Showdown at Dead End Canyon (8 page)

Bailey examined the rock for a moment, then looked up. “I don’t see anything.”

“Turn it around and look up in the crevice. Hold it up to the light and you’ll see it.”

Bailey did so, and saw a glitter just where she was told it would be.

“Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said.

“That’s gold,” Luke said, a broad smile spreading across his face.

“Where did this rock come from?”

“The Little Sandy River in the Sweetwater Mountains,” he answered.

“How many rocks like this are there?”

“They’s quite a few of ’em around, ain’t they, Percy?”

His partner, who had been quiet so far, now said, “Yeah. They’s a lot of these here rocks up there.”

“Just lying around on the ground to be picked up?” Bailey asked.

“Oh, no ma’am, they ain’t like that,” Percy said. “You can’t just go up there ’n’ start pickin’ up rocks thinkin’ ever’ one of ’em is goin’ to show color. A fella is goin’ to have to hunt around some.”

Bailey turned her attention back to the rock. “Did you get an assay report?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said. “It will prove out at eighty dollars per ton.”

“Well, now, gentlemen, what do you think of those numbers?” Bailey asked.

“Eighty dollars a ton is going to start a rush like the one they had in California,” Jason White said.

“Is that good enough for you, Mr. Ford?” Bailey asked.

“It’s more than good enough,” Addison said. “I will telegraph the Secretary of Interior tomorrow that I have approved your application for operational status under the provisions of the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.”

“Mr. White, how soon can you start the survey?”

“Right away,” he replied.

“Gentleman,” Bailey said, “the Sweetwater Railroad is in business.

The piano player in the Royal Flush saloon was bad. The only thing worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Hawke thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. It made it difficult for the average person to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.

Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

“Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.

“I haven’t been around.”

“Well, welcome to the Royal Flush.” The bartender set the beer in front of Hawke. “My name is Jake.”

“Good to meet you, Jake. My name is Hawke.” Hawke put a nickel on the bar, but the bartender slid it back and shook his head.

“No sir, the first beer is on the house. That’s the owner’s rule.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. The reason is, Mr. Peabody won this-here saloon in a game of cards. Fact is, he was holdin’ this very hand,” he said, pointing to a glass-encased box. There, fanned out for display, was a royal flush, exactly like the one depicted on the sign out front. “That’s how come he came to change the name of the saloon from Red’s Place to the Royal Flush. And to show his gratitude, well, first time anyone comes into the saloon, their first drink is on the house.”

“That’s very generous of Mr. Peabody.”

At that moment the piano player hit a note that was so discordant it raised the hackles on the back of Hawke’s neck, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

“Where did you get your piano player?” he asked, nod
ding toward the bald, sweating man who was pounding away at the keyboard.

“That there is Aaron Peabody,” the barkeep replied.

“Peabody? The owner?”

The barkeep shook his head. “The owner lives back in Cheyenne. Aaron is his younger brother.”

That was all the information Hawke needed. The guy could be playing with his elbows, but if he was the owner’s brother, his position was secure.

In the mirror behind the bar Hawke saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.

Hawke noticed this because he had made the same kind of entrance a few moments earlier. It was the entrance of a man who lived by his wits, and often by his guns. It was the move of a man who had made enemies, some of whom he didn’t even know.

Hawke had never met Ethan Dancer, but he had heard him described, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Jake bore out his musings.

“Donnie,” Jake said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Dancer is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”

“All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.

“Quickly, man, quickly,” Jake said. “Never mind that.”

Dancer walked over to an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle, and he handed it to Jake. The barkeeper poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to the table.

“Here you go, Mr. Dancer,” he said obsequiously.

Dancer said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Jake set the bottle in front of him.

“Call me if you need me, Mr. Dancer,” Jake said, wiping his hands on his apron.

Again Dancer just nodded.

Jake returned to the bar, then, seeing that Hawke’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.

“Do you know who that is?”

“I heard you say his name was Dancer.”

“Yes. Ethan Dancer. I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“They say he’s kilt hisself more’n fourteen men,” Jake said, not to be denied the opportunity to impart the information.

“Fourteen, huh?” Hawke replied.

“Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He mighta kilt a lot more’n that.”

“You don’t say,” Hawke said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”

“Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Jake said.

For the next few minutes Hawke just stared at Dancer’s reflection in the mirror. After a while Dancer sensed that he was being stared at and glanced up. The two men’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.

Dancer stared back at the man in the mirror, and was surprised to see his stare returned with a similar unblinking gaze. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks or out of fear of his reputation.

Dancer continued to glare at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. It was a glare had made
men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.

“Hey, you,” Dancer called, his words challenging.

All conversation in the saloon stopped and everyone looked at Dancer.

Hawke did not turn around.

“You, at the bar,” Dancer said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”

This time Hawke did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.

“Do you know who I am?” Dancer asked.

“I heard the bartender say your name was Ethan Dancer,” Hawke replied.

“Does that name mean anything to you?”

“I’ve heard of you,” Hawke said easily.

“If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”

Hawke smiled and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.

This wasn’t going the way it should, Dancer thought, finding the situation disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was…and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t used to that.

“Ya hoo!” someone shouted, coming into the saloon then. He was holding a rock in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fired the pistol into the ceiling.

The others in the saloon were startled by the unexpected pistol shot.

“Luke! What the hell are you doin’, coming in here shootin’ up the place?” Jake scolded.

“Gold!” Luke replied. “Me ’n’ Percy’s done discovered gold!”

“What? Did you say gold?” one of the other customers asked.

“That’s what I said all right. Gold, and a lot of it too. Why, they’s enough gold up there to make ever’ man in Green River rich as a king!”

“Up where?” Jake asked. “Where is this gold?”

“Yeah, where is it?” another asked.

“Up in the Sweetwater,” Luke said. He waved the rock around. “I done had this assayed. Eighty dollars a ton, boys! Eighty dollars a ton!”

By now everyone in the saloon, including Jake, was crowding around Luke, trying to get more information from him. Where, exactly, in the Sweetwater Range was the gold? How did he find it? Did anyone else know about it yet?

As the discussion of gold was taking place, Hawke continued to stare at Dancer, who had quit returning the gaze and was now staring pointedly into his glass of whiskey.

One of the patrons slipped out of the saloon, and a second later those inside could hear the clatter of hoofbeats as he rode away.

“Hey, boys, some have already started. If we don’t get up there now, we’re goin’ to be left suckin’ hind tit!” someone shouted, which started a rush for the door. Within moments nobody was left in the saloon but Jake, the piano player, Hawke, and Dancer.

Hawke picked up his beer and turned his back to the bar. He lifted his mug to his lips as he studied Dancer.

“You ain’t goin’ after the gold?” Jake asked Hawke.

“No.”

“I’d be out there with them right now if I didn’t have this here job,” Jake said.

“The man who discovered gold…I think you called him Luke?”

“Yes sir. Luke Rawlings is his name.”

“Why do you think Luke came in here like that?”

“Well, wouldn’t you be excited if you’d discovered gold?”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “But I don’t think I’d be telling everyone exactly where I found it.”

“I’ll be damned. I never thought about that. Why do you reckon he did tell?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “It is puzzling.”

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON HAWKE PICKED UP HIS
clothes from the Chinese laundry. For his dinner engagement with the Dorchesters, he changed from the jeans and plaid shirt into something he considered more appropriate.

For many men such a drastic change in apparel would make them uncomfortable. Hawke felt at ease in his formal attire, having donned such clothes many times for his piano performances. He told himself it was his last connection with the genteel life that he had so long ago abandoned.

Shortly before he left his hotel room there was a knock. Hawke pulled his gun and stepped up to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Hawke, my name is Joey,” a young-sounding voice said from the other side. “I work down at the livery stable.”

Curious as to why someone from the livery would be calling on him, Hawke opened the door. The boy in the hall looked to be about fourteen.

“Are you Mr. Hawke?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Your horse is tied up in front of the hotel.”

“My horse? I don’t have a horse.”

“Yes, sir, you do. Mr. Dorchester come down to see me, and asked me to come out to his place to pick out the finest horse I could find and bring him in to you. You want to see him?”

“Yes,” Hawke said.

Hawke followed the boy downstairs, then out the front door. There, tied to the hitching rail in front of the hotel, was one of the best-looking horses Hawke had ever seen. It was a buckskin stallion standing about seventeen hands high with a long neck, a sloping shoulder, a short strong back, a deep heart girth, and a long sloping hip. His musculature was smooth and well-defined. Hawke noticed that his saddle was on the horse.

“How’d my saddle get there?” he asked.

“I knowed you’d left it down to the depot, so I went down and got it. Do you like the horse?” Joey asked.

“Yes, he’s a magnificent animal.”

“I picked ’im out my ownself,” Joey said proudly. “I figured I pick ’im out as iffen I was pickin’ ’im out for me.”

Hawke pulled out a silver dollar and gave it to the boy. “Well, you did a good job, Joey,” he said. “Yes, sir, a find job.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Hawke!” the boy said, excited over the dollar.

Dorchester’s ranch, Northumbria, was about five miles north of Green River. Once out of town, Hawke urged the horse, and it responded instantly, going from a walk to a full gallop in a heartbeat. Hawke leaned forward, encouraging the horse to give him all it had. The ground flashed by in a blur, and he had the irrational sensation that if he went any faster, he would fly.

Hawke held the gallop for about two minutes, then eased back and let the horse cool down with a trot, then a brisk
walk. Almost before he knew it, he was at the southern boundary of Dorchester’s ranch, indicated by an arched gate with the word
NORTHUMBRIA
worked in metal across the top.

It was another mile up the road from the entry gate before the house came into view. When Hawke saw the house for the first time, he stopped just to take it in. It was huge, with cupolas and dormers and so many windows that the setting sun flashed back in such brilliance that it looked almost as if the house were on fire.

The edifice reminded him of a wedding cake, white and tiered. But the tiers did not end with the house. Even the surrounding lawn was built up in a series of beautifully landscaped terraces that worked up from the road to the base of the house itself.

A large white-graveled driveway made a U in front of the house where a coach and four sat at the ready, its highly polished paint job glistening in the setting sun. A crest of some sort was on the door of the coach.

Hawke had started toward the broad steps leading up to the front porch when Pamela and her father came out to meet him. Seeing Pamela, Hawke couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. He would have been hard pressed to identify her as the same bedraggled-looking young woman he last saw wearing his rolled-up jeans and flannel shirt.

The woman who greeted him now looked as if she had just stepped down from a fine oil painting. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress with a neckline that plunged low enough to show the top of her breasts, though a red silk rose strategically placed at the cleavage helped preserve some modesty. The dress itself was clinging yellow silk, overlaid with lace. Her coiffure featured a pile of curls on top and a French roll that hung down her neck.

The intensity of Hawke’s gaze made Pamela uneasy. With a nervous laugh she touched her hair.

“Have I gone green?” she asked.

“What?”

“You are staring with such concentration,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hawke apologized. “It’s just that…well, you must admit, this is quite a change from the way I last saw you.

“Well, I would hope so,” Pamela said. “And speaking of changes, I must say that you do look more like a knight now than when you rode to my rescue. Oh, wait, you didn’t exactly ride to my rescue, did you? As I recall, you had clumsily killed all the horses.”

Hawke laughed as well. “I had indeed,” he agreed. “And speaking of horses, I want to thank you, Mr. Dorchester, for the loan of the horse tonight. He is certainly a fine animal.”

“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester repeated. “It is a gift. I have the bill of sale inside.”

Hawke held out his hand in protest. “Oh, no, Mr. Dorchester, I could never accept such a gift.”

“Why not? Do you think Pamela isn’t worth a horse?”

“What? No, no, I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”

“Then prove it by accepting this gift.”

Hawke was about to protest again but stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “All right, Mr. Dorchester. I’ll be glad to accept the horse, and I offer you my sincerest thanks for it.”

“You are welcome,” Dorchester replied.

“Good,” Pamela said. “Now that that is all settled, shall we go inside?”

“Show him around a bit, would you, Pamela?” her father said. “I’ll check on our dinner.”

“Your arm, sir?” Pamela said, reaching for Hawke.

He held his arm out and she took it, then led him inside. She was so close to him, her body pressed against his, that
he could feel the warmth of her curves. There was a suggestion of perfume—heady, but not overpowering.

They walked down a long, wide hall, on a floor so highly polished that it reflected the items of furniture standing on it as clearly as if it were a mirror. Along the way, as if standing guard, were several polished suits of armor and painted shields. All the shields were decorated with the same crest: Against a white background, a blue mailed fist clutched a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.

“Your father’s coat of arms?” Hawke asked, nodding toward one of the shields.

“That’s the coat of arms of the Earldom of Preston. I am told, by the way, that a distant ancestor of mine, the first Earl of Preston, wore this very suit of armor in the Battle of Agincourt,” she added, pointing to one of the iron suits.

Hawke stepped up to the suit of armor, his larger size notable.

“Hmm,” Pamela said. “I don’t think you would fit.”

He laughed. “No, I don’t think I would. You’re sure your ancestor was a full-grown man?”

Pamela laughed. “Oh, yes. But the Battle of Agincourt happened over four hundred years ago, and I believe people were smaller then.”

“Four hundred years?” Hawke said, shaking his head. “I find it amazing that people can keep track of their ancestors for so long.”

“That is an important date in our family, for that was when Geoffery Dorchester was invested with the Earldom of Preston,” Pamela explained.

After a tour of the rest of the house, Pamela escorted Hawke to the dining room, where Dorchester met them at the door. He had changed clothes since Hawke arrived, and was now wearing a white uniform of some sort, with a red
sash running diagonally across his chest, gold-fringed epaulets on his shoulders, and a splash of medals on his breast.

“Well, are you ready to eat?” Dorchester asked.

“If you knew me well enough, you’d know that is a question you never have to ask,” Hawke replied. “I’m always ready to eat.”

Dorchester led them into the large room with polished oak wainscoting running halfway up the walls, flocked cream and green wallpaper finishing it off. At strategic spots, large portraits hung by wires from the picture rail. One of them was of James Spencer Dorchester astride a horse, wearing the same uniform he wore now. Another was of a beautiful woman. For a moment Hawke thought it was a portrait of Pamela. Upon a closer examination, however, he realized that the young girl standing beside the woman was Pamela.

“That was my mother,” Pamela said, seeing his interest. “She died the year before we left England.”

“She was very beautiful.”

“Yes, she was,” Dorchester agreed.

“I see that you are wearing the same uniform now that you wore for that painting,” Hawke remarked.

“Yes,” Dorchester said. “I still hold a brigadier’s commission in the Royal Reserves, though I seriously doubt that the Queen will ever call me to active service.”

“My father fought in the Crimean War,” Pamela said. “He was at Balaklava as a leftenant in the Light Brigade. You may have heard of the famous poem written by Tennyson, ‘Theirs not to make reply/Theirs not to reason why…’”

“‘Theirs but to do and die,’” Hawke continued, taking over the poem. “‘Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred….’ yes, I have heard of it.”

“You never cease to impress me, Mr. Hawke,” Pamela said.

“I was always impressed by the bravery of those soldiers,” he replied. “It’s an honor to actually meet one of them.”

“I was young and imprudent,” Dorchester said. “It was a foolish battle in a war fought with honor but no sense. Of the six hundred troops we committed to the charge, four hundred were killed. But then, I needn’t tell you about such things. Your country has recently come through its own war, with battles just as foolish, just as deadly, and just as honorable. And, unless I miss my guess, you were there.”

“I was there,” Hawke said without elaboration.

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Pamela said. “War is so distressing.”

“Of course, my dear,” Dorchester replied. He pointed to the center of the dining room, at a long table covered with a damask tablecloth and set with crystal candelabra, silver chargers, and glistening china. “Won’t you be seated?” he invited.

The meal was brought to the table in various courses. The main course was a pastry-wrapped beef.

“Beef Wellington,” Dorchester explained. “It is said that distant cousin, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came up with the recipe. I doubt that is true, but this magnificent dish does bear his name.”

After the meal, Dorchester invited Hawke into his library. Here, twenty-foot-tall bookshelves lined the walls, and books of various sizes and colors filled the shelves. Dorchester gestured toward the leather chairs. Brandy was served and Pamela offered them cigars. When the offer was accepted, she trimmed the ends, ran her tongue down the length of each side, lit each of them, then sat down as well.

“I hope you find them satisfactory,” Dorchester said. “They are from Cuba.”

Hawke took the cigar out of his mouth and examined the burning tip. “It is an excellent cigar.”

“I suppose you heard about the gold strike up in the Sweetwater Range?” Dorchester said.

“Yes, it’s all anyone has been talking about, almost ever since I arrived in town.”

“By now it’s gone out by telegraph and the whole country knows about it. No doubt we are about to have a rush.”

“I imagine so,” Hawke said.

“Will you be going up there?”

“What, to hunt for gold?”

“Yes.”

Hawke shook his head and squinted through the wreath of cigar smoke. “No, sir. I’m not one for chasing rainbows. Even if there is gold up there, there won’t be one in a hundred who will benefit from it.”

“You have a wise head on your shoulders,” Dorchester said. “I just hope I don’t lose all my cowboys.”

“Lose your cowboys?”

“Three have already left, and I hear talk that more soon will.”

“The cowboys who are leaving aren’t our biggest problem, Father, and you know it,” Pamela said.

“I think you may be making a mountain out of a molehill,” Dorchester told her, then explained the situation to Hawke: “The most logical access to the Sweetwater Range is through Northumbria.”

“Can you imagine all those people tramping out across our rangeland?” Pamela asked. “At best, they are going to be in the way. And at worst, they are going to get hungry and start stealing our cattle.”

“Oh, surely it won’t be all that bad,” Dorchester said. “And we have twenty thousand head. We could afford to lose one every now and then if that is all that stands between a man living and a man starving to death.”

“If that’s all there is to it, we’ll be lucky,” Pamela said.
“And you know who is probably chortling with glee over our situation? Bailey McPherson. Bailey and that scar-faced ogre of hers.”

Hawke squinted at Pamela through the aromatic cloud of cigar smoke. “Scar-faced ogre? Are you talking about Ethan Dancer?”

“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Pamela said. She frowned. “Good heavens, Hawke, don’t tell me you know that loathsome creature?”

Hawke shook his head. “No, although I did see him in the saloon the other day. What does he have to do with Bailey McPherson?”

“He is her bodyguard. She probably needs one. Nobody can be as conniving and as manipulative as she is without making enemies. But why she chose a cold-blooded killer like Dancer, I’ll never understand.”

“Yes, well, enough discussion about that unpleasant fellow,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke—”

Hawke held up his finger. “Couldn’t you just call me Hawke?”

“You prefer to be addressed by your surname, as opposed to your Christian name?”

“I’m used to it,” Hawke said.

“Very well, Hawke. You said you wanted to play the piano. I have something that may interest you.”

“I’m listening.”

“How would you like to go to Chicago?”