Devil's Dare

“Nothing bad,” Charity assured her sister. “It’s just that…well, you’ve always done what Papa says is right, and you’re always so good about taking care of him an’ me an’ the house. But it seems like you don’t ever do anything for yourself, Mercy. You don’t ever get out of line. I think you should go and have a wonderful time.”

“I don’t know…As you say, there’s something about this Sam Devlin that’s a little, um, scary. Something devilish in those eyes, Charity.”

“I know.” The idea seemed to produce shivers of delight in Charity, rather than the opposite. “He’s the trail boss of that outfit Tom Culhane rode in with, you know. They call him ‘Devil,’ and themselves the ‘Devil’s Boys.’“

“Oh.” All the more reason to think she must have been insane to agree to see him.

“Stop worrying, Mercy—I can practically see what you’re thinking,” Charity told her. “It’s only supper. Even if he does have any dishonorable notions, he can’t exactly carry them out over the supper table, can he?”

“And you thought you were just going for a walk with Tom Culhane, remember?” Mercy retorted.

“Oh, I knew that scalawag wanted to do a little spoonin’,” her sister had the grace to admit. “But I didn’t think he wouldn’t listen when I said no. Devlin isn’t Culhane, Mercy. He may look fierce, but I don’t believe he’d ever hurt a woman, you know? There’s something…something honorable about him, deep down.”

Mercy devoutly hoped her sister was right.

“Now, what are you planning to wear?” Charity asked, then ran on, “I think…” And suddenly they were both just girls again, discussing the age-old feminine concern.

Deacon Paxton was thoughtful as he wiped up spilled liquor with a damp cloth. That Texan—the trail boss who’d stood talking to him until the girl had come in—there was something familiar about him. Had they met before? In the year since Abilene had gotten the railhead and become the end point on the Chisholm Trail, hundreds of Texans had poured into the town and back out again. Maybe he’d been one he’d met last year, or maybe he just resembled one he’d met. They all started to look alike after a while, he mused-tall, lean, with weathered faces and wary, sun-narrowed eyes. And they sounded alike, too, men of few words, generally—though Devlin had been friendly enough once he’d seen Deacon was inclined to be likewise. But he hadn’t been inclined to say much about himself.

He wondered what the Reverend Jeremiah Fairweather’s daughters had been doing in here tonight. The blond one, the one they called Charity, was clearly headed for trouble. Should he tell the preacher about seeing her in here tonight, sitting with the cowboys?

He thought about the time he’d asked the preacher if he could attend his Sunday services, and the Reverend Mr. Fairweather had told him he was welcome—in fact, he’d consider making him a deacon in fact as well as name, soon as he quit his job working in the Alamo. Deacon was in Satan’s employ, didn’t Deacon know that?

Recollecting that conversation, Deacon didn’t think he’d be talking to the preacher about his blond daughter. Or the one with the dark red hair, either, come to think of it. He’d been even more surprised to see Mercy Fairweather show up, and then leave with the Texas trail boss, but she’d looked worried. He supposed she’d been searching for her scapegrace sister, and from his vantage point at the bar it looked as if Devlin had offered to help her find Charity.

But Deacon had also seen the way Sam Devlin had been looking at the preacher’s older daughter before he’d led her out of the Alamo. It was the look of a predator who’d spotted his prey.

Deacon wondered if the Texan knew that his quarry was the daughter of the only preacher in this wild cow town-and if he knew, if he actually gave a damn. But it was none of his business, Deacon decided—unless he actually saw Devlin acting in a shady way.

“Have a good night, Deacon?” a woman’s husky voice asked from the stairs that led right past the bar.

Mercedes LaFleche stood there, lighting a cheroot. Once she was sure of at least one male watching her entrance into the nearly empty main room of the saloon, she descended the final three stairs.

“Yes, Miss LaFleche, how about you?” he asked politely. He liked the woman well enough—Mercedes LaFleche was an amiable person, especially when her customers had paid well.

“Good enough. I haven’t wasted my time, I guess.” She looked around the room, gauging the remaining customers, and turned back to Deacon, obviously deciding that none of the die-hard drinkers was worth her time and attention. “Give me a beer, Deacon, would you?”

“Sure ‘nough, Miss Mercedes. Say, did Wyatt see you? He told me there was a Texan in here hoping to meet you, a drover.”

“Hey, what’s this ‘Miss Mercedes’ stuff? I’ve told you often enough it’s just ‘Mercedes,’ haven’t I?” the woman said with a lazy smile, which showed the dimple in one rouged cheek. “Naw, I didn’t see Wyatt any time I was downstairs, which wasn’t often, if you know what I mean. So some Texas drover wanted to meet me, hmm? How unusual, ” Mercedes said with a wry quirk to her mouth that robbed her sarcasm of any sting.

“He seemed like a real pleasant fella, Miss Mercedes,” Deacon insisted, handing the prostitute her beer and wondering why he bothered to defend the drover to her. “I believe he said his handle was Sam Devlin.”

“I’m sure he was a nice fella, Deacon,” Mercedes said, patting the bartender’s hand. “You’ve never steered me wrong yet. Well, if I see this Devlin, I’ll smile at him real pretty, and listen to what he has to say—if he hasn’t lost all his money to Wyatt by then, that is.”

Chapter Six (#ulink_9a3d8605-851c-588a-8295-2ab66a9cd1b6)

Sam woke late the next morning with an enormous sense of well-being. In fact, he felt like a pup with two tails. Tonight was going to go well, he was sure of it. The only difficulty would be in waiting for evening to arrive.

Well, in a cow town like Abilene whose saloons were open twenty-four hours a day, there ought to be plenty he could keep busy with until evening, he reasoned as he rose and dressed and went downstairs. He’d start with breakfast. It would be good to eat his eggs and bacon sitting at a real table, instead of hunkered down by a campfire with hundreds of longhorns lowing nearby. Then he’d check on Buck, his horse, at the Twin Barns, the livery stable beyond the railroad tracks. The buckskin gelding was probably eating his fool head off, but Sam wanted to make sure the liveryman wasn’t neglecting the cow pony that had brought Sam so far from Texas.

Buck was fine, he discovered, and whinnied a greeting when he saw his master coming. Sam scratched underneath the gelding’s jaw, a favorite place, and fed him the apple he’d talked the Drover’s Cottage cook out of.

The horse in the stall next to Buck caught Sam’s attention. The tall black stallion was an unusually fine beast to be found in a livery. Thoroughbred, Sam mused, admiring the stallion who gazed back alertly at him, his ears pricked forward. Someone in Abilene must be boarding the beast here, for the black was certainly not the kind of nag a livery would rent out.

He sure reminded Sam of Goliad, the horse Caleb had ridden away from the Devlin farm when he went to join the Union army. Thinking of Goliad, and the kind of horses that had once filled the Devlin stables, made Sam nostalgic. He was going to fill those barns up again with good horseflesh, he vowed as he left the livery, if it took a dozen trail drives to finance it!

It was still only eleven-thirty. Now what was he going to do?

He was going to stay away from the Alamo, that was certain—not because he thought he’d see Mercedes working this early, but to avoid further poker games with Earp. As likable as the cardsharp was, he was determined not to lose any more money to him.

About noon, therefore, he was firmly ensconced in a rawhide-backed chair in the Longhorn Saloon, holding three aces and a king. Boy Henderson, who had been regaling them with a tale about losing his virginity in the arms of a sloe-eyed harlot the night before, had just stepped out back to relieve himself when Tom Culhane ambled in, saw Sam and scowled.

“Morning, Tom,” Jase Lowry said in greeting. “Pull up a chair and set a spell, and watch me lose some more money to Dev here.”

“I ain’t intr’sted in sittin’ nowhere with that sumbitch spoilsport,” snarled Culhane, glaring at Sam with bloodshot eyes.

Sam sighed. If that cowboy wasn’t careful, he was going to ruin a perfectly good morning—make that afternoon, he thought, noting that it was fifteen minutes past twelve on the clock.

“Aw, come on and sit down, Tom,” he said, motioning to a chair opposite him. “Hellfire, I’ll even buy you a drink to prove there’s no hard feelin’s. That’s why you’re such a sorehead this mornin’, you know—you need a hair of the dog that bit you.”

“You may not have hard feelings, you sumbitch, but I do,” sneered Culhane, pointing a finger at Sam. “You thought you wuz some high-an’-mighty knight in shinin’ armor last night, didn’t you? Showin’ off for the filly you found—an’ at my expense! I hope she gave you some disease that makes your pecker rot off.”

Sam was determined not to let Culhane rile him, though it was clear the cowboy was spoiling for a fight. “Aw, Culhane, what was I supposed to do? Miss Mercedes told me her sister wasn’t in the business. Granted, sashayin’ around cowboys like that, it won’t be long, but I had to let you know you’d made a mistake, didn’t I?”

Sam’s reasonableness apparently only enraged Culhane further. “What you wuz supposed t’ do, Devlin, was mind yer own goddamn business!” shouted Culhane. “You ain’t my boss no more! You don’t tell me what t’ do!”

“C’mon, Culhane. Don’t be yellin’ like that,” pleaded Jase. “I got a headache. B’sides, ya might wanta work for Dev again next spring.”

“I wouldn’t work for that stupid sidewinder if he wuz the las’ trail boss in Texas!” Culhane shouted back, but his eyes remained on Sam. His hands dropped, hovering near the Colts strapped at his hips.

Sam noted the fact. Yep, the pleasant afternoon was definitely about to get ruined. He was armed, too, of course—there was as yet no real law in the wild cow town, so a man had to be prepared to defend himself. But he had no intention of drawing down on the young cowboy. He rose to his feet, slowly and deliberately. “You don’t want to do this, Culhane,” he advised.

The saloon became very quiet as cowboys nearby took note of the explosive situation. Those nearest Sam’s table edged away. A drummer who had come in to wet his whistle backed out the doors, keeping a nervous eye on the two Texans.

Culhane went right on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Fact, when I get done with him, ain’t none o’ you saddlebums gonna work for him. Whenever you’re ready, Devlin,” he said with a meaningful glance at Sam’s pistols.

“Tom! What are you doin’?” shouted Boy Henderson from the back of the saloon. He had come back just in time to see Culhane fixing to draw on the boss.

Involuntarily, Culhane glanced in the direction of the boy’s voice, and Sam took instant advantage of it, launching himself at Culhane with doubled-up fists. A moment later Culhane was out cold on the saloon floor, and the patrons of the Longhorn were going back to their whiskey and cards.

“We’ll get him back to his room, Dev,” Jase Lowry said, gesturing for Boy and Cookie to join him, “so’s he can wake up peaceable. I’ll try an’ talk some sense inta him when he comes to.”

Sam was just finishing a mental thanksgiving that he’d been able to avoid using his gun on his own drover. “Much obliged, Jase. I’m not so sure anyone can talk sense into that mule-headed fool, though,” Sam said with a heavy sigh. He’d made an enemy, and now he was going to have to watch his back.

Jase nodded his agreement. “I can try. But I know what ya mean, Dev. I can explain it to him, but I can’t understand it for him.”

As it happened, all the schemes Mercy and Charity had concocted turned out to be unnecessary. At about four o’clock in the afternoon, when Mercy was just coming in from the barn after having managed to stash her chosen ensemble for the evening there, she noticed George Abels’s buckboard parked in front of the house.