“I don’t know,” Geneve said. “He was nice enough and everything. Seems he’d just found religion. I didn’t want to…to tempt him and spoil all that.”
“So you liked him.”
Emmett cringed. He hadn’t told Li about his brother-in-law’s feelings for the girl.
Geneve was now riding directly alongside Juanito. She glanced at him as she answered. “I suppose so. But a lot’s happened since then.”
“What kind of man is he?” Emmett asked. “What’s he do for a living?”
“He works with leather. Makes gun belts, holsters—some of ’em real fancy. Even makes boots when he needs some extra money.”
Sounded to Emmett like an honest, hardworking man. If both women were to take refuge with him, it probably wouldn’t compromise all due propriety or complicate matters too seriously. Yet fearing that Li might insist on going with him and Juanito, Emmett held back on asking her what she thought.
When he looked over at his wife this time, her expression had changed. No longer was she frowning. In fact, she surprised him by silently mouthing the words I love you. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted her expression a few minutes previous.
He smiled at her.
“Mira, hermano,” Juanito said, pointing toward a cutback with a gentle grade that would allow them to drop down from the ridge they’d been following.
Pausing before descending the slope, Emmett asked, “What say we all go visit your leatherworker friend, Geneve? Mister…”
“Carlson,” Geneve said. “Mister Matthew Carlson.”
Juanito gave Emmett a hard stare.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sunlight nearly washed out the fancy lettering on the front of the two-story clapboard building. Carlson’s Leather Goods, it read.
“Matthew lives upstairs,” Geneve said. “This time of day, he’s probably busy in the shop downstairs, though.” Droplets of perspiration speckled her upper lip, and even in the whitewashing afternoon glare, her cheeks were as red as if she’d run a country mile.
Once the four had dismounted and tethered their horses to the hitch rack, Geneve led them onto the boardwalk.
Emmett scanned the quiet street. Not a soul to be seen. Couldn’t blame them. Not in this blistering heat.
Thankfully, the shop was situated across town from the marshal’s office and the Wild Hog Saloon. And it was even farther from Doc Simons’s place where Jack VanDorn lay recuperating from his gunshot wounds.
Juanito, jaw set, stood beside the open door.
The scent that greeted Emmett when he entered took the edge off of his heat-induced agitation. He had always loved the smell of fresh, new leather—new boots, belts, and holsters. He breathed in deeply, and for a moment it somehow felt like long years ago. He reached for Li. With a soft smile, she stopped where she was and let him rest his arm around her shoulders.
A thin fellow wearing spectacles, a visor, and a supple leather apron emerged from a curtained backroom doorway. His eyes widened.
“Hello, Matthew,” Geneve said, smiling nervously.
Matthew Carlson’s gaze went from person to person before returning to Geneve. A grin spread across his face. “Wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again, Geneve. But I’m mighty glad to have the pleasure.”
She seemed to avoid looking directly at Juanito. “I’d like you to meet some special friends of mine.”
Carlson stepped out from behind his display counter, and as Geneve introduced them, he nodded to each and shook hands warmly.
Owing to the fact that Matthew Carlson asked no uncomfortable questions—instead offering to put on a fresh pot of coffee—he made a favorable first impression on Emmett. “Beautiful products you’ve got here, Mr. Carlson,” he said.
“Why, thank you, sir. Feel free to browse around while I get the coffee going.”
Emmett hovered over a stretch of countertop where Carlson had laid out eight, nine, ten fine holsters. Whether plain or stamped and tooled, each was crafted of high-grade leather, evenly dyed, and masterfully stitched.
Li, standing close beside him, reached out and ran her fingers over a rich-brown holster with a graceful curve from the cylinder to the trigger area. Her eyes gleamed.
Emmett almost wished she didn’t like guns so much. But that was the woman he’d married. He recalled the night they’d first met. She had put on quite the show in her father’s restaurant, throwing a handful of her specially constructed metal chopsticks at a target across the room. Hit the bullseye, six in a row. Not twenty minutes later, she’d sat and played on her Chinese lute the most hypnotic melody he’d ever heard.
An idea dawned on him: should they survive this trial, he would come back to Matt Carlson’s shop and have him make Li the most lovely gun rig the leatherworker had ever crafted—a rig as pretty, efficient, and deadly as the woman who’d carry it. He grinned to himself.
As he studied Li, she looked up and smiled.
Right then, something changed. Gone were the constant worries about putting Li in the way of danger. He still wanted to protect her—just like he’d want to protect any pardner—but clear as day, he realized that she was gifted. And not with good aim alone. She had a cool head, too. Yes, they’d had a close call in the upstairs hallway at the Monarch Hotel. But she’d reacted as well as anybody he’d ever worked with. He suddenly had every confidence in the world in Li’s ability to back his hand—and the hands of his compadres Juanito and VanDorn.
He wouldn’t force her to stay here with Geneve while he and Juanito went out to deal with Deputy Livingston to clear their names once and for all. Not if she insisted on coming along.
Carlson came back through the curtains into the front of the shop. “Coffee’ll be ready shortly. Now, to what do I owe this unexpected surprise? Are you folks shopping for leather goods, or did you just drop by to say hello?”
When Geneve hesitated answering, Emmett said, “We’ve actually got a couple favors to ask you, Mr. Carlson.”
The leatherworker spread his hands. “Sure. What can I do for you?”
“Don’t know what, if anything, you’ve heard about the big lead festival over at the Wild Hog Saloon a couple nights ago—”
“Oh, I heard there was quite the row over there.” His thin face grew solemn. “Word is some stone-hearted pistolero from out of town gunned down the marshal. Never did figure out what it was all about, though. Don’t reckon it’d be polite to ask whether you fellas were involved.”
“We were involved,” Juanito said, his tone somber. “Not that we wanted to be.”
Emmett fixed his gaze on Carlson. “It’s a very long story.” He thumped his Texas Ranger badge. “Been chasing down hard cases for a few years now. Seems as though the worst of the worst all conspired to meet me and Juanito at the same place and time the other night.”
“I was wonderin’ how you’d come to be wearin’ that bandage on your noggin.” Carlson tossed his chin toward Juanito. “Close one, huh?”
“Close enough,” Juanito answered.
“So what’s the favor you wanted to ask?” Carlson rested both hands on the countertop.
“Two things,” Emmett said. “First, we have to finish the job we came here to do, resolve some accusations about a robbery. We were wondering whether Geneve might find safe refuge here with you while we go take care of business. Not a matter for public awareness, you understand.”
Carlson nodded. “I can sleep down here in the shop. Geneve can stay upstairs as long as she needs to. And…” His attention turned to Li. “And Miss Li here? She’s…”
“Yes, I’m Chinese,” she said calmly, confidently.
Carlson showed his palms. “That’s not what I was…” He reddened. “OK…”
“It’s all right, Mr. Carlson.” Emmett grinned. “Li will be coming with us.”
Geneve turned and cocked her head. “Why, I…
that’s not what I was expecting. I mean, me staying here alone with Matthew…it’s just not—”
“Sí, it’s not right.” Juanito frowned. “I thought we had agreed that Li would stay here with Geneve.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Emmett said.
“You’ve been thinking.” Juanito gave a dry chuckle. “That’s wonderful, hermano. But you’re not the only one around here who can think.”
Emmett held up a hand. “Hold on a minute. Just hear me out.”
Juanito stepped forward. “No, you listen to me.”
“What, then?”
He poked a finger into Emmett’s chest. “Just because you’re the best shot, that doesn’t mean you always get to call all the shots.”
“Never said I did.”
“But you do.”
“Do I? I’ve always figured I was pretty democratic.”
“No, you call all the shots all the time. And I’m tired of it.”
Emmett blinked. Why was Juanito suddenly all horns and rattles? This wasn’t like him. He caught sight of Geneve out of the corner of his eye. She was still flushed. Or flushed again.
Matthew Carlson. Did Juanito fear there might still be feelings between Geneve and the leatherworker?
Li grasped Juanito’s arm. “We’re all hot and tired. Let’s talk about this later.”
Juanito turned to her and said, “And you! Why do you keep trying to force your way into a man’s world? Why can’t you just stay here and look after Geneve?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Li began arguing that she was only trying to help finish this whole affair so they could all get back to quiet and decent lives.
The next thing Emmett knew, everyone was talking at once—Carlson and Geneve included—accusations flying, voices rising in pitch and volume.
Finally the loud crack of a plaited leather bullwhip cut through the uproar and silenced them all.
Carlson stood at the end of his display counter, whip in hand. “I don’t know what you folks have been through lately, but clearly it’s worn you all to a frazzle.” He coiled the whip and laid it on the counter. “Now let’s get you all some food, baths, sleep—whatever it is you need—and resume this conversation once you’ve had the chance to cool off.”
At that, Geneve spun and bustled out the door. Juanito scowled and then followed after her.
Emmett, Li, and Carlson stared at one another awkwardly.
“My apologies, Carlson,” Emmett said. “You’re right, sir. We’ve endured a lot lately. And I fear we’re all—as you put it—frazzled.”
Clapping Emmett on the shoulder and eyeing both him and Li, Carlson said, “You’re all welcome here. Take some time to pull yourselves together before goin’ after whoever’s out there. Otherwise, you’ll run yourselves clean out of wind. And then they’ll gun you down for sure.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Hat in hand, Deputy Warren Livingston stood before Silas Greer and Dan Haywood, two leading members of the El Paso town council. Even though a marshal need not look like a Boston dandy, Livingston had rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned his vest before entering Greer’s office at the Cattlemen’s Bank.
Much as it bothered him that Russ Johnson, Slim Walker, and Billy Thornhill hadn’t yet returned from following Taft out to San Elizario, he was forcing himself to leave the matter out in the corral—long enough to take care of business here, anyway.
Greer, sporting Burnside-style muttonchops and a mustache, sat behind his polished wood desk, hands folded. “It befuddles me why Marshal Perry didn’t act more swiftly, more decisively after Franklin Taft was robbed.”
“I don’t mean no disrespect to the memory of the late marshal,” Livingston said, “but Lord knows—I’d have gotten up a posse that very mornin’.”
“Then you should’ve come to us.” Haywood pecked a bony fingertip on the side table beside the cushioned chair he occupied. He adjusted his pince-nez glasses and glared through them at Livingston. “Let this be a lesson to you, young man—a marshal can never let up in the prosecution of his job. Not for a solitary minute.”
“I understand, sir,” Livingston said, trying to strike a balance between meekness and self-confidence.
Greer turned to Haywood. “Now that the marshal has gone to meet his Maker, we need to wire the adjutant general’s office and make it clear—we want those two renegade rangers removed from the roster immediately.”
“On the roster, off the roster, the minute they turn up over in San Antonio or Jacksboro, I want both of them sent straight to us for a trial and a hanging.” Haywood pounded the arm of his chair.
Livingston shifted. “Me, personally? I’d wager they’re still a whole lot closer than San Antonio or Jacksboro.”
“Oh?” Haywood tilted his head.
“Yes, sir. And if you gentlemen will kindly see to my full instatement as town marshal, I promise I won’t rest till I make sure those two killers face what’s comin’ to ’em.”
Pushing his chair away from his desk, Greer said, “Rangers never should’ve accepted that pair into their ranks to begin with.”
The skeletal Haywood leaned forward and stabbed a finger in the air. “They’re desperate for men who don’t mind stooping to the dirty tactics of the Mexicans.” He turned to Livingston. “One of the two is Mexican, isn’t he?”
Livingston nodded. “Juanito Galvez—as Mexican as Santa Anna himself.”
Greer harrumphed.
Haywood fixed his deep-sunk eyes on Livingston. “And you know how to be tough when it comes to dealing with Mexicans?”
“Yes, sir,” Livingston said.
“Because they’re a persistent lot once they get their minds set on something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can’t trust a Mexican.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, all right, then.” Haywood coughed into a handkerchief. “Seems you’re the natural choice to take over as marshal. You’ve had plenty enough experience under Alonzo Perry’s wings. Just don’t you go slipping into his recent bad habits.”
“I’ll remain vigilant, sir.” Livingston suppressed a grim smile. With his newly granted authority, he could make good and sure that the blame for the robbery remained squarely on Strong and Galvez. And it put him one step closer to making certain that Taft’s money—all of it, well over two thousand dollars—remained in his hands. All except the few dollars he was paying Lester Whitley to keep watch on Doc Simons’s place.
“You be careful out there.” Greer scratched his voluminous sideburn. “Any man who can best ‘Three-Finger’ Ned Cage must be one dreadful dangerous rascal.”
“Oh, he is. Deadly with a six-shooter and crafty as Old Scratch himself.”
It irritated Warren Livingston that there were witnesses who could testify that it was Strong who finished off Ned Cage. Otherwise, he could have taken the credit for himself and enhanced his reputation with these town councilmen, not to mention with folks on the streets. Perhaps he could make a name for himself as the man who killed the fast gun who made wolf meat out of “Three-Finger” Ned Cage.
“Well, we give you full authority,” Greer said. “Do what you need to. Crush that devil.”
Haywood nodded his assent. “Be on your way then, Marshal.” He waved a hand. “Take care of business. And follow your own advice.”
“You won’t regret your decision, gentlemen,” Livingston said.
Livingston pivoted to go, but Greer stopped him.
“One more thing, Deputy, er, Marshal Livingston…”
The new marshal paused.
“I’m sure you don’t expect to start at the same pay that we were giving to an experienced lawman like Marshal Perry,” Greer said.
Haywood scowled sourly at the whiskered banker.
Livingston gripped his hat brim
tighter. “Oh, don’t worry—pay’s not a big consideration, Mr. Greer.” Like hell it’s not. “I’m sure once I show you what I can do for this town, you’ll pay me what I’m worth.”
“You’ll do fine, I’m sure,” Haywood said. “You’d better get to work now.”
Livingston forced a smile. “Good evening, then.”
He turned for the door and thought, You tight-fisted, pompous…He comforted himself with the fact that he had secured the job of town marshal. That’d be enough for now.
Out in the street beside his horse, he turned his mind to the next order of business. He needed to check with Lester Whitley. He wanted to find out whether Strong or the Mexican had come back to visit their pardner Jack VanDorn. The only way that could happen was if Russ, Slim, and Billy failed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Carlson was in his workshop back behind the curtain. Emmett and Li sat in two simple wooden chairs, elbows on a small table in the front room of the leather goods shop, steaming mugs of smoky-smelling coffee between them. Having made apologies for the quarrel, the two of them had embarked on a long and winding conversation.
Following a pause, he reached for her cheek and cupped it in his hand. “Do you miss your folks? Or Chinatown or Chinese things?”
She took his hand in both of hers. “I think about Baba and Mama sometimes. And I wonder sometimes about Ping, whether she’s going to marry Qiang Choi. But mostly, I think about you. And about all the things we’ve been facing each day.”
“Someday—hopefully soon—I want a peaceful life for you, Li.”
With a serious look in her eyes, she shook her head and said, “Please don’t put me in a parlor full of proper old ladies who don’t have anything better to do than gossip and sip tea.” Her frown turned quickly into a mischievous smile.
Emmett couldn’t help but grin. No, he couldn’t picture her in a parlor full of stuffy old biddies. Too much life in his girl for that.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “If we’d been OK with death knocking at our door every day or two, we could’ve just as well stayed with your folks in Nevada, saved McIntosh the trouble of sending those gunslicks all the way down here.”
Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2) Page 26
