Badlanders (8 page)

B
eaumont Adams woke up at his usual time, noon. He went through his usual ablutions, dressed, and stepped to his full-length mirror. The sight of the holes in his frock coat brought a frown. He made sure he'd reloaded both of his pocket Colts after the affray in the Tumbleweed, and that his derringer was in place up his sleeve. Then, tilting his hat brim, he left his living quarters.

Dyson and Stimms were waiting at the bar.

“We're here as you told us to be.” The former stated the obvious.

Beaumont grunted and had Floyd pour him a brandy. He didn't feel entirely awake until he had his first of the day. He sipped and smiled and said, “Ahhh.”

“That sure was somethin' last night,” Stimms remarked, “how you bucked those fellers out in blood.”

“What a wonderful reminder to start my day with,” Beaumont said.

Stimms always confused easily, and said, “What's wrong, boss? You killed them slicker than a greased hog.”

“And you can't get any slicker than that.” Beaumont
drained his glass, shuddered slightly, and smacked the glass down. “Let's go. I have errands. Watch my back at all times.”

“That's what you pay us for,” Dyson said.

“By the way, you did good last night, shootin' that one.”

“Just doin' what you pay me to do.”

Stimms looked downcast. “I didn't get to shoot anybody. No one would try anything with me pointin' my Sharps at them.”

“That's because most people are intelligent enough not to want to be blown in half,” Beaumont said, and strode for the batwings.

Whiskey Flats was bustling, as it nearly always was these days. Word had spread of the shooting, and a lot of fingers were pointed in Beaumont's directions and a lot of whispering went on.

Some men would be pleased. Some shootists would drink in the notoriety as Beaumont had just drunk the brandy. But Beaumont didn't see himself as a gunman, and he could do without being talked about. The last thing he wanted was a reputation as a killer. He was a gambler and a businessman. That he sometimes had to shoot those who tried to cheat him at cards or didn't see things his way when it came to business was merely part of his profession, like always having an unopened deck on him or ordering liquor for his saloon.

Saloons,
Beaumont reminded himself, and smiled. Two were better than one and three would trump the two. But first he had something else to do.

That time of the day, the general store had mainly female customers buying food and dry goods and whatnot. A lot of looks were cast Beaumont's way as he walked up the main aisle to the counter.

A transplanted Ohioan by the name of Guthrie ran the store for Beaumont. He always wore a white apron and always tied the knot at the front instead of the back, which Beaumont thought was peculiar.

“Mr. Adams!” Guthrie declared, beaming. “What a surprise. You haven't been in here in the past week or more.”

“Why should I have to come by so long as you run things like I want?” Beaumont said.

“Yes, well.” Guthrie coughed. “What can I do for you?”

“Where's that mail-order catalogue of yours?” Beaumont asked. “I need a new one of these.” He touched his frock coat.

“I have several catalogues,” Guthrie said, reaching under the counter. “The one you want is the latest from Montgomery Ward. They have quite a collection of men's clothing.” He brought up a catalogue with a bluish green cover and flipped the pages.

“Here we go. Men's and Boys' Wear.” He bent to read.

Beaumont had to submit to being measured with his frock coat off, which he didn't like. It put his pistols out of reach. It also bothered him that Guthrie had to measure the length of his arms and the rest of him twice, as if the man didn't trust he had done it right the first time. Finally he shrugged back into his frock coat and asked, “How soon will the new one be here?”

“Oh, it shouldn't take longer than a month. Possibly six weeks.”

Beaumont looked up from adjusting his coat. “That long?”

“It's not like we're in Chicago or Kansas City where the mail service is efficient and delivery is quick,” Guthrie said. “We're in the Badlands.”

“No foolin'.”

“I only meant that our mail service is erratic and slow. Sometimes things come on time, but too often there are delays. Perhaps you'll be lucky and it will show up as soon as two weeks from now.”

“That's still too long for me to go around with holes in my clothes.”

Guthrie glanced at the bullet holes and swallowed. “Might I make a suggestion, sir?”

“So long as it doesn't involve you usin' that tape measure.”

“No, I was going to suggest the new seamstress lady who has opened a shop on Second Street. She maybe can patch the holes for you until your new frock coat gets here.”

“Second Street, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Right next to the bakery.”

“That just might do. I'm obliged.”

“Always glad to be of help.”

Beaumont wheeled and left. He dearly wanted to go see the seamstress, but it had taken too long in the store and he had other business to attend to.

The Glass Slipper stood at the end of the next block. A newer building, it had been painted a shade of blue. Instead of the usual batwings, these were in the shape of butterflies. Beaumont had never seen the like. There was a small chandelier in the middle of the room, and the poker tables were covered with green cloth. The bar was polished mahogany.

Only a few drinkers were present, and a man at a table playing solitaire. Short and rotund, he was dapperly dressed and what little hair he had was neatly combed.

He showed no alarm as Beaumont approached, and went on laying out cards. “Mr. Adams,” he said, his drawl almost as pronounced as Beaumont's. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Garrison,” Beaumont said. He took a chair without being asked and crinkled his nose. It was like sitting next to a flower garden. Garrison even had a flower in his lapel. A pink rose.

“I hope you're not here to give me the same treatment you gave poor Zimmerman.”

“That depends,” Beaumont said. “I want to buy you out.”

Garrison stopped laying cards. “And if I don't want to sell?”

“Zimmerman didn't, either.”

“I must say, this is terribly abrupt,” Garrison said, but without any resentment. “Not that I didn't expect it.”

“I'll pay you a fair price.”

“Couldn't we reach some other arrangement?”

“I don't see how.” Beaumont placed his forearms on the table. He deliberately thunked his hidden derringer on the wood. He liked doing that. It always got people's attention.

“Why are you out to eliminate your competition?” Garrison asked.

“It's not that so much,” Beaumont said. “Whiskey Flats is growin'. Thanks to the Diamond B, the town has become downright prosperous. A savvy gent could become rich, if he plays his cards right.” Beaumont grinned at his little joke.

“That savvy gentleman bein' you?”

“I aim to rule the roost,” Beaumont admitted. “The saloons are just the start. Before I'm done, I'll own this town and everybody in it.”

“I see,” Garrison said. “You crave power.”

“Power, hell,” Beaumont said. “I want to have more money than I know what to do with. Like that Midas.”

“Ah. I assume you'll have all the business owners contribute a share of their proceeds to let you live in the style to which you'll become accustomed?”

“I like how you put that,” Beaumont said.

“I read, sir. Voraciously.”

“And yes,” Beaumont said. “I'll get around to that. But I won't be greedy about it. Ten percent should do me.”

“I see,” Garrison said again, and thoughtfully drummed his fingers. “Since you're being so reasonable, perhaps you could extend me the same courtesy.”

“I'm listenin'.”

“I don't want to sell out,” Garrison said. “I don't want to be dead, either. So what I propose is this.” He paused. “I sign my saloon over to you and you let me go on running it and I pay you twenty percent of the take.”

“If I get rid of you, I'll have one hundred percent,” Beaumont said.

“True. But with three saloons and all your other interests, you won't have much time to run things personally. It would help to have someone do it for you. Someone who knows the business.”

“Someone like you.”

“Exactly.”

Beaumont sat back. “The problem I have with that is more holes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You didn't see the holes in my coat?”

“I did, in fact, but I didn't deem it polite to mention them.”

“Polite?” Beaumont said, and laughed.

“Civility, Mr. Adams, counts for everything with me. There's so little of it in the world today. I was raised in the cultured society of New Orleans, in a part of the city some call the Garden District. My parents have a fine mansion, servants, you name it. They sent me to the best schools.”

Beaumont became curious. “I have to ask, then. What in hell happened that you ended up here?”

Garrison gazed rather sadly at the batwings in the shape of butterflies, and then sniffed his pink rose. “That's rather personal. Suffice it to say I became the black sheep of my family. An outcast, if you will.”

“Did you kill somebody?”

“Far worse than that, at least in their eyes.” Garrison frowned. “My mother had a breakdown. My father called me into his den, offered me a cigar and some Scotch, and informed me that he never wanted to see me again. He went on to say that if I ever stepped foot over his threshold, he'd have me drawn and quartered.”

“That still doesn't explain your saloon.”

Garrison brightened and looked about them. “It's my oasis of culture in the sea of ignorance and violence we call life.”

“You sure don't sound like a back-shooter,” Beaumont said.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Those holes I was talkin' about,” Beaumont said. “I take over your saloon, I'll have to be lookin' over my shoulder all the time, never knowin' when you might open up on me.”

“I've never harmed a soul in my life,” Garrison said.

“There's always a first time.”

Garrison seemed to consider his next words carefully. “I don't rightly know what to say. Yes, I'll resent it. I'd have to be an idiot not to. But I'm not idiot enough to buck you, like the late Mr. Zimmerman did. I've made it as plain as I can that I want to go on living. I also realize you must make a tough decision. Do you trust me not to back-shoot you someday or do you snuff my wick here and now?”

“That pretty much sums it up,” Beaumont said. “Even if I let you ride out, I'd never know but when you'd come back.”

“I don't envy you your decision.”

“
You
don't envy
me
?” Beaumont said, and snorted. “Mister, you plumb beat all. But damn me if I haven't taken a shine to you.”

“Does that mean we have a deal?”

“If the deal is that I take over the Glass Slipper and you go on runnin' it and pay me thirty percent of the take. You're to bring in a few doves, too. I hear tell you don't have any.”

“Must I?” Garrison asked.

“Doves bring in more customers, and more customers means more money. Why wouldn't you want to?”

“They're women.”

“That's the whole point. What do you have against females?”

Garrison sighed and held out his hand. “I agree, if you do. Thirty percent after expenses, the whores, the works.”

“Thirty percent
before
expenses,” Beaumont corrected
him. “I might be feelin' generous but not that generous.” He stood. “I hope I'm not makin' the worst mistake of my life. But in case I am.” He half turned. “Dyson. Stimms.”

The pair had been standing a respectful distance back but now straightened and came forward.

“Boss?” Dyson said.

Beaumont pointed at Garrison. “If he ever kills me, you're to kill him. I'm givin' two hundred dollars to my lawyer to hold on to in case you ever have to, as payment.”

Stimms patted his Sharps. “Hell, boss, I'd splatter his brains all over this floor for half that.”

“You heard him,” Beaumont said.

“Nicely played, sir,” Garrison said. “Nicely played, indeed.”

Beaumont grinned and walked out. Shoving through the butterfly batwings, he stopped abruptly.

Three men barred his way, one on the boardwalk and two to either side at the edge of the street: Scar Wratner, Grat, and Tuck.

“Gentlemen,” Beaumont said, hiding his unease. It occurred to him that maybe Garrison had been stringing him along, that it could be Garrison had hired Scar Wratner to do him in. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

His thumbs hooked in his gun belt, Scar Wratner smiled a smile as cold as ice. “I've been lookin' for you, card slick.”

I
solda Jessup was bored. She'd been at the Diamond B less than twenty-four hours, and she was so restless she couldn't stand it. Despite being so tired from their long journey that she could barely keep her eyes open the night before, she'd slept fitfully. Twice, she'd woken up and just lain there in her bed, feeling ill at ease.

Isolda hadn't wanted to come west. When her father first mentioned the position he'd been offered, she didn't expect him to take it. Ranching was a far cry from running dairy farms. She'd assumed he'd decline. To her amazement, he didn't.

Her sister's eagerness wasn't nearly as surprising. Edana loved a challenge. For as long as Isolda could remember, her older sister threw herself into everything she did with the determination she would succeed no matter what. Long hours, tedious work, Edana never minded so long as she got the job done.

Not Isolda. She was their bookkeeper, and a duller job would be hard to imagine.

Sure, she had a head for business, but she found it much less exciting than Edana did. Truth was, over the
past year or so, she'd begun to wonder if she shouldn't do something else with her life. Something she liked. Something that would be as exciting for her as running a dairy farm, or now a ranch, was for her sister. But the big question was: what?

Isolda mused about it all morning. She went through the motion of eating breakfast. even though she wasn't all that hungry, and spent the morning going through a pile of receipts the foreman had saved for her.

“Mr. Wells told me to, ma'am,” Neal Bonner let her know.

Isolda didn't like Bonner. She wasn't entirely sure why. He was nice enough. Almost too nice, in that simpleminded cowboy way of his. Always calling her “ma'am.” Always treating her and her sister with the utmost respect. Why, he would hardly look her in the eye, he was so shy around women. He wasn't at all like Beaumont Adams.

Beaumont Adams
. Now, there was a fine figure of a man, Isolda reflected. A man who would not only look her in the eye, but let his own wander over her body as if she were a piece of pie he wanted to take a bite out of. And Lord help her, she liked that. She'd never had a man regard her with such . . . hunger . . . before. It excited her.

She tried to tell herself it shouldn't. She reminded herself that her father expected her to behave like a lady, and tried to put the gambler's handsome features from her mind. But as she worked on the receipts she kept seeing him instead of the bill she was looking at.

Isolda found herself wishing she could see him again. Soon.

Her father and sister returned at midday for a quick bite to eat. Isolda joined them since if she didn't, her father would raise a stink. She said very little, but neither noticed. They were too excited about the work ahead.

“I must confess,” Alexander said halfway through the meal, “running the Diamond B will be more of a
challenge than running those dairy farms ever were. There's so much to learn.”

“Is there ever!” Edana said. “I spent the morning with Neal. Mr. Wells was right about him. Neal's knowledge of cattle is incredible.”

Isolda smothered a laugh.

“Neal, is it?” their father said. “I prefer you call him Mr. Bonner, both when you're around him and when you're not.”

“Yes, Father,” Edana said.

“What about you?” Alexander said to Isolda. “What have you been doing all morning?”

“Accounts,” Isolda answered, and had an inspiration. “Which reminds me. Our incredible foreman did a wonderful job of stocking the ranch with everything that has to do with cows—”

“Don't tease your sister,” Alexander said.

“But I'm afraid no one told him that a bookkeeper can't do all the sums in her head. I need a lot more paper and I'm short on ink. I could stand to buy a few ledgers, too.” Isolda put as innocent a look on her face as she could manage. “So I was wondering if it would be all right if I went into town tomorrow morning to buy what I can find and order what I can't.”

“I have a lot to do here, but I can go with you, I suppose,” her father said.

Isolda seized the opening. “Why bother? I'll have Stumpy drive me. If we leave early I can be back by nightfall.”

“Edana should go, too,” Alexander said.

“Whatever for?” Isolda countered. “She has plenty to do, what with learning about cattle from her good friend Neal.”

“Stop that, you hear?” Edana said.

“I'll be perfectly fine, Father,” Isolda said. “If you're truly worried, send a couple of your cowboys along. I understand they're reputed to be perfect gentlemen around women.” She threw that last in as icing on her argument.

“I don't like the idea of you going alone,” Alexander said, setting down his soupspoon. “Not after all the tales we've heard about hostiles and outlaws and the like. These are the Badlands, after all. I don't feel it's safe and there's no one I trust to—” He glanced out the kitchen window and suddenly stopped.

“Father?” Isolda said when he just sat there.

“Why not?” Alexander said.

“Why not what?”

Alexander turned to Edana. “Would you agree that Mr. Bonner's judgment is of the very highest order?”

“I couldn't agree more, yes.”

“Then I should rely on that judgment, shouldn't I? Since we'll be working so closely with him.”

“That goes without saying,” Edana said.

Alexander faced Isolda. “Very well, daughter. You get to go into town tomorrow. Leave at sunrise. I'll inform Stumpy he's driving. And I'll take your advice and send one of our cowboys along.”

“Just one?” Isolda said.

“From what we hear,” her father said, “this one will be more than enough.”

•   •   •

Beaumont Adams lowered his hands to his pockets and started to slide them in, saying, “You have, have you?”

Scar Wratner glanced at Beaumont's pockets and laughed. “No need for your hideouts, gambler man. If I was out to bed you down permanent, you'd already be lyin' there with holes in your head.”

“Then what?” Beaumont said in puzzlement. He'd had little to do with the notorious leather slapper since Wratner showed up, and was at a loss to guess what they had to talk about.

“How about if we take a stroll?” Scar Wratner said, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and sauntered along the boardwalk, saying over his shoulder to Grat and Tuck, “You two hang back. This is between him and me.”

Beaumont gestured to indicate that Dyson and Stimms should do the same. Falling into step with Wratner, he said, “If this is about me pokin' fun when you braced Alexander Jessup yesterday . . .”

“The rancher? I couldn't care less about him. He riled me, is all, callin' me a specimen. I still don't know what the hell that is.”

Beaumont kept quiet.

“No, I wanted to talk about somethin' else. I want to offer you somethin'.”

“Your scar? No, thanks. I like to look at myself in the mirror.”

Scar's scar twitched. “Don't start up again, damn you. Save your funny remarks for that gal you were oglin'.”

“I have no idea what you're talkin' about.”

“Sure you don't,” Scar said. “But I'm not here to talk about the filly, either.”

“Than what do you want to talk about?”

“If you'd shut the hell up for two minutes, I'd tell you,” Scar said in mild annoyance. “What you did last night was damn slick. It took grit to get in close like you did to blow out their wicks. You were the talk of the Tumbleweed the rest of the night. It got me to thinkin'.”

“Oh?”

“I asked around, and there wasn't any bad blood between you two. You didn't kill him on account of some grudge. It appears to me that the only reason you did it was to help yourself to his saloon. Yet you already have one of your own that does real well, from what I saw when I've been in there.”

“You figured that out all by yourself.”

Scar stopped and swung around, his hands at his sides. “Poke fun at me one more time. I goddamn dare you.”

“Force of habit,” Beaumont said. “Go on.”

Scowling, Scar resumed walking. “It hit me that if I was right, you might be out to rule the roost hereabouts. You'd likely help yourself to Garrison's, too, and who knows what else?”

“Now I
am
impressed,” Beaumont said. “I figured it would be a while before anyone caught on.” He'd intended to go about taking over as quietly and secretly as possible. Less trouble that way.

“I'm not as dumb as some folks seem to think,” Scar said, and touched his scar. “It's this thing,” he said bitterly. “It makes me look dumber than I am.”

Beaumont smothered another retort.

“I'm not just fast with pistols. I have a brain,” Scar said. “But it's my pistols I'd like to put to work for you.”

Beaumont came to a halt. It was turning into a day of surprises. First Garrison, now this. “What makes you think I'd want to take you on?”

“Common sense,” Scar said. “You, by yourself, might be able to pull it off. You're not afraid to kill. Everybody saw that last night. But there's still bound to be some who will raise a ruckus about you takin' over. And you won't be able to take them by surprise like you did Zimmerman.”

“What's your point?”

“Do I really have to spell it out?” Scar said. “You hire me and my pistols to back your play.”

“I already have Dyson and Stimms.”

“Small-fry. So are Grat and Tuck, for that matter.” Scar grinned. “But me and these?” He patted his Smith & Wessons. “I'm not small-fry, and everyone knows it. My reputation can work for you. If someone has to go through me to get to you, they'll think twice. Taking over will go a lot smoother.”

Beaumont had to admit he had a point. With the notorious gun shark on his payroll, he'd be far less likely to have anyone stand up to him. But it created an important question. “I'd imagine you don't come free.”

“Not hardly,” Scar said.

“How much do you reckon your services are worth? I pay Dyson and Stimms a hundred a month.”

“Don't insult me. I wouldn't be on your payroll, not the same as them. You and me would be partners.”

“Uh-oh,” Beaumont said.

“What's the matter? You don't think I'd be worth it?”

“You said it yourself. I aim to rule the roost. Not share the roost with someone else.”

“Who said you have to? I've got no interest in runnin' things. I'll leave all that up to you.” Scar paused. “I was thinkin' more like a fifth of what you make. In return, I'd keep you safe and kill anybody who needs killin'.”

“A fifth is a lot.”

“You still get the other three-fourths,” Scar said, “which will be more money than you know what to do with. And it's not as if I'll stick around forever. Sooner or later Whiskey Flats will tame down. Towns always do. And I don't like tame towns.”

“I'm not fond of them myself.”

“Tame towns have law dogs, and tin stars are always quick to raise a stink when I gun someone.”

“I've met a few marshals who were less than friendly to gamblers in my travels,” Beaumont remarked.

“Gamblers and shooters aren't well liked,” Scar said. “Decent folks look down their noses at us. Some towns get so tame they outlaw guns and cards, both. Like it is back East. There's those who say the West will be the same one day. I sure as hell hope I'm not around to see that.”

“Me, either.”

“So you see?” Scar grinned. “We have a lot in common. What do you say to my offer? I'll stick for as long as you need me. Then I'll mosey on to wilder pastures and leave you to have it all.”

“I need to think on it some,” Beaumont said. He half expected Wratner would get mad and was glad he had his hands in his pockets. He was under no delusions about being able to outdraw him. But the surprises kept coming.

“That's only fair, I reckon,” Scar said. “Take as long as you need to. I'll be around.” Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he ambled off.

Grat and Tuck hastened to catch up to him.

“Well, now,” Beaumont said.

“Is there a problem we should know about, boss?” Dyson asked as he and Stimms came up.

“No problem at all, boys,” Beaumont said. “Fact is, life is treatin' me nice for once. It makes me suspicious.”

“Of what?” Stimms asked.

“Of when it's goin' to jump up and kick me in the teeth.”