Dancing With Dead Men

by James Reasoner

  A stocky man in an ill-fitting suit waited just inside the door. "Cost you six bits to come in," he said.

  Logan handed the man a silver dollar and said, "I'm looking for a woman – "

  "Plenty of 'em here, but you'll have to make your own arrangements with them," the man said. "We don't do that. Liable to cost you extra, you bein' a gimp and all."

  Logan reined in his temper. The man had an Irish accent, so he asked, "Are you Red Mike?"

  "Me? Carnahan?" The man laughed. "Hell, no. I just work for the lad. You'll know him when you see him. Hair like flame, he's got."

  Logan moved past the man at the door. Beyond the foyer was a short entrance hall that had been turned into a bar. Past it were double doors opening into a ballroom that was now a gambling den. As Logan moved into the room, he saw roulette wheels, faro layouts, poker and blackjack tables. The place was crowded, and the players were the mixture he expected: a few well-dressed men and women, out for the excitement of doing something dangerous, and the others dressed in rougher clothing with the lines of harder, more desperate lives etched on their faces.

  Logan didn't see Gillian Baldwin anywhere.

  But in a crowd like this, it was difficult to take in everything at once. He began making his way around the room, his eyes narrow under the brim of his hat as he searched for her.

  He heard her before he saw her. The familiar voice held a note of panic as she said, "No, please, I don't want to – "

  "We had a bet, remember?" a man said. "It's not my fault you told the dealer to hit you again on seventeen. Now you got to pay up."

  "You took my money – " Gillian said.

  "Money wasn't all you were betting, and you knew it."

  With his pulse beginning to hammer in his head, Logan moved around a clump of people blocking his view and saw Gillian being forced up a curving staircase at the side of the room. The man who had hold of her arm was dressed in a white suit, had dark hair that was slightly askew and a mustache. From the way the man's face was flushed, Logan thought he might be drunk . . . but not too drunk to know what he was doing.

  Gillian had changed into a much more provocative gown before sneaking out of the hotel. It wasn't cut quite as low as the one she had worn to the party the night before, but almost. She was beautiful, but she was also scared. She had tried to do something daring but had wound up in trouble instead.

  For a second, Logan was tempted to turn around, walk out of Red Mike's, and leave her to whatever was going to happen. She had brought this on herself, after all, with her vain, arrogant stubbornness.

  But he knew he couldn't do that, so he moved as quickly as he could to the foot of the stairs and called, "Gillian!"

  The room was so noisy that she might not be able to hear him. But her head snapped around toward him and he knew she had. So had the man who was trying to make her go upstairs with him. He paused, turned his head to scowl down at Logan, and demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

  "I'm that lady's friend," Logan said, "and I want you to let go of her."

  "Yeah, well, you can go to hell," the man rasped. "She lost a bet to me, and now she's got to pay up."

  "I . . . I never bet what you're saying I did," Gillian said. "This is all a misunderstanding – "

  "I don't think so. Come on."

  The man tugged on her arm again. Gillian struggled but couldn't pull free. Logan started up the stairs toward the two of them. He couldn't move very fast.

  The man saw him coming and shoved Gillian down beside him. He turned with an angry grimace contorting his face.

  "I don't like to fight cripples," he said, "but this won't be much of a fight."

  He lunged down the stairs at Logan.

  20.

  The drunken, amorous gambler was right about one thing: it wasn't much of a fight.

  Logan tipped the cane up and rammed it into the man's stomach. The man's own momentum worked against him, making the blow even more effective as the cane jabbed into his belly. He started to double over, his eyes widening in unexpected pain. Since the man was already off-balance, Logan lowered the cane, thrust it between his ankles, and twisted. With a wild yell, the man toppled forward. Logan pivoted out of the way so that the man somersaulted past him and down the rest of the staircase, out of control, until he wound up in a stunned heap at the base of the stairs.

  The altercation drew the attention of quite a few people in the big room. Logan didn't like that; he would have preferred to get Gillian out of here quietly, without making a scene. Keeping her safe was his main job, but he figured Marcus Baldwin might not be too pleased if Little Rock started buzzing with gosspip about his daughter.

  He moved up four steps to where she sat on one of the risers, looking shaken. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Yes, I . . ." She had to stop for a second before she could go on. "I didn't expect to run into such trouble here."

  "You might have if you'd taken the time to find out what sort of reputation this place really has," he said. He didn't bother trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  She looked up at him and said, "I'm so glad you found me, Logan. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up when you did."

  "I don't think either of us wants to know."

  A couple of burly men in poorly fitting suits like the man at the door approached the fallen gambler. Another man trailed behind them. He was better dressed, and his red hair told Logan that he was probably Michael Carnahan . . . or Red Mike, as he was known in some quarters.

  "Get him out of here," the redhaired man told his subordinates. "Don't damage him too much, but make sure he remembers in the future that it's not wise to cause trouble in my place." He came up a couple of steps toward Logan and Gillian as the bruisers dragged the white-suited man away. "Is the lady all right?"

  "I'm fine," Gillian said stiffly. Logan figured she was trying to regain some of her lost dignity. She lifted a hand to him and went on, "Help me up, Mr. Handley."

  Logan did so, and when Gillian was on her feet again, she descended the stairs regally. The hum of normal conversation began again in the room. The show, such as it had been, was over.

  When the three of them were at the bottom of the staircase, Carnahan said, "I'd like to buy both of you a drink, Miss . . . ?"

  Logan didn't give her a chance to answer. He wanted to keep the Baldwin name out of this affair. He said, "We're obliged to you, but that won't be necessary. We're leaving."

  "Already?" Carnahan murmured. "I was hoping this unfortunate unpleasantness could be forgotten – "

  Logan shook his head and said, "We hold no grudges, but I think it would be best if we left."

  "Logan, please," Gillian said. "We're already here, and I'm sure there won't be any more trouble."

  "I give you my word on that," Carnahan said.

  Logan hesitated. Arguing with Gillian might draw more unwanted attention. After a moment he shrugged and said, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt anything to stay a while longer. But only a little while."

  "Excellent." Carnahan linked arms with Gillian, then glanced at Logan. "With your permission, sir . . ."

  "You don't need my permission," Logan said. "Only the lady's."

  "Thank you," Gillian told Carnahan with one of her dazzling smiles. "I've already tried blackjack. What other games do you recommend?"

  "What about roulette? It can be very exciting."

  "Yes, I'd love to try that," Gillian said.

  Logan followed them as they headed for one of the roulette tables. He had spent a lot of time in smoky gambling dens such as this one, so the place held no novelty for him. He supposed it was new and exciting to Gillian, though.

  Almost too exciting, he thought wryly.

  In the next half-hour, as Gillian won and lost at the roulette wheel and seemed to be having a good time with Carnahan at her side and Logan waiting nearby, a couple of fights broke out in other parts of the room. They attracted only momentary interest before Red Mike's boun
cers moved in quickly to break them up. Evidently violence was nothing unusual here, which came as no surprise to Logan since he had heard about the place's reputation from Deacon.

  He hoped the black man was still waiting outside with the buggy. Finding another here on the outskirts of town might prove to be difficult at this time of night.

  Logan couldn't have said what it was that made him stiffen suddenly as the skin on the back of his neck crawled. He knew his instincts were warning him about something, but as he looked around the room, he didn't see anything threatening.

  Then a couple of people moved, creating a grap in the crowd, and he got a good view of a poker table he hadn't been able to see a moment earlier. The table was about thirty feet away from him. One of the players seated on the other side of the table, facing him, was a man with a black hat tipped far back on his thick black hair. The man's face was instantly familiar to Logan.

  Jim Meadows.

  But there was something different, and for a second Logan wasn't sure if the man was Meadows after all. He realized that this man had an ugly scar on the right side of his face, leading back toward his ear. Meadows hadn't had a scar like that the last time Logan had seen him . . .

  Christmas Eve. The office of the Rimfire Mining Syndicate in Aspen Creek, Montana. A shot from a derringer that made blood fly from Meadows' head . . .

  The mining syndicate office had been empty when men got there after Logan stopped the dynamite from blowing up the town hall, but there was quite a bit of blood on the floor. Logan had had problems of his own to occupy his mind, but when he thought about Meadows' disappearance, he hoped that the gunman had crawled off somewhere and died.

  Clearly, that hadn't been the case, because Jim Meadows was alive and well, if scarred, in Red Mike's gambling den here in Little Rock, Arkansas. Logan had no doubt that's who he was looking at.

  Had Meadows followed him to Arkansas? That seemed unlikely, but Logan couldn't rule it out. Meadows had always been a vain man. He would want revenge for the wound that had ruined his looks. The way Logan had interfered with his plans in Montana would be just one more score to settle.

  But it was certainly possible that Meadows' presence was just a coincidence. Wilder things had happened.

  Meadows' attention was focused on the cards in his hand. He hadn't looked up from them in the handful of seconds it took for those thoughts to go through Logan's mind. Without hurrying or doing anything to draw interest, Logan turned so that Meadows wouldn't be able to see his face. He angled toward the spot where Gillian was standing with Mike Carnahan, still playing roulette.

  The wheel made a whirring sound as it spun around. The little white ball clattered and clicked. It finally fell and came to a stop in one of the slots. Logan didn't even look to see which one it was. He could tell by Gillian's reaction that she was excited and happy.

  "You're going to have to quit while you're ahead," he told her. "We need to leave."

  "Leave?" she repeated. "But I'm just getting started!"

  "You've had a taste of the experience. That'll have to be enough."

  Her mouth hardened into an angry line as she said, "I don't recall my father telling you that you can give me orders."

  "Your father told me to keep you safe, and I can do a better job of that if you're back at the hotel in his suite."

  Carnahan said, "I think the lady's old enough to make up her own mind, mister."

  Logan gave the redheaded man a cold stare. "She's already run into trouble here once tonight. I don't want it happening again."

  "Nobody's bothering me," Gillian snapped. "Everything is perfectly fine."

  Except that it wasn't. Jim Meadows was here. And in all likelihood, Meadows could still pull a gun with the same speed he always had. The bullet crease that had left his face scarred didn't look like it would have affected his vision. He would be as fast and deadly as ever.

  And Logan wasn't. A showdown with Meadows tonight would be a death sentence.

  He didn't want to beg, but he was already a coward for wanting to run, so what did it matter, he asked himself. He said quietly, "Please, we need to go now. It's important."

  Gillian pouted for a moment, but then she shrugged and said, "Oh, all right, if it means that much to you." She turned to Carnahan and went on, "How much money do I have coming as my winnings, Michael?"

  "A little over three hundred dollars," Carnahan said.

  Practically the same amount of money Baldwin had offered him for this job, Logan thought. Carnahan didn't look that happy at the thought of paying it out, either.

  "Why don't I leave it here with you?" Gillian said. "Then I'll have some money to play with starting out, the next time I'm here."

  That idea pleased Carnahan more. There was always a chance Gillian would never be back, or would forget about the money, and then he'd never have to pay it out.

  "All right," he said, "but I hope that's not long."

  "I'm sure it won't be."

  Logan moved up next to her, keeping his back turned toward the table where he had spotted Jim Meadows, and touched her arm with his left hand.

  "Let's go," he said.

  She smiled and came with him, but as they started making their way toward the entrance, she asked under her breath, "What's got you so worked up, Logan?"

  "I just think we've pushed our luck as far as we ought to tonight," he told her. "That's what my instincts say, anyway, and I've learned to trust them."

  He burned inside with shame at the thought of fleeing from an old enemy like this, and lying to Gillian about it just made things worse. But in a way he was doing the right thing, he told himself. If Meadows killed him, then Gillian would be left here alone, and he was confident that wouldn't turn out well.

  He got his hat and the coat Gillian had worn and led her outside. Thankfully, Deacon and the buggy were waiting in the same place where he had left them.

  "Back to the hotel," Logan told the driver as he helped Gillian into the rear seat.

  "Yes, sir," Deacon said, and Logan thought he sounded quite relieved.

  But no more relieved than he was. Tonight had been a close call in more ways than one. Logan knew he couldn't count on his luck continuing. Sooner or later he would have to face his past.

  But not tonight. Thankfully, not tonight.

  21.

  Logan sat back in the big stone tub and let the hot water flow around him. It smelled a little of sulfur, which he thought was appropriate. Brimstone for a killer.

  Tiny swirls of steam curled from the water's surface. The heat felt good as it soaked into Logan's muscles. It was especially welcome now that winter had settled in and the weather was dank and chilly most of the time. There was no doubt in Logan's mind that the mineral bath treatments he had been taking for the past few weeks were pleasant. Very pleasant, in fact.

  But he couldn't tell that they they had done a blasted thing to strengthen his arm and leg.

  The lack of progress was frustrating. Dr. Strittmatter claimed that it was simply a matter of time, that Logan hadn't given the treatments long enough to work yet. Maybe he was right; Logan was no doctor, so it was hard for him to be sure about such things.

  But the suspicious side of his mind asked him what else Strittmatter was going to say. The doctor charged him for every one of these treatments, so naturally it was to Strittmatter's advantage to keep Logan and all his other patients returning time after time.

  After a while, a large, bald man named Gunther came into the room and announced, "Time for your massage now, Herr Handley."

  Gunther had come to America with Dr. Strittmatter, Logan supposed. On every visit, after soaking in the bath, Logan climbed onto a hard table and lay there face down while Gunther massaged his arm and leg. Again, it felt good, but Logan wasn't sure it was actually helping.

  Today as he lay there on the table while Gunther worked on him, his thoughts drifted back over the past few weeks. Since returning from Little Rock with Gillian, Logan had done a few mor
e small jobs for Marcus Baldwin, all of which involved guarding sums of money. Some of it had gone to Little Rock, and some had been delivered to logging camps in the Ouachita Mountains. Logan hadn't encountered any problems during the trips. His life, in fact, had become rather boring. Gillian seemed to be staying close to home these days. Maybe the train holdup and the close shave at the gambling den had spooked her more than she let on.

  The good thing was that Baldwin had continued to be generous with his wages, so Logan was able to afford the treatments at Dr. Strittmatter's bathhouse and also had been able to move out of Vickie Eastland's boarding house and take a room at one of the less expensive hotels. Eventually he planned to rent a house of his own.

  It was a relief knowing that any dangers from his past wouldn't be menacing Vickie, Rusty, or anyone else who lived at the boarding house. He couldn't deny that he missed all of them, however. Especially Vickie . . .

  Whenever that thought crossed his mind, he told himself he was being foolish. Really, Vickie had never been anything more than civil to him. He had been just another boarder to her, that was all.

  When Gunther was finished with the massage, Logan wrapped himself in a thick robe and went back to the room where he had hung up his clothes and his gun. He got dressed, took his cane, and limped out of the bathhouse.

  For some reason, his steps turned toward the barber shop. He hadn't seen Doc Reese for a while, so he decided to stop there and say hello. He might even go across the street to Dumont's and get a drink while he was in that part of town, he told himself.

  Oddly enough, stepping into the barber shop felt a little like coming home. He wasn't sure why he felt that way, since he hadn't really worked there for very long. But there was a grin on his face anyway as he went past the striped pole and entered the building.