Hard Luck Money

by J. A. Johnstone

  “You’re the boss,” The Kid said.

  “That’s right, I am.”

  From the doorway, Brattle jerked a thumb. “Come on, Waco.”

  As they went up a curving set of stairs, The Kid said, “I guess you must be Grey’s segundo.”

  “That’s better than some things I’ve been called,” Brattle replied with a trace of wry humor. “Sometimes the boss gets it in his head that I’m his butler. I reckon he misses the way things used to be around here. But I ask you, do I look like a damn butler to you?”

  The Kid chuckled and shook his head. “Not hardly. So, is this the boss’s old family home or something?”

  Brattle got a look on his face like he realized he had said too much. He snapped, “Never you mind about that. Just do as you’re told and you’ll get along fine around here.”

  “All right. That’s what I intend to do.” The Kid paused as they reached the second floor landing. “Do you reckon I could have that gun back now?”

  Brattle laughed. “You don’t need a gun as long as you’re here. When you need one, I’ll see that you get it.”

  He motioned for The Kid to follow him down a hallway with a worn carpet runner on the floor. Brattle paused in front of a door, pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked it.

  “I’m startin’ to feel like I’m back in Huntsville,” The Kid said. “No gun, guards everywhere, locked doors ...”

  “This place is a lot better than prison,” Brattle assured him. “You’ll see.”

  The Kid went into the room. It was simply furnished with a narrow bed, an old wardrobe, a chair, and a small table with a washbasin and a lamp on it. Brattle scratched a match into life and lit the lamp.

  Ragged curtains hung over the single window. The Kid wondered why Grey didn’t have the place fixed up. The gang had made quite a bit of money from its string of robberies. Grey should have been able to afford to restore the place to at least a semblance of its former glory. Unless he didn’t want to for some reason.

  Maybe The Kid would learn more about that as the days went on.

  “There are some clothes in the wardrobe that ought to fit you,” Brattle said. “Somebody will be up with supper in a little while.”

  “Much obliged,” The Kid said with a nod of thanks.

  “You’ll do all right,” Brattle told him. “Just don’t get impatient, and don’t get too curious about things that don’t concern you. Remember those two things, and you won’t have any trouble.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Brattle nodded and went out. With a rattle, the key turned in the lock behind him.

  The Kid ignored the fact that he was locked in. He’d expected it. Opening the wardrobe, he found several shirts and a couple pairs of trousers hanging inside. A pair of boots sat on the floor of the wardrobe with a neatly folded pair of socks draped over the top of them.

  The Kid stripped off the scratchy woolen prison uniform, glad to be out of it. As many times as the garments had been soaked in sweat, he would have liked to take a bath and scrub himself clean before he put on fresh clothes, but nobody had offered him a bath and it seemed pretty unlikely they would. He pulled on the new clothes and felt a little better for wearing them.

  He had just finished changing clothes when the key sounded in the lock again. The Kid turned toward the door, expecting to see Brattle or one of the other outlaws bringing him the promised meal.

  The person standing there when the door swung open had a tray with food on it, all right, but she wasn’t one of the outlaws.

  She was a beautiful young woman.

  Chapter 19

  The Kid’s mind flashed back to the Menger Hotel in San Antonio and the day he had found Katherine Lupo standing in the hallway instead of a waiter with his supper. The situation had some parallels, all right, but where Katherine was fair, the young woman in front of him was darker, with ebony hair and skin the color of coffee with a lot of cream in it. She wore a tan blouse and a long brown skirt instead of a traveling outfit. And she had indeed brought food with her, whereas Katherine had shown up with only a plea for The Kid’s help.

  “You are Waco Keene, yes?” The young woman’s voice had a hint of an accent to it, an intriguing accent The Kid identified as Cajun.

  “Yeah, I’m Waco.” He put a cocky grin on his face. He figured a convict, even one who hadn’t been locked up for all that long, would react that way to a visit from a beautiful young woman. He took a step toward her.

  She balanced the tray holding his supper with her left hand while her right dipped into the pocket of her skirt and came up with a small pistol. “Mr. Grey said a gun of this caliber wouldn’t kill you unless I shot you in the head or the heart,” she informed him, “so I have permission to aim elsewhere. And I will if you try anything funny, Mr. Keene.”

  The Kid stopped and held up both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Take it easy, mam’selle. There’s no need for gunplay.”

  “Not only am I armed,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “but there are men within earshot who will be here in a matter of moments if I cry out for help.”

  “You won’t need to,” he told her. “I’m not lookin’ for any trouble.”

  “Back up,” she ordered. “Stand over there by the window, please.”

  He did as she told him, keeping his hands in plain sight as he backed toward the window.

  Still pointing the gun at him, she carried the tray over to the table and set it down. As she straightened, she said, “You can just leave the dishes there when you’re finished. Someone will get them later.”

  “I’m obliged to you,” The Kid said with a nod. “There’s just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” she asked with a trace of impatience in her voice.

  “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  Her brown eyes flashed for a second as if she were angry, but his charming grin had an effect on her. “I’m Beatrice.”

  “Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Beatrice. I’m sure we’ll be seein’ more of each other.”

  “I’m sure,” she said dryly. She left the room, locking the door behind her.

  The Kid went over to the table and sat down. The plate on the tray held several slices of roast beef, a mound of potatoes, a piece of bread, and some greens. A cup of coffee with wisps of steam curling up from it was next to the plate. Simple fare, to be sure, but it was better than what he’d been getting in prison. He ate eagerly, washing the food down with gulps of the hot coffee.

  He wondered if Beatrice had prepared the meal or just delivered it. He wondered who she was. Given her coloring and the fact that part of Texas was more like the Old South than the West, it was likely at least one of her ancestors had been a slave.

  Having been raised in Boston as Conrad Browning, he had known a number of older people who had been fervent abolitionists during the days before the Civil War. The war had been over before he was born, though, so he didn’t have any direct knowledge of those days and slavery had never really been an issue of personal importance to him.

  However, that probably wasn’t true of most of the people in East Texas so he considered it unlikely Beatrice was Alexander Grey’s wife. Also, on a practical level, she hadn’t been wearing a ring of any sort.

  It was entirely possible she was Grey’s mistress. She was beautiful enough that most men would want her.

  It was just idle speculation on The Kid’s part. It didn’t have anything to do with the job he was expected to do. But he was chivalrous enough to hope if he was successful in breaking up Grey’s gang, Beatrice wouldn’t be hurt in the process.

  Since he was locked in, there wasn’t much left for The Kid to do after eating supper other than turn in and get some sleep. The strain of the day’s events had left his nerves drawn taut, and he was tired from the long hours of riding. After staring up at the darkened ceiling for a short time, he dozed off and slept surprisingly well.

  The rattle of the key in th
e lock woke him the next morning. As he sat up and opened his eyes, he wondered if Beatrice was bringing him breakfast. That would be a good way to start the day, he thought.

  It was Brattle’s ugly face, wearing a leering grin, that looked in at him. “Better get up, Keene. We’re pullin’ out.”

  That brusque announcement took The Kid completely by surprise. “Pulling out?” he repeated. “But I just got here last night.”

  “That’s right. We’ve been waitin’ for things to work out so we could have you with us when we left. We would’ve made our move to bust you out before we did if that big galoot Cushman hadn’t jumped you the very day things were all set up.”

  The Kid had wondered about that since Ike Calvert had brought the water wagon to the fields that day but hadn’t shown up in that job again until the day of the breakout. Based on what Brattle had just told him, there had probably been a gun in the water barrel and the gang waiting to blow up the fence that first day, too. They would have carried out the plan if not for Cushman’s interference.

  The Kid was convinced Dr. Kendrick had killed Cushman.

  None of that, however, cleared up The Kid’s confusion over Brattle’s comment about them leaving the plantation.

  All he had done to prepare for bed the night before was to take off his boots. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for them, saying, “Where are we going? Or am I not allowed to know that?”

  “I reckon the boss will tell you when he’s good and ready. That ain’t for me to say. Now rattle your hocks.”

  “What about the other clothes in the wardrobe?” Those were the only things The Kid had to his name, other than the clothes on his back.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Brattle said. “Somebody’ll get ’em.”

  “Beatrice?” The Kid asked with a grin on his face as they left the room.

  Brattle stopped and frowned. “Don’t you be worryin’ or even thinkin’ much about Miss Beatrice.”

  “She belongs to the boss, eh?”

  “You better not say anything like that around him. He won’t cotton to it.”

  The Kid shrugged. “Fine. I’ve never been one for poachin’ on another man’s territory. Sounds sort of funny comin’ from a train robber, don’t it?”

  Brattle didn’t say anything. He just glowered darkly and motioned for The Kid to follow him.

  Even before they reached the bottom of the staircase, The Kid could tell something was going on. Men hurried here and there, carrying boxes and bags, packing up the house to leave. From the looks of the activity, it wasn’t a temporary trip. It struck The Kid as someone getting ready to move permanently.

  If the plantation really was Alexander Grey’s ancestral home, as The Kid had speculated, he was about to abandon it.

  The front door was open, and the pallid light of dawn came through the opening. Grey appeared in the doorway, wearing a white suit and a planter’s hat. “Ah, good morning, Waco. Sorry to drag you out of bed so early, but we have a long way to go. There’s coffee and food in the dining room, but I’m afraid you won’t have much time to eat. I want to get the wagons rolling.”

  “Just about all I have is what’s on me”—The Kid spread his hands—“so it won’t take me any time to pack.”

  That brought a laugh from Grey. “Simplicity, eh? That’s a good attitude to take.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there. I assume I can count on your discretion?”

  “We’re partners, aren’t we?” The Kid said.

  “Indeed we are.” Grey slapped a hand on The Kid’s back. “Come on. I could use a cup of coffee myself.”

  Grey’s jovial false camaraderie didn’t fool The Kid for a second. He knew what the man’s murderous intentions were. But he put a smile on his face anyway and went with the ringleader of the gang into the dining room.

  Beatrice was there waiting. “Good morning, Mr. Keene.”

  She looked just as lovely as the night before, The Kid thought. “Please, ma’am, call me Waco.”

  “Coffee ... Mr. Keene?”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders indicating he accepted the momentary defeat.

  “For you, too, Alexander?” she asked.

  “I think I have time for that. He looked over at The Kid. “You met our lovely Beatrice last night, I suppose?”

  “She brought me my supper,” The Kid said.

  “Every home needs the feminine touch. This one was missing that for a long time. But now that Beatrice is here ...”

  So Beatrice was a newcomer, too. That was interesting, The Kid thought, although he didn’t see how it would impact his mission.

  “Of course, we’re leaving,” Grey went on, “but when we settle in at the new place, I’m sure she’ll make a home out of it as well. Won’t you, dear?”

  She smiled indulgently at him. “I’ll do my best, Alexander.”

  The Kid ate some hotcakes and bacon and gulped down the coffee. With that done, he said to Grey, “If you need me to help with anything, I’d be glad to.”

  “Thanks, but I believe we’re about ready to go. You’ll leave with Beatrice, Brattle, and the others. I have one more chore to finish up before I go.”

  They went outside, where The Kid saw all the horses had been saddled. In addition, a buggy and two covered wagons were parked in front of the house. Drivers were already waiting on the wagon seats.

  Beatrice came out of the house wearing a brown jacket over her blouse that matched her skirt. Brattle offered her his arm. “Let me help you, Miss Beatrice.”

  “Thank you.” She allowed him to assist her in climbing into the buggy.

  Brattle turned to look at The Kid and jerked a thumb at the horse he’d ridden the day before. “Mount up, Keene,” he ordered.

  The Kid turned his head to glance at Grey, but the ringleader had already gone back into the house.

  With nothing to do except mount up as he’d been told, The Kid swung into the saddle and brought his horse alongside the buggy, where Brattle had settled onto the seat next to Beatrice and had hold of the reins.

  “You’re leading the way?” The Kid asked.

  “That’s right. Don’t go wanderin’ off.” Brattle gave The Kid a hard-eyed look of warning. “The boys wouldn’t like it.”

  That would be a good way for The Kid to get shot, Brattle seemed to be saying.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere except where you go,” The Kid assured him.

  Brattle nodded curtly. He slapped the reins against the backs of the two horses hitched to the buggy, and the vehicle began rolling along the lane away from the plantation house. The two wagons lurched into motion behind it. Half a dozen riders, including The Kid, flanked the wagons.

  Brattle led the way to the road and turned in the opposite direction they had come from the night before. In the daylight, The Kid could tell it was north. The road ran fairly straight, but had some long curves that soon had the plantation out of sight behind them.

  For some reason, The Kid looked back. Glancing over his shoulder, he stiffened in the saddle as he saw billows of smoke rising over the trees. The smoke was starkly black against the pale, early morning sky. He could tell from its location that the plantation house was ablaze, and knew what the last chore was Alexander Grey had lingered behind to complete.

  Chapter 20

  The buggy driven by Brattle finally came to a halt in front of a large house reminding The Kid of a heap of big rocks.

  Grey was riding alongside the Kid as they approached the place. “It’s actually an old stone ranch house where no one has lived for several years,” Grey explained. “A drought wiped out the herd of the man who owned it. The county took it for taxes, and no one has bought it since then. Conditions are just now starting to improve in this area.”

  The Kid looked around and commented, “It still looks pretty dry to me.”

  The brown grass, dead flowers, and wilted look of the trees offered stark testimony to th
e effects of months with little or no rain.

  For the past week, the wagons and riders had been traveling north and west, swinging wide around Dallas and Fort Worth into an area Grey had said was known as the Cross Timbers, a mixture of rolling, wooded hills, broad, grassy plains, rocky ridges, and brush-choked draws.

  Earlier in the day, the group had traveled through a valley where a small, almost-dried-up creek ran, fording it without difficulty. From there, they had climbed gradually to the wide plateau where Battle has stopped the buggy. Distant vistas opened up in places along the edge of the plateau, but for the most part, the terrain was flat and dotted with clumps of low-growing cactus. Stretches of hard white rock created the hard surface. Horseshoes rang on those areas as the riders crossed them.

  The Kid rested his hands on his saddlehorn and leaned forward to ease tired muscles as he asked Grey, “We’re not going to be stayin’ here permanent-like, then?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” the ringleader replied. He had replaced his planter’s hat with a black Stetson picked up at a general store in a small town when the group had stopped for supplies. “It all depends on how our operation proceeds.”

  Grey had gotten The Kid a hat, too, a flat-crowned brown Stetson. The Kid thumbed it back. “Sooner or later you’re gonna have to tell me exactly what we’re doin’.”

  “It’ll be sooner than you think, now that we’re here,” Grey assured him. He turned to the buggy. “How do you like the place, Beatrice?”

  “It’s almost as large as the plantation house. Are you sure no one lives here?”

  “Positive. I had the situation checked out thoroughly before I decided on this as our destination.” Grey lifted his reins. “Come on. I want to get settled in before nightfall.”

  They rode past a small stone storage building next to a windmill and a stock tank with a low stone wall around it. Obviously there was a lot of rock in the area. Even the house had thick stone pillars flanking its entrance. The place reminded The Kid of the old castles he had visited in Europe when he was traveling as a youngster with his mother and stepfather.