The sheriff, hands on his hips, was feeling flummoxed. But then something that had been said at the café made its way from the back of his brain to the front, and he hustled across the street himself.
York pushed through the door into the telegraph office, where skinny, bespectacled Ralph Parsons was behind the counter.
“Sheriff,” the operator said.
“Mr. Parsons,” the sheriff said.
He filled out a blank form, taking his time, then handed it to the operator.
“Get that right out,” York said.
“Will do, Sheriff. Quite a few words.”
“I’ll pay you for them.”
“The Kansas State Penitentiary! My. This sounds serious.”
“It is, Ralph. Would you like to know how serious?”
“If you think it’s best, Sheriff.”
York leaned across the counter and summoned his nastiest smile. “Should you reveal the contents to anyone, I might have to beat you to within an inch of your life.”
“But... you’re the sheriff!”
“That’s right. And that puts you in a difficult spot, Ralph. Because that leaves only Deputy Tulley to arrest me, and I’d fire him first.”
That apparently sank in quickly, because the operator’s fingers were flying even before York had stepped outside.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday, just before eight o’clock, the Victory was jumping, which was not unusual, and yet the place didn’t seem itself.
As Caleb York pushed through the batwing doors into the imposing saloon with its fancy high tin ceiling and kerosene chandeliers, he found merchants, clerks, menial workers, and cowboys shoulder to shoulder at the long well-polished carved oaken bar at left, attended by a double-size staff of bow-tied, white-shirt-wearing bartenders. At the rear the small dance floor was packed with dance-hall girls and their customers jigging to a lively tune from the barrelhouse piano player. In the central casino area, stations for dice, faro, red dog, and twenty-one were doing business as usual, but roulette, chuck-a-luck, and wheel of fortune were shut down.
At York’s immediate right, tables and chairs normally arranged for the pleasure of drinking men were positioned in clusters to face three round green-felt-topped tables, set well enough apart that the seated spectators might have been viewing three separate theatrical stages lined along the far wall, each with plenty of breathing room.
Those spectator tables and chairs were filled not only with menfolk of Trinidad, but in many cases by their distaff counterparts, as well, gentle creatures not often seen... almost never seen... on these premises, which were, after all, an exclusive male preserve.
Exclusive, of course, but for owner Rita Filley and her dance-hall girls, whose satin and lace and low bodices were in direct contrast to the calico and gingham and high collars of these rare Victory visitors, women whose lack of Sunday-best apparel said something of their attitudes, although the daily wear they sported was clean and crisp and, one might say, wholesome.
As he wandered in, York couldn’t help but grin, pushing his hat back on his head, though the smile didn’t last long, as he spotted Alver Hollis and his two cronies huddled over by the staircase to Rita’s quarters, near one of the trio of green-felt tables. Spotted around the crowd, as well, were various of the city fathers whom York had not long ago interrogated concerning a murder.
Rita herself, in dark blue satin and black lace but sporting less daring a bodice than usual, was threading through the crowd, speaking to the cowboy and town regulars and then winding through the spectator tables to welcome the women gracing her establishment, and their husbands, too, of course. From the ladies, Rita harvested an array of stiff, polite nods before she spotted York standing near, though not at, the bar.
She came over fluidly and stood with her arms folded across the generous shelf of mostly clad bosom and smiled. “Ready for the big game?”
York nodded. “A private word?”
“Of course.”
He held one of the batwing doors open for her, and she slipped out. He followed. The night was as crisp as the calico and gingham dresses of the Trinidad wives in attendance, and almost as cold.
“I want to thank you,” he said as they stood to one side of the entry, “for providing me with that list of names.”
As promised, she had sent over a complete listing of the eighteen players in the draw-poker tournament. With six seats available at each table, that had been the limit.
“Ten locals,” York said, “including myself and damn near all the town fathers — mayor, druggist, hardware and mercantile store owners, newspaper editor, even the undertaker.”
Shrugging, she asked, “Does that surprise you? Who else in Trinidad could afford the hundred-dollar buy in? And each one has promised, if the winner, to donate the two thousand dollars at stake for the building of a schoolhouse. That’s why you have so many wives gracing my tawdry establishment on this fine night.”
“Makes sense. And I see Raymond Parker is on the list, as well.”
She nodded. “Not a local, but local ties. He’s made the same schoolhouse pledge.”
“Which, I would imagine, can’t be said of the Preacherman and his two choirboys.”
A wry smile appeared on the lush red-rouged lips. “No. And the same is true of the remaining seven. We have several professional gamblers, a couple of small ranchers from around Las Vegas, a saloon owner from Ellis, and, well, you get the idea.”
“But do you?”
She frowned in confusion. “You’re going to have to spell it out, Sheriff. I’m not following you.”
He nodded toward the saloon. “You know how the Preacherman operates. He’s a hired gun, but he always gets away with it because he stages his kills as fair fights... fair fights grown out of disagreements, such as if somebody’s been cheating at cards. I know of three men he gunned down in just that manner.”
Still frowning, she shook her head. “The mayor and the others... they won’t be armed. You ever remember seeing any of them with a gun on his hip?”
“No. But that won’t matter.”
The dark eyes flashed. “But of course it will!”
“No. I’ll be armed, and so will the Preacherman and his little gang, and some of the other players. Not the city fathers.”
Incredulity colored a smile. “If one of them is his intended victim, what would Alver Hollis do? Gun them down in cold blood?”
“That’s exactly what he’ll do. In at least two previous instances, Hollis was first to his fallen adversary, to bend over and check for vitals... and to point out a derringer in the freshly dead man’s vest or coat pocket.”
“Which he claimed the man had reached for.”
He nodded once.
The big brown eyes tightened. “Meaning it was anything but a fair fight. That his opponent... his victim... was unarmed.”
“And Hollis planted the little gun on each of them, yes.” York’s shrug was slow. “Now, it’s not always been that way. Preacherman’s very fast, they say, and real good at goading a man into going for his gun.”
The blood had drained from her face. “You think he’s going to kill somebody tonight — here at the Victory.”
Another nod. “I think he plans to. That’s why I had you seat me at his table. I want to be right on top of things.”
“Understood.” She sighed deeply, shuddering and not entirely because of the chill. “Now I’m regretting not using Cole and a couple of his professional pals.”
House dealer Yancy Cole would not be dealing and would instead be a kind of roving referee — this would be strictly a player-dealt game, the entrants at each table passing the deck after their deal. That decision had unwittingly paved the way for one player to accuse another of cheating while dealing.