Loe raamatut: «Wild Card»

Chapter One

Wyoming 1879

It was hard to say anything good about Broken Spur. Of course the same was true for most of the cattle towns west of the Mississippi, and in the three months since she’d fled from Texas Clair felt as though she’d seen every single one of them.

But this was a first time for her in Wyoming. As for Broken Spur, it was a quarter mile of dirt street as bumpy as the bark on a cedar tree, if there’d been any cedar trees, which there weren’t. There were no trees at all, not as far as anyone could see, and that was clear to hell and gone, it seemed.

Tired, back aching, Clair squinted up at the late-afternoon. sun and, shielding her eyes, couldn’t help thinking that a little shade would be nice right about now. That sun was darned hot on this navy blue dress of hers. Little beads of perspiration formed on her back and trickled down her spine inside her corset in an annoying itch she couldn’t scratch. And she wondered for about the millionth time in her life what fiendish mind had devised this instrument of female torture.

The stage driver handed over her carpetbag. “Thanks,” she said with a smile. “Are there any saloons in town?”

The husky driver gave her a wide-eyed look of astonishment. “Ma’am?” he muttered, snatching off his hat to wipe perspiration from his forehead with a red bandanna. “Excuse me. Did you say saloons?”

Absently she brushed at the dust coating the front of her dress. “Yes. Are there any?”

He slapped his hat back on his head, tugging on the brim as he did. “Well, yes, ma’am there’s two. The... ah. Lazy Dog over there—” he pointed across the street and south “—and the Scarlet Lady two doors down the other way on this side.”

A mischievous little smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks,” she replied without further explanation. She couldn’t help chuckling. She always took a little perverse pleasure in making men wonder what she was about.

She hefted her one and only carpetbag and started off down the sun-bleached pine of the sidewalk, taking care not to catch her foot or hem on the uneven boards. Her heels made a steady clip-clop as she went.

She passed several people, women mostly, and she smiled. “Afternoon.” She kept walking, glancing in store windows as she did, checking her appearance in the reflection there. Not bad, she thought, adjusting her hat a little more to the left, brushing at her skirt front again. It was a miracle she looked decent, considering she’d been bouncing around on that stage for the better part of three days now.

She was tired and dirty and would have sold her soul for a hot bath and a soft bed. But business first.

She passed Nelson’s Grocery, with a sign in the window proclaiming a sale on yard goods, then angled across the street in front of Nellie’s Restaurant. The smell of freshly baked apple pie made her stomach growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Lunch later, she promised herself, glancing over her shoulder at the restaurant as though to cement the pledge in her mind. A couple of cowboys rattled past in a buckboard loaded with crates; they tipped their hats and she nodded her response.

The Lazy Dog was the last building on this end of the street, and she paused outside to give the place a quick once-over. It was large, square and reasonably well cared for. A one-story false-front with an alley separating it from the other buildings. The name of the establishment was emblazoned in a curve of faded red letters on the front window. Being cautious, she looked in through the glass trying to get a feel for the place, trying to make sure if there was anyone in there she wanted to...avoid.

Pushing open the doors, she walked inside and got the usual double take from the three cowboys seated at a table near the end of the bar. The man behind the bar had a scowl cold enough to freeze milk. She didn’t speak to anyone, just scanned the room.

The floor was bare. That was good; she always hated sawdust clinging to her skirt. The place looked pretty quiet, but it was only afternoon—around three, she thought—and saloons didn’t really come alive until after sundown when the men finished working.

A mahogany bar took up the length of one wall, and six—no, eight—tables were scattered around the room. The wallpaper was so faded the dark flowers dissolved into the cream-colored background. A half dozen stuffed animal heads decorated the walls—elk mostly, and one antelope. Over the bar there was a painting of a well-endowed nude.

The air smelled stale and acrid from too much tobacco and whiskey and sweat.

The barkeep was a slick-haired little guy who was staring at her with all the fierceness of a bulldog. He toyed with his flimsy excuse for a mustache that appeared to have enough wax to make a candle jealous. She took an instant dislike to the man.

Arms braced on the bar’s surface, he leaned forward, his white shirtsleeves pulling tight against his wrists. “Lady, if you’re on one of them temperance crusades you can save your trouble and just move on,” he told her in a voice that rubbed on her nerves. “This here is a saloon, not a sideshow. So just turn your behind around and sashay right on out of here.”

The three cowboys lounged back in their chairs, laughing.

“Come on, lady,” the barman prompted. He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Or do I have to come around this bar and move you out?”

Clair hesitated for a full five seconds. His type always rankled her and she was tempted to tell him just what she thought of him. But she didn’t. She didn’t want any trouble. She didn’t want to attract any...unpleasant attention to herself, all things considered. So she bit back her deliciously sharp retort and merely said, “Too bad, mister. It’s your loss.”

Turning on her heel, she strode out the door, which she slammed just as hard as she could. Hey, she had to do something with that temper of hers, didn’t she?

Outside, the sun was high overhead. A pair of blackbirds perched on a hitching rail squawked but didn’t move as she went past. She skirted a supply wagon parked in front of Hansen’s Hardware and cut across the street, the dirt marble-hard against her shoes.

A breeze tugged at her upswept hair and she had to fuss with pushing a stray lock back under the rim of her hat.

On down Front Street she continued purposefully toward the opposite end of town and the only other saloon Broken Spur had to offer. This one was two stories and shared a common wall with Brownell’s Feed and Grain, and it sure looked the worse for wear. The outside was raw wood. weathered and cracked from too much sun and too little paint. The one large window hadn’t been washed since Noah was a boy, judging by the dirt and mud splattered there.

Over the doorway someone had nailed up a handmade sign proclaiming this to be the Scarlet Lady Saloon. Scarlet Lady, huh? Sounded good to her.

Feeling a little more confident, she pushed open the door and went inside. It took a couple of seconds and a little blinking for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The place was pretty much the same layout as the first, though this one was more rectangular than square. The bar ran the length of the left side of the room and the walls had the added elegance, if you could call it that, of wainscot halfway up—though it was anyone’s guess what kind of wood it was, it was so black with dirt and stains.

The nose-stinging scent of unemptied spittoons permeated the air, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight that managed to filter inside.

A dozen tables were mismatched with an equally odd assortment of chairs. The floor hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in a week of Sundays. A big yellow dog, with a tail as long as a whip, was licking up beer from under one of the chairs.

With a heft of the carpetbag, which was getting heavier by the minute, she walked over to the bar, careful to keep her distance from those spittoons, and tried not to look at the paintings of nudes on the wall.

“Afternoon,” she said to the rotund man who was eyeing her suspiciously.

. “Lady, you sure you’re in the right place? This ain’t no tea parlor.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. His black vest tugged dangerously at the buttons holding it closed over his bulging stomach.

“I’m sure.” Well, at least he was being civil—sort of. Better than the other place. She was hopeful.

She let the carpetbag drop to the floor with a thud, glad to put the thing down for a while. She flexed her fingers to work out the cramps.

“You ain’t temperance, is you?” the man prompted.

“No. Not temperance.”

He seemed to think on it for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, girlie. It’s up to you.” He wiped at a spot in front of her on the bar. “What can I do for you?”

“I think it’s more what I can do for you.”

Clair turned around and surveyed the room again. It was dark, dingy, with paint peeling from the ceiling over near the front doors. Common sense said she should swallow her pride and go back to the other ptace—at least there were customers there. This place was clearly the poorest of the two, the underdog.

Ah, well, now, she always did have a weakness for underdogs. Probably because she’d always been one herself. Besides, she thought with a ghost of a smile, how could she walk away from a place called the Scarlet Lady?

Instead, she said, “Business slow?”

The man stopped his cleaning. “A little. You gonna order, or what?”

Clair had worked in saloons a long time and she knew her way around men—most of the time. Taking her hat off, she slid the long hat pin through the blue satin, then put it lightly on the bar in front of her. “What do you do for entertainment around here?”

“Huh?” He raked her with an explicit gaze. “Why, honey,” he said in a voice rich with innuendo, “you don’t look the type. You lookin’ for a job...girlie?” His mouth quirked up in a lecherous excuse for a smile that revealed a broken front tooth.

Clair didn’t falter. She was in her element. She did, however, put him straight. “I don’t do that kind of work.”

His smile disappeared faster than the setting sun. “What kind, then?” He went back to rubbing that same spot on the bar. “I don’t need no one to clean and—”

“That point is debatable, but if you’d like to increase your business I suggest having someone to play cards.”

If thoughts were sounds she would have sworn she heard the wheels turning; she half expected to see steam coming out of his ears. “Cards?” he muttered, rubbing his beard-stubbled double chins.

She knew the instant the whole picture came together in his mind. His eyes widened and he regarded her with new interest. “You?” Incredulity was obvious in his baritone voice.

“Me.” Without hesitation, she produced a deck of cards from her drawstring reticule and thumbed the ends, making a fluttering sound like a stick on the spokes of a wagon wheel.

“I like a game of cards as much as any man, girlie, but...”

Crossing to a table, Clair dragged out a chair and sat down. “You name it and I can play it.” She gestured for him to join her and he obliged. “Five-card all right with you?”

“Huh, yeah, sure.”

She dealt and he watched like a man trying to keep track of the pea under the walnut shells.

They played six hands.

She won six hands.

He frowned. “You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”

“I think I’m good, if that’s what you mean.”

Clearly he wasn’t a man who liked to be bested. “Hold on there.” He retrieved a fresh deck from a drawer behind the bar and slit the seal with his dirty thumbnail. “Let’s try that again...with my deck.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “You deal this time.” She wanted him to know that she was good, not a cheat.

Up till now there’d been no money wagered. Clair was merely demonstrating, proving her ability to do what she said she could do. Men liked the notion of taking on a woman. They got all loud and know-itall and took for granted that they could win.

Mostly, Clair was lucky. Though ever since Texas, well, her luck had taken a turn for the worse. Now, there was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Ever since Texas her luck had been harder to find than an ace high straight. All of which was why her bankroll consisted of exactly fifty-seven dollars. Not a lot when you have to be your own banker.

“One dollar,” the man said, tossing the money on the table.

“Look, we don’t have to—”

“One dollar. Put up or shut up.”

Reluctantly, Clair matched his bet.

Six more hands and she was up by eight dollars, which was a lot of money; it was a week’s room rent and a couple of dinners.

Could it be? Was her luck changing? Something was happening. She glanced appreciatively around the worn-out saloon once more. Maybe it was one Scarlet Lady to another, this change in her luck. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to question it, just enjoy it.

When he started to deal another round, she stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “So how about it?”

The barkeep lounged back, folding his hands over his barrel chest like a man in a coffin. He looked at the cards that he’d been dealing and the money still on the table. His gaze rose. “You been gambling long?”

“Long enough,” she told him, not willing to give him her personal history, not after Texas. Absently she shuffled the cards, feeling more at home with them in her hands.

He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t want no trouble. Women and saloons—”

“There won’t be any trouble. Just more business... which it looks as though you could use.” She lounged back, the chair creaking as she did.

“I suppose.” He let out a long, slow, thoughtful breath. “I ain’t bankrolling you. You understand that?”

“I’ll play for myself. Whatever I make I keep. You get the extra business at the bar. Having me here won’t cost you.anything.”

“When do you want to start?”

“Tonight.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She beamed and shook his paw of a hand. “My name’s Clair.”

“Bill Mullen.”

“Nice to meet you, Bill. You are the owner, right?”

“Yeah.” He stood and started for the bar.

She picked up the money. “Is there a boardinghouse?”

“Addie Hocksettler’s. Middle of the street, blue clapboard. Sign’s in front,” he added.

“By the Lazy Dog, right?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “You know Slocum?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“Slocum. Beady-eyed little runt. Owns the saloon.”

“We’ve met.”

His expression turned dark. “Say ...did he send you here? ’Cause if he did—”

“No one sends me anywhere.” She cut across his words. “I met a man—I guess it was him—a while ago. We didn’t hit it off.”

Mullen made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Man’s been trying to run me outta here for—” He broke off, as though thinking better of what he was saying. Not that she cared about his troubles—she had more than enough of her own. All she wanted was a place to do her work for a few nights, maybe a week, if business was good. She put her hat on, adjusting the pin in her upswept hair. “I take it you and Slocum aren’t friends.”

Mullen circled behind the bar. “One of these days I’m gonna...” He looked at her directly, straightening as he did. “You said tonight.”

“I’ll be here.” She picked up her carpetbag.

“I’ll tell the boys when they come in,” he called to her as she headed for the door. “And I’ll be wanting to get them eight dollars back.”

“You’re welcome to try,” she said as she stepped outside, a smile on her lips.

Thank you, Scarlet Lady.

By seven she was comfortably seated at the table nearest the window and in plain view through both the window and the propped-open front doors. The place was empty, but it was the first of the month and payday. The cowboys from the local ranches should be coming into town—at least, that’s what Bill had told her when she’d returned from getting settled in her room at the boardinghouse.

She’d pressed the creases out of her working dress—burgundy satin, black lace trim, cut low enough in front to be, what was the French—oh, yes, risqué. Part of the image, she confirmed, fluffing the lace.

She wore no jewelry—didn’t have any to wear, having lost it and everything else when she’d fled an angry mob.

“Get her!”

“Murderer!”

Clair blinked hard against the sudden terrifying words and forced herself to focus on the reality of the present She was here, a long way from Texas, a long way from that grim night.

You can’t change the past.

That was for sure. Besides, things had taken a turn for the better. Why she hadn’t been in this town but a few hours and already she had a place to work and was up eight dollars.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Seven of those newly won dollars had gone toward a week’s rent at the boardinghouse, so her bankroll was untouched—an important factor for her these days.

“Feels like rain.” Bill’s gruff voice broke into her musings. “I’m getting mighty tired of rain. You know, it never rains in California in the summer and there’s places there where it never snows. Ain’t that something?”

“So I’ve heard.” She glanced up to see him standing at the doorway, peering out at the darkening sky. “I guess this means it’ll be a slow night.”

Bill only shrugged in answer.

“Maybe the rain will hold off,” she said hopefully. Rain meant muddy roads, which meant that cowboys couldn’t get to town. All she needed was a couple of good days. She wasn’t asking for much, no milliondollar bets, just enough to get her to the next town and the one after that and the one after that....

Shaking her head to dispel her dismal thought, she dealt the cards out on the table, her fingers brushing over the gouged surface as she did.

Bill wandered over, his boots thudding on the floor. “Solitaire?”

“Keeps my fingers nimble.”

With a nod, Bill went to light the three kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling down the center of the room. The metal shades clinked against the glass as he worked.

Red six on the black seven...

She glanced hopefully toward the street, scanning the sky beyond. The air felt damp and heavy, quiet, as though in anticipation of something. An involuntary shiver shimmied over her skin and she tensed against the feeling. This was silly. She was being silly. Still, the feeling of eerie foreboding lingered just a minute longer.

Black eight on the red nine...

You’re just jumpy, tired. is all.

Yes, sure, that was all.

Red queen on the black king...

As she played the cards, her nerves calmed. Cards and saloons. It seemed as though she’d spent most of her life sitting in a saloon somewhere playing cards and waiting; waiting for that big hand, waiting for enough money to buy her own place, waiting to settle down.

Settle down, now where had that come from?

Probably being on the run, that’s where.

Why was it a person always wanted the one thing they couldn’t have? Sometimes, late at night, she’d lie awake feeling alone, wondering about the future. Times like that she would have liked to have someone to turn to, someone to lean on.

It’ll take more than luck for that to happen.

Red two on the black three...

Yes, she knew about luck and the lack of it. Clair was a realist and she had absolutely no illusions about who she was or what she did for a living. She crossed her legs, and the satin of her dress rustled as she adjusted the skirt under the confines of the table.

There were those, she knew, who objected to gambling and drinking and other vices mostly. attributed to men. She understood it was easier to blame the temptation—namely her—than the man. But men had been drinking and gambling long before she was born, and they’d probably be doing the same long after she was dead and buried.

If she’d had more choices maybe she’d have done something else, something more...respectable. But there weren’t a lot of choices for women, not poor women, anyway, and Clair Travers had been born dirt-poor in New Orleans. She’d never known her father, and her mother—a good woman—had taken in laundry to try to make ends meet. Clair had seen her mother age ten years for every one on the calendar. She was old by thirty and dead by thirty-seven, and at fourteen Clair had been left alone to fend for herself or starve.

So she’d done laundry and cleaned houses. She’d gotten barely enough to live on, and more than a tolerable amount of groping from the “gentlemen” of the house for all her trouble.

Well, she wasn’t going to end up like her mother, and when that temper of hers had made her dump a pan of scrub water on a certain banker, she’d quit or been fired, depending on whose version you believed. Out of work, with no references, those few choices of hers had disappeared like snow in July.

She’d begged, borrowed and even stolen food when she’d had no other choice. It was something she wasn’t proud of but, dammit, she was nothing if not a survivor. She’d slept in stables and alleys and abandoned buildings, always looking for that better way—always refusing to sell her body as so many women did in desperation. After a year, she’d begun to think there was no hope, that she, like her mother, was doomed to a life of subsistence, only to die early and probably be glad for going.

Then one day she’d seen the boys shooting dice on the dock. Intrigued, she’d stood by and watched. It was a simple game and she’d caught on quickly enough. Like a true gambler, she’d wagered her last three cents on a throw of the dice and won. Another throw and another win. Two more and she was up twenty-five cents and grinning ear-to-ear.

She was a natural, they’d told her. After that she was there on that dock every day. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the boys came around because they were intrigued playing against a scrap of a girl who always seemed to win. It got to be like a badge of honor with them, trying to beat her.

But luckily for her, they couldn’t—not most of the time, at least—so they’d challenged her to other games: poker, monte and faro. She learned fast, got cheated a few times in the beginning, but only a few. She’d learned to defend herself. Yes, Clair had learned to fight and to win, to do whatever it took to stay alive.