Wheeler grumbled, looking from side to side. “I ain’t asked ’em yet, Chance, but—”
“You go ask ’em. See what the answer is.”
“But what are you going to do?” Wheeler said, a little sore now that he had been made to look like a windbag. “All you got is old Stumpy at the jail and what’s-his-name here.”
Dude turned dark cold eyes upon him and said evenly, “El Borrachin is the name, Mr. Wheeler.” He continued to look at Wheeler, who reddened in mingled shame and belligerence. Then he said, “I’ll go outside so you won’t feel cramped.”
He stalked away, holding his back very straight. Chance said angrily, “Pat, you’re going to fall right into that big mouth of yours some day.”
“Maybe,” said Wheeler, refusing to be repentant, “but I’d like to know what the hell all this is about him. I hear he broke a chair over your head last night, and today he’s your deputy and nobody can say a word against him.”
“They can say plenty of words against him,” Chance said. “That’s what makes me mad.” He looked after Dude, who had disappeared out the front door. “This is the first night that son-of-a-bitch has been sober in over three years. By rights I shouldn’t give a damn one way or the other. I don’t know why I do.”
“Never saw you have much to do with him before,” Wheeler said.
Over at the poker table one of the men caught Carlos as he went by and handed him the deck of cards.
“Get us a new one, will you? I ain’t having any luck with these.”
Carlos came over to the bar and asked the bartender for a fresh deck. He put the old one down near Chance, who reached over and got it and began to play idly with the cards as he talked to Wheeler.
“You didn’t know us far enough back,” said Chance. He felt as though he had to justify Dude. Now that Dude for the first time was standing on his legs like a man again, he didn’t want Wheeler to go away thinking he was a no-good bum who had never been anything else. “We used to ride together. He was my deputy. He was good, Pat. Best man with a gun I ever worked with.”
Wheeler didn’t exactly call him a liar. He only said it was a little hard to believe.
“He did some real pretty shooting last night,” Chance said.
“Yeah,” said Wheeler. “I heard the whole story. But still—if he was all that good, what happened to him?”
Chance said, “A green-eyed, yellow-haired, two-titted female. She came through on the stage, spotted Dude, and decided to stay around for a while. And he was taken, hoof, horn and hide. I tried to tell him. That was another time he nearly killed me. So he went away with her, and about six months later he came back alone, and that’s when the Mexicans started calling him El Borrachin.”
“What about the girl?” asked Wheeler.
“He never said, I never asked him.” Chance shuffled and reshuffled the cards, brooding. “Dude never was one to take certain things light, though. At first I thought he’d get over it, and then I just about gave him up, except that every time I was mad enough to kick him out I’d think about old times. We rode together for twelve years. We saw a lot of things happen.” Chance smiled briefly. “Right now, I’m glad Joe Burdette threw that dollar in the spittoon.”
“Well,” said Wheeler, looking after Dude and still not convinced, “even if he was a good man once …”
“He was. They don’t come any better.”
“All right, all right. And I won’t even ask how long he’s likely to stay sober. He’s still only one man. I say you need help.”
Chance was tired of the whole subject. It seemed so obvious to him that he was right that he did not see why he should have to keep discussing it. So his voice was sharp and impatient when he answered.
“Find me some real help and I’ll take it gladly. In the meantime I’m better off with one good man than a dozen I’d have to worry about. I got worries enough.”
“What about the old man? Don’t you worry about him?”
“He’s got his personal reasons for asking himself in. And he’s good for the job he’s doing.”
Wheeler said suddenly, “What about Ryan?”
“Who the hell is Ryan?” Then he remembered. “Oh. The kid.”
“Colorado. He’s good, Chance. He’s young, but he’s awful good.”
Chance looked over at the poker table. Colorado looked the type, all right. The type he and Dude once had been, loose-footed, quick-eyed and quick-handed, too smart to go owl-hooting but looking for anything else to do that wasn’t what their fathers had wanted for them. If he was as good as Wheeler said, he might be an asset.
There was only one hitch.
“Ask him,” Chance said cynically.
Pat went hurrying over to the table, anxious to make good on some of his talk. Chance smiled. Pat was a hasty and heedless man but his heart was in the right place. He watched while Wheeler spoke to the kid and then came back with him to the bar.
Colorado nodded. “Evening, Sheriff. Mr. Wheeler says you wanted to talk to me.”
“Uh-uh. Mr. Wheeler wants to talk to you. Go ahead, Pat.”
Wheeler said, “Well, here’s the thing, Ryan. Chance here is a good friend of mine. He’s in trouble, and he can use a good man.” He patted the kid’s shoulder heavily. “I told him you were one of the best.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wheeler,” said Colorado, and then looked at Chance. “To go against the Burdettes?”
“That’s right.”
Colorado smiled and shook his head. “Mr. Wheeler, my old man always told me that the best way to stay alive was to mind my own business. Right now my business is guarding your wagon train. That’s what I hired out for, not to get your friends out of trouble.” He said it politely but very firmly. He nodded again to Chance. “No offense, Sheriff.”
He turned and walked back to the poker table and sat down.
Wheeler swore. He looked so baffled and upset that Chance felt sorry for him.
“He just showed his good sense,” Chance said. “I told you your boys would feel that way. They weren’t any of ’em born crazy.” He smiled. “Quit stewing, Pat. All I have to do is sit it out a few days till the marshal gets here.”
Wheeler said “Huh”! loudly, and then muttered something about hoping to God that Chance made it even if he didn’t deserve to for his stubbornness.
“Guess I might as well round up my men,” he finished. “Get ’em ready for an early start. See you later.”
Chance nodded. Wheeler went away. Chance stayed where he was, still playing with the cards. In a minute or two the girl got up from the poker table, tucking her winnings away in her purse. She went toward the stairs, not hurrying, walking with a swinging step. Her dress was a sort of dark-orange color with brown braid on it. The ornament in her hair was brown too. The feathers swayed lightly as she moved.
Carlos watched her too, smiling. Then he glanced quickly at Chance. His smile faded and became a frown. The girl started up the stairs.
Chance put down the cards on the bar. He gave the man in the checkered vest one hard calculating look. Checkered Vest did not see it. He was too busy with his own affairs.
Chance went to the front door. “Dude?”
Dude spoke from the shadow just outside. “Everything’s quiet here.”
Chance said, “I’ll be along in a minute.”
He went upstairs after the girl.
EIGHT
The hall was empty by the time he reached it. But he had found out from Carlos what room she had—her name was Felicity Slater, which he thought was one hell of a name—and he went to the door and rapped on it.
“Who is it?” she said from inside.
He told her. The key turned immediately. She opened the door and stood smiling at him.
“Hi, Sheriff. I hope you’re not mad about the towel. I didn’t mean to make you any trouble.”
“You’re the one that has trouble, lady,” he said, and moved her inside. “I want to talk to you.”
She kept o
n smiling, but her eyes were alert and cool, sizing him up. She seemed awfully young. Twenty-two or -three at the outside. Nobody that young ought to be as wise and self-possessed as she was.
Dude’s woman had had something that same look.
“What is it?” she asked.
He did not have the time or the inclination to fool around. He said bluntly, “I counted the deck you people were using. It was three cards short.”
She did not seem particularly surprised. “Why do you tell me?” was all she said.
“I know everybody at the table but you and the fellow with the checkered vest.”
Her eyes were very blue, with dark lashes around them. They studied him. There was no fear in them, no shame. Chance thought there should have been. He thought she should have been at least ashamed. It made him angry that she was not. He didn’t know why.
She said pleasantly, “Did you talk to him?”
“He’s still there. You were leaving.”
“And I was a winner.”
Chance nodded.
“Is that all you’ve got to go on?” she said.
“No.” He took the dodger out of his pocket. “I’ve got a handbill here—it’s about a gambler they’re interested in catching up with. The description they give of him doesn’t fit the man in the checkered vest at all, but then it goes on to tell about a girl that traveled with him. Says she was about twenty-two, five feet five inches tall, good figure, dark hair, and always wears feathers. It could be you.”
“It could be,” she said quietly. “It is.”
Chance grunted and stuffed the paper back in his pocket. He was surprised to find that he’d been hoping he was wrong.
“Better give me the money you won,” he said. “I’ll see it gets to the right people. And be sure you’re on the stage in the morning.”
He thought she would start yelling at him, but she didn’t. She didn’t even stop smiling. Only there was something in her eyes, and it was a little bright hot spark.
“That’s so easy, isn’t it?” she said. “Give you the money and get on the stage.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to make it that easy. You’ve made me mad, Sheriff. You didn’t ask me if I did it.”
She let that sink in a minute while her smile widened and the spark in her eyes got brighter.
“You’re going to have to prove I’ve got those cards,” she said. “And the only way I know you can do that is to search me.”
Chance was not expecting that at all. “Search you?”
“That’s right. Isn’t that what a sheriff usually does to a prisoner?” She prepared to be co-operative. “Let’s see now. The cards could be in my purse.” She took the loop of it off her wrist and opened it and let the contents spill out on the table so that he could see them, turning the fabric bag inside out. “But they’re not.”
She threw the purse down and came closer to him.
“They could be in my shoes—my stockings—my garters—my sleeves are too tight, but there’s my waist.” The hot blue eyes dared him. She was wearing some kind of a perfume that was faint but sweet. She was so close to him now that he could feel her nearness, hear the rustle of cloth as she breathed and moved. His face and neck began to get warm, and the madder he got the warmer they got until they were practically flaming under the brown.
“I don’t wear anything like those bright red britches,” she said, and held her arms up in a position of one awaiting a search. “Well, Sheriff, you’ve got a job to do. Where are you going to begin?”
He had a strong desire to begin by first kissing her and then turning her over his knee—he was confused by the sudden way things had gone—but he held still and said slowly, “That’s just about enough of that.”
She stood pat. “You’ve got to prove I have those cards.”
“Keep going,” Chance said, “and I’m liable to do it.”
Abruptly her expression changed. It was as though something had made her decide she had won.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think you’re embarrassed. And even if you’re not—”
“If he’s not,” said Colorado’s voice from the doorway, “he ought to be.”
Chance whirled around. The kid was leaning on the door jamb, not quite laughing out loud. Chance did not know how long he had been there, but it must have been long enough. “What are you doing here?” he roared at him.
Colorado pulled his face straight and said politely, “I don’t think she has the cards, Sheriff.”
“How do you know?” Chance demanded angrily.
The girl was smiling, looking from one to the other.
“I think the man in the checkered vest has ’em,” Colorado said.
Unreasonably, Chance snarled. “Why didn’t you find out?”
“I said I wouldn’t start any trouble unless I told you first.” Colorado lifted his shoulder away from the doorjamb and settled the two big guns on his hips. “Now I’m telling you I’m going to see if he’s got ’em. Want to come along?”
“I do,” said the girl, and started for the door right along with Chance.
“You keep out of this, Feathers,” he said. The name came out before he knew it. Perhaps he had started to say “Felicity” and then shied away from it. Anyway it seemed to suit her better.
It startled her for a second, but she only said determinedly, “I’ve got a particular interest in this.”
Chance said brutally, “You worked with one gambler. Perhaps you’re working with Checkered Vest.”
She gave him one cold, contemptuous look. “Not with that sowbelly,” she said. “He’s so clumsy I had him figured in the first five minutes.” She included both Chance and Colorado in her final question. “What took you so long?”
Now Chance felt ashamed and it angered him even more because he couldn’t see why he should be ashamed of anything he had done. He followed Colorado into the hall and down the stairs, acutely conscious of the rustle of Feathers’ skirts right behind him.
He knew she was telling the truth about the gambler. And he found himself wondering what had happened to the man on the handbill.
Colorado walked across the room to the poker table. Chance let him go ahead. He kept his rifle ready, but this was the kid’s party, and anyway Chance was curious to see how he handled himself. Colorado moved easily, his body relaxed, his hands swinging loose. He did not hurry. When he reached the table he was careful to give himself plenty of room, and he did it all so quietly that nobody paid him any attention.
He said almost casually to Checkered Vest, “Just keep your hands on top of the table, right where they are.”
There was an explosion of activity around the table. Cards and chairs went every whichway as the other players cleared out of there. Only Checkered Vest sat still for a moment, frozen in the act of turning up a hole card on a hand of stud. His face was stony, his small eyes narrowed and with a flat blankness to them. Chance shifted his weight a little where he stood, centering the carbine just in case.
He need not have worried. Checkered Vest made his move, but the kid was way ahead of him. A gun came into Colorado’s hand so fast that Chance’s eye could not follow the movement. Checkered Vest looked at the gun and then took his fingers back out from under his coat, empty.
Colorado nodded, pleased. “Now put ’em back where they were.”
Checkered Vest placed his hands flat on the table top and left them there. His jowls sagged over his collar. His eyes now were alarmed and furtive, darting here and there at the faces of the men who were watching. Chance went up to him and took the derringer out from under his coat. He patted him over to be sure it did not have a mate. Then he nodded to Colorado and stepped back.
Colorado put his own gun back in the holster. He leaned over and picked up the gambler’s left arm by the wrist. He inserted his fingers in the sleeve and came out with three cards. He laid them neatly on the table and said to Chance without cracking a smile, “You went to a lot of trouble for nothing, Sheriff
.”
Feathers had come up and was standing close by. Chance did not look straight at her, but he could see she was laughing. He reached out and grabbed Checkered Vest by his coat and hauled him to his feet. The man flinched as though he expected to be hit. Chance was tempted to oblige him. He would have enjoyed hitting something. But instead he shoved the man toward Carlos and said, “Lock him up in his room and don’t let him out till stage time.” Carlos looked doubtful, and Chance went on, “He won’t make you any trouble. Because if he does all the fellows he played with will get in on it and I’ll be too busy to stop them. He understands that.” He turned to Checkered Vest. “Don’t you?”
The gambler glanced at the faces of the men who had come back around the table. “I understand,” he said. “Sure, Sheriff. Just hold ’em off me.” He went away so fast that Carlos had to run to keep up.
Chance gestured toward the table. “Losers can help themselves.”
The men began dividing the money, arguing over who had lost what. Checkered Vest vanished up the stairs with Carlos after him. Colorado spoke to Chance, grinning.
“Seems like you were wrong about the girl, Sheriff.”
Chance glowered at him. “Up to now you’ve been pretty good about minding your own business. Don’t ruin your score.”
“No offense,” said Colorado, and walked jauntily away.
Chance turned to the girl. He looked her over and she let him do it, studying him the while with that maddeningly cool appraising stare. She was not exactly what you would call beautiful. Chance had seen pictures of these pale perfect women with cameo faces, and they always stirred him with a pleasurable longing: they were as lovely as moonlight and just as remote, so you never had to worry about actually catching one. And there were other kinds of girls for other moods, but those you didn’t have to worry about either. This one in front of him he couldn’t figure. She was obviously no lady, but she just as obviously wasn’t the other kind, and he didn’t know where she fitted. Therefore she bothered him. And he liked her face. He wished he didn’t.
“I guess,” he said, “I made a mistake about the cards.”
Rio Bravo Page 6
