“That’s my ambition,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
The sumptuous meal Lucian McIntosh had set before the renowned gunslick, Ned Cage, was worthy of Christmas Day in one of New York City’s finest hotels. Everyone had eaten his fill, and yet as much food remained on the serving platters and in the soup urns as what the party had consumed—duck, cornbread dressing, fine gravies, pickled vegetables, clam chowder.
Ned Cage proved to be as much to look at as his reputation was to fear. He impressed McIntosh in that he knew how to dress for a proper dinner. Nice, clean suit and tie. Polished boots. The man was clean shaven, and his dark-brown hair was oiled and neatly parted, combed back over the tops of his ears and down to his collar.
But the man was a killer. None deadlier. That’s why he’d hired him. And though Cage was gentleman enough not to wear his gun rig to dinner, McIntosh was convinced that there’d be a hideout weapon somewhere on his guest—one that, in a pinch, he could flash and fire before anybody else in the room could so much as drop his fork.
“So it wasn’t the girl’s father that helped the Texans make their getaway, after all,” McIntosh said. “Couple of my men survived the shoot-out and brought back word it was that little Chinese strumpet herself.”
Cage scoffed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” McIntosh continued, “she was pretty—a real peach. Fine for a little pirootin’ on the side. But what white man with all his senses would actually fall in love with a Chinese girl just as if she was a spicy redhead from the Fair Isle?”
“It don’t figure,” Cage said.
“So that’s one way you can locate Strong. Word’ll spread about a white man travelin’ about with a Chinese girl. I expect they’ll draw even more attention down in Texas. Don’t reckon they have so many China girls down there.”
Lum and Jarvis sat on the opposite side of the table from Ned Cage. McIntosh supposed they were in awe of the fast gun. They hadn’t said two words the whole evening.
Cage rubbed his chin. “Texas is a big state, Mr. McIntosh. Got any thoughts about where I should begin my search?”
McIntosh opened a humidor and offered his guest a cigar. Cage selected one and gave it a good whiff.
“Emmett Strong had a brother—a Texas state senator,” McIntosh said. “That’s what brought him up here to begin with.”
The gunslick ran a match across the edge of his boot sole and lit his cigar. “What was a Texas state senator doin’ up here?”
McIntosh shook his head. “Senator was squabashed down in Austin. The beef-headed brother of my right-hand man did the deed. Fool gunned down the senator right in front of his Texas Ranger brother, then came runnin’ up here to Nevada to hide out. Never reckoned that a Texas law dog would give chase this far from home.”
“Hmm.” Cage appeared to be considering what he’d just been told.
“Not a fella to be treated lightly. No, sir. They say he’s lightnin’ fast, but it’s more’n that—he’s got a whole wagonload of gumption.” McIntosh tapped the side of his head. “Fast up here, too.”
“Austin, you say?”
“That’s where the brother was gunned down, but I believe I understood Strong was there for his brother’s inauguration. Don’t think Austin was home for either Emmett or Eli.”
Ned Cage exhaled a ring of smoke. “No matter. I’ll find him.” He eyed Lum and Jarvis. “How good are your boys here?” He tossed his jaw their direction.
McIntosh surveyed the two from the corner of his eye. “Best I got left after the little war I’ve endured—best with the six-gun, that is.”
“You two smart…or just lucky?” Cage asked Lum and Jarvis.
Lum coughed into his fist. “I reckon what you mean to ask us, Mr. Cage, is whether we got good judgment to go with our good aim.”
Cage gave a single nod.
“We’re alive when others ain’t,” Lum said. “And it ain’t because we turned and run. That oughta tell you somethin’.”
Jarvis kept his eyes locked on Cage’s. “Like Lum said…”
Cage pursed his lips and drew on his cigar as he studied the two.
“Lum and Jarvis are part of the deal, Mr. Cage.” McIntosh leaned forward. “It’s in the contract. And I’m payin’ you plenty—probably more’n you’ve ever gotten for any single job before.”
“All right. I figure you’re dealin’ me a thousand dollars each for Strong, the Mexican, the English fella, and the China girl. Another thousand for these two to come along—lotta money just to have a pair of witnesses on hand.” Cage pulled on the silver watch chain that ran from his vest button into his pocket. Fastened to the end of the chain with a silver crown was a withered digit. It was off color and leathery looking but unmistakably identifiable. “Especially since I can provide all the proof you need…all by myself.”
McIntosh gazed with morbid curiosity, the fingernail of the talisman drawing special attention for some reason. He found himself stifling a smile. “The famed trigger finger of Arizona Jack Jamison.”
Cage grinned. “That’d be right.”
Jarvis shifted in his chair to get a better view.
Lum snorted.
“Tell me somethin’ remarkable about Mr. Emmett Strong,” Cage said, “and I’ll bring you back a souvenir.” He eyed Lum and Jarvis. “Your boys here can still come along to watch.”
The notion amused McIntosh. “Let me ruminate on that one a bit. I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emmett passed through shafts of sunlight that fell through the east-facing windows of the fancy Colcott Inn Restaurant. The maître d’ led him to the back corner of the place to the doorway of a private dining room off to the shaded side of the establishment.
Travis Morrison, Merchant’s Bank president and father-in-law of Emmett’s deceased brother, sat reading the newspaper at the lone table in the private room.
“Your guest, Mr. Morrison,” the maître d’ said.
Morrison rose, gave a broad smile, and extended a hand. “Emmett, my boy, so good of you to accept my invitation.”
They shook.
“Have a seat, son,” Morrison said, still smiling.
“Kind of you to offer,” Emmett said, not quite sure whether the smile was genuine. Morrison was good at what he did—calculating odds, minimizing risks, putting men in debt.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a full breakfast for you—eggs, biscuits, jam, the works.”
A black man in a crisp white shirt and an immaculate striped vest approached the table and poured Emmett a steaming cup of coffee. The brew smelled good, and Emmett’s mouth watered in response.
“Thank you,” he said, meeting the waiter’s gaze.
The waiter inclined his head and drifted back to the corner of the private room.
Emmett turned his attention back to Travis Morrison. The distinguished Travis Morrison. The man must have been approaching fifty. A touch of gray hair at each temple gave him an air of dignity, and the charcoal-gray suit and broad black tie he wore complemented his piercing eyes perfectly.
“So you caught up with your brother’s assassin out in Nevada. Made him pay the bill, did you?” Morrison said, a somber look replacing the effusive smile he’d worn only a moment before.
“Yes, sir,” Emmett said. “I did.”
“Good show, young man, although I’m sure it was nasty work, not the sort of thing you’d take an ounce of pleasure in.”
“I did what I had to, nothing more.”
“You’ve always kept to the straight and narrow, Emmett—something I’ve always admired about you.”
Two women in clean white aprons arrived with breakfast in fine china dishes on silver trays. In silence, they laid out the eggs, bacon, ham, grits, toast, biscuits, jams, and butter. Once the black gentleman topped off Emm
ett’s and Morrison’s coffee, the wait staff exited without a word, leaving the two men alone in the small room.
“So, Mr. Morrison”—Emmett gazed beyond the sumptuous breakfast spread to his host—“I must say, I was a bit surprised when your messenger showed up bearing an invitation for me to join you for breakfast. If memory serves me correctly, this is the first time you and I have dined alone. May I ask what it is that prompted the offer?” He had the distinct feeling that Nan had told her father how Emmett Strong had had the gall to bring a Chinese woman into their home, not as a servant but as his wife. That, and a great deal more.
Morrison paused with a biscuit in one hand and a butter knife in the other. “Are you well, Emmett? I mean, how are things for you since the tragic loss of your brother?”
“It’s kind of you to ask, Mr. Morrison. Naturally, I miss Eli. But I’m handling the loss OK. We learn to move on.”
The bank president nodded, spread some butter, and then said, “I only ask out of concern, you know.”
“Concern.”
“Yes. We all understand that sometimes in the grief of losing a loved one, we make errors in judgment, do things we later regret.”
Well, he sure didn’t waste any time getting to the point. Emmett didn’t intend to make this any easier for Morrison than he had for Nan. He wanted to play it out for all it was worth—though he was pretty sure the banker was not the type to let a simple lawman get his hackles up.
“‘Things we later regret,’” Emmett said. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir. Would you mind explaining?”
Morrison’s mask of compassion faded ever so slightly. “I’m quite certain that, given the loss of your last living family member, you must have grown lonely out there in Comstock country. A lonely man sometimes seeks the companionship that only a woman can give.”
Emmett took a sip of coffee. He kept his gaze on his host but said nothing.
“Look,” Morrison said, “Nan told me about the…the Oriental girl you brought back with you.”
“Yes?”
“She said you married the girl. That can’t be right, can it? Surely Nan misunderstood.”
“No, sir. Nan didn’t misunderstand.”
Morrison cocked his head and knit his brows. “You’re telling me you actually got someone to perform a legal marriage ceremony for the two of you?”
“I did,” Emmett said.
The banker shook his head. Grasping the edge of the table with both hands, he leaned in toward Emmett. “It’s not legal, son. There are laws against such things. It’ll have to be annulled.”
Emmett sat back and crossed his arms. “No, sir. It won’t be.”
Picking up a sterling silver fork and pointing it at Emmett, Morrison said, “I want you to reconsider this. Believe me, I can sympathize with what you’ve done. Hell, at one point or another in his life, every male who’s walked this good earth has made a bad decision regarding a woman. But this little Oriental dalliance…”
Emmett tilted his head.
“Listen to me, son,” Morrison went on, “I can help you get this marriage dissolved. Make it as though it never happened. Then, I can offer you a tidy little sum of money, a secure job that’ll allow you to settle down right here in San Antonio instead of running all over the country chasing down desperados. Why, respectable young ladies all over town will be waiting in line for your attention.”
“You’re barkin’ at a knot, Mr. Morrison. I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
“Think about it,” the banker said, gripping his fork tighter. “A lucrative job that anybody and everybody will respect. That’ll get you a real wife.”
A real wife. Emmett wanted to throttle the man. “I’ll speak plainly, Mr. Morrison. I’m highly offended by this offer, by what it infers about my wife.” He glared at his host. “Besides, why in the world should my marriage preoccupy you so?”
Morrison stared back for a moment. “Where’d your brother-in-law, Juan Carlos Galvez, and his English friend come up with the money to buy a place and open a saloon?”
The question caught Emmett off guard. He shrugged. “I’m not Juanito’s banker. I wouldn’t know. My marriage, my brother-in-law’s saloon—what makes any of this your business? Speak plainly, Mr. Morrison.”
“Your brother-in-law leaves San Antonio a simple lawman. Everybody knows there’s no fortune to be made in keeping the peace, chasing down common outlaws. Suddenly he comes back wealthy enough to open his own place. It’s just a little peculiar.”
With a forearm on the table, Emmett leaned in toward Morrison. “Sounds to me like you’re insinuating something.”
“For all I know, that Englishman could be a fugitive on the run from a crime committed in his own country. Using dirty money—perhaps blood money—to start up a business. Why, what kind of folks would patronize a place like that? Hmm? Only the rowdy-dow type. Be a shame to put so much money into opening an establishment, only to have it gain a reputation as a den of outlaws and hooligans. Or to fail prematurely for lack of customers at all.”
Emmett had always known that Travis Morrison could throw around his influence in this city—and beyond. He’d never figured, however, that he’d end up on the wrong end of Morrison’s machinations. “You still haven’t answered my question, sir: What is it about my marriage or my brother-in-law’s saloon that’s got you so worked up?”
“I believed you to be more astute than that, Emmett.”
Emmett spread his hands. “Oblige me.”
Morrison leaned back in his chair and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a crisp white napkin. His gray eyes remained locked on Emmett’s. “Your late brother’s marriage to my daughter,” he said. “The Morrisons and the Strongs are practically family. Folks talk. Can’t have you or your relations sullying the Morrison family name.”
“You’re making more out of things than you need to.” Emmett stood and picked up his hat. “I don’t live on Dignowity Hill, Mr. Morrison. And the folks whose opinions you’re so concerned about don’t pay much attention to the likes of me and Juanito, not unless you—or Nan—keep stirring things up.”
Morrison fixed his gaze on Emmett for a long moment. “Give what I said some serious thought, Strong.” Picking up his utensils once again, he resumed cutting himself a bite of ham. “Come to your senses. Don’t hurt the wrong people.”
Emmett settled his Stetson on his head. “Nan will get over things, Mr. Morrison. In the meantime, don’t you make the mistake of hurting those dearest to me.” He gave his host a hard stare, then turned for the door, offering a less-than-heartfelt, “Good day, sir.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Absorbed in thought, Emmett stepped out of the Colcott Inn onto the duckboard walkway, only to plow inadvertently into a hapless pedestrian.
The well-dressed, darker-complexioned fellow with a neatly trimmed pencil mustache gave Emmett a shove. “Hey, why don’t you watch where you’re going, hombre?”
Emmett paused, palms forward. “Sorry. My fault. A lot on my mind this morning. Excuse me.”
The fellow, wearing a finer Mexican-style sombrero than most you might see on the streets of San Antonio, held his ground, studying him from beneath a deep frown. Emmett wondered briefly why the man was making so much of a coincidental bump on the sidewalk. Maybe he was having a sour morning, too.
“Again, if you’ll excuse me, I apologize.” Emmett stepped down off the walkway to continue on his way. He felt the Mexican still glaring at him as he went.
The fellow Emmett had bumped into let himself into the dim sitting room of a simple clapboard house a few blocks away from the fancy Colcott Inn.
The room’s sole occupant—a paunchy, thick-lipped hombre—was seated off to one side below a window at a homemade table, a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in front of him. “Lope, how are you, amigo? Come, sit with me, drink.” He motione
d toward three clean shot glasses on a sideboard near the stove.
“No whiskey for me yet, gracias,” Lope said, pulling out a chair for himself. He sat and stared at his whiskered friend for a moment.
“What’s on your mind so early?” the thicker man said.
“He’s back in town now, Victorio,” Lope said.
Victorio’s eyes widened. “You heard he’s back in town? Or you saw him yourself?”
“He ran right into me.” Lope gave a slight grin. “Didn’t even recognize me. But I sure recognized him.”
“Amigo, I almost didn’t recognize you—you look a lot different than you did five years ago. A true hidalgo—that’s what you look like these days.” Victorio pulled the cork out of the whiskey bottle. “C’mon, this calls for a drink.”
Lope held up a hand and pulled a slender cigarillo from the pocket of his short vaquero jacket.
“So you saw Emmett Strong.” Victorio Sanchez’s yellowed teeth showed when he grinned. “How did he look? Bravo? Forlorn?”
Lope lighted the cigarillo and drew deeply on it. He exhaled. “Lost in his thoughts. Concerned about something.”
“Sí? Well, I’m going to give him something to be concerned about—or end all his concerns forever.” Victorio chuckled then took a swig of whiskey.
“You already paid Strong. Paid him in advance. He’s a widower. Besides, what you said to him in that courtroom—‘She deserved to be in the arms of a better man than you’…” Lope laughed softly. “The perfect coup de grâce.”
Victorio shook his head. “Not enough. He stole four years of my life. Four years in that stinking prison.”
“Well, if you’re sure you want to go through with this, I’m with you. Let’s just choose the time and place well. No sense in one or both of us going back to Huntsville—or to the end of a noose.”
“That’s true, my friend. Very true. We have all the time in the world—more than can be said for Señor Emmett Strong.”
Lope Mendez nodded. “You let me follow this man for a while. You he’ll recognize right away—any place, any time. Me? I don’t think so.”
Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2) Page 6
