Silver Lies (32 page)

She moved through the crowded barroom, making an effort to smile and nod graciously at the congratulatory comments. It seemed everyone knew how she’d slipped the last of Chet’s fortune from him.

Once at the bar, she beckoned to Abe.

"Inez." Abe came over, towel in one hand, brandy bottle and snifter in the other. "Heard you took the wind out of Chet’s sails and the money from his pocket. With a handful of aces, too. Wish I could of seen that." Abe began to pour her a drink. She grabbed his arm to stop him and leaned over the bar. "That’s the good news. We’re now about six thousand dollars richer. The bad news is, at least one greenback is bogus."

She handed him the soggy bill.

Abe set the brandy bottle down, overly careful, and took the fifty from her. "Coney? Passed durin’ the game?"

She nodded.

Abe examined the note, grim. "Damn. Wonder if some-one’s been shovin’ regular. All the money passin’ over the bar, we haven’t got time to check it."

"This looked genuine. At least, until it was soaked in alcohol. We certainly can’t douse every bill that comes our way. Let’s talk more, before we make the Monday deposit." She surveyed the room. "Chet gone?"

"Reckon so. He took a bottle of rotgut to dull the pain of losin’." Abe took the strongbox from her and slipped the counterfeit inside. "If the reverend’s walkin’ you home be sure he’s totin’ somethin’ more powerful than the Good Book. This’d be a bad time to bump into Chet."

Inez returned to the card room to collect the empty glasses.

Sands left off talking with Cooper and Harry when he saw Inez gathering the glassware. "I’ll walk you home when you’re ready." Commiseration tempered his smile. "Don’t let the phony money ruin your evening. Counterfeit circulates through boom towns, cities, any place where money flows freely. As Doc said, it was probably just a matter of time before it happened here."

"Probably." Unconvinced.

She carried the tray of glasses into the kitchen and paused, just inside the passage door. One lamp, turned low, hung by the back as a signal to befuddled customers. The back door was closed.

Good.

She had had visions of Chet lurking by the door to the alley, waiting for her. The lamp cast wavering shadows on the range, where the fry pan and oversized iron pot sat. The tin washtub filled the corner of the kitchen table, visible in the light pouring in from the saloon’s main room.

She walked to the table and began stacking glassware into the tub.

The slice of light from the saloon narrowed and disappeared as the kitchen door swung shut behind her.

"How’dja know?"

Startled, she turned. Chet’s bulk separated from the shadows next to the closed passage door.

Adrenaline pounded through her body. She carefully set a shot glass into the tub with her left hand and slid her right into her pocket. She pitched her voice calm, burying her fear. "How did I know what, Chet?"

He moved forward, a shambling bear. "Joe and that piece-a-shit…How’dja know?"

"Seven hundred ounces per ton is hardly a piece-of-shit claim." The words flew from her mouth before she could reconsider.

Chet was quick on those enormous feet, suddenly only an arm’s length away. "Joe flap his gums afore he kicked the bucket? Naw. He said, keep it quiet ’til spring thaw."

She didn’t want to pull the gun on him while he was thinking aloud. Besides, he stood at the wrong distance.
If he were only closer. Or further away.

"Lady Luck?" he ruminated. "Naw. She don’t talk to the likes of you. I got it." A ham-sized hand shot out and shoved her against the rear wall. The lamp above her head flickered. "Joe’s widder. Bet Joe told his old lady, she told you. Damn palaverin’ women."

No one would hear her yell over the racket in the saloon. If she pulled her gun now…
I’d never make it. Best keep him talking until he backs up or moves closer.

"Is that what this is about?" She strove for a conversational tone. "You had a deal with Joe and now that he’s dead you don’t want to give the widow what’s legally hers?"

"Haw!" A snarly laugh. "We shook, but he never coughed up the money. No money. No deal. And I got somethin’ else to tell you, Mrs. High-n-Mighty Stannert."

He moved closer until his face filled her vision. Lit by the lamp above her head, he looked like a denizen of the underworld. She held her breath to avoid the bouquet of mint tonic and firewater that enveloped her.

"I don’t like folks messin’ in my business. And. I. Don’t. Like. You."

He grabbed her shoulder, pinning her to the wall. "Thought it’d be fun playin’ in your high-falutin’ poker game. Fun, haw. I been to funerals more fun. Everyone looked like they was bettin’ their last dollar. Hell, I don’t care about the money. More where that came from."

He’s close enough.

She began to ease the small gun out of her pocket. Chet squeezed her shoulder tighter, focused on her face.

"Think you’re so goddamned smart." His spittle sprayed her. "No wonder your old man lit out on you. One word to anyone about that claim, I swear I’ll—"

Chet froze midsentence, his eyes registering sudden sobriety and the fact that Inez had the business end of her revolver jammed into his crotch.

"Chet Donnelly," she spoke softly as a black rage hissed in her ears. "If you still want to save something for Cat’s whores, step back three paces. Now."

She cocked the hammer, punctuating her intentions with the click.

A shadow flickered behind Chet. Suddenly, Chet was not stepping, but flying backward. The reverend, hand twisted into the back of Chet’s collar, spun Chet away and released him.

Chet careened into the kitchen table, going down in a crash and tangle of chairs. He staggered to his feet, then roared forward.

Sands cracked him in the jaw just as Chet’s foot snagged in an overturned chair. The prospector’s sheer bulk and momentum sent them both to the floor. The two men flailed, each struggling to get on top.

Inez looked about desperately for a weapon less lethal in close quarters. Her eyes lit on the stovetop.
The fry pan!

She shoved the gun back into her pocket and grabbed the long-handled pan. A tinny crash announced that the fight had just unbalanced the full washtub on the table.

The men grappled amid glass shards and wrecked chairs. Sands gouged Chet’s eyes. Chet growled and hit Sands in the ear with an elbow.

Inez hopped around the action, hoping for a clear shot. Then, Chet was on top, roaring inarticulately and banging the reverend’s head on the floor.

Seeing her chance, Inez swung the iron pan hard in a wide, two-handed arc. She whammed Chet on the skull just as Sands managed a knee to Chet’s groin.

It was like the final axe blow to a giant tree. With a creak and a groan, Chet toppled on top of his opponent.

"Reverend! Are you all right?" Her hands stung from the contact of the blow.

Sands shoved Chet’s body off and stood up. He staggered, cradling his right hand. "Ho-ly sh—"

He stopped, gasping for breath, then eyed Inez.

Rage and relief poured over her. "I should have blown his balls off."

The reverend’s eyes widened. He managed a pain-twisted grin. "That last remark. Not exactly ladylike."

"That last kick. Not exactly Christian."

"I was desperate." Sands massaged his knuckles, staring at Chet. "God helps those who help themselves. Jesus, it was like hitting a rock. Glad you had the fry pan." He nudged Chet with an ungentle foot. "What now?"

Together, they regarded Chet’s still form, arms outstretched on the floor as if for crucifixion. Inez knelt and began rifling his pockets.

The reverend regarded her in the murky light. "What are you doing?"

After leaving to the accompaniment of "My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice," Inez and Sands walked arm in arm for two long, silent blocks. Sands spoke first. "Win a few thousand. Uncover counterfeit. Stop a mountain man from dismembering a man of the cloth. Busy evening, Mrs. Stannert."

"A typical Saturday night."

His deadpan expression relaxed and she felt him grip her hand tighter with the crook of his arm.

As they approached Park Street, Inez ventured, "Abe is right. You always show up in times of trouble."

"You were gone a long time for dirty glassware. When I walked in, it looked like Chet had you by the throat." Sands glanced at her. "Could it have been him at the bank?"

Inez thought. The night air whispered past her cheek. "I’d say not. The man in the bank didn’t…smell…like Chet. But from now on, I’m checking behind doors. Both times, someone hid behind the door and caught me unawares."

"Well, when I came in, I thought you needed help. Little did I know you had it all under control. Just what were you holding on him?"

She unpocketed the revolver. He examined it lying across her palm. "Remington. Stood you in good stead. What was the disagreement about?"

"No disagreement. Chet hates losing."

"That’s all?"

"Isn’t that enough?" She heard a small crinkle. When he pulled the paper out of his pocket, she knew immediately what it was.
My note to Chet.

Inez bit her lip. "And a few other things," she finished lamely.

"The Joe in the note." He wagged the paper at her. "Joe Rose?"

Before Inez could decide what tack to take, Sands added, "No more lies, Mrs. Stannert. Lies can be deadly."

"No lies?" She warily took the proffered note. "This works both ways, of course."

"Of course."

On her porch, Inez pulled out her key, weighing its heft and her words. "Would you like some tea?"

"I would enjoy a cup, as long as it includes your company. And I’d rest better knowing that no one’s lurking inside. If that wasn’t Chet at the bank, your attacker is still at large."