With a large knot in his throat, he put his hat on and headed for the sunny open front doorway. It was over between them. He could blame himself. He drew a deep breath of her fragrant flowers and stepped off the porch.
Headed the four blocks to his office, John looked up to see the ragged kid Amos in his baggy, hand-me-down overalls come hurrying up the dusty rutted street toward him. In his hand, the boy waved a yellow sheet of paper.
“Marshal. Marshal, I got a telegram for you,” Amos lisped. “I been looking all over for you.”
John frowned as he took the thin paper from the youth. Who was it from? He tipped the boy a dime and received a polite thanks and a smile.
Dear John,
Hiring men for a special agency in Arizona. Good pay and expenses. Are you available?,Let me know at once.
Major Gerald Bowen, Prescott, Arizona Territory.
Am I available? Yes, Major, I’m available. John hurried down the street.
3
Ella Devereaux drew back from the curtained window of her second-story apartment in the Harrington House. She had been watching Major Gerald Bowen, the head of Governor Sterling’s secret marshal force, striding up the hill for his own residence. Weary of the ongoing fuss between the legislators and governor over the formation of a statewide police force, Ella hoped that she had heard the last of the matter—and that potbellied Senator Green from Tucson who had pestered her so much to find out about them. When she finally managed to learn that Major Bowen had hired only one man called Sam T. Mayes and he had climbed on the stage for Tucson, she turned the whole matter over to Green, who lived down there. Let the pesky senator learn all about him.
Men became upset about the silliest things. Besides, she had much more important things to do than worry about what marshals the governor and major hired against the wishes of the territorial legislature. The everyday running of her sprawling mansion needed her close attention and supervision. Fifteen of the finest doves in the territory worked the upstairs bedrooms of her place, and downstairs, her clients also enjoyed two new billiard tables, recently imported from St. Louis, and the grand piano in the living room. At the palatial Harrington House, she stocked the finest liquors, spread the most exquisite tables of food, made available the finest cyprians of pleasure, and served the richest clientele in the territory.
“Missy, there is a man downstairs wants to talk to you.”
Ella looked up and frowned at the black girl, Sassy. “Who is it?”
“He done gave me this card.” Sassy handed it to her.
Ash Waddle. Westport, Kansas. What was he doing in Prescott? A tremor of fear ran up her spine. Of all the men in her life, she dreaded Ash Waddle more than any other. She swallowed the spittle in her mouth and wrestled up the front of her dress.
“Show Mr. Waddle up here … No, I will meet him downstairs.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay out of sight,” she said crossly at the girl for even asking, and swished out of her own apartment. She wanted to meet Waddle on neutral ground. What did he want? The question rolled over and over in her mind. In truth, she knew the very answer. For starters, he would want to take over the Harrington House. Lock, stock, and barrel.
Her fingernails cut into the palms of her hands, which were clenched tightly at her sides as she hurried down the hallway. She vehemently vowed she would see him dead before that happened. She had worked too hard to set up this place for her to ever again be put under the controlling thumb of Ash Waddle. When she paused at the head of the staircase, her legs felt as if they were filled with lead. She could see him pacing the hardwood floors in the entry. It was Waddle, all right; she would know him anywhere. And in any case but this one, she would have avoided him at any cost.
“Ash Waddle,” she exclaimed. “Whatever brings you to the wilds of the Arizona Territory?”
He looked around as if amused. “Why, I came all the way to see you, my lovely darling.”
“My, my,” she said, forcing a smile on her face but feeling icicles inside. “All that way. When did you arrive?”
“A few minutes ago. I came on the stage from Ash Fork. They wouldn’t carry my luggage—unfortunately it is coming by freighter from up there.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Ash stood about five ten. He was a slender man dressed in a checkered yellow and black Prince Albert coat with a red silk sash tied at his throat and wore a fine bowler hat. His hard blue eyes undressed her as she descended the stairs. They bored into her with a hardness she recalled with deep bitterness. His smooth brown hair carried some gray now but it added to his distinguished look. For such a cruel pimp, she decided, his appearance looked much more benevolent than his real nature.
“A bird came and told me about you.”
“And what was her name?”
“Don’t recall now who told me, but the word is out back home about your lovely joint.” He made a sweeping gesture with his outstretched bowler at the vestibule.
She paused on the stairs, wondering how he would start to manipulate her: gentle and friendly, or rough and cruel.
“Well, surely a man of your great means and talents is only passing through? I can find a lovely girl to rub your travel-weary back and entertain you—” She turned as if to fetch one.
“Get your ass down here!” His words, so sharp and chilling, brought out goose bumps on the backs of her arms.
She obeyed and soon stood face-to-face with him. Something cold shone in his eyes, reminding her of a diamondback rattler. The swift blow to her face sent her reeling into the curled end of the banister.
“Where’s your apartment?” he demanded.
“Upstairs,” she said, holding her hand to the fiery skin of her cheek and blinking her left eye to try and control the tearing.
“We’re going up and move your crap out of there and I’ll take it. Now how much money do we have? And you better not lie to me!”
Ella felt his fingernails dig like eagle talons into the flesh of her upper arm. The worst nightmare of her life had come true. Ash Waddle had come to take over her lucrative operations. What could she do? The law would never listen to her.
He roughly shoved her toward the stairs.
“Hear me good, girl. When I say move, you wag your ass or I’ll remind you what else I can do to you,” he growled in her ear.
His hold on her arm hurt deep into the muscle. How could she rid herself of this demon? Somehow she must find a way.
“But—but I thought you had a gold mine in Westport?” she said as she was hustled up the stairs. His breath smelled of whiskey and the cologne he wore was sharp-smelling, too.
“Ha, that all ended when the mayor’s son got himself shot.”
“You shot the mayor’s son?” She blinked at him in disbelief.
“Shut up, goddamnit!” he growled under his breath. “You ever mention that again, I’ll kill you. Get upstairs and be quick about it.”
Propelled by her former pimp’s firm grasp of her arm, she half stumbled on the steps, but his viselike grip kept her going. How would she ever get rid of him? He was not taking over her empire. Somehow, someway, she must eliminate him if she had to send him out of the house feet-first.
Ella promised herself she would do that. Ash Waddle was not ruining her life and ruling her in Arizona. Then the pain from his crushing grip made her head swim.
Two hours later, Ella sat despondently on the bed in the smaller room. Sassy and two of the doves worked to hang her clothing on the makeshift racks. Waddle had taken two thousand dollars from her house fund and headed off for Whiskey Row to gamble. Ella knew that amount was only the start; he would not be satisfied until he possessed all of her assets. How long could she hide the rest from him? Not long enough.
“Who is this Waddle?” Strawberry drawled, hanging up Ella’s best red dress.
“I once worked for him.”
“Looks to me like you’re fixing to again.”
Ella looke
d up hard at the redhead. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Strawberry nodded, then stood on her toes to hang the dress on the wire they had stretched across the room for a hanger.
“This room don’t get the breeze like yours, does it?” Strawberry asked, wiping her wet face on a cloth.
Ella shook her head, too upset to answer the girl.
“That’s all of it in the hall,” Sassy announced. “Want me to go look in that room for more, missy?”
Ella waved her away. “Let him have it.”
“Where did he go?” Strawberry asked.
“Went to find a card game, I heard him say,” Blue Winter said.
Yes, he did, and with her hard-earned money. He’d lose it all and be back for more, too. Ella knew him like a book. In the old days if he didn’t have money he would use her body for collateral. Many a night she was forced to sleep under some grizzly old hunter who came to St. Louis and beat Waddle at cards. She shook involuntarily at the memory of those scenes and gritted her molars to stop the tremors in her body. They were nasty old bathless men who used her and were no better than boar hogs.
She had come all this way—by herself. Waddle was not going to take it away from her. Not spoil her chance to someday retire to San Francisco and live the life of a cultured lady. There, folks would never know her as anything else but that rich lady on the hill in the two-story brick house. She had seen that very neighborhood on a visit, before she found Prescott ready for the taking, and intended to retire in San Francisco in another ten years. But now her entire future hinged on whether she could control Waddle or get rid of him.
It would start with a telegraph to the Westport police. That would be her first step. If Waddle was a wanted man, she would be rid of him very shortly. The notion restored her confidence. Time for her to get to work. She shooed everyone out of the room but Sassy, so that she could dress in peace.
Ella rose and looked at herself in the mirror. His slap to her face still felt sore, but had left few traces that powder would not cover. Grateful for the fact she didn’t have a black eye, she began spraying herself with expensive perfume.
“Which dress you gonna wear tonight, missy?”
“The blue one,” Ella said casually, feeling at long last in control of the impossible situation. A telegram would do the trick. She would send Sassy with it to the telegraph office in a short while. In less than twenty-four hours, Waddle would be peering between the bars of the Yavapi County Courthouse. Filled with newfound confidence, she began to hum “Green Grow the Lilacs.”
4
Sun-cured bunch grass carpeted the rolling high country. Juniper-piñon-clad mounds rose like islands in the sea of yellow-brown. The two riders were headed south, avoiding the main road. The sun glinted on the brown whiskey bottle being passed between them.
Bobby Budd slouched in his saddle, weaving a little from side to side with his drunkenness. Beneath his weather-beaten hat, he bore a strong resemblance to the New Mexico wanted posters that depicted him as the Coyote Kid. He had seen one of them at Fort Wingate. That cheap tin star Garrett was only offering a hundred bucks for him. No-account stiff shirt needed a bullet …
Bobby glanced over and studied his sharp-featured companion, Leo Jackson, who rode beside him. Leo was loyal enough, Bobby decided through his liquor-dazzled gaze. Leo was a good sumbitch. They’d been together the past few months. Leo was like the brother he never had. He trusted him more than anyone, except his mother. She’d died, too, and he hadn’t heard in time to get to her funeral. It happened when he was in the Indian Nation. Made him sad to think about her being dead. For a long moment Bobby concentrated on the bottle in his palm, as he rode along loose in the saddle.
In disgust, he flung the bottle away, smashing it on a black rock. “Leo,” he slurred accusingly, “that last whiskey that barkeep sold us ain’t no damned good.”
“Aw hell, Kid, we’ve drunk worse than that,” Leo muttered. His stubbled face wore the growth of a three-day beard and brown tobacco juice stained his mouth.
“By gawd, we might’ve stole worse, but I ain’t never paid two dollars for any worse.” The Kid half laughed as he swayed in the saddle. “Hey, keep your eyes open for them Mexicans.”
“You’re plumb crazy, Kid. There ain’t even a damn jackrabbit out here, let alone a greaser to plug.”
Wavering on his horse, Bobby leaned over and grinned. “Don’t you worry, Leo, we’ll find some of them back shooters!”
“Damn, Kid. How come when you get real drunk you want to kill Mexicans?” Leo’s brows furrowed and his mouth twisted as if he were displeased. “It don’t make no sense. Most of the time you just shoot outlaws and troublemakers, I mean, that’s what you’re paid to do. But when you get drunk, all you want to do is kill greasers.”
“Makes damn good sense to me, Leo!” The Kid slapped the pommel of his saddle with his palm. “Them damn Mexicans beat me up and they took the only girl I ever loved away from me. You remember me telling you about that nice man I worked for and how them chili eaters murdered him?”
“Sure, Kid,” Leo agreed quickly. “You got any more whiskey?”
“Hell, yes.” The Kid turned to get another bottle out of his saddlebags. He scowled irritably. Leo just didn’t understand about them sorry devils. He was probably hoping they wouldn’t find any. Leo didn’t like him shooting them. But what the hell, after another bottle of this sorry rotgut, Leo wouldn’t be worrying about who he was shooting at. The thought made Bobby chuckle.
Leo twisted to check their back trail, then looking satisfied, he turned back. “How far do you reckon it is to Arnold’s Store?”
“Oh, about a bottle of whiskey away. What are you so nervous about? There ain’t no law stupid enough to come after us. ’Sides, they can’t prove we shot them two cow thieves back there. And we’ve got enough money in our pockets to stay drunk a month. When we run outta that, I know of a rancher down by Snowflake who would pay us a lot to get rid of some pestering rustlers.”
Leo’s eyes rounded. “Who?”
“You just never mind. Besides, ain’t you done all right since you joined me?” Bobby demanded as he carelessly waved the bottle around.
Leo nodded. “Reckon so, Kid. I was just wondering.”
“Well, goddamnit, don’t wonder! There are lots of ranchers who don’t like to admit that they hired us to get rid of rustlers and their little problems. Here”—he shoved the bottle toward his friend—“quit your worrying and have some more whiskey. Cy Edgar would be pissed if the word was spread all over the territory that the Coyote Kid worked for him.”
Leo took the whiskey and apologized. “Sorry, I never meant nothing.”
“It’s okay, Leo.” The Kid looked across the brown grassland. They had passed several of Arnold’s cattle, which were branded with a AK. The cows and calves moved off when he and Leo rode near them.
Ben Arnold, the Kid recalled, was near sixty years old. Arnold’s Store was well stocked, and situated beside a big gushing spring that filled a dozen stock tanks before it tapered off into a dry gravel bed.
Old Arnold had a young wife named Dolly. The Kid had heard that she showed up at Arnold’s with her baby boy a few years back. She was only a few years older than him. In the past, whenever she had waited on him, she had spoken curtly and been very businesslike. He recalled the nice turn to her hips as she walked away from him. He had speculated on her ripe body, but admitted to himself that it didn’t look like the time would ever come when she would be willing to take him on, so he had just looked at her. Hell, the Kid swore silently, she had probably never heard of the Coyote Kid or Bobby Budd. That old Arnold must still have lots of fire in his chimney. It seemed a damn shame to him, though, that a good-looking woman like Dolly was stuck with an old fart like Ben Arnold.
“Here,” Leo said thickly as he handed back the brown bottle, breaking into the Kid’s erotic thoughts about what he’d like to do to Dolly.
He took the bottle and dropped his knott
ed reins on Buster’s neck. Old Buster was well broke and would keep walking, which was just as well since he was becoming too drunk to guide the animal. It was getting difficult to concentrate on riding and drinking at the same time.
“Don’t Arnold have a couple damn Mexicans working around his store?” he asked Leo as he abruptly grabbed at the rein to halt Buster.
Leo stopped his bay and turned the horse to ride back to him. “Yeah, I think he does. What’s wrong? Why are you stopping?”
“I got to go.” The Kid leaned over the side of the saddle so far that only his quick last-minute grab for the mane saved him from falling off.
Swaying and weaving, he finally managed to dismount and fumbled with the buttons on his fly. Impatiently, he hoisted aside the scuffed holster that carried his guardless .38 double-action pistol.
After relieving himself, he made three attempts to remount. “Stand still, you sumbitch,” he swore at the sorrel gelding.
Leo moved in to hold the horse by the bridle. “You all right, Bobby?”
“Hell yes! I’m all right. Just right enough to shoot me a mess of b-back sh-shooting Mexicans.” Finally back on his horse, he was panting heavily.
Leo chuckled. “You’re drunker than a skunk, Kid.”
“Huh?” The Kid looked at his friend, then began laughing as though Leo had said something hilarious. “We’re crazy, ain’t we, Leo boy?” Both men broke into loud guffaws. Tears welled up in the Kid’s eyes, and he wiped them on his frayed shirtsleeve. Hell, Leo wasn’t so bad after all, not after he’d had some rotten whiskey to loosen him up. Things were beginning to look better. He smiled widely, anticipating having more fun at Arnold’s Store.
Dolly Arnold hung out the wash that she had just finished scrubbing. Ben was working inside the store. Dolly’s six-year old son, Josh, played in the dirt alongside the building. Josh was a quiet child, content to build stick corrals and mountains of dirt. Dolly smiled tenderly as she pegged a pair of Josh’s overalls to the rope line. Her son had been learning Spanish from Manuel and Rudy Garcia, the two orphan Mexican boys who worked for Ben. They swept out the store, did the ranch chores, and rode for Ben at roundups. Although they were nearly out of their teens, they were very patient with Josh, who was quickly picking up their language.
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