This was a start, anyway.
Dupree’s was next.
The saloon was closer to the waterfront than Jessie’s Place, but it wasn’t a dive, either. It stretched along an entire city block, with the entrance at the corner. Preacher lingered at a hash house across the street, keeping an eye on the place from a table by the window. He had used up a few more of his precious coins buying some supper, but he had finished that a while back and now the proprietor was casting some hard looks at him from behind the counter.
He was about to stand up and wander out of the place, figuring he would take up a position in an alley and watch from there, when a carriage pulled up in front of Dupree’s. The sun had set, but enough light remained for Preacher to make out the shiny brass fittings and expensive dark wood of the vehicle. A team of four fine black horses was hitched to the carriage, and a black driver in a top hat was perched on the high seat. It sure looked to Preacher like the sort of carriage that a man such as Shad Beaumont would drive around in.
Preacher stood up and strolled out of the hash house so that he could see better as the driver climbed down nimbly from the seat. The man opened the carriage door and then stepped back deferentially. The man who climbed out of the vehicle was tall and wore a beaver hat. A cape was draped over his shoulders. That was all Preacher could tell about him at first.
Then the man turned around and held out a hand to help someone else disembark from the carriage. The light spilling through the big front windows of Dupree’s revealed the man’s face to Preacher in silhouette. It was a handsome face sporting a close-cropped dark beard. The man was smiling.
He had good reason to smile, Preacher saw a moment later as the second passenger stepped down from the carriage. She was a blonde with a mass of curly hair under a stylish hat. Not too tall, but very well shaped and expensively dressed. She said something to the man, who laughed and linked his arm with hers. They went up the steps to the boardwalk and into Dupree’s.
Preacher had continued ambling across the street as if he had no particular place to go and was in no hurry to get there. When he reached the other side, he stepped up onto the boardwalk and looked through the window. The two new arrivals were being ushered to a table in the back by a man in a dark suit who was probably the proprietor.
But likely not the owner, Preacher thought. He was convinced that Shad Beaumont really owned Dupree’s, just as he felt sure Jessie’s Place belonged to Beaumont.
And what about Jessie? Did she belong to Beaumont, too?
Preacher frowned slightly as that thought crossed his mind. Why should it matter to him what sort of arrangement Jessie had with Beaumont? The only reason she might be important was if he could use her to get to his quarry.
He turned toward the carriage, where the driver had climbed to the seat again and was packing chewing tobacco into his cheek. Preacher gave him a friendly nod and said, “Evenin’.”
The man didn’t return the greeting. He was old and wizened and didn’t look like he was in the habit of talking to riffraff on the street.
“Mighty nice carriage you got here,” Preacher went on.
The driver sniffed. “Tain’t mine, and you know it.”
“Yeah, but you get to drive that fine team of horses. I got to say, that’s some of the best horseflesh I’ve seen in a long time. I guess Mr. Beaumont don’t want nothin’ but the best.”
“What Mr. Beaumont wants or don’t want ain’t for the likes o’ you to be talkin’ about.”
That was easy, Preacher thought . . . and about time, too. He said mildly, “Didn’t mean any offense, old-timer.”
Then he turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into Dupree’s.
Chapter 12
The place was a saloon. There could be no mistake about that. Not with the long, hardwood bar that ran all the way down the left-hand wall and then turned to run along the back wall, as well. Round tables covered most of the floor space to the right, although there was an open area toward the rear where people could dance if they wanted to. Some of the tables were topped with green felt for poker playing. There was a roulette wheel as well, although no one was playing at the moment. The air was hazy with smoke from cigars and pipes and filled with talk and laughter from the customers. Chandeliers made from wagon wheels hung from the ceiling. The candles in those chandeliers cast a yellow glow over the big room. The soft light gave the place a certain air of elegance. Even the laughter was subdued, not raucous as it always was in the crude taverns to which Preacher was accustomed.
The bar was crowded, and drinkers occupied most of the tables. A couple of poker games were going on. Preacher found an open place at the bar and bellied up to the hardwood, which had been polished to a high gleam.
A bartender as bald as a billiard ball came over to him. Preacher ordered a beer.
“Let’s see your money first, pilgrim,” the bartender replied.
Preacher slid a coin onto the bar. The bartender picked it up, studied it for a second, and then nodded.
“All right, farm boy. I’ll be back.”
Preacher waited while the bartender filled a pewter mug with beer from a keg. When the man brought it back to him, he nodded and said, “Much obliged.”
“New in town?”
Preacher took a sip of the beer, which was good, and nodded. “That’s right.”
“Then you probably don’t know that Dupree’s caters to a higher class of customer than you. You can finish your drink, then you’d better be moving along.”
Preacher felt a surge of anger but didn’t show it. He didn’t like people who put on airs, even bartenders. But unlike at Jessie’s Place, where he had deliberately taken offense, he played this hand differently.
“Sorry, mister,” he said. “Didn’t mean to butt in where my kind ain’t welcome.”
The bartender got a look of magnanimous superiorty on his florid face and said, “That’s all right. You didn’t know any better. Anyway, your money spends as well as anybody else’s, I reckon.”
“Like his over there?” Preacher asked, inclining his head toward the table where Shad Beaumont sat with the blonde. They were sharing a bottle of brandy. No buckets of beer for them.
The bartender laughed. “No, Mr. Beaumont’s money is better than anybody else’s around here. Or rather, I reckon you could say that it’s no good in Dupree’s.”
“You mean he don’t have to pay for anything just ’cause he’s some fancy swell?”
“I mean drink up and get out of here,” the bartender said, his face and voice hardening. “What Mr. Beaumont pays for or don’t pay for is none of your damn business.”
“No, sir, it’s sure not,” Preacher said quickly. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank some more of the beer.
That was more than enough confirmation. He was certain now of Beaumont’s identity and had gotten a good enough look at him in here that he knew he would recognize Beaumont the next time he saw the man. He would be able to describe Beaumont and his carriage to Uncle Dan, too, which was important to the plan.
“Is it always this crowded in here?” he asked the bartender, trying to sound idly curious.
“Dupree’s is the best place in town,” the man replied, pride in his voice.
“Does that fella Beaumont come in here every night?”
“Mister Beaumont is a regular customer, yes. And again—”
“I know, I know,” Preacher said. “None of my business.”
“That’s right. You gonna finish that beer?”
Preacher drained the last of the liquid from the cup and set the empty back on the bar. “Much obliged,” he said again.
“From now on, do your drinking in the taverns down along the waterfront, with the river men and the rest of the farm boys who’ve come west looking for adventure.”