Troubled range (4 page)

On seeing his room, Mark decided it would be worth the money. The bed had a comforting thickness and would lick using the world for a mattress and sky for a roof. For the rest of the furnishing, the room had a table and two chairs, a clothes-closet with a key in its door; a wash-stand that had a large pitcher of water on top and a couple of clean white towels hanging on its rail.

Tossing the boy a coin, Mark told him to find a shoeshine man if the town had one. The youngster replied that he doubled in shoe cleaning and said he would be back as soon as he got rid of his dad-blasted, consarned monkey-suit the boss made him wear.

Mark took a bath in the hotel's private bath-house, had his hair trimmed, a barber's shave, changed his clothes, ate a good meal and then rested in his room until after dark. From the noise outside, he judged the town had woken up and begun to howl, so he rose from his bed, doused the light, put on his hat and gunbelt, then headed from the hotel, making for the Crystal Palace.

The girl caught Mark's eye as soon as he entered the saloon. Not because she had blonde hair that curled its ends under neatly and framed a truly beautiful face, for there were three other blondes almost as beautiful among the female workers of the saloon. Nor was it because she wore a daring and revealing costume. Compared with the others she looked demure and modest, for she did not wear the glistening, knee-long red, green, yellow, blue or other shade of dresses which clad the others, cut low on the bosom and leaving, apart from the supporting straps, the shoulders and arms bare. Her white blouse had full-length sleeves, a frilly front and buttoned up to the neck. Although it tried, the blouse could not hide the rich fullness of her breasts or the slim waist, any more than the shoe-length plain black skirt concealed the fact that under it lay richly curving hips and shapely legs. Her attitude did not draw attention to her. Unlike the other girls she did not pass among the customers, laughing, joking and making herself pleasant. Standing at the busy blackjack table, she looked calmly detached, smiling at one of the players and yet not offering him any come-on encouragement.

Yet, of all the girls in the room, she took Mark's eye the moment he entered. Any way a man looked at her, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen; five foot seven of undiluted voluptuous femininity trying to hide itself under those plain clothes.

For a moment Mark thought of crossing to the table and trying his luck—with the cards, not the dealer. He decided to take a drink first. If the liquor should be in keeping with the rest of the furnishings and equipment of the room, it would satisfy even the most discriminating taste.

At the bar Mark ordered a whisky, ignoring the invitation flashed in his direction by one of the girls. The drink proved to be mellow, of good standard and in keeping with the look of the saloon. From all appearances, the owners had put plenty of money into the furnishing, equipping and stocking of the place. Mark hoped the town stayed booming long enough for them to show a profit. From the look of the crowd inside, they would likely make it.

A long board, nailed to the wall opposite to the main batwing doors, attracted Mark's attention, so he strolled over to examine it more closely. Reward posters were thumb-tacked to the board and the central sheet caught his eye.

WANTED

$5,000 REWARD

ALIVE ONLY

BELLE STARR.

There followed a drawing of a beautiful woman with shoulder length black hair framing her face, a Stetson hat perched on the back of her head, and a tight rolled bandana knotted at her throat. Beneath this followed a brief description. Mark wondered how accurate the drawing and description were, for he doubted if Belle Starr had ever been captured to be measured or sketched and nobody was likely to do it while she stayed free.

Under Belle Starr's name on the poster, and over the drawing, somebody had scrawled the words, "The Toughest Gal In The West" in a sprawling hand. Mark grinned as he read the comment, wondering what Calamity Jane would say when, or if, she read it.

As he turned away from the board, Mark became aware of somebody watching him. His instincts told him at least two sets of eyes, one on either side, studied him with more than casual interest.

To Mark's right, seated alone and ignored even by the girls paid to entertain the guests, Jubal Framant, the bounty hunter, dropped his eyes towards his whisky glass as Mark glanced in his direction. The watcher at the left appeared to be one of a quartet of scrubby-jawed, gun-hung hard-cases who wore cowhand clothes but who, in Mark's considered opinion, had never worked cattle—at least not for their legal owner. On seeing Mark turn towards them, the four men resumed their drinking and talking.

Wondering a little at their interest, and not attributing it to admiration of his up-standing, manly figure, Mark walked on. He had not failed to notice that Framant had the ten gauge lying on the table before him and wondered if the man always carried the gun with him.

Putting aside thoughts of Framant's habits, Mark headed for the blackjack table. Before he reached it, Mark saw the blonde signal and a man wearing a dealer's eye-shield, white shirt, black open vest and black pants, crossed the room to take over her seat. Giving the players a dazzling smile, the blonde crossed the room towards where a door led out to the alley between the saloon and the hotel, and a flight of stairs rose to the upper part of the building.

Mark watched her go, then he saw the four hard-cases also watching. As the blonde approached the side door, one of the quartet thrust himself up, but sank back into his chair as she walked by the door and up the stairs.

Interest in the blackjack game waned and the swarm of players faded away to leave only a handful of devotees around the table. Mark himself lost his desire to sit in on the game, and strolled over to the chuck-a-luck table where he won three dollars, took them and lost them at faro. Approaching the poker game at one of the high-stake tables, he studied the play for a time. For all he could see the game, like the others, was run fairly and the house relied only on the percentage to show them a profit.

Sitting in on the poker game, Mark played until nine o'clock. He held his own even though the company consisted of talented players, for Mark was no mean hand at the art of poker.

The blonde came into sight at exactly nine o'clock and walked down the stairs. Shoving the pile of chips to the cashier of the game, Mark told the other players he was finished. A man wearing the dress of a professional gambler gave a grin, for he had seen the direction Mark looked before making the decision.

"How can the simplicity and crudity of blackjack appeal to a man of refinement when he could have the pleasure of our company, the fascination of mathematical studies and the employment of the art of bluffing while playing poker?"

"Well, I'll tell you," Mark replied to the gambler's flow of rhetoric. "If you gents looked like that blackjack dealer, I'd stay on."

"Philistine," sighed the gambler. "Meaning no disrespect, sir. My dear mother always told me never to make unfavourable comments about a man as big as you, and I

believe her words. But you'll never get rich playing blackjack."

"Who wants to get rich?"

"The poor people do," the gambler replied. "Good luck with Miss Marigold Tremayne, sir. In every way."

"I might even need it," Mark replied, picking up the money the cashier passed to him. "My apologies for leaving, gents."

Crossing the room, Mark halted at a vacant place by the blackjack table and looked down at the familiar lay-out with the legend "blackjack Pays 3 to 2. Dealer Must Stand On 16 and Draw to 17"; followed by a list of bonuses which could be won by holding various combinations of cards which added up to no more than twenty-one; and finally came the warning, "all ties stand off," meaning that if the dealer and the player held the same score on their cards the bet did not count.

"What's your limit, ma'am?" he asked, buying a stack of chips and thrusting his wallet back into the pocket built on the inside of his shirt.

"Twenty-five cents to twenty-five dollars, sir," she replied. "This-all's a friendly little game."

Her voice held a gentle Southern drawl which conjured up a hint of blooming magnolias, mint juleps on the lawn of some plantation mansion and coloured folks singing their plaintive songs.

"You-all from the South?" Mark asked.

"From Memphis. And you?"

"Texas, ma'am. Or may I call you Miss Tremayne?"

"Feel free," she said, flipping the cards out to the seven men fortunate enough to get seats. "Make your bets, gentlemen."

A couple of saloon men moved in to take seats on either side of Marigold, acting as her look-outs and pay-off hands. Not only would the seven men be playing, but the kibitzers and onlookers could join in, betting on the players' hands although having no say in the way the hands were played.

Watching the girl's hands flip out the cards, Mark could see no hint that she might be trying to manipulate matters in her favour. Her fingers were innocent of rings which might

have tiny mirrors attached, through which she could see the value of each card as she dealt, or a spike with which to mark the cards during play. A black satin vanity bag stood on the table by her right hand, it looked a trifle larger than a lady usually carried and its jaws were open.

For a time Mark played, winning a couple of dollars, losing a couple. A plump, attractive brunette came to his side and slipped an arm around his neck, leaning on to him.

"Let me bring you some luck, handsome," she suggested.

Then she straightened up and Mark opened his mouth to say something. An icy voice, still retaining its Southern drawl, but losing all visions of magnolia, mint juleps and singing, cracked from across the table.

"Hand it back, Lily!"

The brunette took a pace away from the table, eyes flashing angrily. She looked straight at Marigold and spat out:

"What's eating you, sister?"

"The gentleman's wallet, Lily," Marigold answered, coming around the table and standing facing the saloon girl. "Just hand it back, and stay away from my game in the future."

"Yeah?" Lily sneered, bristling like an alley-cat and curving her fingers so the nails stuck out like claws. "You go to hell, you Sou—"

Without giving the slightest warning of what she meant to do, Marigold folded her right hand into a fist and lashed it around, driving the knuckles upwards underneath Lily's jaw. Lily's mouth snapped shut with an audible click that ended her speech abruptly. She might have considered herself fortunate that her tongue had not been between her teeth when the blow landed, but Lily was in no condition to consider anything other than stars and flashing lights around her head.

Following Lily up as the brunette shot back and landed with a thud on her rump, Marigold bent down. She gripped Lily's ankles and lifted upwards, standing the tubby girl on her brunette head. Jiggling Lily, causing her skirt hem to slide down and expose a pair of shapely, black stocking-clad legs to view, Marigold shook the wallet from the bosom of

Lily's frock. Thrusting Lily's legs away from her so the brunette landed on the floor once more, Marigold bent and picked the wallet up.

"I apologise for this, sir," she said, returning the wallet to Mark. "The owner and the floor manager don't allow the girls to li—steal wallets from the customers. Lily only started here this afternoon and doesn't know the ropes yet."

"I felt it go," Mark admitted. "But I reckon I might have had a mite more trouble getting it back than you did."

"The feminine touch can work wonders," smiled Marigold, her voice returning to how it sounded before speaking to Lily. "Shall we continue the game?"

The game resumed to admiring grins and congratulations. Mark watched the girl called Marigold Tremayne with more interest for he guessed she was not all she first appeared to be. Behind them, the floor manager helped a whimpering, jaw-nursing Lily to her feet and warned her that any further pocket-picking would see her looking for another saloon where her talents would be more appreciated. She limped away, rubbing her rump and glaring over her shoulder at Marigold.

After returning his wallet, Marigold gave no sign that Mark was any more important to her than the other players. She laughed at his comments, but no more than at the other men's remarks around the table. Her attitude set the players at ease and even the losers did not seem to care about their losses.

At half past ten Marigold folded the cards and slid them into their box. She smiled at the players and waved aside their objections to the game ending.

"Why, gentlemen," she said in a voice that would charm a bird out of a tree. "You wouldn't want a lady to miss her beauty sleep, now would you?"

From the way they looked at her, if she asked them every man at the table would have stood guard around her hotel room to make sure nobody disturbed her rest and would have counted the task an honour to perform.

Leaving the men to cash in the chips and fold up the game, Marigold swept across the room and upstairs. Mark took his money and walked across the floor to the bar. He noticed

that Framant still sat alone and was watching Marigold ascend the stairs. Thinking of Framant caused Mark to look for the four hard-cases, but they had left their table and did not appear to be in the big room.

Just as Mark ordered a drink, he saw one of the men reflected in the bar mirror. The man stood on the sidewalk before the main batwing doors, watching the inside of the saloon. He seemed to be looking for something and Mark wondered what, or who, that something might be.

Mark did not overlook the possibility that the man and his pards had decided that he, Mark, might be a profitable target for a robbery. If they felt that way, Mark reckoned they would be welcome to every red cent, or whatever else they got.

For almost fifteen minutes nothing happened. The man remained outside, never looking in Mark's direction. Mark noticed this, he also became aware that the man's eyes never left the right side of the room. Suddenly the man stiffened like a bird dog catching quail scent. Turning, he walked off to the right, disappearing from the reflection in the mirror.