Showdown at Dead End Canyon (9 page)

“Chicago?”

“To play the piano.”

“Mr. Dorchester, for reasons I’d rather not go into, I have no desire to go back on the concert tour.”

Dorchester laughed. “If you accept this job, you’ll be touring, all right. But not at all the way you think.”

“I must confess that you do have me curious,” Hawke said.

“Hawke,” Pamela interjected. “Before you and father get into all that, would you play the piano for us?”

Dorchester reached out to touch his daughter on the arm. “Now dear, I promised Hawke that he would not be expected to play for his supper like a performing monkey.”

Hawke chuckled. “That’s all right,” he said. “I would like to play your new piano for you. You should see some of the things that pass for a piano that I’ve had to play over the last few years.”

“I can imagine,” Dorchester said. “You’re sure it would be no imposition to have you play?”

“None at all,” Hawke replied.

The piano was in the corner of the parlor, and Hawke walked over to it. He stared down and ran his hand over it. “Do you play, Mr. Dorchester?” he asked.

“Heavens no,” Dorchester said. “I leave that up to Pamela.”

“You play, Pamela?”

“No. Not very well.”

“Nonsense, my dear. You are an excellent pianist,” Dorchester insisted. “Of course, you aren’t as good as Hawke, but few are.” Then, to Hawke, he added, “She is just intimidated by you, that’s all.”

Hawke saw a piece of music on the music fret: Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 21.

“You’ve been playing this?”

“Yes.”

Hawke sat on the piano bench, then moved to the left and patted the bench beside him. “Let’s play it together,” he suggested.

Pamela smiled, nodded, and joined him. “What part will I play?” she asked.

“Just play the music as it is written,” Hawke said. “I’ll fill in around the edges.”

“All right,” she replied hesitantly. She put her hands on the keyboard, paused for a second, then began to play. Hawke began playing as well, providing counter melodies and trills, filling the parlor with such music that it almost seemed that an orchestra was playing.

Terry Wilson, Dorchester’s valet, came to the door of the parlor and stood in the hallway to listen to the music. Then one by one others came as well. Seeing this, Dorchester motioned for them to come on so they could better hear the music. Hesitantly, quietly, they did so.

Hawke was pleased to learn that Pamela was actually quite skilled. She was so good, in fact, that he was pressed to match her with his improvised chording. But he did so, and at the conclusion of the piece, Dorchester and the servants who had come into the room applauded. So did several cowboys, who had gathered on the porch outside.

“Bravisimo,” Dorchester said with a broad smile. “The two of you were magnificent!”

“You played very well,” Hawke said to Pamela.

“Oh, I’ve never enjoyed playing as much,” she replied. Spontaneously, she kissed him, quickly, on the lips.

“You’d better watch that, young man, or I shall start inquiring as to your intentions,” Dorchester teased. He laughed, and, because Hawke didn’t know what to say in response, he laughed with him.

“Now,” Dorchester said, “let me tell you about Chicago.”

HAWKE HAD BEEN IN CHICAGO FOR THREE DAYS,
and though he had neither the desire or intention to remain much longer, he’d found his time there enjoyable. He had attended a play and a concert, visited a couple of art museums, and enjoyed the cuisine of some of the city’s finer restaurants.

It was just after sunset, and he was walking down State Street when he heard a woman cry out.

“No! Please, don’t hit me again! Please, don’t hit me again!”

Looking up an alley, he saw a man shove a woman, hard, into a brick wall.

“You’re holdin’ back on me, whore,” the man growled.

“No, I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

Hawke hurried up the alley toward the two. “What’s going on here?” he called.

The man who had pushed the woman against the wall turned toward him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a low-crown, wide-brimmed hat, and his waxed moustache curled up at each end like the horns of a steer.

“Get the hell out of here, mister, this is none of your business,” the man warned.

Hawke saw that one of the woman’s eyes was black and puffed shut. Her lip was swollen and bleeding.

“Get away from her,” Hawke said.

The man laughed. “What did you say to me, you dandified little piece of shit?”

Hawke, who was wearing a suit with a vest, flipped his jacket to one side, showing his pistol.

The big man just laughed and, reaching around behind him, pulled out a knife. “Mister, you think you can scare me by showing me a pistol? Why, if you actually shot it, you would be so afraid that you would probably piss in your pants.” He bent forward at the waist and held his knife hand in front of him, palm up. He moved the knife around in little circles. “Now I aim to carve off your ears, just for the fun of it.”

“Wrong,” Hawke said. In a lightning fast move, he drew his pistol and fired, the bullet clipping the big man’s right elbow. The man dropped his knife and grabbed his elbow. Hawke put his pistol back in his holster. “Now, like I said, get away from the woman.”

“Why, you bastard, I’m going to gut you like a fish!” the man shouted. He bent down to retrieve his knife, and Hawke shot again. This time, his bullet hit the knife and sent it sliding down the alley.

“This is the last time I am going to ask you,” Hawke said. “Leave the woman alone.”

The man glared hatred at Hawke, who pulled the hammer back and pointed the gun between the man’s eyes.

“I just nicked you the first time,” he said. “If you don’t go away and leave this woman alone, I’m going to kill you,” he said coldly.

The man turned and started up the alley, walking at first, then breaking into a run.

Hawke looked at the woman. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked.

“Are you crazy?” the woman replied angrily. “Now you’ve made him really mad.” She turned and yelled at the retreating man. “Johnny! Johnny, wait! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Hawke watched in surprise as she chased after him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he left the alley and returned to the Palmer House Hotel for his last night in Chicago. Tomorrow he would take the train back West.

Hawke sat in the waiting room of Chicago’s Union Station, reading the
Chicago Tribune
. His attention was particularly drawn to one article.

SPECIAL TO THE
TRIBUNE:

More than a dozen trains were backed into the car shed of the Union Pacific depot. The engines were maintaining their steam, and as a result the sounds of venting pressures echoed and reechoed throughout the station. In addition, at any given time there was at least one train departing and one arriving, the rolling sounds of steel wheels on steel tracks adding to the din.

The cavernous shed smelled of smoke and steam-wilted clothing. Arriving and departing passengers hurried along the extended narrow boarding platforms between the trains. Vendors were peddling their wares: everything from amazing apple peelers to aromatic lunches in boxes.

Hawke walked along the platform behind the trains, examining the paper in his hand and comparing it with the large numbers that were mounted on poles at the head of each track. He was looking for track number seven, and had just located it when a baggage handler came by, pulling a large cart filled with luggage.

“Make way! Make way, sir! Make way!” the baggage handler was saying over and over.

Hawke stepped aside to let him pass.

“Careful, baggage handler, don’t let that top bag fall,” an attractive woman called. She was holding onto the arm of a man who was nattily dressed, including a silk cravat and a diamond stickpin.

“Don’ you worry none, Mrs. Dupree. I ain’t goin’ to let nothin’ fall.”

“Libby, will you quit worrying and let the man do his job? I’m sure he knows what he is doing.”

“Oh, but Jay, I’ve got a bottle of very expensive perfume in that bag. It would be awful if it got broken, to say nothing of spreading the fragrance on all the clothes.”

“It seems to me like having your clothes doctored with perfume would eliminate you having to put it on,” Dupree said with a chuckle.

“Some of your clothes are in that bag,” the woman replied. “I know you are somewhat the dandy, but do you really want to smell like a Parisian fancy woman?”

Dupree laughed out loud, then raised his hand and called toward the baggage handler, “Careful with those bags.”

Libby laughed as well, then took his arm with both hands.

As they passed Hawke, Dupree saw him studying the paper in his hand.

“Are you looking for the transcontinental train?” Dupree asked. “Because if you are, you’re at the right place.”

“Yes, thank you, I do appear to be,” Hawke said, folding the paper and putting it into his inside jacket pocket.

“I’m Jay Dupree, sir. This beautiful young lady is Libby St. Cyr.”

“St. Cyr?” Hawke looked toward the baggage handler, who was well down the length of the train by now.

Dupree, noticing the expression on Hawke’s face and his glance toward the baggage handler, chuckled.

“Miss St. Cyr is my employee. If people draw the wrong
assumption about us, I have found that it is better to let them think as they will. And you are?”

“Mason Hawke.”

“Well, Mr. Hawke, would you care to walk with us as we board the train?”

“I would be glad to,” Hawke said.

As they walked along the length of the train, Hawke could see, through the windows, those passengers who were already in the cars. They sat in their seats, reading newspapers or carrying on conversations, a world apart from the hustle and bustle outside the train.

“Where are you headed, Mr. Hawke?” Dupree asked.

“You can drop the ‘Mister.’ Most folks just call me Hawke. And I’m not headed anywhere in particular. I’m just going to be on the train.”

Libby looked at him in surprise. “You are going to be taking a trip to the Far West, but you’ve no idea where?”

“It isn’t the destination, it’s the trip,” Hawke replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“If you come into the palace car at any time during the trip, you will understand,” Hawke said. “I’m a pianist, and the Union Pacific Railroad has hired me to play the piano on this train.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Libby said, smiling and clapping her hands in delight. “Well, I’m sure we will be stopping in to hear you play from time to time.”

“Have you heard about the gold strike in the Wyoming Territory?” Dupree asked.

“Yes, I was just reading about it in the local paper.”

“I believe some enterprising people are going to make a lot of money,” Dupree said. “And I intend to get my share.”

Hawke shook his head. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Dupree, you don’t have the looks of a gold hunter.”

Dupree laughed. “It depends on where you are looking for the gold,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My…associates and I plan to open a social club there. I think men who have been working hard in the hills, prospecting for gold, would appreciate a place to come for a few drinks, the companionship of an attractive woman, and some relaxation.”

Dupree stopped, then checked the paper in his hand. “Ah, here we are, my dear. Our accommodations are in this car.”

A beautiful young blond-haired woman stuck her head out the window of the car, joined a few seconds later by a second, this one a redhead, just as pretty as the first.

“Jay, Libby, where have you been? Lulu and I have been on the car for just hours, waiting for you,” the blonde said.

Dupree laughed. “I doubt that you have been here hours, Sue. The train itself hasn’t been here that long.”

“Sue is right,” Lulu said. “It has been a long time. What kept you two?”

“Someone had to take care of the luggage,” Libby replied.

“These two ladies will be traveling with us as well,” Dupree said. “Sue, Lulu, meet Mr. Hawke.”

Both girls flashed broad smiles and stuck their hands out.

“Pleased to meet you,” they said at the same time.

“Like Libby, they are my associates.”

“Yes, I see. And I think I understand the nature of your business now,” Hawke said.

“Surely, Mr. Hawke, you aren’t a prude?” Libby asked. “An urbane gentleman like you?”

Hawke laughed. “I’ve been called a lot of things, Miss St. Cyr. I’m quite sure I’ve never been called a prude.”

“I wouldn’t think so. You don’t have that look about you,” Libby said.

“Have a pleasant journey,” Hawke said, touching the brim of his hat as Dupree and Libby stepped up into their car.

“Thank you, and the same to you, sir. We’ll see each other frequently, I’m sure,” Dupree replied.

Hawke continued until he reached the car he had been told to board. A porter was standing in the car door.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but this here be the crew car,” the porter said.

“My name is Mason Hawke, and I believe this is the car I’m supposed to be on. I’ve signed on to play the piano on this trip.”

“Oh, now that will be fine,” the porter said. “On these long trips, the passengers do enjoy the music.”

“I expect the conductor will be wanting to talk to me after a while. When he’s not too busy, perhaps you could tell him where I am.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that. And welcome aboard.”

“Thank you.”

Hawke settled in a seat near a window, put his long legs forward, folded his arms across his chest, then pulled his hat down over his eyes. Within a few moments he was sound asleep.