even remember last night,” Mutt said.
“Well, for another three dollars, I’ll refresh your memory,” the woman offered, laughing at her own jo
ke.
“No thanks. I’m s’posed to meet my pards for breakfast.”
“All right, if you say so. But just remember, I’m here anytime you want me.”
Mutt went downstairs into the saloon to see if he could find Carter and Fletcher. He saw them sitting at one of the tables, drinking beer and eating boiled eggs and pickled pigs’ feet for breakfast. The saloon kept boiled eggs and pickled pigs feet in big jars sitting on the bar.
Mutt ordered a beer, then stuck his hand down into the vinegar to fish out a couple of the pigs’ feet. He joined Carter and Fletcher at the table, then began chewing through the tough skin.
“I seen that you got yourself a woman last night. How did she look this morning?” Fletcher asked.
“What do you mean, how did she look?”
Fletcher laughed. “Well, last night you was carryin’ on somethin’ fierce ’bout how pretty she was.”
“I was?”
“Yeah, you was. Wasn’t he, Carter?”
Carter laughed. “Yep. You said she was one of the prettiest whores you’d ever seen.”
“Damn. How drunk was I?”
“You was so damn drunk that you wouldn’t listen to either one of us,” Carter said. “We tried to tell you that she was so ugly she’d make a train take five miles of dirt road. But you told us to mind our own business.”
“Yeah, well, that might be a pretty good idea right now, too,” Crowley said. “If you want to know the truth, she was uglier than a toad, but I don’t want to talk about it, so you two just mind your own business. Damn, when I had money, I had only the best-lookin’ whores money could buy, nothin’ like that ugly old hag I woke up with this morning. I tell you what, I’m goin’ to find me a poker game today an’ get some money back. I don’t like livin’ without money.”
“Yeah, well, truth to tell, I done seen all the whores that’s workin’ the Pig Palace, the Crooked Branch, the Ace High, and even over at Abby’s Place. And they ain’t any one of ’em that’s much better lookin’ than the one you wound up with. And yours wasn’t no worse than the ones me or Carter had,” Fletcher said. “They ain’t a whore in this whole town who could look into a mirror without breakin’ it, an’ that’s a fact.”
“They say they’s some good-lookin’ whores over at Suzie’s Dream House. And some pretty good-lookin’ women over at the Texas Star too,” Carter said.
“Yeah, well, the ones at the Dream House wants too much money. And the women at the Texas Star ain’t whores. Besides which, none of them will have anything to do with me, even if I do have money,” Crowley said. “I don’t know what makes ’em so damn snooty. Hell, they ain’t exactly what you call high society. Anyway, that’s why I don’t spend much time over there.”
“You’re goin’ to have to go over there if you want to get into a card game. That is, a card game where you can make a little money, ’cause the only games over here, even across the street in the gamblin’ house, are penny ante games. The real money game is over at the Texas Star,” Carter said.
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard too,” Fletcher added. “They got a game goin’ on there, near ’bout all the time. They say they’s a gamblin’ man there who’s just real good.”
“What do you mean, real good?”
“I mean he makes his livin’ playin’ cards. And you can’t make a livin’ playin’ cards unless you win a lot more’n you lose.”
“Yeah? Well, he ain’t played me yet, has he?” Crowley said, confidently.
“You’re that good, are you?”
“When I was inside I made friends with a professional gambler, and he taught me some tricks.”
“You try any trick, you’re liable to get yourself shot,” Carter said.
“I ain’t talkin’ about cheatin’ tricks, I’m talkin’ about smart playin’ tricks. But one thing is, you gotta have enough money to be able to play without runnin’ scared all the time. And most all my money’s gone now. Tell you what, you two boys loan me fifty dollars apiece.”
“What? Damn, I ain’t got but just a little over a hunnert dollars now,” Carter said.
“An’ I don’t even have a hunnert dollars,” Fletcher said.
“You wouldn’t either one of you have that money if it wasn’t for me ’n my brother. You loan me fifty dollars each, I’ll also put up fifty dollars, and that way I’ll have enough to play with. And we’ll split my winnin’s, three ways.”
“You’re pretty sure you’re goin’ to win, huh?” Carter asked.
“I’m damn sure I’m goin’ to win.”
Carter pulled out the money. “All right, come on, Lenny, let’s pony up. Who knows, maybe he will win pretty big. I’d like to have a little spendin’ money again.”
Fletcher pulled out his money as well, and Crowley smiled, then started toward the Texas Star.
“What do you think, Bill? You think he’ll really win anything?” Fletcher asked.
“I don’t know, but we may as well try. Hell, the only other thing we’d do with it is spend it on liquor and ugly whores anyway. And this way, we at least have a chance of gettin’ some money back.”
The professional card player who was practicing his profession at the Texas Star was Emerson Culpepper. Culpepper was the quintessential Southern gentleman who was always well turned out, not only in the clothes he wore, but in his personal hygiene, the way he kept his hair and moustache neatly trimmed.
Emerson was the youngest son of Endicott Culpepper, a former congressman from Alabama who had once been considered as a replacement for Rufus King, Franklin Pierce’s vice president who died after only one month in office. Because King had been from Alabama and Culpepper was also from Alabama, the congressmen from the northern states stopped it, and in protest, Pierce went for the rest of his entire first term without a vice president.
Then, when Alabama seceded from the union, Endicott Culpepper resigned his seat in Congress and raised a regiment in the Confederate Army. Because he had raised and equipped the regiment, which he called Culpepper’s Legion, he was appointed colonel in command.
Emerson had been too young for the war, but his two older brothers were just of the right age. They served as lieutenants in Culpepper’s Legion, and were both killed during the Battle of Spanish Fort. Emerson’s mother died of a broken heart, and Emerson’s father, who returned home from the war a man who was broken in body and spirit, became an alcoholic.
When the Culpepper Plantation, once the largest in Coffee County, and one of the most productive in the entire state, was lost to delinquent taxes, Endicott Culpepper ended his own life.
Emerson Culpepper’s personal future looked bleak until he discovered that his phenomenal memory and mathematical acumen could be used to great advantage in card games. He was able to remember cards played, and he could determine, quickly and with amazing accuracy, the odds of the appearance of needed cards. Putting that skill to use, Culpepper became a professional gambler. Since doing so, he had made a very good living at the poker tables.
Culpepper never cheated; his skill was such that cheating wasn’t necessary. However, his success in cards often brought about charges of cheating, and he found it necessary from time to time to relocate from one place to another before he completely wore out his welcome. That was how he had arrived in Shady Rest six weeks earlier, and had, with the permission of Gerald Hawkins set up his operation in the Texas Star.
Culpepper secured Hawkins’s permission in the same way he’d secured the permission of all previous saloons where he had worked, by offering them 10 percent of the table. Everyone who played cards with him was made aware that when they cashed in their chips, the house would keep 10 percent. And, there were enough repeat players who had seen that the chips set aside did indeed go to the house, that anyone who suggested that Hawkins was keeping the money for himself was quickly disabused of their mistaken notion.
It had been a relatively slow morning; indeed at the moment there were only two other players in the game when Mutt Crow
ley stepped up to his table.
“I want to play some poker,” Crowley said.
“We have an open seat,” Culpepper invited him.
Crowley sat down, then took out a stack of bills and put them on the table in front.
“What’s your name?” Culpepper asked.
“Mu . . . uh . . . Morgan. Dale Morgan.”
“Mr. Morgan, you may notice that there is no cash on the table. We play with chips,” Culpepper said. “You can get them from the bartender.
“All right, keep this seat open,” Crowley replied as he went over to the bar to buy some poker chips. When he returned, he put one hundred and fifty dollars worth of chips out on the table in front of him. Nobody else was showing more than forty dollars.
“What the hell, mister?” one of the other players said. “Are you plannin’ on buyin’ the pots?”
“What if I am?” Crowley asked.
“I would recommend that you don’t try to do that,” Culpepper said. “You can’t buy what the cards don’t win.”
“Let’s quit the gabbing and get on with the game,” Crowley said with a growl.
“Very well. Gentlemen, new player, new deck,” Culpepper said. He picked up a box, broke the seal, then dumped the cards onto the table. They were clean, stiff, and shining. He pulled out the joker, then began shuffling the deck. The stiff, new pasteboards clicked sharply. His hands moved swiftly, folding the cards in and out until it felt right. He shoved the deck across the table.
“You are the newest player. Would you like to cut?” he asked Crowley.
Crowley cut the deck, then pushed them back.
“The game is five-card stud,” Culpepper said as he looked directly at Crowley.
“Fine,” Crowley answered.
Crowley won five dollars on the first hand, and within a few hands was ahead by a little over twenty dollars. He smiled broadly as he raked in his last winning hand.
When Culpepper dealt the next hand, Crowley opened the bet with twenty- five dollars.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 9
