"Hey! That's enough foolishness out of the both of you," their mother said frowning.
"And I'll bet he charged you for watching your mounts," the man said when he reached the group. "My son's always trying that whenever we're in town. I'm Roger Kergaravat... Senior. That supposed horse thief Tommy just shot dead is his older brother, Roger Junior. And these fine ladies are my wife Wendy and daughter Paige."
"We're pleased to meet all of you," Jim replied introducing himself and his riding companions.
"Please forgive my brothers for their crude behavior," Paige sniffed. "They certainly don't know how to act in town."
"They're just practicin' to be Texas Rangers when they grow up," Smoky said.
"Roger Kergaravat. Seems to me I met a feller by that name down in Sanderson a few years back," said Jim.
"That'd be me," Roger spoke up. "I remember you now, Lieutenant."
"Roger's right. We moved here from Sanderson about two years ago," Wendy added.
"We have a small ranch about two miles east of town," Roger, Senior said. "I run a few head of cattle and grow garden truck. We've done quite well."
"I'm glad to hear that," Jim responded.
"Are you going to be in this area long?" Wendy asked. "If you are, we'd be pleased to have you stop by for supper."
"Only for tonight, I'm afraid," Jim answered. "We're after the Macklin bunch. We'll be riding out first thing."
"It's about time someone went after them," Wendy said, her teeth clenched. "A woman isn't safe with them around. Reese Macklin accosted me once. Luckily Roger came home before anything happened and chased him off. I won't even let Paige ride her pony alone until something is done about them."
A deep sadness crossed Jim's countenance. "I have to say that's only too accurate, Mrs. Kergaravat," he replied. "No one is safe with Reese Macklin and his men on the loose. But those hombres won't be a menace much longer. I promise you that."
"I told my mom I can take care of myself," Paige insisted.
"I'm sure you can, but your mom is right. Those men are too dangerous," Jim told her.
"Well, we certainly wish you Rangers' luck," the elder Kergaravat said. "And my wife's invitation stands. You'd be welcome at our place anytime. It's the Circle K. Located on the Davilla readjust east of Bartlett. You can't miss it."
"If we get the chance to stop by we certainly will," Jim answered. "After all, we know our horses are safe with Tommy guardin' them."
"Not any longer, he won't be," Roger shouted. He pulled out his own toy gun and aimed it at his brother's back. "Bang!"
Tommy yelped, then slumped to the dirt.
"Now I can steal all the horses I want with the sheriff dead," Roger said. "Rob them banks too!"
"I wouldn't try that with two Texas Rangers right here," Paige warned.
"I reckon you're right, Sis. I was just kiddin'."
"We'd better get going if we're to make it home before dark, honey," Wendy told her husband.
"You're right," he agreed. "Rangers, hope to see you again. Adios"
Chapter 15
Once their horses were cared for and arrangements to spend the night in the livery stable loft completed, Jim, Smoky, and Eric washed up in the trough behind the stable, then headed for Jersey Marc's.
"Boy howdy, I never thought I'd see the day when a livery stable hostler could handle your horse for you, Jim," Smoky remarked while they strolled toward the restaurant. "I can hardly wait to get back to some of the stables Sam's torn up in the past and see the looks on the owners' faces when you walk in leadin' Sizzle. I'll bet most of 'em faint dead away."
"Who's Sam?" Eric asked.
"The meanest, toughest bronc who ever lived in the state of Texas," Smoky answered.
"And he's also the finest cayuse a Ranger ever rode, and my best friend," Jim said. "He saved my life a heap of times. But one of the same bunch who shot your dad and stole your horses tried to take Sam. Sam's a one-man horse, and wouldn't stand for it. Looks like he half-killed the hombre, but he was hurt real bad fightin' him off. He'll be crippled the rest of his life."
"I'm sure sorry, Jim," Eric answered.
"Thanks, son. Well, here's the restaurant."
The threesome climbed the stairs to Jersey Marc's. As soon as they stepped inside the cafe the owner called out a hearty greeting.
"Welcome, gentlemen. I'm Jersey Marc, the proprietor of this fine establishment. Find yourselves a seat and I'll be right with you."
Jim chose a red-checked, cloth covered corner table where he and his companions had a good view of the front door and no windows at their backs.
"He's a right cheery cuss," Smoky muttered, settling into his chair. "Man, it sure smells good in here."
The small restaurant was redolent with the delectable smells of frying meat and potatoes.
Marc hurried over. He was a stocky individual, slightly moonfaced, with dark, close cropped hair and dark eyes that sparkled with energy.
"What'll you have, gents?" he inquired. "I've got my own specialty which is quite good, if you'll allow me to boast. It's beefsteak sliced really thin, then fried to a turn. That's accompanied with potatoes, sliced thin and fried to a crisp. There's also fresh green beans today and homemade bread, of course. If you'd like dessert later I've made a fresh batch of sugar cookies."
"Sounds good to me," Jim said. "How about you boys?"
"Same here," Smoky replied.
"Me too," Eric agreed.
"Three double orders," said Jim, "and a pot of black coffee."
"I'll have them for you in a jiffy," Marc promised. He hurried off to begin preparing their supper. A moment later he returned with a pot of coffee and three mugs.
"That's a pretty unusual handle you've got there—Jersey Marc," Jim noted.
Marc shrugged. "I'm from New Jersey. I worked for a man named Mike up there who owned a couple of restaurants in a shoreline town. He called the places 'Jersey Mike's'." When I decided to come to Texas and strike out on my own I decided to use the name, only substitute my own. I tried to remain just plain Marc, but the Jersey in the restaurant's name stuck to me also. I can't really complain about that. It's sorta free advertising."
"Interesting story," Jim said. "My handle's Jim Blawcyzk, and this is my ridin' pard Smoky McCue. We're Texas Rangers. The boy's Eric Esposito. He's ridin' back home and kinda taggin' along with us."
"I'm pleased to meet all of you," Marc said. "Say, I'd best check on your supper. Wouldn't do to let it burn."
Soon the Rangers and Eric were digging into heaping plates of beef and potatoes. They ate silently, enjoying the change from beans and bacon. When they were finished, Marc brought over a plate piled high with warm sugar cookies. The treats disappeared as if by magic.
"How was everything?" Marc asked.
"It was delicious," Smoky said patting his full stomach. He tilted back in his chair and began puffing on a cigarette.
"More coffee or cookies?"
"No thanks, Marc," Jim answered. "I'd bust if I ate another thing."
"And my poor horse Ol' Blue'd collapse under me if I climbed into the saddle right now," Eric added.
"Besides, we've got to get an early start in the morning," Jim said.
"Not until we head over to the Frog Rock and see that Therese lady Lee Pierce told us about," Smoky reminded him.
"Ah, yes, Therese Marchitto." Marc heaved a sigh. "The woman every man within a hundred miles of here wants, but can't have."
"That good lookin', huh Marc?" Smoky grinned in anticipation.
"You'll see when you get there," Marc answered.
"Then I guess you'd better give us our check."
"Sure thing." Marc hurriedly calculated the bill. The Rangers paid it, downed final gulps of coffee, and pushed back their chairs.
"That was the best meal I've had in a month of Sundays," Smoky declared.
"Yep. Haven't had one that good since leavin' home," Jim agreed. "G'night, Marc."
"Good night, men. And say hello to Ther
ese for me if she'll let you get close enough," Marc answered, a faraway look in his eyes.
Eric tagged along when Jim and Smoky headed for the Frog Rock Saloon.
"This has gotta be the place," Smoky remarked, gazing at the waist high frog shaped rock in front of the establishment. They climbed the stairs to the entrance. At the batwings, Smoky turned and stopped the youngster.
"Whoa, kid, ain't you a mite young to be goin' into saloons?'' he demanded.
"I'm sixteen," Eric protested. "That's old enough to join the Texas Rangers, and old enough to drink in a saloon if I want to. I've been in this place before. Besides, you ain't my pa. You can't stop me.
"Jim, don't you have anythin' to say here?"
"Not a thing I can say, Smoke. Eric's right. He can go in saloons if he wants to, and we sure aren't his ma or pa. It's his privilege to do what he wants."
Smoky shrugged. "Okay, but if he gets in trouble he'd better not expect us to bail him out of it."
"Don't bother yourself about that. I'm not lookin' for trouble," Eric said grinning.
The Frog Rock looked like many a Texas saloon, with two exceptions. It had the usual bar stretching half the length of the back wall, backed by a mirror and shelves full of liquor bottles. A derby-hatted player was torturing the keys of an out of tune piano. Several couples were on a small dance floor, attempting to swirl to the notes. A number of large, gilt-framed pictures of scantily clad women in suggestive poses hung on the walls. And of course there were the ever-present gaming tables, faro setups, a roulette wheel, and chuck-a-luck cages. Percentage girls circulated among the patrons. Tobacco smoke swirled to the ceiling, dimming the light from the coal oil lamps. But what caught the Rangers' eyes was the white line painted down the middle of the floor, up to the bar. And that bar had wheels on it.
"What the devil is that all about, Jim?" Smoky said.
"Only one way to find out," Jim replied. He elbowed his way to the bar, clearing a spot for himself and his companions.
"What's your pleasure, gents?" the burly bartender boomed from his place behind the mahogany. "I'm Bill Handy, owner of the Frog Rock. Howdy."
"Howdy," Jim answered. "Just sarsaparilla for me."
"Not a drinkin' man, eh? I can respect that, even though it ain't good for my business." Handy smiled when he said it.
"Rye for me," Smoky said.
"Beer," Eric added.
"Comin' right up." Handy placed a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of Smoky, drew a mug of beer and placed it in front of Eric, then rummaged under the bar until he came up with two bottles of sarsaparilla. He opened one and handed it to Jim. "Anything else you need?"
"We are a trifle curious about that line down the middle of the floor," said Jim. "And the wheels on your bar."
Handy laughed. "Most strangers who come in here ask about it. That line's the county line. Left side of that's Williamson County. Right side is Bell. Laws are different in each. So whenever a snoopin' lawman takes a notion to come in here lookin' to arrest someone or shut me down for violatin' some stupid rule, we just roll the bar and move the customers to whatever county that lawman ain't from. Since we're out of his jurisdiction, he can't touch us."
"Yeah, but he could sure shoot you," Smoky muttered. "A lead slug doesn't respect county lines."
"Reckon you're right, but that ain't happened yet, stranger."
"And the Texas Rangers don't have to worry about county boundaries. What would occur if a Ranger happened to wander in here?" Jim asked.
"That ain't happened yet," Hardy said grinning.
"It has now. You're palaverin' with two Rangers right here."
"You two hombres are Rangers? I don't believe it," Hardy retorted.
Jim's blue eyes glittered like chips of ice.
"Rangers Jim Blawcyzk and Smoky McCue at your service."
Handy's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He spluttered, trying to form a response.
"You... you ain't here to close my place down, are you, Ranger?"
"Don't worry," Jim replied. "We're after bigger fish than you, Handy. The Macklin gang. They ever stop in here?"
"Yeah. Yeah, they do on occasion. Ain't been by for a while, though."
"Well, if they should happen to show up tonight you'll point 'em out for us, won't you?"
"I certainly will," Handy stammered.
"Good. Meantime we'll enjoy our drinks. And it looks to me like there's an empty chair or two at your poker tables. Maybe we'll set in on a game while we're waitin' for the show. I understand your female entertainer is really somethin'."
"She surely is," Handy answered. "Her first show's in an hour. Look, why don't I make your next round of drinks on the house? And follow me to the tables. I'll introduce you to my chief houseman. He'll make sure you enjoy yourselves in an honest game."
"We'd appreciate that," Jim said.
Handy led the threesome to a felt-covered table where a man was dealing cards to two ranchers.
"Joe, these men would like to get in on a game. You're looking at Rangers Blawcyzk and McCue." He hesitated when he came to Eric. "Sorry, son, but I never did catch your name."
"Eric Esposito."
"Good. My chief houseman, Joe Piccirillo. He'll see to your needs."
Piccirillo rose from his chair. He was tall and thin, handsome in a swarthy way, his somewhat bony face emphasized by the spade beard he affected. His dark eyes were almost as black as his close-cropped hair. The gambler's hands and fingers were long and slender, perfectly suited to his chosen trade. He wore a black suit, white shirt, black string tie, but was hatless. A diamond ring sparkled on his left pinky.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," he stated, his voice like silk. "You may join me and these others in our game, if you'd like."
"That suits me fine," said Jim. "Smoke, Eric, what about you?"
"I'm in," Eric said.
"I think I'll buck the faro setup for a while," Smoky replied.
"Certainly. Tell Maxwell over there he's to extend every courtesy."
"I'll tell him." Smoky hesitated. He looked at Jim. "You all right, pardner?" He said. "You're lookin' a mite peaked."
"I'm fine," Jim assured him. "You have some fun. This might be your last chance for a while."
"Thanks." Smoky wandered to the opposite side of the room.
"Gentlemen," said Piccirillo, "these other two players are Hank McCarthy and Don Strothers."
The two ranchers nodded to Jim and Eric as they took their seats.
They had been playing for nearly an hour when Jim pushed back his chair. While he usually enjoyed a good poker game, and had hoped tonight's would help him unwind, he found himself unable to concentrate on the cards. Several times he made obvious blunders that cost him a hand. Now down a few dollars, he decided to call it a night, at least as far as gambling was concerned.
"I'm sorry, gents, but luck's not runnin' my way tonight," he said. "Reckon I'll just have another pop, watch the show, then call it an evening."
"You look pretty tired," said Strothers. "I guess you've been on the trail for some time, eh?"
"And I've got a ways to go yet," Jim answered.
"Therese Marchitto will get your blood stirrin' again," McCarthy said grinning. He glanced at the clock over the piano. "She'll be comin' on any minute now. Looks like your pard's headin' over too."
Smoky flashed a huge roll of yellowbacks.
"Seems like you did all right, Smoke," Jim said.
"All right? I 'bout near busted the bank. How about you?"
"My luck's cold tonight. But Eric's doin' okay for himself."
The youngster had won several pots.
"Well, good for him."
"Quiet! The show's about to start!" Piccirillo whispered.
Bill Handy stepped onto a small stage at the far end of the room. He raised his hands for silence. "Gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for. The Frog Rock Saloon is proud to present the Delight of Denton, the Toast of Tyler, the Bell
e of Bartlett, Therese Marchitto!"
The curtains behind the stage parted. A wave of applause washed over the saloon as a dark-eyed woman stepped onto the stage.
Every man's heart began pounding when Therese Marchitto appeared. She was stunningly beautiful. Her dark eyes and long black hair, which was held in place by a mother of pearl comb with a white lace mantilla, hinted at her Spanish or Mediterranean heritage. Her ruby red lips parted slightly to reveal perfect white teeth. Her gown was blood-red silk, complementing her smooth olive skin and dark features. It was cut low to emphasize her magnificent bosom and spectacular cleavage in which a huge diamond necklace nestled. The dress hugged her gorgeous figure so tightly she seemed to have been poured into it. A slit up one side revealed a long and shapely leg. A matching silk scarf was draped over her shoulders. She stopped, standing motionless, with her arms arched over her head, her gaze tilted toward the floor, the very personification of every man's desire.
Smoky nudged Jim in his ribs. "Look at the kid," he whispered.
"Why?" Even the happily married Blawcyzk didn't want to tear his gaze away from this woman.
"Just look."
Jim took a quick glance at Eric and grinned. The boy's eyes were so wide they appeared ready to pop out of his head.
A Mexican guitar player took his place on stage behind the woman. He paused for a moment, then strummed his first chord, wild, intense, and demanding.
Therese Marchitto commenced a flamenco, slowly and softly clacking the castanets in her hands at first, their speed, rhythm, and intensity increasing along with the dance while she stepped from the stage to work her way around the room.
The temperature inside the Frog Rock seemed to rise to almost unbearable levels as Therese swirled and gyrated, those castanets in her hands sounding like Gatling gun fire, the tapping of her heels matching their staccato rhythm. The perspiration on her face added a glow, increasing her appeal. She was sultry, inviting, intoxicating, fascination itself. Therese spun, dipped, and whirled in effortless motion. She was passion, power, brute force, all personified in that wild dance. When she tossed her head, that black hair seemed to flow like a silken waterfall. The diamond on her bosom scintillated in the glow of the lights.
Ranger's Revenge (Texas Ranger Jim Blawcyzk Book 7) Page 10
