“Nothin’ to brag about,” Herb Sellers said. “Be tween us, we lost a hundred dollars, and when we managed to win it back, we quit. Is that Pretty Girl Saloon all it’s cracked up to be?”
“I don’t know about the poker,” said Danielle, “but the faro game is honest. You have to play with a naked woman beside you.”
Chapter 7
Denver, Colorado. September 30, 1870.
Danielle spent one more night in Denver, feeling the need to visit some more saloons. It was unlikely the men she was hunting would be well heeled enough to visit the Pretty Girl Saloon, and she silently rebuked herself for having spent two nights there. However, her stake was now $3,600. Wisely spent, it would last her many months. One of the first saloons she found was The Broken Spoke, and as she entered, one of the bouncers spoke.
“Poker tables are in the back, behind the curtain, kid.”
Since Danielle had sworn off any further bouts with whiskey, there was no excuse for hanging around the bar, so pushing aside the curtain, she went on to the poker area.
“Table stakes, dollar limit,” said one of the dealers.
“Too rich for my blood,” Danielle said. “I’d like to watch for a while. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“I don’t want you lookin’ over my shoulder,” said one of the players. “It makes me nervous.”
One of the other men laughed. “Levan’s nervous because he ain’t won a pot tonight, and the way he’s playin’ his cards, he ain’t likely to.”
Levan! Could it be Brice Levan, from the death list? Danielle stayed there a few more minutes without learning anything more about Levan. Finally, she left the saloon, hiding in the darkness near where the horses were tied. Sooner or later, Levan would have to leave, and if he was playing poker badly, it shouldn’t be long. When he finally exited the saloon, he staggered a little. He had tied his horse’s reins securely to the hitching rail, and cursing, he fumbled with the knot. Danielle stepped out of the shadows with a Colt steady in her hand.
“I’m looking for a man named Levan,” Danielle said. “What’s your first name?”
“None of your damn business,” said Levan.
“I’m making it my business,” Danielle said. “Iden tify yourself and tell me where you’ve been during the past year. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you just on general principles.”
Danielle cocked the Colt for effect, and Levan spoke.
“My name’s Henry Levan, and I’m called Hank. Up to the first of September, I was in Alamosa, at Clay Allison’s horse ranch. I was there most of a year, and was let go when Allison sold most of his stock. Does that satisfy you?”5
“Not entirely,” said Danielle, “but I suppose it’ll have to do. Where do you come from, Levan?”
“Down south of Santa Fe, along the Rio,” Levan said. “Too damn many sheep down there to suit me.”
“Then mount up and ride,” said Danielle. “You’re not the man I’m looking for.”
Levan fumbled with his horse’s reins. Danielle held her Colt on him until he had freed the reins and mounted his horse. When he rode away, she followed at a safe distance. The shabby boardinghouse where Levan eventually reined up had an unattended stable, and he led his horse inside. When he came out, starting for the boardinghouse, he carried only his rifle. When he was gone, Danielle slipped into the stable, seeking Levan’s horse. When she found it, the saddle was on a nearby rail, with saddlebags intact. She fumbled around in the dark, avoiding a change of clothes and a box of shells. Finally, her hands touched paper that felt like an envelope. Removing that, she felt around, seeking something more, but there was nothing. Quickly slipping out of the stable, Danielle rode back to the Denver House. Leaving the chestnut mare in the nearby livery, she hurried up to her room and lighted a lamp. What she had retrieved from Levan’s saddlebag was actually a letter. It had been post-marked in Santa Fe and was addressed to Henry Levan, Alamosa, Colorado.
“Oh, damn,” said Danielle in disgust. “Damn the luck.”
Then, as though by divine inspiration, a thought came to her mind. There had to be other Levans somewhere near Santa Fe for Henry Levan to be receiving mail from there. Without feeling guilty, she withdrew the single sheet of paper and read the letter. It was dated May 1, 1870, and from its tone, had been written by Levan’s mother. She urged Henry Levan to come home. One sentence quickly caught Danielle’s eye: Your brother has been gone for two months, riding to Texas with a bunch of outlaws.
Danielle read the letter several more times without learning anything new. Everything pointed to Henry Levan’s brother as one of the men Danielle was after, but where was he? Had he returned home, or was he still with the band of outlaws?
“Damn it, I’ll ride to Santa Fe and find out,” Danielle said aloud.
Inquiring, she learned that Alamosa was a little more than two hundred miles due south of Denver. Since she was bound for Santa Fe, ever farther south, she decided to stop at the Allison ranch in Alamosa. Allison should be able to confirm or deny that Levan had been there for almost a year. Danielle made the rounds of half a dozen other saloons without learning anything helpful. At dawn, after riding to the mercantile to replenish her supplies, she rode south.
Alamosa, Colorado. October 3, 1870.
Alamosa wasn’t a large town, and it was near dark when Danielle rode in. She took a room in the only hotel and led the chestnut mare across the street to the livery. She had no desire to go looking for the Allison ranch in the dark. There were several cafes, and she chose the one nearest the hotel. There were few patrons, and they left well ahead of Danielle. After paying for her meal, she questioned the cook about the Allison place.
“Allison’s place is maybe ten miles east of here,” the cook said, “but if you’re looking for work, you won’t find it there. He’s done let most of his riders go. Old Crazy Clay may be gettin’ ready to move on. He’s about wore out his welcome around here.”
“What’s he done?” Danielle asked.
“It’d be easier to tell you what he ain’t done,” said the cook. “Two Saturdays in a row he’s hoorawed the town. He rode in wearin’ nothing but his hat and boots, screeching and shootin’ like a crazy man. Swore he’d shoot anybody lookin’ out the windows at him, but most of the ladies in town looked anyway. He didn’t shoot nobody, but he’s just so damn unpredictable as to what he’ll do next. Ain’t been long since he killed a man with a Bowie knife.”
“Why?” Danielle asked.
“Him and his neighbor had an argument over a land boundary. To settle it, they dug a grave and the both of ’em got down in it with knives. The winner had to bury the loser, and old Clay’s still walkin’.”
“Maybe you can tell me what I need to know,” said Danielle. “There used to be a gent name of Henry Levan working there. I need to know if he’s still there, or if he’s left, where he went.”
“He’s gone, far as I know,” the cook said. “Septem ber first, Allison let four riders go, and they stopped here for grub. Levan was one of ’em.”
“How long was Levan here?” Danielle asked.
“Not quite a year, as I recall. You ain’t the law, are you?”
Danielle laughed. “No. I’m pretty well acquainted with Levan, and I reckoned I’d talk to him if he was still around.”
“I expect he’s gone looking for a place to hole up for the winter,” said the cook.
The Clay Allison Ranch. October 4, 1870.