Without Words (6 page)

The man who had been chasing her stopped a few feet away, catching his breath with his hands on his thighs. “Thanks, mister,” he gasped. “Stop by Sally’s tonight, and your drinks will be on the house.”

The dog had stopped too. He stood between the pursuer and Mrs. Petty, a ridge of hair raised along his boney spine, growling and panting at the same time.

The man straightened and focused on the dog with single-minded fury. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into something cruel as he pulled a derringer from under his vest and extended it toward the dog with a hand still shaking from the exertion of the run. Intent on his target, he didn’t notice Bret pull his own revolver and aim it not at the dog but at the man.

“Pull that trigger, and you’re a dead man,” Bret said, his full-sized Smith & Wesson .44 American steady in his hand.

A
T THE SIGHT
of the derringer, Hassie struggled again. Futilely. The steel band of Bret’s arm around her waist didn’t yield a fraction of an inch.

“Pull that trigger, and you’re a dead man.”

At Bret’s words, Hassie froze, unlike Zachary, whose gun still wavered in the direction of Yellow Dog’s head.

“That cur tripped me, or I’d have caught her myself. It ripped my trousers biting at me.”

Hassie looked up at Bret. Had he looked like that when he killed Rufus?

His face was like tan granite set with two ice shards. His voice had frightened her yesterday, but this had to be worse. The harshness rasped in her ears over the roar of her breathing and vibrated through the arm that held her and the chest the arm held her against.

Pride and knowledge of his own danger warred on Zachary’s face. He lowered the gun and put it away. “Fine. Marshal Dauber shoots any strays he finds pretty regular anyway. He can get this one. I’ll just take the woman.”

“You aren’t taking anything. If she wants to go with you, she can.”

Bret’s hold on her finally loosened. Without his support Hassie staggered and grabbed his forearm, shaking her head back and forth violently the whole time.

“She’s new. She just needs a day or two to get used to things. Night or two.” Zachary showed yellow teeth in a poor imitation of a smile.

Bret extended his arm straight out at shoulder height. The muzzle of the big revolver was less than a foot from Zachary’s forehead. “Get back where you came from while you still can.”

Bret’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger. How much slack could there be? Zachary didn’t wait to find out. He wheeled and started back up the street.

Hassie wiped her wet eyes and runny nose on the sleeve of the purple dress, unwilling to look at Bret again. She let go of his arm and tried to put some space between them. Tried. His hand clamped around her upper arm like a vise. “Let’s go.”

Too afraid to resist, she let him propel her out of the street, up on the walk, past groups of curious bystanders. The pain in her side had subsided. Her throat and chest still burned, although her heart and lungs had slowed. Fear and humiliation burned worst of all, fear of what he was going to do, fear of what he thought. Humiliation over her situation, her failure.

The sight of the hotel changed her mind about resisting. She jerked and pulled against Bret’s hold, desperate not to set foot in the hotel again. He ignored her, all but lifting her off her feet by the arm. Unable to bring herself to fight him the way she had fought the Restons and Zachary, she gave in.

He threw the door open so violently it crashed into the wall, cracking the etched glass panel that had graced the top half. Across the silent lobby, up to the shining mahogany desk.

Bret smashed the silver bell with the butt of his pistol so hard the bell fell apart with a sad little ting. Undeterred, he used the gun like a hammer on the polished surface of the desk. Hassie flinched at the sounds as one deep gouge after another marred the wood.

Mr. Reston emerged through the door to the owners’ private rooms, his usual smile fading fast when he saw who stood at the desk. He reached for the door behind him as if to flee back through.

“Not unless you want to lose a hand,” Bret said. “Get out here, and get your wife.”

Pasty-faced and trembling, Reston called his wife and moved behind the desk when ordered.

At the sight of Bret, Mrs. Reston’s face hardened, but she smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sterling, we thought you left town.”

“I bet you did. You round up everything Mrs. Petty brought to this place and get it out here. Now.”

Defiance and anger flashed across the woman’s face. “I understand you’re upset, but we did exactly what we promised. Hassie did not work out here. Guests were already complaining about dealing with a du—mute. Sally Nichols offered to take her, and a job with Sally would be much more suitable.”

“How much did you sell her for?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We didn’t sell....”

“One hundred dollars,” Hassie said, knowing no one would understand the words, but hoping like her mother, Bret could understand the rhythm of an expected phrase.

“Hear that,” Mrs. Reston said self-righteously. “No one could understand that. She sounds like an animal. If we’d heard that before we hired her, we wouldn’t have done it. You left. We did the best we could.”

“I understood. You sold her for a lousy hundred dollars. Now you get her things.”

“We don’t have anything of hers. She didn’t have anything worth a nickel. Go talk to Sally.”

The glass globe of the lamp on the wall to the right of the desk exploded. The sound of the gunshot hurt Hassie’s ears so much she covered them, even though it was too late. Glass showered down over Mrs. Reston. Mr. Reston squealed and disappeared behind the desk.

Mrs. Reston twisted around to look at the ruined lamp, the scratches on her cheek disappearing amid the bright red that suffused her face. “Do you have any idea how much those lamps cost? We had them shipped from New York City.”

The lamp to the left of the desk exploded. Another squeal sounded from under the desk.

“Run to the brothel if you have to. If you don’t get her things and get them fast, you’re going to need a whole new hotel shipped from New York City.”

Still angry but a lot less defiant, Mrs. Reston crunched across the broken glass back to their rooms.

Bret banged the pistol on the desk again. “Get up here, Reston.”

Mr. Reston’s hands appeared first, gripping the edge of the desk, then the top of his head, then his wide eyes. One eye had a bruise developing underneath, a nice complement to the scratches on his wife. The sight gave Hassie considerable satisfaction.

“Please,” Reston whispered. “Please, I didn’t want, don’t want....”

“I don’t give a damn what you want. Mrs. Petty had almost forty dollars this morning. We’ll round it off and call it forty. I want it back. Now.”

Reston stood all the way up and turned as if to follow his wife back to their rooms.

“No,” Bret said. “You get it out of that drawer right there in the desk.”

“I don’t have forty there.”

“Find it.”

Mr. Reston fumbled with his keys, opened the drawer and counted out thirty dollars. He dug in his pockets and added a ten dollar gold coin. Bret finally let go of Hassie’s arm, scooped the money up, and shoved it in a pocket.

Mrs. Reston returned with Hassie’s carpetbag and thumped it down on the ruined desktop. “There. That’s all we have. I tore some of her clothes for rags and threw the rest in the burn barrel. I’m sure Sally did the same.”

Bret pulled the bag toward Hassie. “Check and see if anything else is missing.”

Hassie opened the bag. Her Bible, hairbrush, and comb didn’t even cover the bottom. She looked up, tempted to tell Bret everything was there just to calm him down and get him to leave. Except the things missing were Mama’s things, the ones Hassie most treasured, and Mrs. Reston had a smug look on her face as if she knew a dummy wouldn’t, couldn’t complain.

Stretching to reach, Hassie grabbed the register from the other side of the desk and the pen from the inkwell tray. She uncapped the ink, dipped the pen, and wrote.

Bret read aloud. “Embroidered tablecloth, gold locket on chain, gold ring.”

Mrs. Reston disappeared before he finished the last word and reappeared seconds later with the cloth in one hand. She raised the clenched fist of the other hand.

“Don’t,” Bret said. “If you throw anything, you’ll be down on your knees picking it up.”

The tablecloth landed soundlessly on the desktop. The jewelry rattled. Hassie shook out the cloth, checked both sides, refolded it, and tucked it in her bag with the necklace and ring.

To her surprise, Bret broke his gun in two and replaced the empty cartridges with fresh rounds. “Six is better than four,” he said, his voice almost normal. “Let’s go.”

B
RET’S HAND WAS
gentler on Hassie’s arm as he pulled her back out of the hotel, but it tightened once out on the street. “Over there.”

He pushed her across the street to the door of the mercantile.

The storekeeper’s hair was grayer and middle thicker, but Hassie remembered Mr. Tate. If he remembered her, he gave no sign. He tried to block the entrance to the store with his bulk. “This is a respectable establishment. We don’t cater to Sally’s girls.”

Bret shoved Tate out of the way with a stiff arm. “Good, because Mrs. Petty isn’t one of anyone’s girls, and you’re going to fix things so she doesn’t look like one.”

As with the Restons, Mrs. Tate was braver than her husband. She stepped from behind the counter to his side, expression belligerent. “You can’t force us to sell you anything.”

“You can sell it or watch me take it. I want her outfitted for the trail. No dresses or women’s things, trousers. Boy’s clothes ought to fit. From the skin out, two of everything. After that a decent coat, oilskins, blanket, hat, boots, toothbrush, tooth powder, soap, washcloth, towel...”

Hassie listened to the growing list with as much amazement as the storekeepers. The stubborn look on Mrs. Tate’s face disappeared, and she exchanged a look with her husband. They probably didn’t sell that much merchandise in a week—or a month.

Bret pointed at the curtains hanging over the doorway to the back of the store. “Take her back there and get her out of that dress. Get her face washed and her hair decent. Charge for the soap and water if you want.”

Hassie didn’t wait to see what anyone else would do. She hurried through the curtains to the back. Piles of crates and merchandise left little empty space, but a washstand sat against one wall, and the pitcher contained enough water for face washing.

The soap was a gray, gritty lump, and she didn’t care. She bent over and scrubbed. And scrubbed.

In spite of her best efforts, when she used the towel by the stand to dry her face, she added red stains to the gray and black already there. She folded the red to the inside and put the towel back where she found it.

Mrs. Tate pushed through the curtains, her arms piled high with clothing. “Whatever made that man decide to rescue you from Sally’s, he’s not sparing a dime. I think this will all fit, and if not, we’ll try larger. Or smaller,” she added, eying Hassie.

Unable to explain anything to the woman, Hassie undid the garters and pulled off the raggedy black stockings, then worked on getting out of the hated dress. It closed with a line of hooks down the front, making it easy to shed.

“This is beautiful material,” Mrs. Tate said wistfully, fingering it.

Free of the thing, Hassie dropped it to the floor and kicked it to a corner.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Tate said, shocked first by Hassie’s action and then by her nakedness. “Let’s get you into.... Here, no matter what that man said, I brought you female under things.” She burrowed in the pile and came up with cotton drawers and vest.

Hassie donned the clothing gratefully and ventured a small smile.

Mrs. Tate gaped at her. “My goodness, that man called you Mrs. Petty, but I never.... You’re Julia Grimes’ daughter, the one who can’t talk, and you married Cyrus Petty. That scar on your throat is.... My goodness, my goodness, I never knew....”

Ignoring the woman’s discomfiture, Hassie kept pulling clothing out of the pile. The first pair of trousers she tried on were too large, the second, coarse black wool, fit well enough. She pulled a red shirt from the pile.

“Wait. Wait.” Mrs. Tate had regained her composure. “Before you do that.... You aren’t any bigger on top than I am, but he said an outfit for the trail, and without a corset, well, I brought this.” She held up a length of flannel yard goods. Her voice fell to a whisper, “I was thinking you’d need it for, you know, that time of the month, but you could use a length to....”

She made a gesture, circling her torso, and Hassie nodded, understanding and agreeing with the suggestion to bind her breasts.

“I’ll get scissors, and we’ll cut a length,” Mrs. Tate said, still whispering.

The front door banged open with almost as much force as Bret had used at the hotel. They both jumped at the sound. Boots stomped on the wooden floor. As if by agreement, Hassie and Mrs. Tate parted the curtains enough to peer out and see what was happening.

Marshal Dauber and a younger man with a badge stood in the middle of the store, cradling shotguns in their arms. Sally Nichols, Zachary, and the Restons crowded in behind the lawmen.

Bret leaned against the counter as if he were the storekeeper, the butt of his pistol resting on the surface, pointing at the marshal. As they watched, Bret reached out, pushed on Mr. Tate’s shoulder, and said a few inaudible words. The storekeeper dropped down and crouched behind the counter.

“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Tate whispered.

“You ladies get behind something solid back there,” Bret said, loud enough for them to hear this time.

Hassie didn’t move. Neither did Mrs. Tate.

“You’re under arrest, Sterling,” the marshal said. “You can’t go shooting up the hotel and stealing from businessmen in my town. Put down that gun before Jimmy and I blast you into next week.”

“Who claims I stole, and what do they claim I stole?”