Chapter Text
As far as poker games went, this one was absorbing mostly because the big man was cheating so badly. Not badly from the standpoint of frequency. Just badly because he was so astonishingly inept at it. He was creasing cards so openly and clumsily that Heyes was baffled that no one else seemed to notice. And despite the cheating, the big guy was losing more hands than he was winning. Well, okay, to be fair, he was winning until Hannibal Heyes joined the game and spotted the creasing. Not wanting a confrontation, Heyes simply began to crease all of the cards in the deck and, wonder of wonders, the tide of the game took a quick turn. It was clear that the big man was more than a little provoked by losing and he was not at all sure what had happened. He did, however, keep a close eye on Heyes, the only stranger at the table. Still, what could he do, really? Complain that this new guy was messing up his cheating?
Tumbleweed, Arizona was a tiny town situated roughly four and a half miles from the middle of nowhere. The buildings were simple wooden structures, nothing fancy, a general store, hotel, livery, saddlery, all the necessities with few frills. There was a sheriff, whom Heyes had neither experience with or knowledge of. And there was a small cluster of neat, unpretentious houses at the end of the only street in town. About midway down the street, on the west side, sat the saloon. It smelled of stale beer, whiskey and cigars and featured a long polished wood bar that ran over half the length of one wall. The bar was manned by a stocky, sour-looking individual named George whose bushy red hair covered his head and a fair portion of his face, extending into odd sideburns that reached across his cheeks and grabbed onto each other under his nose.
The walls in the room were a undefined color that hinted at left over bits of gray, green and brown paint all mixed together. Five round wooden tables were scattered around the room for the customers but, on this chilly autumn night, only one table was occupied by the five men in the poker game. There was one other employee, a young woman who brought them drinks and occasionally stoked the fire in the pot-bellied stove in the corner. Her name, Heyes had learned, was Kate. There had been no introductions. He'd simply heard the others address her when she brought them their drinks. She was quiet and attentive but didn't hover about the way saloon girls often did. In most places, Heyes would have had her attention by virtue of having the most cash in front of him on the table. But Kate seemed uninterested. Occasionally, throughout the evening, other men wandered in for a beer, warmed their hands and backsides by the stove, and wandered back out again. But certainly most of the business of the evening was being done at the poker table, small stakes though it was.
"See you," the barber said, studying his hand intently. Someone had called him "Bishop" and, judging from the perpetual beads of perspiration on his forehead, you'd have thought he held a hand full of nitro instead of a pair of twos. This barber was bald on top of his head and wore a full beard, a bit like a toothless dentist, in Heyes' mind. Bishop was a skinny fellow with a narrow face and a fidgeting manner that Heyes surmised must make him burn off food like a hummingbird. "And raise you...20...no,...10...."
Heyes concealed his amusement by rubbing a finger over his upper lip.
Finally, with a deep breath, Bishop steeled himself and let 'er rip. "Twenty cents!"
Stodges, the local storekeeper, immediately shook his head and laid his cards face down on the table. "Too rich for me," he declared earnestly, reaching for his beer. He was down over two dollars and had mentioned on several occasions that he'd have a lot of explaining to do to "the missus". Despite his losses, he was a jovial fellow, round of body and face with cheeks that puffed up when he smiled and turned his eyes to happy, crinkled slits. Judging from his shape, Heyes guesses that however else "the missus" might punish him for gambling excesses, it was unlikely that she ever withheld a meal.
Heyes had learned most of the players' names through the course of the game but had not yet heard the name of the blacksmith. Like most of the men in his profession, he had arms as thick as tree trunks and shoulders so muscular they made his neck seem to disappear. He had a full head of dark brown hair and skin stained with ash and smoke from years of working over the forge. He, too, was a friendly-seeming fellow, although no great poker player. He had folded earlier which left the three of them, Heyes, Bishop, and the big, barrel-chested man they all called Jim-Bo.
From the moment Heyes entered the saloon, it had been clear that Jim-Bo held some sort of authority over the others. He was, Heyes had to admit, a bit intimidating. First there was his size, well over six feet judging from how he fit his chair. He was big, big chest, big head, big hands, with thick, heavy brows that nearly met in the middle giving him a scowling appearance, even when his mouth was upturned. He was clean shaven and had black hair, worn slicked down, that was beginning to thin in front, and anemic-looking blue eyes that he narrowed menacingly when losing. To Heyes, Jim-Bo was just another cowhand, his clothes as trail worn and dusty as Heyes' own. But when Heyes had asked if there was room for him in the game, the others had quickly deferred the decision to Jim-Bo. And while Heyes spotted Jim-Bo's card creasing right off, the others were either blind or had mutually decided to let the big man cheat. When Heyes began to win, their anxiety was palpable. Armpits began to show sweat stains despite the chill in the air, glances passed from one man to the next in some silent, shared communication. Jim-Bo paid them no heed. He kept his attention on the stranger in their midst.
Frankly, Heyes had found nothing likeable about the big man other than his dismal poker skills. First of all, he smelled. Jim-Bo smoked the most foul smelling cigars Heyes had ever encountered and the stench covered him like an extra layer of clothes. But worse than that was the way he treated the other men, not Heyes but the towns folk. He made cruel fun of them, mean, cutting jokes about Stodges weight or bald head, about the blacksmith's dark skin being the result of questionable parentage rather than soot and smoke. Oh, they laughed, all of them. But it was strained laughter, as if they were obligated, as if they were afraid not to laugh. Then, of course, there was the cheating. If Heyes had been planning on staying in town for more than a night, he would have made an issue of it. As it was, he'd come into town mainly to get a warm room for the night and, since he was winning anyway, he saw no advantage in a conflict. The pot had never been more than $8 so it was hardly worth a fuss. But the more whiskey Jim-Bo downed, the more irritating he became. When Stodges worried about his wife's reaction to his losses, it was a trigger for Jim-Bo to talk about his own wife, crude, callous, vulgar talk about the "frigid bitch", likening her appeal to that of a cactus, prickly and spiney and unwelcoming. He talked of her anatomy and describe bedding her in far more intimate detail than Heyes or the others cared to hear. And, once he had painted a sufficiently vile portrait of his wife, he turned his attentions to Kate and his vulgarity expanded, suggesting, whenever she was within earshot, the many ways he'd like to use her for his own pleasure.
It was an unplanned stop, this little trip into Tumbleweed. Heyes was on his way back from California, heading for New Mexico where he would meet up with the Kid. On the trail, he'd been dirty and dusty and it was October, warm enough on the desert during the day but getting cold at night. He'd stumbled on Tumbleweed without intent, but knowing that the next leg of the journey would be without much shelter. So he grabbed this last chance for a bed, a bath, and some supplies. First a drink, then get his horse to the livery and check in to the hotel for the night. That, at least, had been the idea. But the saloon was warm, a pretty girl was serving drinks and, well, there was a poker game. Four hours later it was dark outside and he was a whole twenty-six dollars and forty-seven cents richer.
The job had gone well. Big Mac McCreedy had given their names to a horse breeder in southern Colorado who had offered him and the Kid $500 each to safely deliver 4 Arabian ponies. Two were going to a ranch in California, near San Diego, and the other two were going to McCreedy, himself, in Texas. Heyes and Curry talked about doing the whole trip together but that would have meant that two of the valuable horses had a very long trek so they'd decided to split up, each deliver two, and then meet up in Las Cruces. They'd flipped a coin to see who went where and Curry ended up heading down to see "Uncle Mac" while Heyes won a chance to see a new part of California. He'd been to San Francisco on more than one occasion but neither he nor Curry had seen much of the southern coast. It was good to see new places. The only thing that worried him was being separated from the Kid for a month. They'd done it before, of course. And every time they did, one of them would get himself in trouble...and Heyes wouldn't be there to get him out of it.
Next time around, Bishop folded leaving only Heyes and Jim-Bo.
"Call," Jim-Bo said.
Heyes spread his full house out on the table and watched the man's face turn grim. Heyes swept up the pot, all four dollars and thirty-two cents of it.
Kate delivered a fresh beer to Stodges, flashed a quick smile at Heyes' winnings. She wasn't what he'd come to expect from saloon girls. Their frocks tended toward short, bright, shiny dresses, low-cut and usually shabby, with ribbons and ruffles and a substantial amount of female flesh spilling out in all the right places. But this girl wore a long, faded black skirt, frayed around the lower hem, and a plain white shirtwaist with long sleeves, worn nearly threadbare at the cuff. Only the fact that a button was missing kept it from covering her all the way to her neck. Kate was, quite simply, a very beautiful girl, her skin a deep, caramel color. Part Mexican, Heyes figured or maybe Indian, tall enough to come no higher than his shoulder. She was too thin, like she didn't get many good meals. But her face and her eyes drew him in. Her eyes were big and dark, the color of strong, black coffee, and they held a sadness that didn't disappear even when she smiled. Her hair, about the same color as her eyes, was long, braided into one thick strand that reached almost to her waist. Her face was shaped a bit like a heart, wider by her eyes, slender at her chin, with soft features, a straight, well-formed nose, a strong, full mouth. Heyes thought she couldn't be more than twenty, though her eyes had an age to them born of too many hard times. Heyes knew those eyes, saw similar ones every time he looked in the mirror. She did nothing to play up her beauty, no rouge on her cheeks or lips like most of the working girls Heyes had encountered...and whose company he'd enjoyed on more than a few occasions. This one made it clear without saying a word that the only service she provided was bringing them drinks. Most places, the girls would've been quite attentive to Heyes. He was winning. Most of the cash on the table was in front of him and they would have vied for a bit of it before the evening ended. But Kate just brought him whiskey refills when he asked.
Jim-Bo, however, clearly had ideas about expanding her job duties. The drunker he became, the more lewd his behavior. Each time she approached the table, Jim-Bo would damn near drool, licking his lips, making loud, kissing sounds, reaching out to touch whatever part of her was closest. But she was quick. When he reached, she moved, twisting out of reach, shifting to avoid his touch, delivering drinks from the far side of the table, away from him. She didn't say anything, didn't yell at him to keep his hands off of her or complain to George, for whatever good that might have done. She just avoided the big man and did her job.
The other men at the table said nothing. But Heyes noticed them shift uncomfortably in their chairs, embarrassed by the big man's actions, too fearful of him to say anything. For Heyes, it was a simpler issue. He felt no intimidation from Jim-Bo. Nor did he feel any pressing need to interfere. For him, it was elementary. Mind your own business. Clear. Easy. Simple. It never worked with the Kid, of course. Curry had that irksome tendency to jump into the middle of things, especially if there was a woman involved, the knight in shining armor, coming to her rescue. And, more often than not, getting himself and Heyes into some sort of attention-grabbing scene that Heyes would have preferred to avoid. Damn, he missed the Kid.
Bishop was shuffling the deck.
"Anybody ready for another?" Kate asked the group.
Jim-Bo leaned back in his chair and leered, slowly moving his gaze up and down her body. "Me? I'm ready for something," he slurred, his teeth clutching at his smoldering cigar. He looked below her waist and then laughed. "Damn, girl, ridin' you's gonna be better than a wild mustang!" He made a thrusting motion with his hips.
Heyes noticed her jaw clench. Against his better judgement, he opened his mouth to say something in her defense but she caught his eye and gave a slight shake of her head to stop him.
"Anyone else?" she asked.
Heyes held up his glass. "One more," he said. "Then I think I'll call it a night. How's the hotel here?"
Before she could answer, Jim-Bo slapped the table. "Hotel's fine. Good strong beds." The last he aimed at the girl.
Ignoring him, she returned to the bar for their refills.
Jim-Bo turned to watch her go. "She's a wild cat, I'll wager. Can't wait to get that one in the sheets. She's gonna leave claw marks." Again, he laughed. It was an ugly sound.
Heyes picked up his cards. "Interesting animal you're building there," he said. "Is that a wild-stang or a mus-cat?"
Stodges dared to chuckle and drew a stony look from Jim-Bo that promptly muzzled him.
They began to play but Jim-Bo's mind was clearly elsewhere. He folded almost at once.
When the girl brought his whiskey, Heyes thanked her and pressed a coin into her hand. "Keep the change."
She looked down at the $10 gold piece in her palm. "Mister, you gave me the wrong coin." She held it out to him but Heyes shook his head.
He smiled up at her. "No, I didn't," he assured her.
She hesitated for a moment. Then gave him a real smile that showed an unforeseen warmth. She just said softly. "Thank you very much."
Jim-Bo watched the exchange with annoyance. Heyes had gotten a real smile out of her, had touched her hand. Jim-Bo watched her walk back across the room and a moment later got up from the table, giving Heyes a full appreciation for his size. The man was at least six and a half feet tall and Heyes guessed his weight to be close to 300 pounds. He was built like a bull, thick neck, massive, solid chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Heyes kept track of his movements, observed him head for the far end of the bar and motion with his head for George to join him.
It was none of his business. None of his concern. He noticed that Jim-Bo slipped some folded green into the bartender's hand and spoke quietly to him, nodding toward Kate who was wiping down the far end of the bar.
Stodges raised. Bishop folded.
"Kate," George called out. There was a slight edge to his voice. "Get me a couple more bottles of red eye from the back. And a bottle of gin, too."
She nodded and picked up a lantern from the floor, lit it with a match from under the bar, and headed down the dark hallway at the rear of the saloon.
Heyes held two queens, two tens and a four.
George looked nervously at Jim-Bo, who nodded approval. Then the big man followed Kate down the hallway.
Nope, Heyes reminded himself. None of his business. He forgot where they were in the betting and Bishop had to remind him. Two pair. Fair hand. Considering how the others played, it was probably his pot.
He asked for one card and replace the four with another ten. Definitely his pot. A sound from down the hall distracted him, a ruckus of some kind. The girl's voice, not loud but strained. Scuffling. None of his business. George didn't appear to notice. Surely, if there was cause for concern, George would respond. But he polished and re-polished the same spot on the bar. More noise. A voice, gruff and thick sounding. Another, higher, more muffled, but something....fear. It was fear. No one else seemed to hear. Smart, Heyes figured. None of their business, either.
He folded. "I'm out," he said. "That's it for me. Thanks for the game, gentlemen." Gathering his winnings, he put the money in his pocket, took a last swallow of beer and started toward the door, changing direction in mid-stride and moving down the hallway.
From a doorway at the rear of the hall, there was a dim light shining and shadows flickered. As he drew closer, Heyes heard Jim-Bo's voice but could make out only a few scattered words growled low and sinister.
"...scream.....hurt......ride you like a...."
Resting his right hand on the butt of his gun, Heyes moved cautiously, still hearing his own voice in his head telling him this was none of his business. This was the sort of stupid thing the Kid would do, butt in, poke his nose where it didn't belong, draw undue attention to himself. Then there was a crash of glass breaking followed almost immediately by a loud, guttural howl roaring from the room. He wasn't as fast as the Kid but the gun was in his hand before he could think about it. Heyes rounded the edge of the doorway, ready for anything and wishing like hell that Curry was with him.
Kate was pinned in the back corner of the room, Jim-Bo holding her left arm behind her back with one huge, hammy hand and leaning into her so she could barely move, could scarcely even breathe. Her head only came half-way up Jim-Bo's massive chest so all Heyes could really see of her was her right arm, which she'd managed to wiggle free. In her right hand was a broken whiskey bottle dripping blood from four or five jagged points. Jim-Bo, pressed against her, was holding his backside with his left hand and Heyes could see ripped cloth and a roughly circular blood stain spreading across the seat of his pants.
"Let her go," Heyes said. The cocking of his gun sounded surprisingly loud in the small room. "Now."
Jim-Bo turned slowly, an odd combination of disbelief and rage weaving across his face. Still pressing his weight against her, he held his bloody hand up to Heyes.
"Look what the little bitch did to me!" he bellowed. "Tried to kill me!!"
As he turned, Heyes could see that Jim-Bo's pants were unbuttoned and what had probably been an erection was rapidly degenerating into a limp string. She saw it, too. And she still held the broken bottle. Her eyes were blazing.
"You don't let her go, you're gonna be bleeding in the front, too," Heyes cautioned, nodding toward Jim-Bo's exposed parts.
Jim-Bo glanced down and quickly grabbed her wrist, twisting it, forcing her hand back but she held fast to the broken bottle. Heyes moved further into the room.
"I said, let...her...go." His tone was like steel, hard edged and cold, and he raised the gun steadily.
Jim-Bo, seeing the .45 aimed at his head, released her and moved back, covering his groin protectively with his hands and directing his glare straight at Heyes.
"You'd best not get involved in this," he warned, meaning it.
But Heyes reached his left hand out toward the girl.
"Kate," he urged softly. "I think it's time to get out of here."
For a moment, she stood there, breathing hard, her eyes huge and distant, never leaving Jim-Bo. Then, making the choice, she dropped the bottle on the floor and reached for Heyes' hand.
"Get his gun," Heyes told her calmly. She did, looking for a moment like she might use it. Heyes let go of her hand long enough to reach out and take the gun from her, slip it into his belt. Then he took her hand again and pulled her out of the room, keeping his gun aimed toward the storeroom even when he was out of view of Jim-Bo. He pulled her with him quickly down the hall and back into the main room where all poker had stopped and all eyes were on the two of them. No one moved.
"Gentlemen," Heyes said. "It's been a pleasure." And then the girl was pulling him out of the saloon toward the horses.
Heyes' horse was still tied to the hitching post in front of the saloon, along side a good-looking buckskin. Kate ran to the buckskin and swung easily into the saddle as Heyes mounted his own bay. She dug her heels into the horse's side and the mare responded fast, barreling down the street with Heyes close behind. A moment later, Heyes heard Jim-Bo's voice trumpet from the saloon door.
"That little bitch stole my horse!!"
(End Chapter One)