by Cotton Smith
Too quickly the city lawman assured him the doctor was a most generous man; the owner of a fine hotel, a comfortable saloon, a complete drugstore, and the region’s largest ranch; and a gentle citizen who couldn’t possibly be involved in any land grab—a respected leader of the community.
“May-be she’s havin’ a hard time o’ it, ya know, an’ is a’makin’ excuses. Or may-be she’s jes’ a’seein’ things. Ya know, ol’ age an’ all.”
Carlow held back the words crouched on his tongue and turned again to leave.
“Yo-all think I should’a be a’warnin’ the bank?”
Without looking back, Carlow answered, imitating the marshal, “Oooh, that’d be yurn busy-ness. No o-ffense, Mar-shal boy.”
After checking the livery and assuring himself that Mallow hadn’t gone there, he remounted and rode down the street with Chance at the buckskin’s heels. Reflections from his badge announced his presence. Several people on the street paused to watch them pass, intrigued by the appearance of not only a Texas Ranger, but one riding with a wolf. He visited the general store and the hotel without success. Carlow assumed this was the hotel owned by Dr. Holden. It was the only one he saw.
The hotel clerk, a craggy-faced man with greasy hair, was especially talkative and shared that several strangers had checked in earlier that week. Drummers, he thought. The cooler air of autumn brought them; summer was too hot to make their calls here, he observed. But the only stranger checking in today was a very proper woman. Rigid and French, the hotel clerk thought. Carlow declined the invitation to go to the lady’s room and see her.
The clerk was also eager to tell him that the hotel’s owner, Dr. Remington Holden, might be able to help. He spurted out that the community leader owned this hotel, the drugstore, and the Rio Grande saloon, plus the region’s biggest ranch, the Bar H. The chatty man was definitely awed by Dr. Holden’s wealth and status.
“Thanks, I will talk with him,” Carlow said without comment.
“Dr. Holden is our leading citizen, except for the mayor, of course.”
“Surprised he’s still doctoring—with all that other going on.” Carlow backed toward the door.
“Oh, he believes in helping people. Yes sir, he does.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Oh, and his wife. My, is she a looker.” The clerk pushed through his hair as if preparing for her entrance. “You won’t want to miss seeing her. Makes a fella want to, ah, you know.” His face reddened.
Carlow nodded and left with the clerk continuing his gushing description of the doctor’s wife. It didn’t sound to him like Mrs. Holden was anything like Two-Wolves had described. More like some kind of leading lady of the theater.
If Silver Mallow thought he was dead or badly hurt, the outlaw might hole up there for a few days and enjoy himself before going on. That meant music or women or both. Presidio had no regular theater or music hall, so Carlow rode to the far end of town, going first to the two-story sporting house at the end of the block. Assuming he didn’t find Mallow, or information about him, there, Carlow planned to visit the string of saloons swelling the town.
Any one of them might be a good place to learn something. Or find Mallow enjoying himself. At the least, surely someone in Presidio had noticed a stranger, one with a battered face.
Reluctantly he entered the unpainted wood-framed house at the end of the street. No sign identified its function. A large card in the frilly curtained window said, “Cowboys welcome.” Heavy lilac perfume visited his nostrils. Red-glowing lamps, Parisian wallpaper, and plush crimson velvet furniture filled his eyes. Tinkling piano notes slid into the entry parlor from the adjacent ballroom. It was the kind of place Silver Mallow would love, Carlow thought.
A thick-framed woman with square jowls, worldly eyes, and dark red hair piled high atop her head appeared from another room to greet him. The young Ranger thought she looked more like the socially proper wife of a governor than the madam of a whorehouse. A red satiny gown accented her bosom, tried to hide her skinny legs, and took on the glow of the surrounding lamps. Her dark-lined eyes examined Carlow professionally, then stopped at the badge.
“I am Rellena Kahn. How can I help you, Ranger?” Her smile was rehearsed but inviting. “Any of my girls can make your day a happy one. I would enjoy that myself. Two dollars in gold for a short visit, ten for all night. Got dancing in the other room. Whiskey and food too. I’m sure we could work something out—for a Texas constable.”
Carlow felt redness snaking around his collar. “I’m looking for a man.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Can’t help you there, hon.”
“Stranger. Dark-haired. Only been in town a few hours. He’s a killer. Likes music. Wears lots of rings. Silver.” He paused, hating what he was going to say next. “Some folks say he looks like me. But his face is all swollen and carrying a lot of bruises from a beating.”
She shook her head appreciatively, then the smile dissolved from her face. “Can’t say he’s been here. Can’t say he hasn’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. But you’re welcome to visit my bedrooms upstairs. All ten of them. We use clean linens, china spittoons—and all my girls are in their teens, except Black Bethinia, and no man seems to care how old she is.”
Carlow thought for a moment. “Do you have a girl who sings?”
A teasing laugh came from deep in her throat. “No, honey, I don’t. But I’ve got one who’ll let you suck her toes. Will that do? Or how about a lovely Negress. Lots of men ask for her. That’s Black Bethinia. And I’ve got a fourteen-year-old redhead who just joined us. She’ll do anything you want but I’ve never heard her sing. Of course, I can hum a few bars of ‘Dixie’ while we do it, if you’d like.” Rellena Kahn winked.
Gritting his teeth, Carlow asked to see the ballroom. She took his hand and led him graciously to the doorway of the small gray room. A piano player, a young woman who looked as if she couldn’t have been older than twelve, was presenting a lively waltz. Eight men danced feverishly, holding women in frilly gowns. Only two men were making any attempt to move with the music. In the center, a crystal chandelier presented a cascade of yellow light down upon the dancers, streaking them with golden highlights.
With Rellena Kahn continuing to hold his hand, he studied the room and knew Mallow wasn’t there. Satisfied, Carlow told her that he would now have to inspect each bedroom upstairs.
She winced visibly, squeezed his hand in reaction to the news, and released it.
He thought she was bluffing before.
“Oh, now, it wouldn’t be good for business, you know, to have a lawman traipsing through.” Her voice was soft, almost pleading. “If I told you there wasn’t anybody here like the man you’re after, would that be good enough?”
“Should it be?”
“Yes, it should.” The smile returned to her square-jowled face, along with the same warm, rehearsed expression as earlier. “Let’s go back in here.” She grabbed his hand again.
As they returned to the parlor, Rellena Kahn spun into him, pushing her breasts against his chest. Her mouth was inches from his. Her eyes sought his attention, but he stepped back, holding her briefly at arm’s length before letting go.
Folding her arms, she began to recite. A sly grin crept onto her mouth as she spoke. “The mayor’s in the first bedroom, like always. Cowden Heckerson, a rancher south of here, is in the second. Three cowboys—regulars—have the next three. Black Bethinia is in the next one with a drummer. Don’t know him, but he’s bald and short and has a weakness for colored women.” Coyly, she placed a finger to her mouth, then removed it slowly, letting it drag across her lower lip and chin. “In the next one is a German fella, owns a big farm. He comes in once a month and always asks for Gretchen. That isn’t her real name, but she knows a little German. Says he likes to talk dirty to her. In German.” Her eyes sought his for interest. “Let’s see, in the next room is . . . oh yeah, the husband of the head of the
church ladies’ circle. He’ll be in and out real quick, though. Always is. And the last two . . . are open, for the moment.” The last phrase was an invitation.
Touching the brim of his hat, Carlow thanked her and left.
“Come back anytime, sweetheart, and I’ll sing ‘Dixie’ to you” reached him as he closed the door.
Half amused, half frustrated, he went immediately to the saloon next door, glancing at Chance to assure himself that the animal was where he was supposed to be, beside his buckskin. An out-of-tune piano was delivering an unrecognizable song, played by a man who looked, to Carlow, as if he could have been the whorehouse piano player’s father.
A narrow-faced cowboy with a choppy mustache caught a glimpse of the Ranger badge and quickly slipped out the back door. Carlow’s arrival drew interest from the other patrons. It wasn’t often a Texas Ranger came to Presidio. Several thanked him for coming to town.
A nervous townsman wanted to know if the animal with him was, indeed, a wolf. Another wanted help with a tenant who was late on his rent payment. Carlow didn’t see Mallow, and no stranger had come in, according to the patrons, all eager to provide information. The hoarse faro dealer suggested the Remuda next door; he’d seen a man he didn’t know walk in there at noon.
Carlow left and briskly passed a tiny dentist’s office; the sign indicated the proprietor was also the town coroner and offered barber services and baths. Next to it was the Remuda. Only three patrons and a sleepy bartender. None remembered any man in the saloon all day, except themselves. A dreary place. Carlow couldn’t imagine Mallow staying there for long.
The Rio Grande saloon, owned by Dr. Holden according to the hotel clerk, looked no different from the others he had visited so far. There was no sign of Silver Mallow. Two faro tables were busy, and a vigorous table stakes game was going on at the center table. An elderly gentleman in a crisp white shirt and fresh collar was at the piano in the corner, solemnly playing his own waltzlike version of “Turkey in the Straw.” Carlow asked a few questions of the polite bartender and left. Only one stranger had been in all day: the baldheaded man in the poker game.
If Dr. Holden was to be judged by this saloon—and the hotel—he was nothing to be afraid of, only a successful man, Carlow decided. Two-Wolves had to be wrong.
After checking all but one saloon, he had learned nothing except that there was a horse race scheduled for the next day and the betting was heavy. The remaining saloon, Charlie’s Whiskey and Pool Hall, had music. But so had the last two. Sort of. Carlow was beginning to wonder if the outlaw ever came to town. And that meant the young Ranger had missed his turning off somewhere. He grimaced at the thought of the outlaw’s fooling him again.
The jingling of Carlow’s spurs preceded him as he stepped inside the last saloon. It looked like the others. Gray. Smoke laden. And filled with men from all walks of life.
One businessman at the long bar turned and saw the badge; then his gaze took in the sawed-off Winchester holstered at the weary young stranger’s hip. Soon the rest of the bar checked out the newcomer, most trying to do so without drawing attention to themselves.
Chapter Eleven
In one corner of the dull barroom, an ex-Confederate soldier, still in a shabby uniform and sporting a full gray beard, played a banjo and sang songs, mostly from the war. Next to him, a grizzled fiddler, wearing a too-small kepi cap with a bill cracked down the center, tried to keep up. They stood in the open area twenty feet from the bar but were only part of the entertainment.
Two faro tables, a pool table, and a roulette wheel were the main attractions, plus a half dozen scantily dressed women serving drinks and smiles. On the wall behind the bar was a sign proclaiming all guns were to be handed over to the bartender while in the establishment. The order was signed by Marshal Dillingham. Curled at one corner, the sign was squeezed between two oil paintings of nude women in exaggerated poses.
Carlow hadn’t recalled seeing such a notice in any of the other saloons, but this one seemed a notch above the rest. Definitely Mallow’s kind of place, he told himself, but he saw no one resembling the outlaw. He walked past a pinched-faced businessman eating alone at a table near the door. Avoiding contact with the young Ranger’s eyes, the man pretended to be engaged in cutting his steak.
However, the big-nosed bartender, with wild eyebrows that sought each other, watched him uneasily. Slowly he put down the glass he was wiping and let both hands disappear under the bar.
Without waiting for the request or the appearance of the hidden shotgun now at the bartender’s fingertips, Carlow stepped to the bar, unbuckled his gunbelt, and handed it to him, complying with the sign. He wouldn’t have to, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
The bartender’s face was a sigh of relief as he reached for the guns. A faint snicker dawned at the corner of his mouth, thought better of it, and disappeared.
At the bar, most couldn’t resist glancing at the emblazoned wood stock and well-oiled hammer, trigger, and lever guard of the cut-down rifle, accompanied by a short-barreled Colt in a tilted holster. A lean man in a black broadcoat suit whispered something to the man next to him. Carlow heard the words “Injun sign.” After a quick wrap of the belt around the holsters, the weapons disappeared beneath the bar.
“I’m Ranger Time Carlow, and I’m trailing an outlaw, name of Silver Mallow. He’s wanted for murder and rustling,” Carlow told the bartender loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Any strangers in town today? He’s got a badly bruised face.”
“Lots of ’em, Ranger. People like comin’ to Presidio—for the arts.” The homely bartender motioned toward the singer in the corner.
His joke raised a chuckle that echoed along the bar.
As if he hadn’t heard the remark, Carlow described Mallow.
“Sounds like Harry Beecher, don’t ya think, Noah?” The bartender raised his aggressive eyebrows and looked down his potato nose at the bespectacled businessman in the middle of the bar.
“Now see here, Beecher ain’t no stranger. He jes’ strange. Ain’t got no beat-up face, though. Hell, the one he’s got is bad ’nuff.” The response was riddled with supportive laughter. “Come to think on it, he’s ugly ’nuff to kill somebody with jes’ his face. That’s fer sure.”
An uproar of gaiety followed, with reinforcing comments.
“How come you ain’t down in El Paso, after that Bonney fella?” roared another voice.
“Woher kommen Sie? Sind Sie bist du allein hier?” No one understood the German in a tight shirt and tighter suit standing with his shoulders stiff to the right of the bespectacled drinker. Carlow thought the man was asking where he had come from and if he was alone but wasn’t certain.
“Try lookin’ in Rellena Kahn’s place, Ranger, if’n you kin handle all that sinnin’.” The statement came from the far end of the bar before Carlow could respond to what he thought were the German immigrant’s questions.
A seasoned drover in batwing chaps nodded his head at the remark and looked down for the spittoon. His thick brown spit hit its mark, and he grinned widely at his accuracy.
“Oh, he’d like to handle Black Bethinia, all right.” The bartender slapped the top of the bar to reinforce his observation and snorted through his nose. It sounded like a horse whinnying.
Carlow’s left hand shot toward the bartender’s outstretched hand and held it. Instinctively the man tried to pull away but couldn’t. Carlow’s grip was prison steel. Raising his right leg, Carlow drew the knife from his leggings with his free hand and placed the blade against the wild-eyebrowed bartender’s throat. Carlow’s eyes drove their way into the man’s soul.
As if it had been yanked offstage, the laughter jerked to a tense quiet and the saloon quit breathing. Even the old singing Rebel hesitated and stopped in the middle of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
Carlow’s intense gaze and the closeness of the sharp knife took away what little courage the bartender had as the young Ranger growled, “I didn’t come this far t
o listen to some silly assholes jabber. The man I’m after killed my best friend. It sounds to me like you boys are trying to hide him. You wouldn’t want me to think that, would you? Perhaps you’d like me to show you how Silver got that face.”
“H-honest, m-mister . . . ah, R-Ranger, s-sir,” the bartender said, his nose honking great anxiety. “I-I ain’t seen nobody c-come in . . . l-like that. H-honest. R-right, boys?”
“He’s right, Ranger. Nobody’s come in that we didn’t know. Except you.” The spectacled man spoke with a controlled defiance that belied his meek appearance.
Carlow withdrew the knife and returned it to his legging. “I’m going to sit over here and have a beer. Maybe one of you assholes will remember something beyond the last time you had your pants unbuttoned.”
He spun around and sought an empty table near the bar; all eyes along the bar followed. He pulled away the dark chair and plopped down into it. Dust from his long coat whispered around him for an instant.
As if a signal, the Rebel began singing again, right where he left off. “And to my heart in anguish press’d the girl I left behind me. Then to the East we bore away, to win a name in story . . .”
Pushing his hat off his head, Carlow let the tie-down leather thong hold it at his neck. His long black hair brushed along the edges of a dirty collarless shirt and his trail coat. Heavy spurs clanked against the wooden floor as he stomped his boots to free them and the protective leggings from the collection of trail dirt. He rubbed his eyes to clear away fatigue. His head ached from yesterday’s bullet crease. At least Bea’s food had settled his stomach. He rolled his shoulder to relieve the tension and that brought a stinging reminder of his other close call.
In the far corner, a five-handed poker game was into high stakes. A heavyset gambler with a well-groomed mustache and a tailored suit was winning. An immense belly appeared to have a life of its own, but his clothes, nevertheless, fit his corpulant frame without strain. Narrow slits for eyes were dwarfed by a large, oval face, reddened by too much weather and even more whiskey. Carlow glanced again at the card game, drawn to the sudden curse of a loser. The young Ranger caught the glimpse of a pearl-handled pistol under the black swallowtail coat of the fat card player. It made him feel undressed without his own guns.
