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  CHAPTER 5

  “I’m not sure the sheriff is going to like this,” the young, slick-haired hotel clerk said nervously as Luke signed his name in the registration book.

  Luke replaced the pen in its holder.

  “He shouldn’t be upset with you. A business that caters to the public can’t be expected to turn away customers for no good reason.” He slid a ten-dollar gold piece across the counter. “I’ve paid in advance for a week’s lodging, including meals in the dining room and a tub of hot water. A simple transaction that harms no one.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re right, Mr., uh, Jensen. You want that bath now?”

  “Please,” Luke said.

  “I’ll send a boy up with the tub right away and tell them in the kitchen to start heating water.” The clerk handed Luke a key. “You’ll be in room eight. Top of the stairs and around to the front. One of the nicest rooms in the house.”

  “I’m obliged to you.”

  Luke had his saddlebags over his left shoulder, his Winchester tucked under that arm, and his war bag in that hand as he went up the stairs. The hotel room looked comfortable—a nice four-poster bed, rugs on the floor, a couple of chairs, and a mahogany wardrobe. The curtains were pushed back and both windows were open to let in some air, as well as the noises of the main street they overlooked.

  A gangling, redheaded teenager arrived mere moments after Luke did, toting a tin washtub. He set it down and said, “I’ll fetch the hot water, mister.”

  Luke tossed him a coin and nodded in thanks.

  “Make sure it’s good and hot. I need to soak off a considerable amount of trail dust.”

  The boy grinned, nodded, and hurried out.

  Luke was ready to leave the room an hour later. At first glance he didn’t appear to be the same man. Soaked and shaved and brushed, he had traded his black trail clothes for a gray suit and a white shirt. A silk cravat around his neck was held in place by a pearl stickpin. Instead of buckling on the gunbelt with its holstered Remingtons and sheathed bowie knife, he had tucked a small, ivory-handled pocket pistol into a holster rigged under his coat beneath his left arm. A .41 caliber over-and-under two-shot derringer went into the coat pocket on the right side. A dagger made in Italy rested in a sheath sewed into the top of his right boot.

  A gray beaver hat rested on Luke’s head. He looked in the mirror, adjusted the hat to a slightly jauntier angle, and chuckled. He hardly ever put on this garb, and when he did, he was usually in San Francisco or Denver to take part in one of the high-stakes poker games to which he occasionally treated himself. He had never dressed like that in some hot, dusty prairie town, and he probably wouldn’t have done it today if Sheriff Collins’s attitude hadn’t annoyed him.

  The desk clerk perked right up when he saw Luke coming down the stairs. He said, “Sir, I”—he stopped short and frowned. “Why, you’re . . . I mean . . .”

  “That’s right,” Luke said. “Is there a good place in town where a gentleman can get a drink?”

  “The, uh . . . I guess . . . the Plainsman Saloon is the best in town.”

  “And when is dinner here at the hotel?”

  “The dining room starts serving at five.”

  Luke nodded and went out, leaving the clerk to stare after him in consternation.

  It seemed to Luke that he had been walking back and forth across the street ever since he rode into town, and finding the Plainsman Saloon required more of the same. It was on the other side of the street from the hotel, a block and a half from the railroad depot. That was a good location for it to pick up trade from those waiting for a train, or disembarking from one.

  The hour was just past midafternoon, so from then until dark, the Plainsman would steadily get busier. Luke pushed through the batwing doors at the entrance and saw that a dozen men were already in the place. Six stood at the bar, drinking, while four sat at a table playing poker. The remaining two men shared a table and a bottle.

  Only one woman was in sight at the moment. She stood behind one of the poker players with her hand resting on his shoulder. Honey blond hair flowed around her face and over her shoulders. She wasn’t dressed particularly provocatively, other than the fact that the light blue gown she wore was cut a mite too low for wearing to church. Nor was her face painted.

  But her smile had a kick to it as she turned toward Luke, and her walk as she left the poker table and came toward him gave off an undeniable air of sensuousness that Luke noted . . . and appreciated.

  “Welcome to the Plainsman,” she greeted him. “I didn’t think it was time for a train to pull in.”

  “I didn’t get off a train,” Luke told her as he smiled.

  “Surely you didn’t ride in.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. A little more than an hour ago.”

  Her eyes, which were a slightly darker shade of blue than her gown, widened in surprise.

  “You’re the bounty hunter who brought all those bodies in!”

  “That’s right.” Luke pinched the brim of the beaver hat. “Luke Jensen, at your service, ma’am.”

  She introduced herself automatically in return. “I’m Glenda Farrell.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Farrell. You work here?”

  “It’s Mrs. Farrell,” she said, “and the truth is even more shocking. I own the place. I inherited it from my late husband.”

  “My condolences on the loss.”

  “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. Gifford has been gone two years. I’ve long since stopped mourning him, and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that broken up when he passed. We worked together quite well, but that doesn’t mean our marriage succeeded as much as our business did.”

  Luke shrugged. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

  “In our case it was.” She looked him up and down. “I didn’t get that good of a look at you earlier, Mr. Jensen, but I’ll admit I stepped out onto the boardwalk to see what all the commotion was about when you rode into town earlier. I never would have taken you for the same man. Didn’t our illustrious sheriff give you his usual speech about staying north of the tracks?”

  “He did,” Luke admitted, “and I have to say, I’m a bit curious about what attractions that area might hold.”

  Glenda laughed. “Nothing you can’t get down here that’s even better.”

  The poker player whose shoulder she had been resting her hand on threw in his cards just then and said, “Damn it, Glenda, you took my luck with you when you walked away.”

  She half turned toward the table. “I could have told you you weren’t going to fill that straight, Clint. The odds were too high against it.”

  The man scowled. “That wasn’t it and you know it. You stole my luck.”

  He had a shock of black hair above an angular face. A black Stetson hung on his back by its chin strap. He was dressed in black trousers, black vest, and a red shirt. As he scraped his chair back and stood up, he went on. “You had to abandon me and run off to make eyes at this fancy dan.”

  Luke saw that Clint had a black gunbelt strapped around his waist. The wide belt sported some elaborate tooling, as did the holster attached to it. A pearl-handled, nickel-plated revolver rested in that holster.

  “I’d suggest that you’re not really one to be throwing around terms like fancy dan in such a derogatory manner, my friend,” Luke said.

  Clint’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Seems like he’s in love with the sound of his own voice, too. Why don’t you come on back over here, Glenda? I’ll forgive you for ruinin’ that hand for me. There’s always another shuffle and deal.”

  “I don’t think so,” the blonde said coolly. “I was just about to offer Mr. Jensen a drink. On the house, since it’s his first time in the Plainsman, of course.”

  “I appreciate that,” Luke said. “And I accept the offer.”

  “Wait just a damn minute,” Clint snapped. “You can’t ignore a good customer like me who’s been comin’ in here for a long time just because
some new fella wanders in off the street.”

  “I can ignore whatever and whoever I want,” Glenda said. “This is my saloon, remember? Just settle down, Clint. It’s not like you actually have any sort of claim on me, no matter what you might believe.”

  Clint’s face flushed with anger.

  Luke knew that he had been making people mad ever since he rode into town, but he wasn’t responsible for anyone else’s hot temper and he hadn’t done anything to apologize for . . . so the thought of doing so never entered his mind. Instead he said to Glenda, “I hope you’ll have a drink, too.”

  “You know, I believe I will,” she replied with a smile. She linked her arm with his and turned them both toward the bar.

  The sudden rush of footsteps behind them was plenty of warning for Luke. He disengaged from Glenda and whirled quickly, while Clint was still several feet away, rushing toward him. The man swung a clenched fist at Luke’s head.

  Luke leaned to the side, reached up, and grabbed Clint’s arm. Pivoting smoothly, he heaved. Clint was off balance and couldn’t stop himself as Luke’s powerful muscles sent the poker player flying toward the bar. A couple of the drinkers who’d been standing there jumped out of the way.

  Clint’s belly struck the hardwood’s edge with enough force to double him forward over the bar. He knocked over a half-full mug of beer someone had left there. The collision with the bar drove the breath out of his lungs. He gasped for air as he staggered back away from it.

  “Damn . . . you!” he managed to say as he clawed at the pearl-handled revolver on his hip.

  The derringer leaped into Luke’s hand so fast it seemed like magic. He hoped Clint would see that he was beaten and stop that draw while he still had a chance.

  Clint wasn’t backing down, though. The fancy gun cleared leather and started to rise. Luke triggered the derringer’s upper barrel.

  The shot was louder than most folks would expect from such a small weapon. The .41 caliber slug ripped into Clint’s right shoulder and drove him back against the bar. He cried out in pain as the pearl-handled gun slipped from his fingers. He sagged against the bar and clutched his shoulder with his other hand. Bright red blood welled between his fingers. His chest rose and fell heavily.

  The hum of conversation in the saloon had come to a complete stop. Glenda, the bartender, and all the customers stared, their rapt gazes shuttling back and forth between Luke and Clint.

  Luke kept the derringer trained on the wounded man and said in a loud, clear voice, “All of you will have noted that I gave him the chance not to push this to such an extreme. It was his choice, and he started his draw first. Even then, he could have stopped short of gunplay, because I didn’t fire until his gun was out of the holster. I’d appreciate it if each of you would remember those things when you talk to the sheriff about this incident . . . which I’m sure you will.”

  “If you mean you want us to say that it was Clint’s own fault he got shot, I don’t think any of us are going to deny that, Mr. Jensen,” Glenda said. “You’re right. We all saw what happened.”

  Several of the customers nodded, as did the bartender.

  “You . . . you shot me!” Clint grated through clenched teeth.

  “But I didn’t kill you, which I would have been well within my rights to do,” Luke pointed out. “I believe you’ll live.”

  “My arm may never be the same again!”

  “That’s the risk you run when you go around picking fights with men you don’t know.”

  “I’ll kill you—”

  “Nobody’s killing anybody!” Sheriff Collins bellowed as he slapped the batwings aside with his left hand and strode into the saloon with a shotgun in his right.

  Luke could tell that the lawman had hurried up the street to the Plainsman because he was breathing hard. The town was so civilized these days, he probably didn’t hear many gunshots.

  The sheriff used both hands to steady the Greener as he continued. “What the hell is going on here? You there, in the fancy suit, put that derringer—Wait a minute. Jensen?”

  “That’s right, Sheriff.” Luke set the derringer on an empty table beside him. “I fired one shot in self-defense—”

  “Shut up,” Collins snarled as he leveled the shotgun at Luke. “You’re under arrest!”

  CHAPTER 6

  “What!” Glenda exclaimed. “Sheriff, have you lost your mind? Mr. Jensen didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He’s south of the line, after I gave him orders not to be unless he had a good reason.”

  Luke said, “I consider a comfortable hotel room, a hot bath, a drink amid pleasant company, and some decent food to all be good reasons, Sheriff.”

  “I don’t care if you got cleaned up, you’re still a bounty hunter, and they bring trouble! That’s why I’m holding you responsible for this.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” Clint put in. “He’s a mad dog! He shot me without any warnin’!”

  One of the men who’d been drinking at the bar, who had the look of a tough old cattleman, said, “That’s a damned lie, Clint Norman, and everybody in here knows it.” He faced the sheriff. “Norman started acting like a jackass when he lost a poker hand. Blamed it on Glenda because she’d been standin’ beside him but went over to talk to this other fella when he came in. This fella—Jensen, you say his name is?—tried to talk sense to him, but Norman wasn’t havin’ any of it. He reached for his iron first. Jensen beat him to the draw six ways from Sunday. If Norman had had any sense, he would have let his gun drop back in its holster and saved himself some pain. But he forced Jensen’s hand.” The rancher snorted in disgust. “If you ask me, Norman’s a mighty lucky hombre. Jensen could’ve put that bullet in his brain just as easy.”

  “That’s the way it was, Sheriff,” Glenda said.

  Collins glared furiously, but he slowly lowered the shotgun. He looked over at Clint Norman, who was still holding his bleeding shoulder. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know, but I need a doc!”

  “You’ll get one.”

  Glenda asked the sheriff, “Are you arresting him for starting the trouble?”

  “You let me worry about who I arrest and who I don’t,” Collins snapped. “Kick that gun over here and then come with me, Norman.”

  Sullenly, Clint complied with the order. Collins picked up the pearl-handed revolver, then used the shotgun to motion him toward the saloon’s entrance. Before leaving, the sheriff pointed a finger at Luke and said, “I want you north of the tracks, pronto.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I’ve already paid for a room at the Rycroft House, and I intend to use it tonight.” Luke smiled. “I’m told that the food in the dining room is quite good.”

  Collins fumed, but he didn’t say anything else, and marched Clint toward the doors.

  Just before he pushed through the batwings, the wounded man glanced back at the bar and called, “I’m gonna remember that big mouth of yours, Stanton.” Then he bulled out and the sheriff followed him.

  Luke turned to the white-haired cattleman. “I’m sorry if this altercation causes any trouble for you.”

  Stanton snorted again. “I’ve been threatened by a lot worse than that cheap gunman. When I settled out here, there was nothing for miles around but hostile Indians, Mexican bandits, and bushwhackin’ renegades. No-accounts like Clint Norman don’t worry me.” He stuck out a big, work-roughened hand. “Ben Stanton.”

  “Luke Jensen.” He shook hands with the rancher. Stanton introduced him to several more of the men, all of whom had cattle spreads in the area.

  “You gentlemen don’t seem to have any qualms about associating with a bounty hunter,” Luke commented.

  “That’s because we’re all still a mite rough around the edges ourselves,” one of the men said with a grin. “Civilization keeps trying to smooth ’em out, but I’m not sure it ever will.”

  “I hope it don’t,” another man added, bringing a round of laughter.

  “Have a drink
with us,” Stanton suggested to Luke.

  “I’d love to, but I was about to have one with Mrs. Farrell, and I should honor that commitment first.”

  “I don’t reckon any man here will hold it against you if you do, amigo.”

  Glenda turned to the bartender, who seemed to know what to do. He brought a bottle and two glasses from under the bar and handed them to her. She led Luke to a fairly large table in the back of the room, where they sat down in well-upholstered chairs.

  “I take it this is where you regularly hold court,” he said as he took off his hat and placed it on the table.

  “I’m not sure I’d call it that, but it’s my personal table.” She poured the drinks. “I hope you like cognac. You strike me as the sort of man who would.”

  “I do, indeed.” They clinked their glasses together, and he added, “To a visit more pleasant than it’s been so far.”

  They drank, and Luke licked his lips in appreciation of the smooth but fiery liquor.

  Glenda said, “I hope you don’t judge us too harshly. This is actually a pretty nice place to live . . . most of the time. It’s just that Clint Norman is . . . headstrong.”

  “Reckless and arrogant and hot-tempered, you mean.”

  She shrugged.

  “Thinks of himself as slick on the draw,” Luke went on. “Any man who’d walk around with a gaudy gun rig like that would have to. Does he have any justification for feeling that way?”

  “He’s killed two men in gunfights,” Glenda said. “They both drew first. So I suppose he has some speed and skill, if you want to call it that.”

  “He has saloon speed. I’m guessing that in both of those fights, the other men had been drinking?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Glenda said. “They were north of the line, so I wasn’t there to know for sure.”

  Luke raised an eyebrow. “So Sheriff Collins lets Norman go back and forth across the line with impunity?”

  “His uncle owns a large ranch west of here. That spread and the men who work there are important to the town.”