Troubled range (5 page)

Looking in the direction which appeared to have interested the man, Mark saw Marigold coming down the stairs. She wore a wide brimmed, fancy looking hat, had a shawl draped around her shoulders and carried the vanity bag hanging from her arm.

Then Mark remembered the way the hard-cases reacted when Marigold crossed the room towards the stairs earlier in the evening. Finishing his drink, Mark strolled across the room and out of the main doors. He glanced back to see Marigold wave a hand to the patrons of the saloon, then open the side door and pass through it into the alley beyond.

A muffled gasp, a startled exclamation, a thud and an angry, pain-filled yelp came to Mark's ears as he approached the alley which separated the saloon from the hotel. Swinging around the corner, Mark saw two of the hard-cases gripping Marigold by the arms and trying to drag her towards the rear of the building. The third man hopped on one leg, nursing his other shin and mouthing curses.

That accounted for three of the quartet. The fourth man ought to be—

Mark side-stepped fast, twisting his body and ducking his head forward. He heard the hiss as something whistled down behind him. Not expecting to miss with his gun butt's blow, the fourth man lost his balance and stumbled forward with a startled curse. He found himself headed straight for the big Texan's back. Mark drove his elbow behind him, feeling it ram into the man's middle. To the man on the receiving end of the elbow it felt as if he had been kicked in the belly by a mule. Letting out a croak of agony, he staggered back a few steps holding his stomach and gasping.

The third man saw Mark avoid the blow, deal with their lookout and head in his direction; releasing his injured shin, but still bending forward, he hurled himself at Mark, ramming his head into the big Texan's stomach. Mark grunted, went back a couple of steps under the impact, then he bent, locking his arms around the man's body from above. Straightening up, Mark hoisted the man into the air and landed him, with legs kicking futilely, on a broad shoulder. For a moment Mark held the man, then bent his knees, straightened them and pitched the man over to smash into the hotel wall from where he collapsed in a limp pile on the ground.

A hand caught Mark's shoulder from behind and dragged him around. The fourth man had not been so badly hurt as Mark imagined for he completed the turn and smashed a fist against the side of Mark's jaw, sending him sprawling into the wall of the saloon. While the man threw a good punch, he lacked science, which was a bad deficiency when dealing with a fighter of Mark's capabilities.

Hitting the wall with his shoulders, Mark braced himself. He wondered why Marigold was so quiet. By all rules of feminine conduct she ought to be screeching her head off, screaming for help. Yet she had not made a sound, apart from that gasp and the hissing of her breath as she struggled with the two men holding her arms.

However, Mark did not have time to give much thought to Marigold's silence. His braced legs held him erect and he thrust himself forward to meet the attack of the fourth man.

Throwing up his right hand, Mark deflected the man's wild, unscientific blow over his shoulder. Almost in the same

movement, Mark launched his left fist viciously into the same spot where his elbow hit earlier in the fight. The man let out a squawk of agony, folded over and presented his jaw to Mark's right hand blow, which ripped up at it like iron-filings to a magnet. Lifted erect by Mark's right hand, the man stood open and asking for a left cross to finish him completely.

Mark did not have time to throw the blow, although it would not be necessary for the man was already going down. The sound of footsteps coming at his back caught his ears. He took it to mean one of the men holding Marigold had left her to his pard and moved in to the attack.

This was only partly true. One of the men had released Marigold, swung in Mark's direction and dropped his hand to his gun butt. The girl's ioot came up, rested against his rump and thrust hard. Taken by surprise, both by the push and the strength Marigold showed, the man staggered towards Mark, his gun falling from his hand.

Turning fast, Mark shot out his right hand, catching the staggering man at the side of his jaw and propelling him head first into the side door of the saloon. From the limp way the man collapsed, Mark knew he had no more worries in that direction and could concentrate on dealing with the last member of the quartet.

Swinging around, Mark prepared to move forward but saw that Marigold had the situation well in hand.

After shoving the man towards Mark, Marigold turned her attentions to the other hard-case who still stood holding her right arm. Before the man knew what to expect, Marigold launched a kick against the man's shins. He yelped in pain and relaxed his hold on her enough to allow Marigold freedom to make her next move. Twisting around towards the man, she drove her right knee up to where it would do most good, or harm depending upon which end of the knee one was at.

The man's pain-filled curses died off in a yell of sheer torment. Clutching at the point where the knee struck him, he folded over like a closing jack-knife. Marigold had not finished with him. The vanity bag still swung from her arm, but she slid it free, gripped the top in both hands, pivoted and brought it around, then up like a baseball batsman driving

for a home run. Mark heard the solid, far too solid, thud of the bag's collision with the man's face. The hard-case spun around and piled up over the legs of the man Mark had thrown against the wall.

Light flooded into the alley as the saloon's door flew open. The floor manager and a couple of burly bouncers burst out skidding to a stop and staring at the sight before them.

"What the—!" began the manager.

Marigold leaned against the saloon's wall, her hat awry and her shawl lying at her feet. Bending, she took up the shawl, then waved a hand to the groaning quartet.

"It's all right, Mr. Cahill," she said. "These—er— gentlemen—must have been drinking and became a little too impulsive."

"Do you want for me to send for Joel Stocker and have 'em jailed?"

"No. I don't think that will be necessary. They've learned their lesson. Take them arownd the back, douse them with water and send them on their way."

"Sure," the manager agreed, nodding to the bouncers. "Do you want one of the boys to walk you to the hotel?"

"I'm going that way myself," Mark said, stepping forward. "May I have the honour of escorting you, ma'am?"

"Why thank you, sir," she replied, dropping a graceful curtsy. "I gratefully accept your kind offer."

After setting her hat right, Marigold offered Mark her arm and they walked together to the hotel. On learning his name, Marigold gave Mark a long, appraising glance, then suggested they have supper together.

After the meal Mark and Marigold went upstairs to the bedroom floor. Mark's room lay to the left of the stairs, but Marigold made no attempt to loosen her hold on his arm and steered him to the right.

"I don't suppose you'd care to come to my room for a few moments, would you, Mr. Counter?" Marigold asked, then her hand fluttered to her lips and she dropped her gaze to the floor. "My, doesn't that sound forward of me? I realise I should never invite you unchaperoned to my room—But you are a Southern gentleman, aren't you?"

"Why sure, ma'am," Mark replied. "Darned if I'm not."

Marigold took a key from her vanity bag and passed it to Mark. Unlocking the door, he followed her into the room, crossing to the table and turning up the lamp's wick to give better light. The room looked much like Mark's along the hall, except that it had three chairs at the table and a sidepiece as well as a closet.

A click came to Mark's ears. Turning, he saw Marigold had closed the door and twisted the key in the lock. Feeling his eyes on her, Marigold swung towards him. The demure expression and wide-eyed innocence stayed on her face, but not in her eyes.

"It blows open unless I keep it locked," she said, coming towards the table. "Now, what can I do to entertain you?"

Mark had a few ideas, but kept them to himself. Although puzzled at Marigold's actions, he decided to go along with her for a time. It could be the old badger game—where an irate "husband" or "fiance" dashed in to demand money or satisfaction for the alienation of his woman's affections—but M ark doubted if M arigold would be involved in such a game. Or if she was involved, Mark gave her credit for being too intelligent to believe he would make a profitable victim.

Crossing to the window, Marigold looked out, then she drew the curtains and turned to walk to the side-piece. After rummaging in the top drawer, Marigold took out a deck of cards. Mark had been watching her and something told him she had picked the deck out of several in the drawer.

"I know," she said, crossing the roomtowards where he sat at the table and tossing her vanity bag on to the bed. "Teach me to play poker."

"Here it comes!" Mark thought.

Without removing either hat or shawl, Marigold sat facing him across the table. She opened the card box, tipped out the cards, shoved the jokers back into the box and tossed it aside. Without offering the deck to be shuffled or cut, she began to deal. This puzzled Mark for he knew she had enough card-savvy not to forget two such basic, but important, details. However, he kept his mouth shut and waited to see what would happen next.

Five cards landed on the table before him and Marigold set down the remainder of the deck in the centre of the table.

Mark took up his cards, watching her pick her own hand up. Fanning out his cards between his fingers, Mark blinked at what he saw. Ace, king, queen, jack, ten—all hearts.

Studying the cards, Mark felt even more puzzled. Three obvious conclusions leapt to mind: first, she had made a mistake and dealt him the hand from the cold deck intended for herself; second, that the deal was fair enough and the straight flush came out, as it might be expected to do once in 649,740 hands; third, she deliberately dealt him the hand for some purpose of her own, although he could not imagine what the purpose might be.

Whatever the answer, Mark held an unbeatable hand as the jokers, which were sometimes played as wild cards—and made it possible to have four of a kind and a joker which beat a straight flush—were in the box and out of the game.

"What stakes?" he asked, watching her face, but failing to read anything on it.

Marigold looked horrified at the suggestion.

"Land-sakes a-mercy!" she gasped. "You surely don't think a lady would play cards for money with a gentleman— alone in her room?"

"I apologise, ma'am."

"I think you could call me Marigold, if I may be permitted to address you as Mark."

"Reckon we have known each other long enough for that," Mark agreed. "What now, Marigold?"

Studying her cards for a moment, Marigold removed her hat and dropped it on the third chair.

"Just for fun, I'll open with my hat," she said and lifted her eyes to his face, an open challenge in them. "It's not like playing for money—now is it?"

"Nope," remarked Mark, taking his Stetson from where it hung on the back of the chair. "I'll see the hat, and raise you my bandana."

"Are we playing table stakes?" she asked, looking coyly at him.

"It's the only way. Your bet."

"Hum! My shawl to cover the bandana."

Lifting her right leg on to the chair which held the stakes, Marigold drew up her skirt. The leg was strong, had shape to it under the black stockings. Mark was willing to concede

that it was as good a leg as he had seen—well since early that morning. Marigold undipped suspender fasteners and slid the stocking down, removed it and the shoes, then repeated the process with her left leg.

"My shoes and stockings to raise," she went on. "A gentleman would have looked the other way."

"I was always taught never to look away from the table when playing poker," Mark replied, hooking off his boots. Til see that bet and raise."

The raising and re-raising went on for a few more rounds and at last Marigold stared wide-eyed at the chair which held the stakes.

"Why I do declare! I just haven't another thing to raise with. Unless I can go to the closet and—"

"Huh huh! When you play table stakes, you just play for what you bring to the table with you. That's the rules, according to Hoyle."

"Is it though? But if neither of us have anything with which to bet, what do we do?"

Mark grinned. "Turn the cards and have us a showdown."

Flipping over his cards, Mark exposed them before the girl's gaze. She stared down at them with complete innocence in her expression.

"Heavens to Betsy," she said, turning over her own cards, "You have just the same hand as I have."

"Sure looks that way," he agreed and reached out to turn the lamp's wick down so its flame guttered away and was gone.

"You know, Mark," Marigold said, her chair scraping back. "There are actually men who would take advantage of an unprotected, defenceless girl at a time like this."

"The dirty dogs," he replied. "No Southern gentleman would do such a thing."

He sensed rather than saw her, felt her hand close on his, pulling at it gently but insistently.

The night outside was dark and still. The bright stars did not show through the curtains at the windows and the room lay pitch black.

"What's the swelling on your neck?" Marigold's voice asked.

"Something bit me," Mark replied.

Silence for a moment, then Marigold said gently, "You mean like this?"

Laying down the razor he had collected during the night, Mark Counter washed his face. He looked in the mirror above the wash-stand and touched the oval-shaped lump on the left side of his neck, comparing it with its mate at the right. Luckily they were about level in height and his bandana would cover them. His honourable wounds might attract some attention, but he reckoned he stood big enough to handle it.

"Mark," Marigold said, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking as sedate and demure as ever, as she fastened the top button on her blouse. "What are we going to do today?"