“…but?” Cleveland prompted and signaled the barman to bring two.
“I… damn woman. I let her stay in the guest room, and I helped her…” He grabbed Morrison’s jacket, “for a price, of course, for a price, I deserve something for my efforts, don’t I?” He looked into the man’s face, “well, don’t I?”
“I am quite sure you do, sir,” Morrison assured him. The next two shots arrived. Morrison reached to take one and Nathan grabbed it before he could.
“That’s MINE!” he said, standing more or less upright again. “Get your own!”
“I apologize, of course, Sir,” Morrison said as smooth as clotted cream. “And what was the nature of your help?”
“Was gonna help, meant to, but she… she was using me. Damn woman was just playing me, ‘cause I was stupid enough to think she…” he finished the last of the shot. “I miss her.”
“Who are we speaking of, Sir?” Morrison asked.
“Wife,” Nathan said. “She died. I didn’t think that… I really…” he stared at the bar. “She was just using me.”
“Your wife?” Morrison was confused.
“No.” Nathan growled and looked away, “no, that… that do-gooder, Lady Embitterment League.”
“Betterment,” Morrison corrected.
Nathan looked at him, one eyebrow lifted. Morrison held his hands out in a peace gesture.
Nathan looked over at the table were Morrison had been sitting. The men there were standing, the sheriff had his gun drawn.
“Are you fixing to shoot me?” Nathan demanded.
“No one is shooting anyone.” Morrison waved the sheriff to sit down again. “Perhaps, sir, what you need is a distraction that is somewhat more challenging and less… alcoholic. Perhaps you would allow me to invite you to join us?”
Cleveland led him through the crowd to a chair at a table full of men that was tucked away in the corner. “Perhaps you need to sit a spell.”
Nathan had followed docilely enough. Now he looked at the table and shoved some of the coins around in the center as though seeing an actual poker game for the first time in his life. In reality, he’d already counted the pot, guessed what cards everyone was holding by what was laying down, and had judged that the man with the black mustache held the winning hand. “Poker?” he asked in confusion as he sat heavily in the proffered chair.
“Why, yes, sir, do you.. ah.. play?”
Nathan nodded, as though in delight at discovering such a pastime, and reached into his vest pocket to pull out two bits. “Rack ‘em up!” he yelled.
The men laughed and looked at each other. There were five of them. He knew every man at the table by reputation, if not personally. There wasn’t a man there he’d trust to keep a dog.
“I do beg your pardon, sir, but there is a ten-dollar minimum,” Mr. Morris said with a sly nod at the men assembled who assented loudly that this was exactly so.
Nathan stared for a moment and then waved the man off. “Understood!” he said and with fumbling fingers found his wallet and pulled out a pair of gold eagles. The men wasted no time in finishing out their hand. Black Mustache…a guy named Wilkes...won. Cleveland kept up a cheerful patter as they dealt him in on the next go round.
The gold eagles joined the pot.
Nathan lost them both on the same hand.
Within an hour, he’d lost all the money from his wallet. Within another, he was looking through his pockets for more and began running up a tab for the whiskey he’d drunk. At that point, Mr. Morrison insisted on paying for the next round, and however many came after that.
Chapter 19
The night progressed. The men at the table grew less friendly. More serious. Tempers grew short. Around them, the tone of the entire place changed, became more sinister. Family men slunk home. Those who were going to slipped upstairs with the ladies. A handful of hard-drinking men hovered at the bar.
Nathan slumped in his chair, empty glass clutched between his fingers, staring into space as they called the next hand. Cleveland, after some consultation with a man at the bar, finally sat down next to him with apparent solicitousness. “Mr. Baker.” When there was no response, he shook his arm. “Mr. Baker!”
Nathan turned to stare bleary-eyed at the man.
“I am afraid you are into us for some money, sir,” Cleveland said, with a predatory smile that was all stained teeth and bad breath. “Now, I know that a man of your stature would be a man of honor, I don’t doubt that you will, in time repay what you owe.”
“Of course.” Nathan gave a cautious nod, the nod of a man who was trying to think past several shots of whiskey and several hours of lost sleep. “I do have a sizable amount invested in local…uh…investments. Mines and such.” He waved it off as it was a trivial annoyance.
“I am well aware of your position as a pillar of this community sir,” Morrison assured him and the other men murmured assent. “Why in the short time you have been here, you have established yourself as a very important and fundamental individual.”
“Very law-abiding as well,” the sheriff began to add until a quelling look from Morrison silenced him.
“Thank you,” Nathan said to the sheriff.
“But, I do regret that we cannot allow you to continue the game at this time, until payment is arranged. It simply would not be fair, you see what I mean.”
Nathan shrugged and pointed to the door. “It’s late.” His words slurred. “Bank’s closed.” He made a move to get up, but a pair of men stepped out of the shadows, blocking his way. Nathan sank back down into his seat in perplexity, turning again to Cleveland, noting well the hands on the holstered guns, the implied threat.
Almost imperceptibly his jaw tightened.
“I know. And it is a shame, it really is. But if there was something… some sort of collateral you could put up…” Cleveland continued, his voice low, mesmerizing.
Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something like a map a certain young lady has entrusted to you?”
Nathan blinked a few times in confusion, his hand going to the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled a roll of leather from its depths and stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. “How’d you know?”
“I have good information, sir,” the man said, eyes fastened on the leather. His enforcers exchanged glances. There might have been a spot of glee in that look. “Perhaps we could work a trade? May I see it?”
“It’s the lady’s.” Nathan protested, but held the scrap in his hands, folded, and made no move to put it away. When Cleveland reached for it all the same, Nathan did not let go immediately, but held on, suddenly tenacious. “What kind of deal?”
But Cleveland was studying the word on the flap of the old leather: WALTZ. He drew in a sharp breath. “I recently had an encounter with that particular young lady myself. A rather feisty thing isn’t she? Most disagreeable. As you say, sir, she is a user of men and casts them aside in cold blood.”
Nathan caught his breath. Schooled his features before they could give him away. Took the anger and found a place to channel it before he blew the whole deal. “You sold her my house.” Nathan snatched back the scrap. “It was mine.”
“I have to confess I did, but I did so in the spirit of revenge. You see, she met me on the train and used me as well. She shattered my heart as she has done to you, so I acted out of a mean spirit inspired by my deep hurt. Nonetheless, I might have been a bit hasty. Perhaps we could spot you…half of what she gave me?”
Nathan rolled the leather up and put it away. He cleared his coat out of the way of his holster. “No.,” he said and fumbled for a drink. The glass was empty. Cleveland signaled the bartender for more. “That was my house, not yours.” He pounded the table until the shot arrived.
Cleveland turned to the man beside him, and they spoke in whispers. “Very well,” Cleveland said after a moment, “What if I were to give you the entirety of what she gave to me, a tidy sum. You can sit an
d play all night with us then, wouldn’t you like that?”
Nathan leaned back and smiled. “All night? And whiskey too?”
“Of course, of course. On my tab. And think of it, Sir. You would be playing with her money, and you would be securing the amount with her collateral. I think that would be fine vengeance indeed, don’t you?”
Nathan leaned back and thought about it for a long time before nodding. He dropped the scrap on the table and chuckled as the other man handed him a large satchel. It wasn’t quite all, he suspected, but it was most of what Margrett had taken from her.
“You always keep this much cash for a poker game?” Nathan said, looking through the piles in the satchel.
The men laughed. “No,” Morrison spoke again. Nathan was beginning to think no one else talked at all. “But tonight was a special night.”
“Howzzat?”
“I had intended to ask to purchase this item from you.” Morrison lifted the scroll and dropped it again. “But this is so much nicer, don’t you think? Now you have a chance of getting it all back, and this included.”
“And you don’t lose anything…” Nathan said as if he’d just put it together. “’cause you get to gamble with her money too!”
“Very perceptive of you, Sir.”
“But what happens when she files charges?”
“With who?” The sheriff laughed.
Nathan nearly fell off his chair laughing. “Let’s PLAY!”
On the first hand, he bet big. It was a loser’s strategy, or a drunkards’ bluff. When they cursed and threw down their cards he gasped. “I WON?” He looked from one to the other of them, as if trying to understand.
Throughout the night, his luck improved. Never too much, always losing enough, just enough to keep the game going. By dawn, he had nearly doubled the amount he’d sold the leather for.
“Ok,” he said, shoveling his winnings into a bag. “I’ll buy it back.”
Cleveland had lost some of his color. His mouth tightened as he studied the way the coins and notes rattled into the satchel. “I’m sorry, sir, buy, what back exactly?”
“The...thing.” Nathan waved at the table as if he could make it appear. “The thing. The leather.”
“I don’t recall there being a leather…thing, do you, Mr. Artemis?” he addressed the man next to him who shook his head solemnly.
“Why you...” Nathan reached for his gun, but the others were ready. The sound of a half dozen pieces being cocked silenced the already muted room, most of the late-night revelers long gone or dead drunk at their tables.
“Mr. Baker,” Cleveland said, his voice dripping with malice. “You’ve got a lot of money there. Our money. Now we run an honest game here, and you won it fair. But I suggest you leave now, while you can, with the money you have, before the town turns a blind eye to your fate. I’m sure a man of your…reputation…would draw little interest from the authorities.”
Nathan reached for the last of the array of shot glasses before him and downed it, then stood awkwardly, staggering back against the table. He held the bag with the money close to his chest and shuffled out into the street without another word, much to the derision of the men at the table.
Idiots, he thought, every last one of them.
Chapter 20
“Mr. Baker?” Margrett said quietly. “Nathan?”
Nathan turned to look at her. It had been a long hard night, and it showed. The whiskey-soaked jacket may never get clean again, and he wavered, standing there smelling like a distillery accident on legs.
“There is a considerable amount of money in here,” Margrett said, having glanced into the bag and then gone back to count the bills in surprise. “Quite considerable in fact.”
“I know,” he said, waving at the bag as though the whole thing annoyed him. “I wanted to get your money back, but as long as they were offering to give me more, I could hardly refuse. Wouldn’t be neighborly. Oh, I will need about twenty dollars from there. I had to bribe the barman. It hurt to see a full bottle of whiskey dumped out, but it’s amazing how closely it resembles tea.”
“You were drinking tea all night?” She looked at him perplexed, losing count and daring him to laugh when she had to start over.
“Of course.” He slid off his jacket and seemed to be looking for a place to hang it. Considering the smell, it was probably best to just throw it out. He was loathe to throw it on the floor, and finally just pitched it into the corner where he’d thrown the battered chaps. The chaps, which Margrett had disposed of somewhere on a cleaning spree in the middle of the night. She gave him a pointed look, and he went to retrieve the jacket from the floor, almost laughing when he found he was back at his first problem again of where to put it.
I really should take pity on him. Margrett was about to offer to help when he went to the front door and tossed the jacket onto the porch, ignoring her affronted glare with a sigh. Margrett crossed her arms and stared him down. He stared right back. Either that or he’d just fallen asleep with his eyes open.
Margrett shook her head. She had far too much energy to play these games, especially when there were better things to focus on, like getting some answers. She suspected she shouldn’t have drunk all of Mr. Baker’s coffee while he was gone. She was starting to doubt she’d ever sleep again. She cleared her throat. “Alright, now that it’s over, maybe you can explain a few things to me. Like that little map you tattooed on the leather, what was it? And who is this Sister Julia Thomas?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. She suspected he was trying not to laugh. “About thirty years ago, a German by the name of Waltz came to the Arizona territory.”
“Waltz? Isn’t that the word you added to the map you created on the leather?”
Nathan nodded and sank down on the sofa. Margrett cringed, realizing belatedly that the smell of whiskey hadn’t been exclusively confined to his jacket. “He hooked up with a couple of men he later killed over an impressive find he made. A gold mine. He came out of the desert with two hundred fifty thousand dollars in gold. Swore there was more, a lot more. But every time he left town to go back out onto the desert, no one could follow him. Somehow he always managed to disappear somewhere in the Superstition mountains, no matter what kind of tracker was put on him.”
“Swore to who?”
“He got caught once in a flood on his ranch and was hurt pretty bad. There was a woman who nursed him, a quadroon who was loyal to him, that he trusted. It’s said he gave her some kind of map before he died. One Julia Thomas. But she was never able to find the mine, much less the gold.” Nathan stretched in his seat. The morning sun broke over the ridge, and the birds began their day. “Waltz, like I said was German. In his language, Deutschman.”
“Are you telling me that you just sold them a map to the Lost Dutchman’s Mine?” Margrett’s jaw dropped. The man had more courage than she’d given him credit for.
Nathan grinned and nodded. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Pulp novels,” Margrett answered, with a shy blush.
Nathan laughed. “I should have figured. Anyone who comes all the way out here with cash the way you did has read more than her fair share of dime novels.” He shook his head. “Anyway, Mr. Morisson works in land management in the territorial governor’s office. He’ll recognize the story the second he hears it. I’ll lay you some pretty odds he takes off after it at first light…which isn’t all that far off come to think of it.”
“But aren’t they going to come look for you when they can’t find it?” A worried look passed over Margrett’s face.
He shrugged, not looking overly concerned. “It’s deep in Apache territory. It’ll take years to get far enough to try it and at that, they probably won’t be coming back. Besides…” He stretched out on the sofa. “I think it’s time for me to be moving on.”
Funny how that single phrase ‘moving on’ sent her pulse skittering like a runaway horse. Even if she wasn’t going to be here to see him, the idea of him leav
ing, of disappearing into this wide world, left her feeling…a little lost. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But coming here… I was running, I think. I need to head toward a future and not run from a past.”
“I understand.” Margrett perched on the couch beside him. “I too will be needing to ‘move on.’ I have to return this money,” she said quietly, pointing to the satchel on the table. “I have to go back to Boston.”
Nathan looked at her and the sadness she’d seen flee from his eyes in the night of passion they’d shared, settled once more like a comfortable shoe. “I know. You have to go.”
“I need to leave as soon as I can…”
But he was asleep on the sofa, boots muddying up the upholstery.
She stared at him a long time, suppressing a sad sigh with great effort. The man was exhausted, and regardless of the passion they’d shared, she had a duty to carry out.
Not entirely sure what to do next, Margrett went with logic. Logic dictated that she be on the next train out so she might return these funds to where they belonged. Logic dictated that a man like Nathan Baker didn’t need a woman like herself around any more than…well any more than a buffalo would need a velocipede. Logic dictated that she pack…no, there truly was nothing to pack. In short…there was nothing to do at all other than to just…take her money and go? Was it all just that easy?
Somewhat sadly she returned to the valise and very carefully emptied the contents on the table in the kitchen, trying not to make noise, lest she wake Nathan. He’d done her a great favor with this scheme, taking considerable risk to boot. The least she could do was let him sleep.
My that looked like an awful lot of money, all spread out like that.
Margrett counted out to the last penny what had been taken from her, tucking the money away in her bag, just as she’d carried it all the way to Arizona. She felt foolish about carrying it this way back, but what was there to do at this point? Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she set the bag on the chair and left the rest of the money in a neat pile on the table, along with a note, in which she expressed her thanks again. Never let it be said that she lacked the manners of a lady.
The Gamble Page 9
