E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  He considered for a long moment.

  Eve clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back among the cushions. “Dex,” she murmured, “we can be so happy, if you’ll just quit.”

  “I’ll think on it,” he compromised; the first time he had made any concessions.

  “Will you? Really?” Eager arms reached toward him, and splendor brightened in her long lashed eyes. Then, when that sultry kiss finally let Eve regain her breath, she gasped, “Silly! Don’t be so impulsive and take so much for granted.”

  When Blaine slipped out of the back door of the restaurant into the moonlight, he still had not made any promises. Eve, however, had nearly converted him. He was still a little lightheaded from her kisses.

  With an effort, he composed himself. Premonition flashed through his mind: “Could have been hit on the head with an ox yoke, and never had sense enough to duck.”

  And that was why he moved by instinct, a moment later. Reason would have failed him, and so would natural speed. There was a faint, metallic crunch, as of a rusty tin can getting the brunt of someone’s shifting weight.

  Blaine hurled himself for the rain water barrel that loomed up in the shadow of a ’dobe. Spurts of flame reached out from the spaces between fence pickets that lined the other side of the narrow street. Lead flattened against the thick wall.

  His movement was so nearly simultaneous with the murderous fire that a familiar voice yelled, “Got the son of a—!”

  “Cuidado!” warned his companion. “Par amor de—”

  The Mexican was going to say, “For the love of God.” But Satan or the saints heard the last word; certainly no man. Blaine’s gun was in action. Though fence pickets enabled a man to see without being seen, they were extremely treacherous shelter.

  Tin cans rattled under the convulsive drumming of a dying man’s feet. The loud voiced man groaned. And Tecolote, aroused, began to shout and stir.

  Blaine called from his shelter, “Stranger, will yo’all live and talk, or do I come a-shootin’?”

  “All right, I give up.” Heavy metal clattered among the rubbish. “Don’t shoot.”

  Blaine could half discern the huddled figure behind the pickets. He was certain that from the fellow’s posture he could not direct a second gun, even if he had one. That groan was not faked. The man was hard hit without a doubt.

  In a moment, he had shouldered his way through the lead riddled pickets and was beside the two dry gulchers. One was dead. The one who still lived was the stranger who had accused Blaine of cheating. The gambler said, “Pardner, y’all played the fool twice in one night. But what have you got agin me?”

  The hard case glared, slobbered bloody foam. Blaine went on, “Someone sent you. And that man’s going to disown you, you pore fool.”

  There was no resentment in his voice. Blaine felt none. He was a fatalist; a gambler, that is. The stranger sensed this.

  The street was a confusion of yelled queries and answers, now that the men of Tecolote had found and donned their boots. The participants of the three cornered battle were out of sight, and the noise masked their voices. “Speak up, pardner,” Blaine persuaded. “Who sent you? Tell me, or…but blast it, I could of killed you already. I’d rather not.”

  That did it. The stranger began, “That dirty—skunk—told me—”

  He choked, slumped back, completely finished.

  Blaine called to the men in the street, but when help came, it was only to carry two dead men from the city clump. He explained, “I reckon these gents had a grudge.” Since he had no proof, he did not mention Radford.

  “Reckon,” said the marshal, who had heard of the earlier encounter.

  Then Blaine approached the heavy jawed man who had unerringly led the investigation to the vacant lot. He was the only one, beside Blaine, whose shirt was tucked inside his trouser waistband. The gambler smiled amiably and said, “Evenin’, Mistah Radford. Was y’all a-settin’ up late, or was you expectin’ trouble, right in this heah corner of town?”

  Smoke Radford wore a pair of guns, but he kept his hands away scrupulously from them. He chewed his trailing mustache for a moment, then said, very loudly, “Shucks, Blaine! I allus set up late, readin’.”

  “The straight game at the Bull’s Haid,” Blaine went on, “stays straight and keeps on furnishing unfair competition, Mistah Radford.” Radford cleared his throat, then turned abruptly and went his way.

  No man had ever run Blaine out of town, and no man would. But it would be tough, telling Eve that he could no longer consider quitting the gambling house in Tecolote. So Blaine evaded her eager queries each night, and kissed Eve to rapturous silence. But that would not last long. She’d surely corner him eventually.

  * * * *

  The game went on. Tough customers religiously avoided the Bull’s Head. But one of the dance-hall girls began playing up to Blaine. Milly Graves was a redhead modeled after the Goddess of Liberty, except that her dress was less dignified and more revealing.

  She was almost as tall as Blaine; her figure was intriguing, her ripe curves were enough to tempt any man. And whenever she had a chance, during a lull in the game, she leaned against Blaine, giving him a warm pressure and a gust of heady perfume.

  One evening she stopped him in the alcove at the head of the stairs, snuggled close and invited, “Come on and have a drink, Dex.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, M’am. Agin’ the rules, trifling with house employees. I’m powerful sorry, Milly.”

  “Oh…silly!” She lifted full red lips to tempt him. “I just meant, have a drink while I’m changing. And meet me at my house.”

  Blaine smiled, more amiably than before. “Sounds mighty tempting, Milly. I’m sho’ flattered.” One arm went around her waist.

  She noted the sharp glance that dropped to the fair skin below her throat. She leaned back from the waist, as Blaine raised his left hand, slowly. Milly expected a caress, a pat on the cheek at the very least, but she was mistaken.

  One deft move plucked at the edge of her bodice. There was nothing caressing about the gesture that followed. Blaine extracted a lengthwise fold of new bills. As he flashed them before her eyes, he said, “Either you been picking someone’s pockets, or Smoke Radford paid you to entertain me, with my guns out of reach.”

  He flipped the bills into her face, and went back to his table. She choked, then screamed at the half dozen cowpokes who were chortling and staring. “You low-down skunks, mind your own business!”

  Blaine began avoiding Eve. Once he had shot it out with Smoke Radford, he could leave Tecolote; not before then. But despite the outward calm of his face, Blaine was shaken inside. His uncanny judgment of the cards began to waver. He lost oftener than he used to. And still he went on playing.

  * * * *

  Then Blaine’s luck changed. A big, smooth-faced cattle man came all the way to Tecolote instead of getting his supplies at the town nearest his spread, the Rafter JG. Jason Gale was young, noisy, confident, and a shade drunker than a poker player should he.

  His red face beamed like a harvest moon. Blaine said, “Pardner, this heah’s a free country, but supposin’ y’all come back tomorrow night.”

  Gale chuckled. “Deal ’em out! Yuh been losin’ plenty, yuh’ll lose tuh me ef I follows up!”

  Blaine did not like it. Eve’s lectures had been getting under his skin. Despite his stout defense of poker as a science, his philosophy had been shaken, just a bit. This yokel, not long from Ohio, had no business gambling recklessly.

  Still, Blaine could not turn business away from the house. He played, and Gale foolishly backed hands he should have dropped.

  Finally the ruddy face became drawn. Then it became gray. Gale was now painfully sober. His blue eyes were haggard, and sweat cropped out, trickled down his cheeks. He mopped his forehead with his bandanna, and grimly hunched forward in his chai
r.

  At last he produced another poke, poured it on the table, and settled down to recoup. Poker, however, is very much a science. Hours later, the big fellow tottered out into the chilly gloom. Blaine shook his head.

  “Poor devil, he couldn’t afford that loss.”

  “Reckon not,” admitted a bystander. “Reckon not. He was a-heading fer the county seat tuh make a payment on his notes er mo’gage, er suthin.” When he saw Blaine’s jaw tighten, he hastily added, “Shucks, Dex! No offense, a-tall. Wan’t yore fault, Gale bein’ a fool kid! It’ll larn him suthin’, the young booby owl!”

  Blaine slowly rose. “Gents, the game’s closing for tonight. Meet me tomorrow, and we’ll court lady luck for a spell.”

  But Blame went to his own rooms. He realized more and more that Eve was right. Only, she would not understand; if he told her he had to stick until Smoke Radford came out in the open, she would be all the more insistent on his quitting.

  * * * *

  The next night, Blaine did not go to his table.

  Instead, he waited for Eve to close her restaurant. They were sitting in the room overlooking the main street, and the silence became more awkward every moment.

  “Dex,” she finally said, “what’s the matter?” Her eyes were wide and blue. In the moonlight, she was a sweet length of white and gold. Her legs gleamed, long and lovely and silken, and the curve of breast and throat were glorified in the night’s glamour.

  Blaine drew her to him and said, “Honey, I been thinking a lot.”

  “About Smoke Radford?”

  He nodded. “I cain’t let him run me out of Tecolote!”

  Her lips tightened. She sighed. “Well… I understand that, darling. But isn’t principle above pride?”

  “Blast it!” he flared, “that’s what this is. Principle. You women jest cain’t understand matters of principle, a-tall.”

  Eve forced a laugh, but the smile that lingered was real. “Dex, I love you an awful lot. You know that. Couldn’t you please me in just this one thing?”

  She might have won, had it not been for the sudden shouting in the street, the clattering of hoofs. Blaine stepped to the window. Eve, right on his heels, snuggled close beside him when she reached the window sill.

  A man lay face down, and crosswise in the saddle. The sheriff and a deputy rode with the dead. They stopped in the full glare of the lights that blazed from the saloon just across the street. The yellow glow brought out every stark detail when they dragged the corpse from the horse. First the coroner, then Boot Hill…

  The rumble of voices gave enough clear bits to tell Blaine the story. The bullet riddled man was Jason Gale. To recoup his losses, he had set out to rob a stage coach.

  Worst of all, Eve understood. Blaine’s exclamation, coupled with the gossip she had heard as she fed the town at her lunch counter, made only a few words necessary. Her voice was bitter. “Poker’s a science! Dex, you can’t kiss me silly any more, and make me forget like you’ve been doing.”

  “Why—honey—now, listen,” he protested.

  She evaded his arms. Head flung back, she went on, “Being a gambler’s wife or widow, no! Quit me, or quit gambling.”

  “Blast it! Listen, I didn’t cheat Gale. It was a fair game. By God, Smoke Radford can’t run me out of town.”

  “So your pride means more than I do?”

  He tried to wheedle her into reason. For a moment, she relaxed in his arms; her eyes misted, and her breath came in quick, short gasps as he drew her closer, kissed her into submission. Then she cried out as though in physical pain and said, “Don’t touch me—don’t—I won’t—you murdered that poor fellow! Don’t!”

  Her stinging slap made him blink. She turned and ran into the adjoining room, and flung herself face down on the bed. Dimly, he could see the silken sheen of her lovely legs. But Blaine knew that he had lost out. He slowly went down to the street.

  * * * *

  Blaine knew his cards better than he did women. It never occurred to him that Eve was hurt because he placed her second to his pride. He staved well away from the restaurant, convinced that she despised him.

  Radford went about with a contented expression on his blue-jowled face. Blaine, despite his well founded suspicions, could not force a quarrel; not after Eve had called him a slayer by proxy, and a card slick who won tolerance by his gun skill. Though they were estranged, the lean Texan still wanted to avoid justifying her charges.

  Smoke Radford had his plans; they formed when he saw that Blaine and Eve were avoiding each other. Though their quarrel had been private, everyone in Tecolote knew that she had from the beginning wanted him to stop gambling.

  Eating his own smoke was giving Blaine spiritual indigestion. He never drank while at work, but he began taking a bottle home with him. The rumor spread, and Radford liked it. He enjoyed it even more when after a separation of two weeks, Eve and Blaine accidentally met at the post office steps.

  Either could have spoken, but neither did. Eve went home with her head high and chin up, but once in her room, she did some private weeping. Blaine just sent for an extra bottle that night. If that’s the way she felt, to the devil with her.

  And then fate brought a splendid creature to the Bull’s Head Saloon; though none of the boys used any such high-faluting terms. They said, “Jeehosaphat! That gal’s built like a brick silo, an’ purty as a picture.”

  Both counts were true, and Viola’s shoes were danced to tatters her first night as a dancehall girl. Her red smile and sultry eyes and blue black hair marked her among the bleached blondes. Instead of a gown that was low on top and high at the bottom, she featured coy concealment.

  Her black lace dress gave tantalizing hints of the beauty beneath. Her dainty feet and fine ankles slyly suggested the sleekness of legs hidden from view, except when her skirt clung to their curves for an indiscreet moment. But most alluring of all was that promise of fire smoldering behind a dark screen.

  “Where she come from?” wondered Blaine, turning from his vacant table.

  “You orta know better,” reproved Tim Higgins. “Did I ever axe you any impertinent questions when you come to Tecolote?”

  Blaine nodded. “Uh-uh. Seein’s believin’, I reckon.”

  Tim winked, jabbed a stubby forefinger into the gambler’s ribs. “Shucks, Dex! Yo’re the only gentlemun in town, and she’s a lady. Refineder an’ all get out. Don’t tell me you cain’t dance!”

  Baldheaded Tim felt that getting a new interest in life would keep Blaine from living on a diet of Bull Durham and Old Crow.

  The gambler smiled bleakly. He understood the old fellow’s solicitude. There might be something in that idea, too. Those sleek hips and that proud, firm carriage didn’t make a lady; but the way she refrained from flaunting her curves did. Viola, he sensed, was another of those women whom fortune had hammered down in the world, yet without shaking her quality.

  “You mustn’t neglect your cards, Mr. Blaine,” she smiled, slipping into his arms when he asked her to dance.

  Blaine tossed a gold piece to the keys of old Pablo’s piano. The cowpokes yelled to the fiddler, “Twist ’er tail, ’Doro!”

  “Drown me in a rain bar’l ef that lanky galoot cain’t dance!” Tim Higgins rubbed his hands together. “That’s jest the female critter to straighten him out!”

  Blaine had the same idea. An armful of Viola told him that she had none of the dancehall girl’s tawdry tricks. Once, sitting close to a light, he noted a faint, unmistakable depression that encircled a finger. She had recently removed a wedding ring.

  * * * *

  But that was no subject for queries. Later, in Viola’s room at the Antler Hotel, there were too many other things to ask her. The kind of things one can ask without being inquisitive…

  “Why… I hardly know you,” she said. Though the reproof was whimsical, rather than i
ndignant. “Just because I dance at the Bull’s Head—”

  Viola no longer wore the baffling black gown, but her chiffon robe was scarcely less a riddle.

  And the long, splendid line from hip to knee brought Blaine’s heart to his throat. Even if not to blot Eve from his memory, he would admire this gorgeous creature who smiled at him from the lounge.

  He evaded her futile white hands, and for a moment, she was pressed against him, warm and throbbing. That instant of abandon ended in a lithe move that left his arms empty. All he had won was the taste of rouge, a momentary glimpsed beauty exposed when her evading motion parted her chiffon gown for an instant.

  “Please don’t—” She was soft voiced and serious until her smile blossomed in a promise, and she added, “I feel so strange in Tecolote. Later—”

  She was a lady, so he let it go at that. If “later” didn’t mean “soon,” he might as well go back to school and start all over.

  * * * *

  That night, Blaine ignored his bottle.

  Regardless of the outcome, he had at least burned his bridges behind him. Only the hotel clerk had seen him enter and leave, but all Tecolote would know by noon. Since there could now be no reconciliation with Eve, Blaine was no longer wavering. Nothing could induce him to back down from his principles. He was his own man again.

  The next day, Eve had taken down the “For Sale” sign that had decorated the window of her restaurant. But that meant nothing to Blaine, other than that the jig was up. Which he knew without any signs!

  A week passed. Each night Viola evaded him. He began to slip out of the back door of the hotel, to avoid letting the town know how early he left her. But the pursuit stimulated him, and his game improved.

  One night he found her with her face buried in a pillow. Her bare shoulders shook convulsively. He knelt beside her and said, “Honey, what’s wrong? Someone get familiar—was it that polecat, Smoke Radford?”

  Viola sat up, raised somber eyes, blinked away her tears, and cried, “Oh, it’s a crazy world—crazy—crazy!”

  “Why—sweetheart—” He didn’t know what to make of that, so he supported her with one arm, stroked her sleek, trailing hair. “You look sad-like.”