“Yes, sir, this ought to more than satisfy her,” Marshal Dawson said.
“Now, turn Billy Ray loose.”
“I hope I didn’t get you upset none by me puttin’ him in jail.”
“When I get upset with you, Dawson, you’ll know it,” Quentin said.
“Wilson,” Dawson said to his deputy.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go back and let Billy Ray out of his cell.”
Quentin walked over to the wall and stared at the wanted posters for a moment as he waited for his son to be brought out to him.
“What you should be doin’ is lookin’ out for people like this, instead of wastin’ your time puttin’ my son in jail,” Quentin said. He leaned over to examine two of the posters more closely. “I’ll be damn,” he said. “No wonder he had enough money to bid against me.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“These two men here, Jason and Stu Sinclair. It says here there was a five-hundred-dollar reward on each of them.”
“Yes, sir, there still is.”
Quentin shook his head. “Not anymore there isn’t,” he said. “That’s how come Jensen was able to go as high in the bid as he did. He had that reward money.”
“Are you saying someone has collected the reward on those two?”
“Yeah. Them two got themselves killed by Smoke Jensen.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it happened back in Colorado Springs while I was there,” Quentin said.
At that moment, Deputy Wilson brought Quentin’s son out.
“What the hell, Billy Ray. Can’t you stay out of trouble?” Quentin asked.
“Them boots didn’t fit, Pa,” Billy Ray said. “I paid good money to have him make ’em special, and when I tried ’em on, they was too little.”
“That didn’t give you cause to tear up his place. It’s going to cost me a couple hundred dollars just to make things right.”
“He should’a made the boots the right size.”
“Where’s your horse?” Quentin asked.
“I don’t know. Last I seen of him, he was tied up in front of the New York Saloon.”
“He’s in the stable out behind the jail,” Marshal Dawson suggested.
“Come on, let’s get your horse and get back to the ranch.”
Chapter Eleven
Big Rock
It was dark when the train pulled into Big Rock, but Cal was at the depot to meet them.
“Look at him, Cal,” Sally said as Prince Henry was led down from the private cattle car. “Have you ever seen a more magnificent-looking animal?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon I have,” Cal answered.
“And here I thought you came down to the depot to meet us,” Smoke said. “Little did I know you were just here just to meet Prince Henry.”
“Well, I came to meet you two also,” Cal said.
“Also?”
“Uh, well, I don’t mean nothin’ by that. You know what I think of you an’ Miss Sally.”
“For heaven’s sake, Smoke, quit teasing him,” Sally said.
“That’s all right, Miss Sally, I know’d, uh, I knew he was just teasin’. Say, don’t you wish Pearlie was here? He’s been after you to buy a champion bull for nearly a year now.”
“I think he would approve,” Smoke said.
“Do you think Pearlie will come back?” Cal asked.
“I’m sure he will,” Sally said.
“He’s the best friend I ever had,” Cal added.
“You loaned him your silver hatband, didn’t you?” Sally asked.
“I sure did.”
“Well, when a friend borrows something from another friend, don’t you think he will bring it back? Especially if you are best friends?”
Cal smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I expect you are right about that. But I don’t mind tellin’ you, I sure do miss him.”
“We all miss him, Cal,” Sally said. “He’s like a part of the family.” She smiled, then ran her hand through the young man’s hair. “Like you. You are part of the family.”
“Let’s get this bull home,” Smoke said.
“Did you have to pay a lot for him?” Cal asked.
“Look at the confirmation of that animal,” Smoke said. “Yes, sir, he is a champion all right.”
“How much did you have to pay for him?”
“Can you imagine the calves we will get from him? Why, we’ll have a fine herd of Herefords in no time at all.”
Sally laughed. “Do you get the hint, Cal? He doesn’t want to tell you.”
“Yes, ma’am, well, truth to tell, it ain’t none of my business nohow.”
“Fifteenhundreddollars,” Smoke said, speaking so quietly and running the words together so Cal couldn’t understand.
“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” Sally repeated, saying the words clearly. “Which is exactly twice as much as he intended to spend.”
“Yes, but…I came into a little extra money while I was down there.”
“How?”
By now, all were mounted and they were leading Prince Henry toward the ranch. As they rode through the night, Smoke told the story of the break-in at his hotel room.
“If them boys had known what room they was breakin’ into, they would of never done it,” Cal said. “They ain’t nobody can beat you.”
“Cal, haven’t you ever heard the old cowboy adage?” Smoke asked.
“No. Uh, what’s an adage?”
“A saying.”
“I don’t know, I’ve heard lots of cowboy sayings.”
“Try this one,” Smoke said. “There’s never been a horse that can’t be rode, and there’s never been a cowboy that can’t be throwed.”
Cal laughed, then said, “I don’t get it.”
“It means you should never think that you can’t be beaten.”
“Oh,” Cal said. “Oh. You mean there might be someone somewhere who is better with a gun than you?”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s don’t talk about this anymore,” Sally said.
Los Brazos
It had been two weeks since the attempted holdup of the stagecoach. The last ten runs had been tiring, but without incident. It was dark when the stage returned from its round-trip run to Chama, and it rolled down the main street with its corner lanterns gleaming.
“I tell you the truth,” Ben said as he handled the reins. “I’m so tired I don’t even plan to eat supper tonight. I’m going to go right to bed, soon as I get home.”
The coach passed in front of the cantina and as it did, a burst of laughter spilled out into the street. Pearlie turned in his seat to look toward it, and Ben chuckled.
“What is it?” Pearlie asked. “What are you laughing at?”
“Here I am so tired I’m going to go bed without even eating supper, and you can’t wait to get to the cantina.”
“I thought I might drop in for a little while,” he said. “I’m not ready for bed yet.”
“That’s because you are still a young man,” Ben said. “Wait until you are as old as I am.”
“Ben, I don’t mean anything by this, but what’s a fella your age doing driving a stagecoach anyway? Couldn’t you find something a little easier to do?”
“You think I’m too old to handle the ribbons, do you, boy?”
“No, no, not at all,” Pearlie said. “I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s just that—”
Ben laughed. “Don’t get all in a twitter over it. I’m just teasin’ you. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I know I complain about getting tired, but driving a stage is what I do. I’ve been drivin’ one for thirty years. Wouldn’t know how to do anything else. Wouldn’t want to do anything else.”
“I’ll give you this,” Pearlie said. “You’re good at it. I’ve seen a lot of drivers in my life, and you are the best.”
“Well, thank you, boy, I appreciate that,” Ben said as he pulled the coach into
the depot, then halted the horses and set the brake.
“Here we are, folks!” he shouted down to the passengers.
Pearlie climbed down, then opened the door to help the passengers out. After all had exited the coach, he climbed back up to gather up the rifle and shotgun, then went inside the depot and put the weapons into the rack.
“No trouble?” the dispatcher asked.
“Not a bit.”
After putting his two weapons in the gun rack, Pearlie started toward the door.
“You going down to the cantina, are you?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yeah, I thought I might.”
Under the soft, golden light of three gleaming chandeliers, the atmosphere in the Casa de la Suerte Cantina was quite congenial. Half a dozen men—Mexican and American—stood at one end of the bar, engaged in friendly conversation, while at the other end, the barkeep stayed busy cleaning glasses. Most of the tables were filled with vaqueros or cowboys, laborers, and storekeepers laughing over stories they exchanged, or flirting with the niñas del bar whose presence added to the agreeable atmosphere.
“Señor Pearlie, do you want a tequila?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah, you may as well give me one, Manuel.”
The bartender laughed. “I remember when only beer you would drink.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve ruined me,” Pearlie said.
Pearlie was standing at the end of the bar, nursing a tequila, when one of the girls sidled up to him. She had long black hair and was wearing a low-cut red dress that showed a generous amount of cleavage.
“Tú vas a beber a solas, Señor Pearlie?” she asked.
“Come on, Rosita. You know I don’t comprehend your lingo that well,” Pearlie replied.
“I asked if you were going to drink alone.”
Pearlie smiled. “Not if I can get a pretty girl like you to drink with me,” he said. He looked toward the bartender. “Manuel, tequila for the beautiful Rosita, por favor.”
As she waited for the drink, Rosita reached up to remove Pearlie’s hat. She touched the band, which gleamed brightly in the soft light of the cantina.
“Plata,” she said.
“What?”
“The hatband. It is silver.”
“Yes.”
“It is beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“It isn’t mine,” Pearlie said. “It belongs to a friend. I borrowed it.”
“He must be a very good friend to let you borrow such a beautiful thing.”
“Yeah,” Pearlie said as he looked at the hatband for a moment. “He is a very good friend.”
“It is a good thing to have buenos amigos.”
“Sí, it is very good to have friends.”
Rosita smiled. “I am your friend, am I not?”
The tequila was delivered, and Pearlie picked it up and handed to her. “Sí,” he said. “You are my friend.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
“The one who gave me the hatband is Cal. But I have two more very good friends. Smoke and Sally.”
“Humo?” Rosita asked, her face registering confusion at the name. “You have a friend who is named Humo?” She made the motion as if smoking. “Smoke?”
“His real name is Kirby, but everyone calls him Smoke.”
“That is a funny name. Does he smoke mucho?”
“No. I don’t know why everyone calls him Smoke.”
“And Sally? She is your woman?”
“No, she is Smoke’s wife.”
“I am glad she is Smoke’s wife. You do not have a wife, no?”
The smile left Pearlie’s face, to be replaced by an expression of great sadness. He tossed down the rest of his drink.
“No,” he said. “I do not have a wife.”
Whether it was a byproduct of her profession, or inherent in Rosita’s personality, she was a very perceptive young woman, and she saw immediately that her question had caused Pearlie some pain. She put her hand on his arm.
“You had a wife but something bad happened, yes?”
“Yes,” Pearlie said. “She—she died.” He did not go into the details of how Lucy died, but whether it was to spare Rosita or himself, he wasn’t sure.
“I am very sorry, Señor Pearlie,” Rosita said. “I did not wish to cause you sorrow.”
“That’s all right,” Pearlie replied. “It’s been a while now.”
“Is that why you are here, and not with your friends? Because being with your friends brings too much sadness?”
Pearlie nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Señor Pearlie, I think maybe you should go to your friends now,” Rosita said. “I think if you were with your friends, things will be better for you.”
Pearlie was surprised by Rosita’s comment, but he knew as soon as she spoke that she was right. It was time to get back to his friends, to start living his life again, and to put the hurt and the sorrow behind him. He didn’t want to put Lucy behind him, not now, not ever. For the rest of his life she would occupy a part of his heart. But life must go on.
He finished his drink and put his hat back on his head. “Rosita, you are right,” he said. “I think soon I will go home.”
“Vayas con Dios, Señor Pearlie,” Rosita said.
Pearlie could feel the young woman’s eyes staring at the back of his neck as he pushed through beaded curtains that hung over the door of the cantina.
It would be good to get back home. He would leave as soon as Montgomery could find a replacement for him.
Because the next day was Saturday, there was no stage run. Pearlie was having his lunch at the City Pig Café when two men came in. One of the men was C.D. Montgomery, the owner of the stage line. Pearlie had no idea who the man with Montgomery was, but the man was wearing a three-piece suit, so Pearlie assumed he was a man of some importance.
“There he is,” Montgomery said, pointing out Pearlie. As the two approached his table, Pearlie stood.
“Young man, my name is Kyle Abernathy. I’m with the New Mexico Mining Company. A couple of weeks ago, you saved our money shipment, and I want to thank you personally.”
Abernathy stuck out his hand and Pearlie took it. “Well, I appreciate you coming here to thank me, but I was just doing my job.”
“Yes, sir, and doing it very well, too, if I may say so,” Abernathy said. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “This is for you, Pearlie. A little expression of our thanks.”
Pearlie looked inside the envelope and saw several bills. “You—you didn’t have to do that,” he said.
Abernathy laughed. “It’s two hundred and fifty dollars,” he said. He reached for it. “But if you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful. I’ll keep it,” Pearlie said, pulling the money back, and both Abernathy and Montgomery laughed.
“I’m sorry we interrupted your lunch, but I just wanted to see you to thank you,” Abernathy said.
“Anyone can interrupt my lunch anytime for something like this,” Pearlie said with a chuckle.
The following Friday, after returning from his run, Pearlie saw Montgomery sitting at his desk, working on a ledger book.
“Have you changed your mind?” Montgomery asked.
“No, sir,” Pearlie replied. “I think it’s about time I went home. And I’ll be honest with you. When Mr. Abernathy gave me that money, it made it a lot easier.”
Montgomery laughed. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “That’s why I almost told Abernathy not to give it to you. I wanted to keep you on. You’ve been a good man.”
“I appreciate that. But I think Tony will make you a good employee. And with a wife and baby, he needs the job.”
“You’re right. I’ve already told him to be ready to start on Monday.” Montgomery got up and extended his hand. “We’re goin’ to miss you around here, Pearlie. If you ever get back down this way again, drop in and see us.”
“I will,” P
earlie said. He took one last look around the depot, then walked outside, mounted his horse, and started the long trip back to Sugarloaf.
Chapter Twelve
Santa Clara
Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the New York Saloon was fairly crowded. Mary Lou Culpepper, whose face, two weeks after the fact, still showed the effects of her encounter with Billy Ray Quentin, was standing at the end of the bar, having a beer with Lenny York, the young piano player.
At twenty-one years of age, Lenny was actually two years older than Mary Lou, but life’s circumstances had forced Mary Lou onto “the line” when she was only sixteen years old. As a result of her worldliness, Mary Lou seemed older than the young musician.
“How’s your ma doing?” Mary Lou asked.
“Oh, she’s doing fine,” Lenny answered.
“That’s good. Your ma is a very nice woman. Everyone in town thinks so.”
“Mary Lou, I wish you would quit your job here and go work with Ma. She would love to have you.”
Mary Lou smiled. “What? And leave you here in the saloon all by yourself? Why, who would look out for you? Besides, your ma runs a restaurant. What do I know about working in a restaurant? Bein’ a whore is the only thing I know.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call yourself that,” Lenny said.
Mary Lou chuckled, then put her hand on Lenny’s cheek. “That’s just it, Lenny, I am a whore,” she said. “That’s all I’ve ever been, and that’s all I’ll ever be, until I’m too old to whore anymore. You need to know that, and you need to quit spending so much time with me and go find yourself a nice, churchgoing young woman.”
“You don’t need to be a whore,” Lenny said. He reached up to touch her swollen nose, and though his touch was very gentle, she winced under it. He pulled his hand away quickly. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t hurt me. I was just overreacting, is all.”
“If you worked for my ma, you wouldn’t have to worry about something like this happening ever again,” he said, lifting his hand to nearly, but not quite, touch her broken nose.
Mary Lou chuckled. “Lenny, you are very sweet. But don’t you know that if I worked in your ma’s restaurant, it would drive away customers? Nobody wants to eat in a place where a whore works.”
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