Dutton gave his pencil a rest. “Doesn’t sound like bad advice, Marshal. I just might give it a try. But in the meantime, you’d be well advised to know that there’s a good deal of talk going around town on both matters. Word of mouth, or plain old gossip if you want to call it that, was spreading news and stirring up people’s feelings about things long before typeset ever came along.
“I can’t say about Wardell and his gunny, but there are two distinct camps when it comes to Larkin. A lot of folks see him as a nice fellow who somehow got a raw deal. But plenty of others don’t trust him and think he’s on his way back looking to get even. He runs into enough of the latter, things aren’t going to go easy for him.”
“Yeah,” Bob said in a flat tone. “This is not for quoting in your paper but, much as I wish otherwise, I’ve got a feeling there are quite a few things that ain’t gonna go easy in the days ahead.”
CHAPTER 18
The previous year, a man named August Gafford had built in the New Town section of Rattlesnake Wells an impressive two-story structure that he called the Crystal Diamond Saloon. The main room was furnished with a specially imported bar and an array of dazzling chandeliers, and had a spacious performing stage where an exclusive dance hall revue was scheduled to put on nightly shows. Trouble was, a serious of violent events brought on by outside forces as well as Gafford getting caught in his own double-dealing caused the whole thing to fail spectacularly before it ever got off the ground. A great deal of blood was shed and lives were lost—including Gafford’s, at his own hand—before it was all over.
Ultimately, after the bodies were buried and the wounds of the living patched up, the Crystal Diamond was stripped of all its glitzy furnishings and by the start of winter was nothing but an empty shell of a building. Enter a man named Roy Cormier out of Denver who paid the city for the land and the abandoned building, furnished it with the simple basics even though renaming it the Grand, and reopened it as a workingman’s saloon and gaming house.
The almost immediate onset of a hard winter, something many thought might be a factor working against the success of this new establishment, actually proved to be quite the opposite. While Bullock’s Saloon and the restaurant bar at the Shirley House Hotel in Old Town were exceptions, most of the Grand’s New Town competition was cramped, drafty, dirt-floored tent saloons and gambling joints. So when the snow and bitter winds started whistling under tent flaps and through frosted-over canvas walls, those inclined toward cheap drinking and gambling quickly found they could do so at only slightly higher prices but in the comfort of the warm, dry wooden structure that was the Grand. It wasn’t long before Cormier’s place was the most popular spot in New Town, drawing a near-capacity crowd almost any night of the week.
Helping matters along was the way the upper story of the Grand was put to use. Accompanying Cormier when he came to town was a sultry blonde with a thick German accent whom he introduced only as Duchess. As the ground-floor saloon was taking shape, Duchess was busy transforming the second floor into a six-bed bawdy house that operated pretty much independently from the saloon. It had its own discreet entrance by means of an outside stairway at the rear and a parlor complete with a limited bar where callers could socialize briefly before choosing one of the working girls to spend some private time with. All under the watchful eye of “Madam” Duchess, seconded by a gigantic black bouncer named Arthur. The girls, who were selectively brought in by Duchess, did not mingle with the drinkers and gamblers down in the saloon, such as was done in other places, but rather stayed exclusive to the second floor.
Unlike the pricing in the Grand’s saloon, Duchess’s second-floor entertainment came at a premium that was considerably higher than the crib whores available in tents and shacks at the far end of Gold Avenue. It took a while for this to catch on, but once talk started spreading through the mining camps and surrounding ranch bunkhouses and the town in general, the difference in quality and service soon was drawing a steady stream of customers willing to shell out a little extra.
While the Grand flourished, both downstairs and up, the tent saloons, gambling joints, and whore cribs farther down the length of Gold Avenue felt the pinch. Most of them managed to still survive, however, because there always remained a certain level of thirsty, horny men too broke or just plain too cheap to pay more than bottom dollar.
* * *
On this particular spring evening, Roy Cormier was in a reflective mood. He sat alone at the far end of the bar, a glass of good bourbon and a top-quality cigar burning in an ashtray on the bar top in front of him. Tonight’s crowd was rather slim for some reason, but decent enough all the same. Two tables of gamblers giving the pasteboards a workout, a mix of miners and cowboys holding up the bar, and a handful of hombres shooting pool. The day’s take would still be okay. And with the approach of summer and more and more suckers braving the elements to arrive in the area, drawn by the lure of hoping to hit gold up in the Prophecy Mountains, there was every reason to believe business would remain good.
Life, in general, was working out pretty good for him these days, Cormier decided. At forty-five, he would be considered handsome by any standards; tall, trim, an evenly featured face complete with strong jaw, faintly dimpled chin, and a classic widow’s peak sweeping back to a headful of wavy dark hair. He carried himself with the measured bearing of a military man or aristocrat, though he was neither, and even his most casual apparel was crisp and clean.
Rattlesnake Wells was still rather primitive compared to the larger cities where Cormier had developed a taste for the finer things in life. But he’d found out the hard way that the competition in those places had ways of grinding a man down and spitting out the broken pieces over even the slightest miscalculation. Far better to be a big fish in a small, relatively calm pond, he’d discovered, than a minnow always struggling against the strong currents to be found in places like Chicago and Denver. And as long as he had Duchess at his side, he would never lack completely for a taste of life’s finer pleasures.
As he sipped his bourbon and enjoyed his cigar this evening, Cormier’s reflections drifted and he became idly focused on the games of pool taking place not far from where he sat. At first a young drifter Cormier hadn’t seen around before had purchased a rack of balls and was playing by himself. Before long, though, three workers from the McT #3 mine showed up. They were regulars who always gravitated to the pool table whenever they stopped in. So it was only a matter of a few minutes before one of them put money down for the next rack of balls and, as was customary, challenged the young stranger to a game, winner take control of the table. The stranger agreed.
Now all of the miners were pretty good pool players, but the best of the trio by a considerable amount was tall, lantern-jawed, braggadocious Ray Monte. He was the one who stepped up to play the young stranger who introduced himself simply as John.
The game was straight pool, call every shot. It went quickly and stayed fairly close, but in the end it was John who sank the winning ball. Next to challenge him was Sam Ruckner, an older, quieter gent who got beat rather handily. The remaining member of the McT #3 trio was big, brutish Jimmy Russert, the poorest pool player of the three, yet he insisted on making a run at the stranger, too. The results were predictable and over with in no time at all.
Watching, Cormier saw that John, the stranger, was not a showboat and not much of a talker at all, really. A tall, pale individual sporting a ragged, untrimmed beard, he just took his time, concentrated hard, and stroked the cue smoothly and accurately.
By the time John had put Russert away, Ray Monte was ready to take another turn. Also by this time, the contest was starting to draw the attention of several of the men who’d been lining the bar. So when Monte suggested playing the next game for money and John sheepishly admitted not having enough to cover the bet, one of the onlookers—Tub Simonson—quickly offered to fade him.
With that, the game progressed and, once again, John won. By this time, even more spectators ha
d gathered around and several of them were eager to wager on the outcome of another game, some backing Monte, some going with John. The two men agreed and so the balls were racked once more.
Looking on, Cormier had no trouble with the activity or the wagering as long as the shooters and onlookers were continuing to spend money on drink. Something that did cause him a touch of concern, however, was the look of growing frustration, hinging on anger, that he could see forming in Ray Monte. Monte had always been proud and loud when it came to his pool-shooting skill and now to find himself getting repeatedly bested by this quiet stranger, especially with his pards and other customers looking on, was getting to him. This particular bunch of McT #3 boys had never been particularly troublesome in the past, but there was always a first time. And Cormier had a hunch this had the makings of possibly turning into that. Just in case, he caught the eye of each of his bouncers—Jake Jocoby on a stool over by the front door, and Miles Cray perched at the back of the room beside a door that opened to the enclosed stairs leading up to the second floor—and gave them the “be alert” signal. They nodded in response.
The next game started. It progressed notably slower than any of the previous ones, each man being perhaps overly cautious with his shots due to the money riding on the outcome. The click of the balls colliding was the only sound as everyone, players and onlookers alike, focused with quiet intensity.
Finally, it came down to sinking the final ball, the game winner, and Monte had control of the table. He called his pocket and got lined up for the shot, a relatively easy one. When he made his stroke, however, the tip made the dreaded sound of striking off center and the cue ball reacted accordingly, striking off its intended mark so that the shot was missed. A collective groan escaped from all looking on.
Before the dismayed sound had died out, John stepped up, called his pocket, and made the shot. The game was over and he’d won again.
Now the sound that came out of the crowd was mixed, another groan from those who’d wagered wrong, elation from those who’d be collecting winnings.
But then all sound was cut short by Ray Monte’s voice calling out loud and harsh. “I claim foul. That bastard cheated!”
CHAPTER 19
All eyes cut to Monte.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” somebody wanted to know.
Monte and John were standing on opposite sides of the table. “I spoke in plain English, didn’t I?” Monte said. He pointed at John, adding, “This cheatin’ skunk purposely bumped the table when I made my shot. No way in hell I would have miscued like that otherwise.”
“That’s a lie,” John said, flat and cold.
Somebody else spoke up. “Come on, Monte, how can that be? We were all standin’ right here watchin’.”
Monte thumped the butt of his cue stick on the floor. “That’s exactly the idea. While everybody was concentratin’ on me takin’ my shot, this polecat gave a hip bump—just a sly one, so’s nobody’d notice—and threw off my stroke.”
“That’s right,” chimed in big Russert. “I seen the weasel do it. I think he’s been doin’ stuff like that right along. How else could he keep winnin’ time after time?”
“How about he’s just plain better?” came another voice out of the crowd.
“To hell with that, says I!” spat Monte. “He’s a cheatin’ skunk and that’s all there is to it. The outcome of that game ought not count and no money should be paid. And this sonofabitch deserves nothing else but to be run out of the joint, and that’s too good for him.”
“I’ll say it again. You’re a liar. You and your pet bear, too,” stated John. “And I ain’t going no damn where, not on your say-so.”
Roy Cormier slipped from his stool and took a step toward the crowd. “I’ll second that last part,” he said in a firm, sharp voice. “Nobody orders anybody out of my place unless the order comes from me or one of my assistants.” He paused, cutting his eyes meaningfully to either side as the two bouncers also slid from their stools and stood ready, feet planted wide.
“As far as the outcome of the game,” Cormier continued, “I saw no evidence of any cheating. You’re good, Monte, everybody knows that. But tonight you simply ran into somebody better. It happens sometimes.”
“You couldn’t see good enough, sittin’ clear over there where you were,” Monte protested. “Especially not with everybody crowded around.”
Cormier moved closer. “I could see good enough to stand by my statement. The game was fair. It’s over, you lost.”
“You ought not be buttin’ into this,” Monte said through clenched teeth.
“But I am. And what I say goes around here,” Cormier responded icily.
“Don’t let this fancy-shirted bastard back you down, Ray,” urged Russert. “That dirty cheater called both of us liars, too. We ain’t gonna let that stand, are we?”
“Don’t forget this fancy boy has got those bouncers of his,” muttered Kingston, the older, quieter McT man.
“To hell with him and his bouncers,” declared Monte. “I’ll stand for no man cheatin’ me, and I’ll damn sure not let some sneaky weasel call me a liar!”
Kingston heaved a sigh and then muttered again, almost softly. “All right. Go ahead and do what you’re gonna do, then. I’ll cover you.” With that, he made a move that was totally unexpected and executed with surprising speed—yanking a six-gun from the waistband of his trousers and thrusting its muzzle up under Cormier’s chin. Addressing Cormier but now in a raised voice, he said, “Tell your thumpers and your barman to just relax, mister, and you can keep that fancy shirt of yours from getting messed up with a lot of nasty blood.”
The two bouncers at either end of the room and the stocky drink slinger behind the bar all three froze helplessly.
Whatever action Monte and Russert might have taken from there became a moot point because John didn’t wait for it. Inasmuch as he wore no gunbelt or visible weapon of any kind, he instead reached for other tools at hand to fight the two-to-one odds that suddenly loomed before him.
First, he snatched the cue ball from the table and flung it into the face of Monte. It struck only a glancing blow off the side of his head, but it was enough to make the wrangler jerk away and stagger backward, kept from losing his balance completely by a knot of men who were crowded close. With that much accomplished, John took the cue stick he still held in one hand and whirled it around until the fat, lead-weighted end was extending away from him.
Gripping the slender part of the shaft now with both hands, he spun to face the bull-rush of Russert coming around one end of the pool table. John met the rush by momentarily cocking the cue stick back over one shoulder and then swinging it like a baseball bat, slamming the fat end hard across Russert’s middle. The stick snapped in two but the big man stopped short and started to fold up. John tossed away the broken twig he now held in his hands and quickly closed on Russert, driving his knee viciously upward to pulverize the nose of the lowering face. Russert emitted a honking sound as he partially straightened up, twin jets of blood spraying out of his flattened nostrils, then tipped to one side and fell heavily to the floor.
John immediately turned back to Monte, who, on the other side of the table, had regained his balance and was shoving away those around him who’d helped keep him upright. Not wanting to allow the miner a chance to get any more set than that, John used his height and long legs to vault up onto the pool table and then leaped from it straight onto Monte. His crashing weight drove his adversary back and down, and both men tumbled to the floor in a tangle. Onlookers scattered frantically to get out of the way, tables and chairs were sent skidding and clattering every which way.
The two men rolled across the floor, kicking, gouging, throwing in-close punches and elbows. After a minute, they separated and clambered to their feet, fists raised, teeth bared, ready to slam into one another all over again.
That’s when deputies Peter and Vern Macy came barging through the front door. Peter swept the room with a d
rawn Colt as Vern wielded a double-barreled shotgun. When the latter discharged one of its barrels toward the ceiling—an “attention-getter” load of bird shot that could be quickly followed with a twelve-gauge blast from the other barrel if the message needed to be made stronger—the room fell instantly silent and still.
“Everybody freeze!” Peter shouted, somewhat unnecessarily. “Stay right where you are, keep your hands empty and in plain sight!”
Sam Kingston withdrew the gun from under Cormier’s chin and let it drop to the floor. Raising his hands to shoulder height, he turned slowly to face the deputies and said calmly over his shoulder to Cormier, “Nothing personal, mister. A fella’s got to back the play of his pards, that’s all there is to it. Even when they’re mule-ass dumb, it’s what you got to do.”
CHAPTER 20
“When one of ’em gave his name as John Larkin,” Peter said, “I figured you’d want to know right away. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
He was providing this explanation to Bob, who’d just entered the front office area of the jail building. When Bob arrived, Peter was behind the marshal’s desk, filling out paperwork, and Vern was standing over by the stove with a cup of coffee in hand.
Trailing Bob as he came in was Ollie Sterbenz, an elderly gent who did handyman work around town including maintaining the street lanterns and lighting them each evening. Ollie had been one of the men drinking at the bar in the Grand earlier when the pool competition started getting out of hand. Having been around long enough to sense trouble in its early stages, before it flared into something bigger, Ollie had slipped out and gone in search of Peter and Vern on patrol. Thanks to Ollie’s alertness, the deputies arrived in time to halt the fight before it went any further than it did. Subsequently, it had been Ollie whom Peter sent to notify Bob at home that John Larkin not only had arrived in town but also had already managed to get in trouble.
Right between the Eyes Page 11
