A Time to Slaughter (5 page)

“As much as I would take great pleasure in watching you beat her, she is already flawed goods,” Halim Ali said, tracing a line down his left cheek with his forefinger. “The great Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim would not care to see her pale skin damaged further.” Ali shrugged and spread his small, elegant hands. “We must think of the woman's price at the Zanzibar slave market, you understand.”

“Then rest assured she will not be harmed,” Zebulon Moss said.

“Where is the lady in question?”

“Locked up in the basement of my saloon.”

“Ah, there is one thing more,” Ali said. “The girl should not be used until Sheik Hakim inspects her and makes his judgment. If he refuses the woman, then you can throw her to your men. Is this clear to you?”

“Perfectly,” Moss said. “I won't let a man with unbuttoned pants get within a mile of her.”

“Then that is well.” Ali smiled a small smile, showing small teeth.

Moss raised the silver coffeepot from the table. “More?”

The Arab shook his head. “No thank you. American coffee is not to my taste. It's a vile, barbaric brew.”

“You don't drink liquor?”

“My religion forbids it,” Ali said.

Moss leaned back in his huge, red leather chair. “How did you find out about me?”

“In San Francisco. At the Barbary Coast, I believe the place is called.”

“It is. Now go on.”

“Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim's schooner the
Nawfal
recently raised anchor in the Embarcadero. He already has a score of Chinese girls on board and a few blacks, but what he most desires, and what our clients pay large sums for, are white women, preferably virgins with yellow hair.”

Moss grinned. “Not too many virgins around Santa Fe.”

“Sheik Hakim will sell them as virgins nonetheless.”

“You still haven't answered my question, Ali. Why did you come to me?”

The Arab studied Moss before he answered. The man was exactly as he'd been described, a giant standing well over six feet, broad, muscular shoulders, black hair, and piercing blue eyes. His nose looked as though it had been broken at least twice and there was a scar above his right eyebrow. Moss's gray frockcoat was open and Ali caught a glimpse of the ivory handle of a revolver in a shoulder holster.

It was said along the Barbary Coast that Zebulon Moss had killed two dozen men with brass knuckles, blackjacks, knives, guns, and his bare hands. He was described as the most dangerous, ruthless man in the West, and Ali believed it. Moss was also said to be very wealthy, and Ali believed that, too, judging by the red velvet and polished brass opulence of his office. It was vulgar, of course, but expensive nonetheless.

Ali realized he'd been quiet for too long as he saw sudden blue fire in Moss's eyes and the man's voice sounded as though it had just been honed on a whetstone. “I asked you a question, mister.”

“A thousand pardons, sir. I was gathering my thoughts.” The little bug-eyed Arab, dressed in a high-button suit, celluloid collar, and striped tie, smiled. “Your reputation along the Barbary Coast is that of a man who gets things done. We were told that when you were in San Francisco you shanghaied more sailors for the New York hell ships than any man alive, and that you once controlled so many brothels you employed two hundred women.”

“Half that number, and most of them were Chinese.” Moss shrugged. “The good thing about Chinese whores is that they're expendable. They only last a year or two.”

“Yes, indeed. And white women?”

“Yeah, some of those, some of the time. Who told you all this?”

“A tavern owner by the name of Bill Gasper, for one.”

“He's still alive? I heard he'd been hung by vigilantes years ago.”

“No, he's still among the living,”

“He's a rum one is ol' Bill. Cut your throat for a dollar.”

“Was he correct, that you can you supply Sheik Hakim with white women out of Santa Fe on a regular basis?”

“How many does he need?”

“As we already agreed, five or six on this shipment, twice that number on subsequent deliveries.” Ali read the question on Moss's face. “Mr. Moss, you have an excellent geographical situation, close to the Sonora coast of Old Mexico, and we've been assured you can lure women to you.”

“I can. Or I'll shanghai them. Either way your boss will have his quota.”

“Then, on behalf of Sheik Hakim, I look forward to doing business with you.”

“A thousand dollars a head, mind,” Moss said. “That's my price.”

“Yes, but only for those who meet our standards. The rest you can sell in Mexico and still turn a profit.”

“They'll all meet your standards. I don't deal in shoddy goods.”

“Then the only one in doubt is the scar-faced woman.”

“Trixie will meet your standards, Ali. She knows how to please a man.” Moss smiled. “Even a flea-bitten Arab.”

Ali smiled faintly. “Mr. Moss, I am but dirt under your feet and therefore do not mind, but do not say such words to the great and noble Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim. He has a quick temper and has killed two score men and countless women with the sword.”

Zebulon Moss was unimpressed. “I'll keep that in mind.”

 

 

The basement of the Lucky Lady saloon had been hewn out of solid rock. No bigger than a jail cell, it was dark, dank, and dreary. An iron cot stood against one wall, a slop pail against another, and nothing else.

Zeb Moss took the flight of stone steps leading down to the room, the oil lamp in his hand splashing a dim yellow light on the damp walls.

The bed creaked as Julia Davenport got to her feet and waited to speak until Moss stood in front of her. “You've come here to beat me, Zeb. I tell you now, you can beat me senseless but it won't do any good. I'm not your woman any longer, nor do I wish to be ever again.”

Moss smiled, huge white teeth gleaming in the gloom. “I'm not here to beat you, Trixie. Nor do I want you. Hell, I've already got another woman, and she's a sight prettier than you.” As cruelly as he could, he added, “And her face ain't scarred.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Julia said. “Let me go.”

“I need you, Trixie.”

“For what? You don't need anyone.”

“It's true that I don't need your body any longer, but I do need the thousand dollars you represent. A few of my business ventures have not gone well of late.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Zeb?”

“I'm selling you, my dear.”

“I didn't think I was worth that much.”

“You're not, but my Arab friends think otherwise.”

Julia was an intelligent woman, and she knew immediately what Moss was saying. “You're selling me into slavery?”

“Bravo!” Moss said. “How very perceptive of you, my dear.”

“Zeb, you can't do that to me!”

“Oh, but I can. You're destined for the Zanzibar slave market. I'm told it's a very pretty island off the coast of East Africa. You'll like it there. Sunny all day long, I'm told.”

“That can't happen . . . the authorities . . .”

“What authorities? The Americans don't care and the British thought they'd shut down the Zanzibar slave markets, but they still prosper.” Moss smiled. “As do the officials fresh from London who turn a blind eye to what's going on. I believe some of them get quite rich off the slave trade.”

Julia felt a spike of real fear. “You'll never get me there alive.”

“That is a matter of complete indifference to me, Trixie. I get paid when I deliver you to the Arabs. As to what happens after that . . . well, I just don't give a damn.”

Julia was unable to talk, but Moss spoke into the silence. “Look on the bright side, Trixie. You'll end up in a brothel or some rich Arab sheik's harem. You'll be kept alive until your prettiness fades and your body sags, say in two, three years.”

“You filthy rat!” Julia shrieked. She lashed out at Moss, but he caught her wrist and pulled her close to him. “You ran away from me once, Trixie. You won't get a chance to do it a second time.”

The woman wrenched free, then sat on the bed, her face in her hands. When she looked up at Moss her face was streaked with tears. “Zeb, have mercy on me. Let me go. Please, let me go back to being a schoolteacher.”

Moss snorted. “A whore schoolteacher. I never heard the like.” He turned and walked to the steps, then stopped. “You'll end your days as a plaything for horny men. See, Trixie, some things really never change.”

Near the Santa Fe plaza, Shawn O'Brien checked into a small hotel with the luxury of a kiva fireplace and a thick native rug on the floor. The bed was soft and clean and there was a plentiful supply of logs for the fire. Normally, he would've been content, but worry over Julia gnawed at him and gave him no peace.

His only plan was to visit every saloon and cantina in the city, starting with those owned by Zebulon Moss. It was likely he'd put Julia back to work in one of his own establishments, but he could have stashed her away in some other smaller place until the threat of rescue had passed. The city's many brothels didn't enter into Shawn's thinking. Julia was Moss's woman and he wouldn't degrade her in that way.

Shawn wore a sheepskin coat, shotgun chaps, boots, and a battered Stetson and could pass for an ordinary puncher in town on a tear. Around his waist, belted high in the horseman's style, his gun belt carried a long-barreled .44-40 Colt. In the right pocket of his coat he dropped a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun, as Luther Ironside had taught him.

“You go into a shooting scrape with a feller you reckon is faster than you, put your hands in the pockets of your coat and tell him you don't want to fight,” Ironside had said. “Then when he starts to strut around and sneer at you and brag on himself, whip out the sneaky gun from your pocket and cut loose. Keep shootin' at his belly until he drops and there ain't no more brag left in him.”

Stepping out of his room, Shawn smiled at the memory. Luther had a way with words.

The desk clerk looked up from a ledger when Shawn stopped in front of him. “Can I help you, sir?”

Shawn asked for the names of Zebulon Moss's saloons and the clerk, a rodent-faced man with sly eyes, said, “If you're looking for wine, women, and song, then the Lucky Lady is the place. If you want peace and quiet, then try the Gentleman's Club on Lincoln Street. No ladies are allowed, but they serve only the finest liquors and Cuban cigars.”

After nodding his thanks, Shawn stepped into the muddy street. Despite the funneling snow there was a steady pedestrian traffic and a few freight wagons made their slow, creaking way through the crowd, Mexicans in bright serapes at the reins.

Lanky cowboys and bearded and booted miners rubbed shoulders with businessmen wearing velvet-collared coats and ogled the languid señoritas gliding past, their beautiful black eyes seductive and knowing. The white Santa Fe belles were just as bold, dressed in the height of fashion, their bustles huge, tiny hats perched on top of swept-up, ringleted hair.

Above it all was a constant babble of conversation in Spanish, English, and a half dozen other languages. The cold air smelled heavily of peppers and spices for sale in booths lining both sides of the street.

Shawn stood for a while on the steps outside the Lucky Lady, taking in the sights, aware that he was acting like an openmouthed rube. More than a few kohl-lashed eyes turned in his direction and the bolder belles coyly smiled at him, their teeth white in moist pink mouths.

Santa Fe had snap aplenty, Shawn decided, but he wasn't there for pleasure and that weighed on him.

After one last glance at the bustling street, he turned on his heel and stepped into the saloon.

The Lucky Lady was a long, fairly narrow building with a full-length mahogany bar behind which hung two French mirrors. A piano and small stage were at the far end, along with the usual assortment of tables and chairs. Unusual for a New Mexico saloon, a whale's jawbone adorned the wall opposite the bar. A narrow staircase led to the upper floor and the small, curtained rooms where the whores plied their trade.

Three bartenders lined the bar, magnificent creatures with slicked-down hair and curled mustachios. Each wore a brocade vest and sported a diamond stickpin in his cravat.

It seemed, Shawn thought, that Moss treated his male hired help well.

Although the day was dark, by the clock it was still early afternoon and the sporting crowd was still abed, gathering their strength before making their appearance at the witching hour. Two gray-haired businessmen stood at the bar talking in earnest tones and a puncher crouched at a table, nursing a beer, a hangover, and a broken heart.

A pair of young Texas guns caught and held Shawn's attention as they looked him over with insolent, challenging eyes. Dressed like the businessmen at the bar, down to the elastic-sided boots and plug hats, they didn't have weapons in view, but the cut of their coats suggested their tailor had made an adjustment for shoulder holsters.

It was not in Shawn's interest to tangle with a couple gents who sported big Texas mustaches and gold watch chains and had hired guns written all over them.

Pretending an indifference he did not feel, Shawn stepped to the bar and one of the magnificent mixologists smiled at him. “What will it be, mister? The beer is cold, the whiskey is bonded, and we have a large selection of the finest cigars.”

Shawn ordered a beer and a Cuban cigar that he took time to light. Then, behind a curling cloud of turquoise smoke, he said, “I'm looking for someone.”

“Aren't we all.” The bartender had quick, intelligent brown eyes and at one time could've been anything.

“Her name is”—Shawn was about to say Julia, but stopped himself in time—“Trixie Lee.”

“Is that a fact?” the bartender said, his face guileless. “I haven't seen Trixie in a six-month.” He turned and called down the bar, “Miles, Pete, either of you seen Trixie around?”

Both men shook their heads, and the bartender said, “Plenty of pretty girls will be in come dark, cowboy. You can take your pick.”

“Trixie is a friend of mine,” Shawn said. “We go way back.”

“Mister, Trixie has a lot of friends.” The man retreated down the bar, where he and the other bartenders exchanged glances and slight shakes of the head.

Worried that he'd tipped his hand, Shawn pretended to be unconcerned and stepped to the door as though looking through the stained glass would give him a different perspective on Santa Fe and its denizens. As a precaution, he unbuttoned his coat. He had much more confidence in the Colt .44-40 on his hip as a man killer than he did the .32 in his pocket. After a while he turned and had to step around the outstretched feet of one of the guns, who grinned at him. The other gunman said, “Trixie ain't around anymore, cowboy. Maybe you should try Albuquerque.”

Shawn nodded. “I'll remember that the next time I'm there.”

“Um . . . maybe you should leave today. It takes time to find a woman in a big city,” the man said in a Texas drawl. He smiled without warmth. “Like leave right now.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Shawn said, “but I enjoy it around here. The town has snap.”

“Ah, that's a complication.” The Texan looked at his companion. “Is that not so, Mr. Tabard?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Bohan.”

“Well, when you boys sort it out, let me know,” Shawn said.

“Impertinent, don't you think, Mr. Tabard?” Bohan inquired.

“I'd say so, Mr. Bohan.”

Bohan rose from his chair, uncoiling like a slender, lithe serpent. His black eyes met Shawn's. “The air around Santa Fe has just gotten unhealthy for a man of your inquisitive nature.”

“You mean you want me to leave?” Shawn asked. “Pack up and ride on out of Santa Fe, and me only arrived?”

Bohan nodded. “Just that.”

“Which of you two boys is faster with the iron?” Shawn said around the cigar clenched in his teeth.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bohan grumbled.

“It's a simple question. Who's quicker on the draw and shoot? Mr. Bohan, meaning you, or Mr. Tabard?”

“We're both fast, cowboy, faster than you know.”

Shawn nodded and pulled his coat back from his gun. “So it doesn't really matter who I kill first, huh?”

Alarmed, the two businessmen stepped away from the bar out of the line of fire.

The brown-eyed bartender reached for something, his face grim. “Cowboy, you're not killing anybody.” He pointed the business end of a Greener shotgun at Shawn. “Now you just slide on out of here. The beer and cigar are on the house.”

Shawn arched a brow. “What about Mr. Bohan and Mr. Tabard? Will they give me the road and let me slide in peace?”

“I've got your back,” the bartender said. “I've got faith in this here scattergun and every gentleman in this establishment knows it.”

“Just remember, what I said still goes,” Bohan cautioned. “You're a questioning man and that can get you killed in Santa Fe.”

Shawn said nothing, but he turned and left a dollar on the bar. “I pay my way.”

The bartender nodded. “Ease on out. Real nice and friendly, like you're saying so long to kinfolk.”

Without a glance at the two gunmen, Shawn walked to the door, his spurs ringing in sudden, hostile silence, and stepped outside. The snow, heavier now, blustered around him and there were fewer people on the street, the belles and señoritas having fled to where it was warm.

Asking about Julia had touched a nerve with the two gunmen, presumably employed by Zebulon Moss. Shawn was convinced the girl was in Santa Fe, hidden away somewhere. But where was he going to find her?

He had no answer to that question, no answer at all.