Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (25 page)

Long wooden sidewalks lined the bustling streets. It was late afternoon on a Saturday and everyplace seemed to be preparing for the weekly visits of cowhands ready for a celebratory toot before the Sabbath. In truth, if Fort Worth was typical of most cow towns, there would be many more saloons than churches—and few inhabitants sober enough to attend worship on Sunday morning anyway. Although no church steeples were visible, she charitably decided that might be because they had entered from the wrong direction.

When Max reined in beside the red-striped pole of a barbershop doing a brisk business, she and True Dreamer followed suit. "I realize you require the services of a barber, but this is hardly the time," she said to her husband as he dismounted.

"No better place to learn where our boy might be—or at least where the worst saloons and bordellos in the city are situated," he replied. "Wait here while I learn what I can inside."

Within a few moments he reappeared. "If we continue heading down Main south toward the stockyards, we'll eventually come to an area rather colorfully called, 'Hell's Half Acre,' the brothel, gambling and drinking center of Fort Worth. I've been warned that decent citizens who wander in there seldom emerge with their skins intact."

"Just the place for Deuce to hide out," Sky said.

True Dreamer grunted agreement.

As they rode along, the rows of grocery, seamstress, pharmacy and other shops seemed fairly neat and prosperous. The town appeared to be a frontier city in the making. A general store advertising cowboy clothing for all ages caught her eye. Sky was certain whatever garments Fawn had worn when Deuce kidnapped her would be far beyond repair. Once she could gauge the girl's size, she would buy some boy's shirts and pants for the long journey home...if Fawn could withstand the ride.

She shuddered and cursed Jonathan Ducelin Framme more vigorously than ever she had when she intended his violent death.
Please, God, let the girl be alive!
She comforted herself by looking at True Dreamer's profile. The old man appeared relaxed and confident. That gave her heart to continue.

The farther south they went, moving slowly to avoid wagons, carts and other horsemen, the more unsavory the buildings and people looked. They rode by a saloon perhaps appropriately called The Cowboy's Lament, what passed for a cheap hotel and several very run-down boardinghouses and saloons. All had peeling paint, baking under the merciless rays of the setting sun.

From the second-story porch of one establishment, a woman with vermillion lips and dead black hair called out to Max, "Come on, honey, yew air the purtiest man I ever seed. Do ya fer free—but not the Injun," she quickly added.

The old man ignored her as if she did not exist.

Sky glared up at the whore with a deadly grin. "This 'purty' man is my husband," she called back, patting the .38 strapped to her hip.

The whore's head popped behind the filthy red curtains and the window slammed shut.

"I do believe we're approaching our destination," Max said grimly.

"We are near the weasel-snake," True Dreamer confirmed.

"Then it might be best to stable the horses and proceed on foot." Max pointed out a livery on the right side of the street. The sign proclaimed: HORSES AND MULES STABLED. BEST PRICES IN TOWN. IRV WATSON, PROP.

"Let's hope we have better luck with this place than the last one," Sky muttered to Max. "I don't feel up to another performance and I don't think True Dreamer does either."

"We will not be troubled," the old man said as they dismounted.

A man of middling years came ambling out to greet them. "Whut kin I do fer ya?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"We want to stable four horses for the night, perhaps for several days, mister—?" Max inquired.

"Name's Irv Watson. I own this here place. Two bits a day fer each horse. I make that ta be a buck," the man replied.

"Fair enough, Mr. Watson." Max offered his hand. After they shook, he gave the livery owner the money. "This is my wife, Mrs. Stanhope, and our friend True Dreamer. We're looking for a man named Johnny Deuce. Have you heard of him?"

A cautious light came into the man's pale hazel eyes. "Yew a friend of that one?"

"Quite the opposite," Max replied grimly.

"Good. Little bastard's mean as a snake—oh, beg pardon, ma'am," he said to Sky, blushing to the roots of his thinning brown hair.

Sky smiled and nodded, saying nothing, excusing all. Deuce was here! That meant Fawn was, too.

"Deuce shot up a young drover t'other day. Nice kid. Knowed him since he wuz a tadpole. Ever'body in town talked 'bout how the gunman pushed Billy ta draw. Never had a chance. Last I heerd, Deuce wuz hangin' 'round the Acre, drinkin' an' gamblin' purty steady. Yew might ketch 'im now, if'n yew look."

Silently, the old man handed the reins to the gruella and packhorse to Watson. Max and Sky handed over their horses as well, but she removed her Yellow Boy from its saddle scabbard first. The owner led the four animals inside the big livery.

"We can trust this one," True Dreamer said. "Now, you will go to a whiskey lodge with two red poles in front of it. He is there and Fawn is nearby."

To that startling pronouncement, he then added, "I would like to see the weasel-snake taste your justice." He shrugged philosophically. "But red men, whites and whiskey do not mix well. My presence would bring more trouble on you. Go and do what the Powers have ordained. I will seek out my granddaughter."

"You know where she is?" Sky asked.

"A big lodge called Excelsior," the old man replied. "I will find it."

"But if we know the hotel, then we don't have to confront Deuce."

True Dreamer shook his head. "Think, Daughter. If we try to leave the room of a white man with his prisoner, will no white man protest? Will the weasel-snake allow us to ride away in peace once he learns who has taken her? He will pursue us all...and everywhere he goes, death follows."

Sky looked at Max, who sighed and nodded. "He's right. If we let him go, we'll have more than McKerrish and whoever in England wants us dead setting ambushes. How much do you believe our mysterious protector and her Gurkhas can handle? Once we return True Dreamer and Fawn to their people, what would stop Deuce from stealing her again—or another girl?"

"He preys on the weak. There is only one way to deal with such a one," the old man said quietly.

Max stared at Sky, willing her to understand. "I want to bury the past as much as you, but I've thought about it for days. If I'd tracked him down after he shot Remy—a horse—he would not have been alive to kill that young boy Watson told us about—and who knows how many others in between? This is no longer our vendetta. It's something that has to be done to protect our friend and his people as well as us."

Sky looked into his eyes, trying to decide if he was right. "It's taken me so long to let go...can you...when this is over, can you let go of your past, too?" she asked.

"The dark warriors will soon rest, Daughter," True Dreamer answered for Max, eliciting a flash of anger from the Englishman.

Before he could say anything, she turned to the old man. "Then that is enough." Facing her husband, she said, "Let's do what must be done."

Max pushed the brim of his hat back on his head and sighed, uncertain whether he had just won or lost a battle. "Find Fawn. I'll handle Deuce," he said to both of them.

"I refuse to let you face him alone," she said stubbornly. "I'm your backup, Max."

He smiled wistfully. "You forget that I'm still the Limey. I can handle Deuce by myself. Go with True Dreamer. His granddaughter will need a woman's touch." His tone indicated that the matter was not up for discussion. "Do you understand, Sky?"

"Yes, Max, I understand," she replied.

She stood with True Dreamer as her husband walked down the wooden sidewalk and turned the corner. "Now, follow your man," the old Cheyenne said.

Sky looked at him, startled. "How did you know—"

He smiled. "You understood, but you did not intend to obey."

She nodded. "Go find Fawn. We'll be along as soon as we can."

He grunted, watching as she slipped around the corner; then he headed down the street, taking back alleys so as not to raise unwelcome attention.

Chapter Thirteen

Max approached the first saloon he encountered after entering what he could see was obviously Hell's Half Acre. The Bucket of Blood in Denver looked like an exclusive English gentleman's club compared to what surrounded him here. Some of the gaudily painted shanties were as large as Drago's place, but their wood was blistered from the merciless sun and wind. Boards on the sidewalks, even on the buildings, were missing or hung askew. Broken windowpanes left large jagged shards of glass sticking out of the frames, dangerous for the unwary who happened to stumble through them. Drunken cowboys and other denizens of the district ground up the glistening grit that had fallen beneath their dusty boots.

He entered the Cow Palace and stood with his back to the wall while his eyes adjusted to the dim light of newly lit rusty lanterns hanging from nails on the crude plank walls. The bar was a scarred ancient ruin of what had once been good wood, too stained and gouged to tell what variety. Men in trail gear drank alongside of those wearing the stained clothes of workmen. Even a few in rumpled suits slugged back whiskey.

After sizing up the place and making certain Deuce was not present, he moved to the bar and inquired of the bullet-headed man serving drinks, "I'm looking for a bar with two big red pillars in front of it. Do you know where I might find such a place?"

Several snickers greeted the request, made in a precise English accent.

"Who wants to know?" the barman asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Max tugged his hat forward on his head again, blocking the lantern glare, then placed his hands loosely on his gun belt. "Mostly, I'm called the Limey."

The drinkers around him went silent and the bartender backed up a step. "Look, mister, we don't want no trouble. Place yer looking for, it's called the Burning Pillars. Corner of Calhoun and Grove, 'cross from the Waco Tap." He gestured out the door to the left.

"Obliged," Max said. After giving each of the men at the bar a level stare to make certain none of them had delusions of grandeur sufficient to draw on him, he turned and walked out the swinging doors.

Like True Dreamer and Sky, Max decided the alley offered a safer approach to his destination, now that he had it fixed in his mind. He crossed Rusk Street and came out on Calhoun. Looking down it, he could easily see the gaudy crimson pillars that gave the saloon its name. Like most of the Acre, they were in need of a fresh paint job. "So now, get the job done," he muttered to himself.

From her hiding place across the alley, Sky watched his hard green eyes grow cold as ice. She shivered, feeling responsible for this. In seeking justice for a dead man, had she done a terrible thing to a living one? What if this was the final straw that destroyed Max's soul? Was that what had happened to her brother all those years ago? She could never let Max go through such pain. Already he had enough to deal with. But then she remembered what True Dreamer had said.

The dark warriors will soon rest.

Did that mean they would disappear from Max's dreams—or that Max would die, ending his nightmares altogether? No, True Dreamer would not have sent Max to his death, she assured herself. But neither had the old medicine man stopped her from following her husband. Sky hurried after him, seeing the Burning Pillars just as he paused to look inside. How could she help without breaking his concentration?

The swinging doors groaned in protest when he pushed them open and walked into the large room. Men sat playing cards at tables scattered helter-skelter around the room, as if rearranged nightly during bar fights. Ladies of the line leaned over the shoulders of several, whispering advice, or other things. A few who were not engaged with customers noticed the tall striking man with the cold green eyes the moment he stepped inside. They smiled in invitation.

One called over the babel of voices and a tinny piano, "Hey, handsome, I got somethin' you'd like real good."

The long line of men drinking at the bar ignored the comment. The bar top ran the length of the room and was recognizably mahogany. Overall, the place was less seedy than the preceding one. Max spotted Deuce almost immediately. The other men kept their distance from him on both sides, talking among themselves. Even in a place as depraved as Hell's Half Acre, Jonathan Ducelin Framme drank alone. Perhaps it was by choice, but somehow Max intuited that it was not.

Ostracized in America just as you were in England, eh, old chap?

Before Max could voice his thought, Deuce leaned forward to engage the bartender in an argument. The gunman was a scant five foot five in high-heeled boots, slight of build, the wiry type that could be quick as lightning—or a rattlesnake when it struck. He remembered True Dreamer's name for Deuce. Weasel-snake. It fit. His bony shoulders were hunched up almost to his oversized ears. He shoved a glass at the big man behind the bar, who shook his head.

While Max sized up the room, Sky slipped in the back door and concealed herself in the shadows beneath the staircase leading to the bordello on the second floor. She held her Yellow Boy ready to shoot if necessary. Her heart pounded.
Please, my love, be careful!