The Arrow Keeper’s Song (34 page)

Time and prosperity had turned the roadhouse into an ostentatious three-storied structure, ablaze with lantern light and reverberating to the din of its boisterous patrons. Panther Hall offered gaiety, music, gambling, hard liquor, and ladies of the evening in satin and feathers who were willing to converse, dance, or satisfy the lusts of any man with money in his pocket. A well-lit proscenium stage dominated the rear of the hall. An orchestra pit just beyond the footlights often housed a five-piece band capable of accompanying a visiting chanteuse or the fandango dancers that often entertained to the cheers of an appreciative crowd.

It was Jerel Tall Bull's intention to part each customer from as much money as possible. To that end a roulette wheel and monte table had been brought in all the way from Chicago to offer Panther Hall's patrons—ranch hands, roughnecks, townsfolk, and soldiers—a diversion from poker and black-jack. Two well-polished walnut-and-mahogany bars lined with brass rails faced one another from opposite sides of the poker tables and dance floor and served up an amazing array of potables from Kentucky whiskey and champagne, to hard cider, gin, bourbon, rye, beer, and a particularly nasty concoction simply referred to as “gutshot.”

The second floor consisted of ten handsomely appointed boudoirs to serve the customer who was of a “sporting nature.” Here a man could sample the vices of the flesh, indulging himself in carnal pleasures with as many women as he could pay for.

The third floor was the private domain of Jerel Tall Bull and his brother Curtis, with an office and two bedrooms and storage. A stairway at the end of the hall led down to the lower levels. Jerel's office could also be reached from a wrought-iron stairway connected outside to a balcony that fronted the third floor. The balcony, with its intricately fashioned ironwork railing, gave Panther Hall a decidedly New Orleans flair, incongruous with the open expanse of range-land surrounding it.

On this cold Friday evening Panther Hall was swarming with revelers who gambled and drank and danced to excess beneath the brass chandeliers. The noise seemed to travel up the walls and even managed to filter faintly through the floor of Jerel's office. The drillers and roughnecks employed by Benedict Exploration and Development were making up for lost time. Days of brutally hard labor in the oil fields had to be offset in a single night of unbridled revelry.

Jerel Tall Bull knew tonight's crowd was a volatile mix. Ranch hands had no use for roughnecks, and fights between the two groups were frequent. The Cheyenne who frequented the hall kept to themselves except when inebriated, and then would take on anyone and everyone; they made quarrelsome, angry drunks. Panther Hall was also entertaining its share of soldiers from Fort Reno and a few respectable citizens from Cross Timbers, drawn to the roadhouse under cover of night to partake of the establishment's rich menu of vices.

It came as no surprise to the elder of the two brothers when Curtis blundered into the darkened office and broadly announced there was trouble downstairs and Jerel needed to make his presence known to keep things from turning nasty.

The Seth Thomas clock on the mantel above the fireplace struck a quarter to ten, a single note of punctuation to the younger brother's outburst. Curtis started across the room but struck his shin on a footstool, cursed, and decided to hold his ground, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He could barely make out the high-backed leather chair where Jerel was seated before a large picture window that overlooked the well-traveled road leading up to the front yard and the hitching posts. It was from this vantage point that Jerel often watched the sunsets when weather prevented him from venturing outside, a practice he had only recently begun and one that piqued his brother's curiosity.

Still night-blind, Curtis heard the rustle of clothes and glimpsed a blur of movement before the window as two forms untangled themselves. By the time his eyesight adjusted to the darkened interior, Red Cherries had emerged from the front of the office and brushed past the intruder without so much as a by-your-leave. There was surprising strength in Red Cherries' slender, dark-haired form; she was no one to cross. Surviving by her wits in this world of men had given her a heart that Curtis likened to blued steel. Once he had tried to force his attentions on her, but Red Cherries had called his bluff, much to Jerel's amusement, and sent the younger brother on his way, threatening to take a knife to his manhood should he ever be so bold again. From that moment on Curtis Tall Bull argued in vain to have Red Cherries dismissed, only to be overruled by his brother.

Jerel had taken a liking to Red Cherries. It was her job to keep Panther Hall's ladies in line and circulating among the patrons, encouraging each and every customer to part with his hard-earned wages. She was firm and efficient and easy to look at, and Jerel refused to dismiss her. There was another, more intimate reason, one that Curtis had now unwittingly blundered onto.

He watched Red Cherries hurry to the stairway, where she disappeared from sight, her ankle-high boots tapping on the wooden steps as she descended, her scarlet satin dress rustling with every step. He wrinkled his nose as the scent of musk and rose water assailed his nostrils. Then he continued into the office, where Jerel waited, his ruffled shirt untucked and open to midchest.

“Wipe the grin off your face, you clumsy bastard. I gave instructions not to be disturbed.” If anything, time had only made the heavyset Cheyenne even more powerful looking, with great slabs of muscle bulging his sloping shoulders, his black hair cropped to just below his ears, his brutish exterior concealing a keen intellect.

“Except in an emergency,” Curtis said. “You said to come get you then.”

“Somebody go blind from gutshot again?”

“No. But there's trouble downstairs.”

“Get Pete Elk Head and John Iron Hail to handle the roughnecks. That's what I pay those bar dogs for. What's a few broken heads? Nobody'll remember a thing come morning.”

“This is worse. There's liable to be a killing. That soldier boy, Willem Tangle Hair, showed up a few minutes ago. Charlotte White Bear's downstairs, whiskey-hot and dancing and rubbing up just about anyone who'll buy her another drink.”

Jerel sighed. He knew Willem considered Charlotte his own personal property. But after the red-haired breed took off for Cuba, Charlotte, never the most faithful of paramours, had found comfort elsewhere. On his return Willem had refused to accept that things had changed, and had begun to make a nuisance of himself. It was a volatile situation that could easily turn violent, best resolved as far from Panther Hall as possible. Not only would a killing make the gambling hall off-limits to the soldiers, but it would probably scare off some of the customers from Cross Timbers as well.

“Let's go,” Jerel said, pulling on his frock coat and combing his hair back with his fingers. He lifted a gunbelt off a wall peg just next to the door, then returned the belt, tucking the Colt thirty-eight in his right pocket. He tried to blank out Red Cherries' visit and the taste of her on his lips, the firmness of her breasts beneath his hand. Damn. He finally had her hot and ready and Curtis had come blundering in to spoil the entire evening. Then again, the fault was Tangle Hair's, Jerel thought, scowling, anger quickening his descent, as his boots beat a brisk tattoo on the stairs. Curtis straggled to keep pace. In the sallow glow of the lamplit stairway, his slender form was all but obscured by his brothers shadow.

Willem had made the mistake of reaching for Charlotte and had torn the sleeve of her cotton blouse as she'd tried to pull away.

“You fool. You hot-tempered fool, look what you've done,” Charlotte exclaimed. Her ample bosom strained the fabric and fueled the fantasies of the rugged-looking customers who had formed a circle around the quarreling couple.

“I know you've been running with someone else, and I know you're out here to meet him. Well? Who is it? Point him out!” Willem searched the surrounding faces, hoping to catch a glimmer of guilty recognition. He'd been drinking, and the alcohol was having its effect on him, despite the fact that he was steady on his feet. The khaki campaign coat he wore, a reminder of the Indian Brigade he had recently mustered out of, was dirt stained with patches of mud and grease, the residue of the oil fields. He had ridden straight from a drilling rig to Panther Hall in hopes of discovering the identity of the man who had replaced him in Charlotte's affections.

“He's someone who will take care of me, who will take me to the city and buy me pretty things. You'll see. And we won't ever come back.” She swung about, long hair flowing, her body all sweet curves and sultry roundness, ripe and arousing. Her eyes were dark and lustrous and dared him to stop her.

“Hell, sweetheart,” a man called out from the crowd. “I'll take you somewhere.”

“Yeah, about as far as the barn,” another voice replied, to a ripple of laughter.

“You're leaving with me,” Willem said, his fingers digging into her arm.

“Let go. You're hurting me,” she said, nostrils flared, irate and full of fight.

“Maybe
both
of you should leave,” Jerel Tall Bull said as the crowd parted to allow him passage into the center of the circle.

“I'll leave when I am good and ready,” Charlotte retorted. “My father—”

“Is a tired old man with a store to run and no time to rein in his daughter,” Jerel said. He glanced over the crowd toward the orchestra pit where Curtis, standing alongside a pianist, two horn players, and a drummer, awaited his signal. The chandeliers were shrouded with tobacco smoke, but the stage lights burned bright. Jerel waved his hand in his brother's direction, and Curtis immediately barked orders to the musicians. The band struck up a fanfare, and the crowd gravitated toward the proscenium, jostling one another for the best position. Out rushed the fandango dancers in their gaily colored gowns and petticoats, and they began to kick up their heels to a merry tune, showing off their frilly underclothes. Willem and Charlotte were quickly forgotten in the roughnecks' haste to approach the stage, which had been Jerel's intent all along.

“Get out,” he said to the quarrelsome couple when the crowd had disbanded.

“See here,” Willem began. He didn't like being ordered around by a man he considered little better than a snake.

“No!” Jerel snapped, cutting him off. There was power in his voice. It surrounded him with an aura Willem had never noticed before. “That uniform doesn't cut you any slack as far as I'm concerned. Now, get going.”

Words of protest and indignation died on Willem's lips. There was something about the man that forced him to retreat. He sensed Tall Bull's underlings standing off to the side. Lean, hungry Pete Elk Head brandished an ax handle while his partner, John Iron Hail, slapped a bung hammer against the palm of his hand. The customers were now oblivious to the confrontation. There were music and dancing beauties to hold the attention of the crowd.

A smug Charlotte White Bear watched Willem turn toward the front door. But her expression soon changed when Jerel tapped her on the shoulder and said, “You too.”

Her expression fell. “But I'm waiting for …”

“He won't be in tonight.”

“But he promised.”

“Go on home, woman,” Jerel firmly instructed. “If he shows up later, I'll send him your way. Next time use the back entrance. Red Cherries will let you in.” He took her by the arm and, retrieving her heavy woolen wrap from a nearby table, steered her toward the front door. Willem had lingered there, taking a moment to button his coat, stalling for time. He reached out to Luthor White Bear's errant daughter.

“Come with me, Charlotte. I don't care who you've been seeing, just come with me now and we'll start over.”

Her hand lashed out and caught him across the face. “Don't touch me! Damn you, all of you!” There were tears in her eyes, her cheeks flushed from the rage she felt over her absent lover's betrayal.

Willem reacted on reflex, and his hand swept back to deliver a blow in kind. Charlotte's eyes widened and she retreated. Willem came to his senses and lowered his hand, glancing around to find a trio of gamblers watching him from a nearby table. There was considerable money on the table, and the card players had refused to abandon the pot for all the belles and bloomers in the Oklahoma Territory. Charlotte threw the door open with a crash, darted outside, and ran, sobbing, across the yard to the gelding she had ridden from Cross Timbers. Within seconds she had saddled up and galloped off, determined to shave ten minutes off the half hour's journey back to Cross Timbers.

Willem's cheeks reddened as the gamblers continued to stare at him, the bid momentarily forgotten. It was evident from the look on their faces that they disapproved of his behavior. Had he actually struck Charlotte, the men would have rushed to her defense out of a sense of honor, and appreciation for her full figure. As the gamblers returned to their game, the half-breed flashed Jerel an angry look, turned, and followed the woman out into the wintry night. The sound of music, its gaiety lost upon his troubled heart, followed him all the way to the hitching rail and drifted toward the scattered stars like prayer smoke.

The toe of his boot tipped a fist-sized rock. He retrieved it, then swung into the saddle, rode his mount up to the front of Panther Hall, and, with a well-aimed toss, sent the stone crashing through a window. He swung his mount about as a handful of the gambling hall's furious denizens, led by Jerel Tall Bull, came barreling through the front door. Elated at his own misconduct, Willem Tangle Hair left a chorus of curses and epithets shouted in his wake as he galloped off in pursuit of the woman he loved.

When Father Kenneth played chess, he lost all track of time. Here in Luthor White Bear's mercantile, assailed by a fragrant array of apples and leather goods, spilled flour and molasses, and the faint, rich aroma of smoked hams hanging from the rafters overhead, the Capuchin priest sat hunched over the chessboard opposite his friend and constant opponent, Luthor White Bear. The priest reached for a plate of corn-bread dressing that Rebecca White Bear, the merchant's quiet, unassuming wife, had left on the table for the chess players to finish off.