“Ab inconvenienti,” he muttered without looking up.
“Exactly.”
Opening the door, she smiled her most magnificent smile. “Come in, Wilson. As you can see, we are hard at work. It will be my grand announcement, so to speak. The grand announcement of my becoming the Queen of Texas.”
Looking disheveled, Tanner bowed and stepped inside, holding a bottle of whiskey in his hand. His own face was flushed from several hours of drinking.
“Well, I thought…perhaps, you’d like to take a break…from your writing. It is, indeed, a grand night—and one worth celebrating. Your greatness will soon be known throughout Texas—and beyond.” He made an exaggerated gesture, then quickly held his fist to his mouth to conceal a hiccup.
“Your kindness is most appreciated, Wilson,” Lady Holt said, returning to her desk. “Why don’t you leave the bottle and Elliott and I will toast…when the newspaper is done?” She smiled. “I’ve renamed it the Caisson Phoenix. Do you like that?” She motioned toward Elliott. “And dear Elliott, he has given it the perfect, ah, what do you call it? Ah yes, slogan. That’s it, slogan. Emitte lucem et veritatem.” She lifted her chin and added, “It means ‘Send out light and truth.’ ”
She pointed at the edge of the writing table. “You can leave it there, Wilson. That would be a sweet boy.”
The attorney-judge wasn’t certain how to react. He had hoped she might be interested in a more romantic time in the back room. Or at least, the promise of a clandestine meeting in her apartment later. Instead, he had only gotten a rather cold dismissal.
“I like it.” Hiccup. “Very much,” Tanner said, and held his hand to his mouth again to deflect another hiccup. “Very much.” He swallowed and placed the bottle on the table and started to leave.
“Wilson?”
His heart pounded and he turned around. “Yes, m’lady?” Hiccup.
“What do you hear…around town? How are…my people taking all of this?” Her face was full of joy.
He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Ah, what do I hear around town?” Hiccup. “How are your people taking all of this?”
Repeating her questions gave him time to think, but his hiccupping wasn’t helping his concentration. What should he say? That Margaret Loren was trying to raise a posse to run her out of town? Should he tell her that Dimitry’s killing of the blacksmith earlier had almost started a riot? That the only thing keeping a lid on things was the obvious fear of her retaliation against anyone who crossed her?
“I think…ah, I think the town is very pleased you have taken control.” Hiccup. “You and Jaudon. There is praise for his swift action,” he said, pulling on his collar to provide some relief from its tightness. “I would say many see…in you…the leader so needed in this region.” Hiccup. “The word queen has been mentioned.”
“Oh, very good, Wilson. Very good.” She looked down at her writing. “You may leave now.”
Outside, an attractive Mexican woman rode a spirited horse down the main street, heading for the hotel. Her ample bosom, covered by her blouse and a sarape, bounced with the movement of her horse. A sombrero, lying against her back, accompanied the rhythm and hid most of the trailing braid of long black hair.
Chapter Thirty-nine
“Hey, lady! We’d like some company. Come on over,” one of the Holt gunmen yelled from the sidewalk.
A disappointed Tanner stepped outside as the four hooted at the passing woman.
“Who is she?” he asked, admiring her shape as she rode toward the hotel.
“Who knows? Never seen her before,” the tallest gunman in a derby hat said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Probably a new whore.” The heavily sideburned gunman licked his lips.
“Let’s go over an’ welcome her to Caisson,” the third gunman with a thin mustache and a calfskin vest said, and laughed. “Get a free sample or two.”
The four men shook off the hours of boredom and focused on the newest distraction.
“Yeah, let’s do. I got firsts,” the sideburned gunman declared.
The mustached gunman in the vest said, “The hell you do, Charlie. I’m in charge here. I’ll decide who goes when.”
The tallest gunman moved closer. “Who says you’re in charge?”
Turning toward him with a thick sneer on his face, the gunman in the vest said, “Tapan, pecker-head. You wanna challenge him?”
“What will Lady Holt think?” the youngest gunman asked, slowly standing from his slumped position against the building wall.
“She won’t care. Not if we stay close. We can do it in the alley.” The sideburned gunman was already headed into the street.
Tanner started to object, hiccupped and decided it didn’t matter. He went the other direction, toward the closest saloon without looking back. The laughing and jeering grew louder as the four gunmen crossed the street and hurried toward her. In the lead was the gunman with the massive sideburns, boasting of what he was going to do with her.
“Hold up there, missy. We’re Rangers. We’re the law,” he commanded.
The others laughed and reinforced his claim.
“Look at our badges!”
“Yeah, they’re made of silver. Real silver.”
“You’re under arrest, lady,” the youngest gunman yelled, waving a Winchester in the air. He was the only one with a rifle; the other long guns had been left propped against the newspaper building.
The others yipped agreement and the sideburned gunman, in the lead, repeated the command. “Lady, you’re under arrest. Stay right where you are.”
Without paying attention to the advancing foursome, the Mexican woman pulled her horse to the hitching rack outside the hotel. Slowly, she flipped back the trail serape worn over her clothes. Revealed was a bullet belt with two holstered pearl-handled, silver-plated revolvers. She turned toward the advancing foursome and drew one of the guns.
Its distinctive click-click was a shocking sound in the quiet night.
The sideburned gunman skidded to a stop. “Hey, lady. I said we’re the law. You don’t want to get yourself in trouble, now, do you? Put that away and climb down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Without moving, Aleta Cordell said, “Eet would not be ze smart thing for you hombres to come closer. I have ridden ze long way. I am tired. Go back to whatever you were doing. Adios.”
From behind the sideburned gunman, the tall gunman pushed his derby hat forward on his head and urged his companion forward. “Come on, Spencer. She’s bluffing.”
Nodding agreement, the sideburned Spencer resumed his advance.
A bullet spat into the street in front of his boots.
“Ze next bullet ees for your head. Comprende?” She recocked the gun and aimed it at him.
Fearful, Spencer stopped again. The tall man behind him kept moving and collided into him. Both stumbled forward into the street. The derby hat floated in the air for a few feet, dropped and skidded to a stop in the street. She drew her second revolver with her left hand and pointed them at the four men. The last two were helping the first two get back up. The youngest retrieved the derby and handed it to the tall gunman.
She fired the left-hand gun and its lead spat a few feet in front of the foursome.
“Adios,” she said again and recocked both weapons.
“This is crap,” the mustached gunman in the vest said. “We’re Rangers. She’s a whore. A damn Mex whore. Are we gonna let her do this?”
From the shadows of the building between the hotel and the general store, an older man appeared. He held a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, as if it were a pistol. A black eye patch covered his left eye.