Katherine O’Neal (16 page)

In the ensuing scuffle, the story came out.
One cowhand, turning mean after losing his money at the faro table,
had shot the dealer in the arm, then bolted into the street,
brandishing his weapon and threatening to finish off the customers
if he wasn’t repaid what he lost. Someone had run for the sheriff,
and he arrived amid the bedlam like the eye of a hurricane passing
through the storm. Coolly, twirling his cane like a baton, he
approached the ruffian, talking to him in a tough yet strangely
soothing voice, as one might talk to a balking colt.

“I’ll have that canister,” he said, referring
to the man’s gun. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but we have a law
prohibiting the carrying of firearms. Since you’re new in town,
I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

The cowboy gazed wildly about him at the
dozens of armed men still swarming in and out of doorways along the
street. Taking advantage of the distraction, Bat lunged forward and
hit the offender soundly on the head with the end of his cane,
knocking him cold. This now-famous maneuver was called
“buffaloing.” The use of buffalo as a verb had originated with
Saranda’s old acquaintance Wyatt Earp, and his unique way of
bringing prisoners to heel. Except that while Bat used his cane,
Wyatt found it handier to use the butt of his Colt.

Another man ran forward and gathered the limp
body into his arms.

“Take him to the calaboose,” Bat ordered.
“When he comes to, fine him. And let the doc know he’s got some
business.”

He left without seeming to make a dent in the
surrounding activities.

Saranda didn’t call to him, preferring a more
private reunion. But using the incident as a distraction of her
own, she wiggled free from the cowboy who had her in his grip and
ran around the nearest building to a relatively quieter street
behind. The sight of the volatile Texans convinced her she wanted
nothing to do with them—at least not in the dark, with so little
promise of protection. She decided for the time being to look for a
more suitable victim, a businessman perhaps, who might take pity on
a lone woman without being drunk enough to molest her.

She found a likely-looking man coming out of
a cathouse. With that satisfied look on his face, he might just be
feeling generous enough to compensate yet another woman, but for a
different reason. Reaching beneath her skirts, she unpinned a cheap
cameo locket from her petticoat, assumed a panicked look, and ran
up to the gentleman, breathlessly calling to him in a semblance of
her newly reacquired Kansas accent, which she’d been privately
working on for the better part of the afternoon.

“Sir! Oh, thank goodness I found someone! I’m
desperate for help, and I don’t know where to turn.”

He jumped a little when she touched his arm,
but the tearful face she presented relaxed his features. “Why, my
dear, what is it?”

“My brother was just murdered,” she sobbed.
“Up the street. You must have heard the gunfire.”

“Well, my dear, I mean—” There was gunfire
even as they spoke. It was as common as the squeal of streetcars in
New York.

“Of course, how silly. I’m not thinking
clearly. You understand. It’s just that he was my only living
relative. I came all the way from Topeka to meet him, when he wrote
telling me he was bringing cattle this way. And now, because of
some silly misunderstanding, he’s—he’s dead. And I don’t even have
the fare for the train home!”

She put her head to his shoulder in a
trusting sort of way as he fumbled about his coat pocket in search
of a handkerchief.

“Young lady, I don’t know what I can do for
you...”

“Oh, thank you,” she said quickly, taking him
up on an offer he hadn’t made. “The only thing I have left in the
world is this”—she lifted it from around her neck—“my mother’s
locket. I don’t see how I can part with it, but I have to get my
brother home, don’t I? If you might buy it from me, it would be so
helpful.” She moved closer, stroking the muscles of his arm beneath
his coat in a show of unconscious supplication. “I’d be so terribly
grateful, if only you could help. I just—” She began to cry once
again. “I just don’t know what else I can do.”

He’d found his handkerchief and was
attempting in a fumbling manner to dry her eyes. When he wasn’t
forthcoming with the cash, she cried harder. Some of the whores
peered out from the window in various stages of undress.

He was beginning to realize they were making
a scene in a way that a shooting wouldn’t. “All right, my dear,
please don’t cry. How much do you want for the necklace?”

“Fifty dollars would help so much. I could
get my brother back to—”

“Fifty dollars!” But when she began to wail,
he caved. “Yes, yes. Well, here you are. Fifty dollars, you
said?”

Reluctantly, she parted with the necklace.
“You will take care of it, won’t you? It’s all that’s left of my
beloved mother.” With a last heartfelt sob, she turned and headed
down an alley, as if it was all too much to bear.

Halfway down, as she was happily tucking her
money into the bosom of her dress, she was startled by a flare of
light as a match was struck against a wall. A man stood in the
shadows, his hat covering his face, which was turned from her as he
lit the cigarette at his lips. “Have you another locket?” he asked
in a deep, hushed voice. “I’d rather fancy helping a damsel in
distress.”

He turned to face her, and her heart froze.
The light reflected on his face for just an instant before he shook
the match and extinguished it. Time enough to recognize Blackwood,
and to catch his cocksure grin.

So he’d found her.

Practical questions flooded her mind,
penetrating the panic. Was he aware she knew he’d killed the Van
Slykes? Had he come to silence her?

If so, she suspected she wouldn’t get out of
this alley alive.

“There was a time when you looked happier to
see me,” he said, greeting her in that whispery voice that sent a
shiver down her spine. Before, she’d thought his voice unbearably
sensual, with its deep timbre, its polished pronunciation, its
hushed and intimate tone. Now she perceived a note of menace that,
until the night of her seduction in his office, hadn’t made itself
known. She heard a derisive chuckle coming from his direction and
saw the faint red glow of the cigarette tip as he inhaled.

It reminded her who she was. She wasn’t some
simpering female who’d simply been spurned by her lover. She was a
professional. Somehow, he’d outrivaled her at her own game. But she
wasn’t without resources. She’d match her wits, her reflexes, with
his any day of the week. She had to think, and she had to do it
now.

Pictures of the events of the evening flashed
through her mind. Bat knocking the rowdy senseless. The gentleman
who’d given her the fifty dollars. Propelled by instinct, she
picked up her skirts and wheeled around, racing for the street
she’d just left behind. She heard him hot on her heels, felt the
boardwalk shudder as he leapt onto it in pursuit. Searching the
street frantically, she spotted the man she was looking for walking
a hundred yards away.

“Hey, mister!” she called out to him. She
felt Blackwood lurch to a halt behind her. Running toward the
gentleman she’d just fleeced, she called to him in a taunting
tone.

“You’ve just been robbed, mister! There
is
no brother, and that locket’s a fake.” She lifted her
skirt high to reveal a petticoat underneath with six or seven
lockets pinned to its folds. “Maybe you won’t be so trusting next
time,” she goaded.

She laughed raucously and moved as if to run
away. But the gentleman was on her in a flash, grabbing hold of her
and shaking her in his wrath. “That so?” he cried. “We’ll just see
who has the last laugh.”

He dragged her off, leaving her just enough
time to look back at her pursuer and pantomime a triumphant laugh.
The thrill of besting him churned euphorically through her veins.
Now who’s feeling smug?
she wanted to ask him. She saw him
toss his cigarette aside in a gesture of frustration as she was
hauled away and out of sight.

The jail house consisted of two-by-six planks
with peepholes, laid flat and spiked together with iron rods at
either end. A second story had been added as a city clerk’s office
and police court. Inside, it was full to bursting with rough, dirty
men, swearing and kicking their aggravation at the bars of their
cells. Some spat tobacco juice across the room. The cowboy Bat had
buffaloed earlier still lay unconscious on the floor. A young
deputy watched over the mob from a cluttered desk.

The place stank of horses, whiskey, cigars,
stale bodies, and various forms of carnage from the trail. Most of
them hadn’t stopped to bathe before plunging into their pleasures
south of the Deadline.

“I want to see the marshal,” her gentleman
announced, shoving her inside. At the sight of a woman, the noise
and spitting ceased, and the men stared, wondering if they’d
imagined her in their drunken delirium.

“The marshal’s gone,” the deputy said
uncertainly, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I ain’t jest sure
where he is.”

“P’robly dealin’ faro at the Long Branch,”
cracked a cowboy as his cohorts snickered.

“Then get the sheriff. I don’t care who you
bring. Just get someone in here now. I’ve been robbed, and I demand
satisfaction.”

It was a few minutes before the deputy
returned. During that time, the gentleman never let go of Saranda,
and the prisoners never stopped staring. No one said a word, for
which Saranda was grateful. She was too busy trying to keep her
relief from showing. Even if Blackwood followed her in here, she
knew Bat would never let him take her away.

Finally, the deputy returned with Sheriff
Masterson in tow. He seemed annoyed at having been so
unceremoniously summoned from whatever he’d been doing.

But the moment he saw her, his stance changed
from brisk aggravation to a steely, watchful calm. His light grey
eyes, so startling against the sun-darkened skin and short black
hair, rested on her, thoughtfully assessing his options.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked cautiously. He
looked every inch the lawman.

“I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” the
gentleman replied. “I was robbed by this woman. And afterward, she
had the temerity to
laugh
in my face.”

A sort of cheer arose from the prisoners,
most of whom were drunk enough that, in spite of their
incarceration, the prospect of trouble was still appealing.

Masterson’s eyes flicked to the deputy. “Take
the prisoners upstairs and fine ’em, then turn ’em loose.”

“What about him?” the deputy asked, gesturing
toward the unconscious man on the floor.

“Let him be. I’ll deal with him when he comes
to.” The cells were cleared out as the delighted cowboys hooted
their way up the stairs, their high-heeled boots stomping like
thunder on the wood.

As the gentleman told his story, Bat’s hard
gaze rested on her face. “Let’s have the money,” he said, holding
out his hand when the man finished.

She reached into her bodice and withdrew the
fifty dollars. When he jerked his head, she walked into the empty
cell and watched silently as he locked the door behind. “The money
stays put,” he informed the gentleman.

“What do you mean, stays put?”

“Evidence.”

“But I’m just passing through town. My train
leaves in the morning.”

“Leave an address, and we’ll forward it in
due time.”

The man’s chest swelled indignantly. “Well, I
never heard of such a thing!”

Masterson, rummaging through the desk for a
pencil and paper, paused, fixed the man with a deadly gaze, and
said, “There’s an ordinance in town against carrying firearms. You
want to end up in the same cell?”

The man’s hand went to the gun he carried
beneath his coat. “You’d arrest
me?
I’m the victim!”

“Then fill out your name and address and be
on that train in the morning.”

“But can’t we settle this before then? Won’t
I be needed as a witness?”

“I reckon my word’ll be enough.”

He fixed the man with such a challenging look
that he didn’t dare protest further. It was clear that no one,
seeing that look in the sheriff’s eyes, would question his word.
The deputy came down the stairs then, and Masterson said, “See the
gentleman gets back safely to his hotel. And make sure he’s on the
morning train.”

Confused, the man grumbled, “The laws seem
pretty one-sided in this town,” as he was led away.

The room was expectantly quiet in the
aftermath as they stood alone together. Bat turned to look at her,
the fifty dollars still in his hand. Simultaneously, they burst
into laughter.

Shaking his head in amusement, he handed the
money to her. She took half of it and passed the rest back through
the bars. “Your share,” she told him, reverting to her English
accent. “I should work with you more often.”

He pocketed the cash. “Thanks, I’ll take it.”
She’d never known him to turn down money. He removed his derby and
placed it carefully on the desk. “I was wondering when you’d show
up.”

“Then you’ve heard.”

“Seems like it’s
all
I hear about. You
okay?”

“Aside from a few close calls.”

He sat on the edge of his desk. “Want to tell
me why you got yourself caught tonight?”

“I just ran into Blackwood. He killed the Van
Slykes. I think he might be here to add me to the list.”

“This the first time you’ve seen him?”

“No. He’s been following me. But I’ve always
seen him in time to leave town before he could come close. This
time was too close. I came knowing you’d keep him from me.”

He was looking at her thoughtfully. “That’s a
powerful reward they have offered for you. It ever occur to you I
might turn you in and collect on it?”