Authors: Christine Michels
Spade Johnson?
"Give yourself up, Powell, and I'll guarantee that you get a fair trial.” Before the echo of his words had even faded, he was moving, working his way up an incline that would give him a better vantage point.
Again, Powell didn't answer.
Samson peered into the night. The moon slid out from behind a cloud, bathing the landscape in silver light. He used the opportunity to survey the entire area. There was movement in the shadows not far from where he'd last been. Powell he figured.
But where was Spade?
And then he saw a flicker of grey. A hat?
At that moment, there was a flash from the grey shadow and a bullet hit the boulder in front of him, spraying stinging rock shards up onto his cheek. He returned fire and was rewarded by a howl and a curse. He'd hit his mark. He didn't know how bad, and he didn't know if Spade would still be capable of fighting, but he couldn't worry about that now. Powell would be closing in on his position.
With that in mind, Samson moved to his right, away from where he'd last seen Powell, and searched for another vantage point. The moonlight had already begun to fade, and the night was once again growing black, but before it disappeared he spied another likely location and ran in a crouched posture toward it.
"Hey, Sheriff," Powell called. "I don't take kindly to people killin' my friends."
Samson didn't bother to answer, but noted that Powell's voice had come from close by. Once again he searched the shadows for a hint of movement. For a moment, he saw nothing. And then Powell fired four shots in rapid succession, each striking a number of feet from the last as he tried to flush Samson out. None of the shots had impacted close enough for Samson to worry about though, and he had been able to ascertain the general area of Powell's location by observing the muzzle flashes as each shot was fired. He figured Powell was about twenty or twenty-five feet away and moving to Samson's right as he closed in.
Samson settled down, took careful aim and waited for a flicker of movement. An instant later, he fired.
A scream of pain rent the night as his bullet hit home.
Then the night was silent.
After waiting a couple of moments to ensure that there'd be no return fire, Samson began to cautiously make his way toward the spot where he believed Powell had fallen.
He found him curled up against a boulder. He'd been hit high in the gut, just below the ribs, and was in a lot of pain. Samson disarmed him, lodging the revolver in the waistband of his denims, before holstering his own weapon. "I think you might make it, Wes," he said then. "If it doesn't take too long to get you into town that is. 'Course how fast or how slow we get movin' is gonna depend on you."
"What d'ya mean?" Powell gasped.
"Talk to me," Samson said. "Tell me who gives the orders in this operation."
"I talk, an' I'm a dead man."
"Maybe," Samson acknowledged with a nod as he casually scanned the trees and stone ridges surrounding the small clearing. He wouldn't feel safe until he knew where Spade was. "You don't talk though, and you're a dead man for sure. Which way d'you wanna play it?"
"You ain't gonna kill me," Powell concluded.
"Not unless you give me a reason," Samson agreed. "But I ain't gonna save you either."
The moon reemerged and Samson saw Powell considering him. "You ain't the kind of man to walk away an' let another man die."
"You're wastin' time Powell.” At that moment, there was a noise behind Samson. He spun and dropped to one knee, pulling his gun as he went. Spade Johnson was still slapping for leather when Samson shouted, "Don't!" and fired a warning shot that passed close enough to the drover's gunhand to singe it.
Wide-eyed, Spade slowly raised his hands. He looked dazed and seemed a bit unsteady on his feet.
At gun-point, Samson directed him to sit down next to Powell. "You hit, too?" he asked.
Spade shook his head. "You gave my hair a new part an' knocked me out colder 'n a cucumber for a couple o' minutes, but I ain't hit bad."
Powell was eyeing Samson speculatively. "Somethin' on your mind, Wes?" Samson asked.
"You're mighty fast with that gun, Sheriff," he observed in a voice that was tight with pain. "There ain't many men that can draw like that an' still hit what they're aimin' at. An' I know the names of all the ones that can. So how come I don't know you?"
‘Cause I haven't used the name you'd know in over two years
. "I don't pull my gun unless I need to, Powell. You know that," Samson said with a shrug. "You don't earn a reputation that way.” He turned to Spade. "Powell here needs to see the doc real bad, Spade, and he isn't goin' to until one of you starts talkin'."
"Sure thing, Sheriff," Spade nodded agreeably. He opened his mouth, frowned, closed his mouth, rubbed his whiskered jaw and stared up at Samson. "Um, what 'xactly is it ya wanted me ta talk 'bout, Sheriff?"
Samson stared at him, wondering if perhaps his bullet might have done a touch more damage than old Spade was aware of. "I want to know who you're workin' for tonight."
"Oh," Spade nodded. "Well, tha's easy.
Him
.” Spade jabbed a thumb in Powell's direction.
"Yeah?” Samson's gaze flicked to Powell and then back to Spade. "And who hired
him
?"
Spade frowned. "I dunno.” He turned to Powell. "Who hired you Wes?"
Silence.
"I can wait all night, Powell," Samson reminded him. "'Course I don't think
you
can. You workin' for McTaggart?"
Powell jerked as though he'd been shot again. "McTaggart! Hell, no! That bastard doesn't have the guts for somethin' like this. Nor the brains, neither."
Scratch one suspect
. "Then who?" Samson demanded. "Earl?” Simon Earl was the man he'd tagged as the second most likely suspect.
Powell pressed against the wound in his stomach. "Come on, Sheriff, I'm bleedin'."
"Yeah," Samson acknowledged. "But you ain't talkin'."
"Fuck you, Chambers!” Pain and anger underscored his words.
"Not likely," Samson said mildly as he pulled a stick of hard candy from his shirt pocket and bit off a chunk. He leaned back against a rock and waited.
"Okay.” The word came to him faintly from across the clearing.
"You say something, Wes?"
"I said, okay. I'll tell ya. But then you gotta promise to get me to the doc."
"You've got my word on it," Samson assured him.
"Yeah, it's Earl we're workin' for.
Now they were getting somewhere.
"Tell me how he's got this set up."
* * *
The saloon was packed to the brim and chaotic. Scores of drovers who'd just received their month's pay had descended on the premises to drink, argue, cavort with Cora's girls, and gamble. A handful of old miners had come down from the hills together and were sharing whoppers and a bottle of red-eye at a back table. Phil Marcham hammered out a rendition of “Buffalo Gals” unlike anything Delilah had ever heard while Miss Dawna Star sang slightly off-key and at the top of her lungs. Dawna, who was one of Cora's upstairs girls, believed she'd have obtained fame and stardom with her singing voice if only life had dealt her a different hand. Like many of the women in her profession, Dawna had admitted she did not particularly enjoy her work. It was merely a means to an end: survival.
It had been a week and a half since Delilah had returned to town, and she hadn't deposited anywhere near the amount of money she'd planned to have for Eve by this time. With only a couple of weeks left until the date the mortgage was due, she was starting to feel desperate. She couldn't let her sister down. The thought of Eve possibly losing not only her husband, but the home she'd grown to love, was too much. How much could one person be expected to endure in a lifetime?
If only Sheriff Chambers would stop coming in to stare at her. Delilah was convinced that he was the reason for her protracted spell of bad luck. She had difficulty concentrating with him watching her. His dark grey eyes seemed to mirror the exact color of a prairie storm front, as though their very color heralded the havoc he could wreak in her life if she let him. She'd learned to read the subtle changes in his eyes, had learned to discern the appreciation for her that she'd not been able to see before. And now that she'd gained that ability, she almost wished she hadn't. For Matt Chambers did not respect the barrier of her widowhood.
Where other men had been content to admire her from afar in respect of the grief she carried for another man, Sheriff Chambers seemed to systematically search for chinks in her armor. His eyes promised a passion that terrified her. Pledged a compassion that tempted her. And assured a pleasure she could not believe in.
He would kiss her again, she knew. Despite the fact that, since that disastrous day of the picnic, he'd scarcely approached her to do more than solicitously walk with her along the boardwalk, or to aid her across the street. And somehow, he doggedly managed to steer their conversations into the realm of the personal, no matter how determinedly she attempted to focus it on business.
His
business.
But, tonight he had not shown, and for the first time in ages, the cards were going Delilah's way. Perhaps Sheriff Chambers had finally accepted her assertion that she would not cheat and had decided to go about the business of administering the law elsewhere. "How many cards, Tex?" she asked one of her more regular customers.
"I'll take two, ma'am," he drawled as he discarded the two he didn't want.
Delilah finished dealing the hand. "Dealer takes one," she murmured, and checked her hand.
Hallelujah! She had a full house, Kings over Jacks. It didn't get much better than that. She placed her bet and won the hand for the fourth time that evening. And the night was still young.
The evening continued to go well, although Delilah caught herself glancing repeatedly at the spot at the bar where Matt usually stood. Was something wrong? she wondered. She'd grown so accustomed to his presence, aggravating though it was, that without him there she felt as though something was missing. Finally, just before midnight, when Delilah's head had begun to pound with a headache from the incessant noise, she glanced up again and he was there.
His clothing was dusty and dirty. There were lines of fatigue around his mouth and a full day's beard shadowed his cheeks. Although darkened by weariness, his storm-hued eyes rested on her with a hint of admiration and the promise of passion and danger. Oh, how that aura of danger made her feel alive, made her pulse quicken and her blood sing. And despite her dislike of the man himself, of his arrogance, and despite his distrust of her, Delilah had to concede that there was little she found as exhilarating as sparring with Sheriff Chambers.
Somehow tonight the aura of danger he exuded was amplified, drawing her and unsettling her at the same time. And yet in another way, he was more appealing than ever. For something within him screamed of
need
—for comfort, caring, a woman's touch—and a part of Delilah she'd never known existed responded to that elemental call.
But she couldn't allow herself to falter. She could not allow a man into her life. Most assuredly not one like Matt Chambers. What she needed was to escape the turmoil of these smoky premises, get some fresh air and a good night's sleep.
"Last hand gentlemen," she warned. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to call it a night."
There was a brief rumble of discontent, but nothing serious, and their disgruntlement was quickly forgotten.
Delilah focused on the hand, refusing to so much as glance at the sheriff in the hope that she'd be able to ignore his presence enough to win this last hand too. She needed it, desperately, if she was to obtain even a portion of the money she'd planned to have made by now.
To her immense relief, it worked. Delilah rose from the table, bid her customers a good night and then looked around for Poopsy before remembering that she'd left the little dog in her hotel room tonight. Mrs. Schmidt had given Poopsy a huge beef bone to which delicious scraps of meat still clung, and the dog had decided that she'd much prefer the bone to the saloon. Delilah certainly couldn't blame her.
Delilah headed for Cora's office—she was usually tallying profits at this time of night—to bid her farewell. "Could I speak with you a moment before you go, Delilah?" Cora asked as Delilah poked her head in the door.
"Certainly.” She stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
"Have a chair," Cora invited, and then waited until Delilah had seated herself before proceeding. "I've noticed that something seems to be bothering you, Delilah. Do you want to tell me about it?"
For an instant, Delilah toyed with the idea of unburdening herself, but in so doing she would betray Eve's confidence, and she couldn't do that. And, despite the fact that she and Cora were fast becoming friends, she didn't yet know her well enough to talk to her about Sheriff Chamber's determined pursuit. So she shook her head. "Thank you. But it's nothing I can't handle."
Cora considered her gravely with her astute brown-eyed gaze, and then smiled gently. "If that's the way you want it. However, I want to point out that the level of profit coming from my gaming table is not quite what you led me to expect."