“One dollar.”
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out some money, and selecting a coin, handed it over. “You have a room?”
“See Ramon, Señor. In the bar.”
“Gracias.”
He moved out of the restaurant, crossed the foyer and entered the bar. It was beginning to grow dark outside, and a barkeeper was lighting the lamps that were mounted on the wall. “Ramon?” he asked. The barkeep nodded toward a large Mexican who was leaning against the bar. “That’s him.”
Mark Winslow moved across the sawdust floor. “I need a room.”
“Why, we can fix you up. Be two dollars for one night.” The man added, “I’m the owner here, Ramon Varga.”
Mark nodded, but made no reply.
“Little bit early for bed,” Varga suggested. “Have a drink on the house.”
Winslow took the drink that the barkeep brought at the wave of Varga, swallowed it, and nodded. “Thanks.” He pulled his shoulders back and said, “Guess I’m pretty tired. Which room?”
“Take number four, head of the stairs, turn right,” Ramon nodded. “Be a game tonight. Come and try your luck after you get rested up.”
“Maybe I will.”
Ramon waited until he left, then said to the barkeep, “Just come out of Mexico, I think. Probably with the Federales after him.” He weighed Winslow, then shrugged, “No money. Looks like he’s getting out with nothing but the clothes on his back.”
Winslow climbed the stairs slowly, found number four, and entered. It was not much—merely a closet-sized cubicle with a sagging bed, one chair and a table with a basin and water pitcher. He threw his bedroll on the floor, moved to the stand, and took a drink of stale water from the pitcher. The room was cold, and after taking a look at the worn blanket on the bed, he bent and unfastened the one he’d brought. His teeth were beginning to chatter, and he took off his gunbelt, then fell on the bed, wrapping the blanket around him. He fell asleep instantly and slept for four hours without moving.
He awoke slowly, his mind thick with sleep, the sound of raucous music below slamming harshly against his ears. He unwrapped the blanket, left it on the bed and got to his feet. The fading evening glow threw his shadow across the bare wall. His head ached and every thread of clothing he had on was drenched with sweat. “Must have sweated the fever off,” he muttered, and moving to the washstand, he drank thirstily from the pitcher, then filled the basin and noisily washed his face and hands. There was no towel, so he briskly wiped the water off with his hands. Removing his shirt, he tossed it on the bed and took the lone shirt that remained in his bedroll and put it on. He buckled on his gunbelt, started to leave, then thought of his bedroll. With no lock on the door, anyone could step in and steal it. Then he smiled cynically and murmured, “They wouldn’t get much anyway,” and left the room.
A hard rain was falling on the roof as he came down the stairs. The dining area was dark, so he moved through the doorway into the bar. The barkeep nodded and asked, “What’ll it be?”
“I could use some coffee.”
“Help yourself.” The man picked up a mug from the shelf behind him, then pointed to a large stove over by one wall with a huge black coffee pot on top. “You buy as many as three drinks, you get the free lunch,” he commented while pointing to a tray of sandwiches.
Winslow got his coffee, came back to the bar and waggled his fingers at the bartender. “Give me a bottle,” he said. When it was placed in front of him, he drank off half the coffee, poured whiskey in to replace it, and stood there sipping it slowly. Finally he picked up two of the sandwiches and carried them with the bottle and the mug to an empty table. The cantina was crowded, with cowpunchers making up the bulk of the customers. They lined the bar and there were two poker games going. A thin American was dealing faro at a table to Winslow’s right. At a table against the wall a dark-haired young woman with a clear olive complexion was dealing blackjack. She lifted her eyes and gave him a steady stare, then looked down at the cards again.
He ate slowly, not really hungry, but knowing that he had a long way to go and needed the energy the food would provide. Twice he filled his cup half-full of coffee, then topped it off with the raw whiskey, and once he went back and got another sandwich. He chewed on it slowly, only half conscious of the loud laughter that filled the room. A Mexican woman came to stand before him once, invitation in her eyes, but he shook his head and she left for more likely company. The dark-haired woman dealing cards stopped to play the guitar and sing in a clear alto voice, and the customers stomped and yelled, clapping their hands for more. Winslow gave her a closer look, noting that she had almost no paint on her face and seemed to be alienated from the crowd. Several men pushed up to ask her to dance, he noticed, but she shook her head and busied herself waiting on tables.
“Like to join us?” Winslow’s attention focused on two men at the table next to his. The one who had spoken was a tall, skinny man of thirty with a heavy moustache and shaggy brown hair. “Name’s Lonnie Brinks—this here is Joe Simpson,” he said, nodding at a short, muscular fellow with fair, sunburned skin and wearing a broad-brimmed Mexican sombrero. They were both obviously cowhands, and seemed more sober than most of the crowd.
“Thanks,” Mark said. “I’m Mark Winslow. I’m not too well heeled at the moment.”
“Aw, we’re just playing penny ante poker,” Brinks shrugged. “We done spent all our pay on a big bust. Got to go back to work now and lay in for the next trip to town. Might as well join us.”
Winslow got up and moved to the table, and for the next thirty minutes the three of them played a leisurely game. Brinks did most of the talking, and soon revealed that both of them worked for Faye Hunter at the Box M Ranch. It was, according to both Brinks and Simpson, the biggest and lowest paying ranch in southern Texas. Their dislike for their employer was muted, but plain from their talk. Both of them, Winslow noted, carefully avoided asking any personal questions, but broad hints revealed Brinks’s curiosity.
The pretty girl who played the guitar had come over to bring the pair fresh drinks, when Brinks said innocently, “Guess if a fellow was going to travel far, he might run into some snow up north, wouldn’t you say?”
Mark grinned and nodded. “Hope not, because that’s where I’m headed.”
“Going up as far as Dallas, maybe?” Lonnie asked, leaning back to let the girl pour his drink.
“Farther than that, Lonnie,” Mark shrugged. “Going all the way to Omaha.” He started to say more, but the girl had lifted her head suddenly at his words, spilling the whiskey on the table.
“Hey, Miss!” Lonnie exclaimed. “Don’t want to be baptized in the stuff—just like to have enough to drink.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She quickly mopped the whiskey from the table and refilled his glass, then moved to the next table and began cleaning it.
“Omaha, you say?” Lonnie picked up the conversation again. “Why, you’d have to go right through the Indian Territory to git there—and in the middle of winter! You shore want to go there more’n I do!”
Winslow shrugged his shoulders, and a wry smile crossed his broad lips. “Got to go where the work is.”
“Railroad man?” Simpson asked. “I hear they’re trying to build a railroad all the way to California. Been working on it a year, ain’t they?”
“That’s right.” Winslow hesitated, then added, “I was working on a railroad down in Mexico until the Revolution caught up with me.”
“Heard about that. Guess you picked the wrong side, hey?” Lonnie asked, giving him a sharp look. Both punchers had noted the pallor of Winslow’s face and the poor shape he was in. “They stick you in one of them blamed prisons down there?”
“Just got out three days ago,” Winslow said slowly.
“I hear that ain’t no Sunday School picnic,” Simpson said after a pause.
Winslow looked up and his lips compressed tightly at the dark memories rising in him. “No, it’s not,” he
said quietly.
“If it was a little earlier, we could maybe get you on at the Box M,” Lonnie said. “But most of the hands is laid off now.” He motioned across the room where several men were playing poker. “That’s Boyd Hunter—the big one with the vest. He’s the owner’s son. I could maybe ask him if he could take you on.”
“No, thanks, Lonnie,” Winslow shook his head. “I’ve got to be in Omaha by spring, and it’ll just about take that long to get there on the scarecrow of a horse I’m riding.”
The three of them played a few more hands, and Mark found himself growing tired. “Looks like I owe you a dollar and fifty cents, Lonnie,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Aw, forget it,” the tall puncher said. “You can make it back . . .” A sudden commotion across the room caused all three of them to turn their gaze on the poker game. The piano player stopped abruptly, and Mark saw that two men were standing facing each other, one of them the man Lonnie had identified as Boyd Hunter. Hunter had the girl who had brought the drinks by the arm, and she was struggling futilely to get away.
Lonnie said under his breath, “Larry ought to know better than to get Boyd all stirred up when he’s drinking.”
“Looks like they’re havin’ it out over that purty Mex gal,” Simpson murmured. He shook his head, and added, “Larry better pull out of it. Boyd can pull that gun mighty fast.”
Mark decided that he wanted no part of the thing. He turned and began walking toward the door. He was halfway there when suddenly he saw Hunter draw his gun and with one quick movement smash the man called Larry across the head, driving him to the floor.
Varga stepped in between the men to bend over the limp form, then stood up, announcing, “He’s not dead.” Licking his lips nervously, he said, “Let the girl go, Hunter. You’ve got her scared.”
Boyd Hunter was no more than twenty-three, but had a blatant arrogance in his slate-colored eyes. “She’s a saloon girl, ain’t she, Varga?” He pulled the girl closer and grinned, “Well, I’m a customer and she’s here to entertain me.”
Mark would have left the room, but as Hunter finished his sentence, he gave the girl’s arm such a squeeze that she cried out. The agonizing sound tugged at Winslow, and he stopped abruptly, wheeling to face the group. Hunter caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and half-turned to face him. His eyes went small as he focused on Mark, and he snapped, “We’re doin’ right well without your help. Move it out!”
A stubborn streak ran through Mark, and he did not move at the command of Hunter. He stood there making a sorry figure in the worn clothes and run-over boots, and his gaunt form looked ineffectual as he faced the angry ranch hand. A silence had fallen over the room, and the blood was beginning to throb in his temples, just as it had before he had plunged into battle during the war.
Something told him he was a fool, that he’d wind up in another jail—or else dead on the floor, but there was a rashness that characterized Mark Winslow. The Mexican guards had seen it, and it had meant a hard time for him as they tried to extinguish the defiance in his eyes. It was something that made him get up when he was knocked down, that drove him forward when other men refused to go, and it had left scars on his body over the years.
Deliberately, he turned and moved across the floor until he stood no more than five feet from Hunter. He said softly, “You’re hard on a woman, aren’t you?”
The words were quiet, but Hunter flared up, his face reddening with anger. He was a man who could not refuse a challenge, and he saw something in the eyes of the shabbily dressed stranger that made him stiffen and loosen his grip on the girl’s arm. He tilted forward on his toes, cursed Winslow, and threw a hard right at Mark’s face. It would have ended the fight, for Hunter was a big man with the full weight of his body behind the punch, but Mark threw up his left arm, deflected the punch, and in one motion caught Hunter by the shirt. Using the man’s own force, Mark gave a tremendous jerk that sent the larger man flailing across the room. Hunter failed to catch his balance and went crashing into a table, pulling it over with him as he went down in a crash of broken glass and wood.
He was not hurt, and kicked a chair in anger as he struggled to his feet. With a roar he flung himself at Mark, his face flaming. The cowboy’s left fist caught Mark in the temple, a disaster that brought a crimson curtain over his eyes for a moment. He grabbed Hunter and hung on blindly until his head cleared, taking several wild punches around the head. Then he suddenly lifted his boot and stamped on Hunter’s foot with all his might. Hunter let out a yell of pain, and when he involuntarily stepped back and lifted the injured foot, Mark leaned back and drove home a smashing right hand that caught the man square in the mouth.
Hunter’s cry was cut off short, and he was driven back once more. His eyes were blank as he sat down abruptly on the dusty floor, and Mark thought the fight was over. He waited until Hunter’s eyes cleared, then asked, “Any more?” The cowboy shook his head, and Mark turned and started toward the door.
A shout caught him—”Look out!” It was a woman’s voice, and he whirled to see that Hunter had drawn his gun and trained it on him! Before he could move, a shot thundered in the room, and he felt a fiery streak of pain rip through his left side. He turned sideways, drawing his Colt, and another explosion rocked the room. His hat shifted as the bullet touched it, and then he lifted his gun hip high and pulled the trigger.
The slug caught Hunter high in the chest, and he threw his hands up in a wild gesture as he was driven back. His gun flew through the air, striking Ramon Varga on the leg before clattering to the floor. A heavy-set Mexican woman began to scream and Varga said sharply, “Shut up, Maria!” Then he went to bend over the fallen Hunter. He straightened up and said, “Better get Doc Wright, Juan.” The barkeep scurried out of the room, and Mark suddenly felt the presence of the Box M men behind him. He started to turn, but had no chance. He felt a hard object in his back, and a voice said, “Just take his gun, Sonny.” A young puncher stepped forward and Mark had no alternative but to hand it to him. When he moved as if to leave, he turned and saw a hard-bitten older man staring at him, his gun fixed on him.
“It was self-defense,” Mark said. “You all saw it.”
The Box M man shrugged. “You’ll have your chance to prove it. But if I let you go, Faye Hunter himself would shoot me. Come on.”
The muzzle of the gun gave Mark no choice. He walked unsteadily toward the door, gripping his bleeding side. Accompanied by four other men, including Brinks and Simpson, the group moved outside.
“Where you taking me?”
“Have to put you in the lockup until we see how she floats. Head down that way.”
The cold wind bit at Mark’s lips as he marched along the board sidewalk. He said nothing, nor did any of the Box M men. The only sound was the keening of the wind through the cracks of the buildings. A despair began to settle in Winslow, and he cursed himself for not walking away from the scene.
The jail was a log building, and when they walked inside, Mark saw a fat man asleep on a cot beside the wall. The only other furniture was a battered desk. Two cells spanned the width of the building, one of them occupied by three men, the other empty.
“Wake up, Sid,” the leader said tersely, and the fat man woke up abruptly, his eyes growing large at the sight of the small crowd.
“What’s up, Max?” he said, getting to his feet.
“Lock this fellow up, Sid.”
The deputy stared at Mark. “What for?”
“He shot Boyd,” Max said.
Sid’s eyes opened, and he clucked, “That’s too bad. He dead?”
“Not yet—but you hold this bird until we can get word to Mr. Hunter.”
“Sure.” With alacrity, the deputy seized a set of keys and opened the empty cell. “In here.” He shut the door and asked, “What’s his name?”
Max shrugged. “Don’t know. Who are you, fellow?”
Mark shot a quick glance at Lonnie and Joe, then took a breath and lie
d, “My name’s Frank Holland. I come from Missouri.” He waited for one of the two men to speak, but with glad appreciation saw that Lonnie elbowed his friend in the side and remained silent.
“If you let him get away, Sid, Faye Hunter will roast you over a slow fire,” Max said. Then he turned and said, “Potter, you ride to the ranch and get Mr. Hunter. The rest of us will stick around town.”
They all trooped out, and Mark fought down a rising fear. He could face any situation better than he could face being locked up, and it took all his will to force himself to go over and lie down on the bed after the cell door clanged shut. His nerves clawed wildly, and he stared at the ceiling, willing himself to be still. He heard the prisoners in the next cell asking him about the fight, but he did not respond. Finally Sid came to stare into the cell, and after looking at the still form of Winslow, he shook his head and said mournfully, “Son, I shore do wish you’d have picked somebody else to plug!”
Mark moved his head to look up at the deputy. “He didn’t give me much choice. It was self-defense.”
Sid rocked back and forth on his heels. “Well, that’d be fine and dandy with anybody else in Eagle Pass—but not with old Faye Hunter. He’s a bad one, that man is!”
“No jury would convict me. Everybody in the room saw Hunter draw first!”
“And how many of them was Box M punchers?” Sid shrugged his fat shoulders. “Faye Hunter ain’t much for courtroom justice, anyhow. If that son of his dies, he’s got enough men on his payroll to pull this jail down and string you up on the nearest tree.” He had a sad bulldog face that had seen more than its share of trouble, and he stood there staring down at Winslow with a fatalistic cast.
“Sure wisht you’d put that slug in a Mexican ’stead of Boyd Hunter,” he sighed, then moved back and took a bottle out of the desk. He drank the liquor eagerly, and in twenty minutes was asleep.
Mark lay there for over an hour, trying to think of some plan to escape, but none came to him. The door suddenly burst open, and a short, thin man wearing a black suit and carrying a small bag came in. He had a pair of sharp black eyes and said with irritation, “Marsh—open the cell!”
The Union Belle Page 2
