Deadly Day in Tombstone Page 5

  But that wasn’t what had happened, and Williams was Slaughter’s prisoner. That meant things would have to be done legally from here on out.

  Slaughter got to his feet. “Let’s go see how your wife and daughter are doing.” He and McCabe returned to the outer office.

  Jessie had calmed down, but she was still pale and had dried tear streaks on her cheeks. Her mother looked up at Slaughter and demanded, “Well, Sheriff, what are you going to do?”

  “Williams is locked up and that’s where he’ll stay until I’ve talked to the judge,” Slaughter told her. “From the sound of everything I’ve heard here today, he’ll be charged and have to stand trial for what he did.”

  Jessie said, “Does . . . does that mean I’ll have to tell about it all over again?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Slaughter didn’t want to get Jessie started bawling again, but he wasn’t going to lie to her about what was going to happen, either.

  Regardless of what Slaughter wanted, tears began to well from her eyes. “I can’t do that! I told you all about it, Sheriff. Won’t that be enough? Can’t you tell it at the trial?”

  “No, the jury will have to hear the story from you. That’s the way the legal system works.”

  McCabe said, “We know what happens at a trial, damn it! But it ain’t right that Jessie has to go through the whole blasted thing and feel miserable about it all over again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Slaughter told them with a shake of his head. “If you want to press charges against him, and if the judge agrees, that’s the way it’ll have to be.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be that way if somethin’ was to happen to that varmint Williams before the trial started,” McCabe said as his eyes narrowed. “Say, if he was to wind up danglin’ from a cottonwood limb somewhere.”

  “Ed, don’t . . .” his wife began, but fell silent when McCabe glared at her.

  Coldly, Slaughter said, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, McCabe. There’s never been a lynching in Tombstone while I’ve been wearing this badge.”

  “That ain’t been very long,” McCabe pointed out.

  “And there won’t be one, either,” Slaughter went on as if the rancher hadn’t said anything. “Anybody who tries such a thing will find themselves in a lot more trouble than they bargained for. You probably ought to think twice before you go around making threats like that.”

  “I wasn’t makin’ no threat, just talkin’. And now I’m tired of it. We may not have got what we came for—Williams’s hide—but I reckon it’ll do for now.” McCabe jerked his head toward the door and told his wife and daughter, “Come on.”

  Mrs. McCabe and Jessie got to their feet. Jessie was still sniffling as her mother herded her toward the door. McCabe followed them, stiff with anger and offended dignity.

  When they were gone, the door into the cell block swung open and Stonewall came into the office. “The prisoner’s locked up good and tight, Sheriff,” he reported.

  “That’s what I expected,” Slaughter said. “Is he still claiming he didn’t attack that girl?”

  “Yeah, and he sure sounds like he means it, too.”

  “But . . . ?” Slaughter sensed that Stonewall wanted to say something else.

  “I can’t help but think that a fella who’s done so much sportin’ with the ladies . . . well, he’d have learned to lie and make it sound just like he was tellin’ the truth, wouldn’t he? That’s the only way he could make all those gals believe whatever romantic nonsense he told them.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Slaughter had to smile faintly. “Stonewall, you can be downright profound sometimes.”

  “Huh? Does that mean you think I’m right?”

  “That’s what it means.” Slaughter reached for his hat. “Keep an eye on things here. I have to go talk to Judge Burroughs.”

  Chapter 6

  Slaughter didn’t have to go very far. Judge Thaddeus Burroughs’s office was in the Cochise County courthouse, too.

  In the judge’s outer office, the bespectacled clerk jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door behind him. “Go on in, Sheriff. The judge is expecting you.”

  Slaughter grunted in surprise, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been shocked that Burroughs expected him to pay a visit. The judge was known for keeping his ear to the ground. He was returning a thick volume bound in black leather to the shelves when Slaughter went into the judge’s office.

  With a friendly nod, Burroughs said, “Hello, Sheriff. It’s always good to see you.”

  “I wish I was here on a friendly visit, Your Honor.”

  Burroughs sighed and nodded. “Ah, yes, the McCabe business.” He waved a hand toward the chair in front of the paper-littered desk. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  Slaughter lowered himself into the chair. Not for the first time, he reflected that Judge Thaddeus Burroughs didn’t really look like the hardnosed frontier jurist he really was. On the contrary, Burroughs looked more like a storekeeper or even a schoolteacher.

  He was short and stocky, mostly bald with just a fringe of gray hair around his ears and the back of his head. His eyes were big behind thick-lensed spectacles. His voice tended to drone and gave him more of a pedantic demeanor. But he knew the law and handed it out with an iron fist and little mercy for those who broke it.

  “I suppose there are already rumors floating around,” Slaughter said.

  “It would be difficult for there not to be, considering how Little Ed McCabe was out in the street bellowing at the top of his lungs like a maddened bull. I assume you have young Williams locked up, for his own protection if nothing else?”

  “He’s behind bars, all right, and protecting him is part of it. McCabe wants to forget about a trial and string him up right now.”

  “I hope you’ve explained to him that that’s not the way things are done around here?”

  “I told him. Whether or not he’s going to listen . . .”

  Both men sat in grim silence for a moment after Slaughter’s voice trailed off. Then Judge Burroughs said, “Tell me what you’ve found out, Sheriff.”

  Slaughter laid out the story as he had heard it from Jessie McCabe. As he summarized her testimony, he thought about how bad it sounded for Dallin Williams.

  “And what does Mr. Williams say?” Burroughs asked when Slaughter was finished.

  “He denies the whole thing, of course. Claims he never laid a hand on her.”

  Burroughs sighed then pursed his lips “I hate cases where the only real evidence consists of conflicting testimony from the opposing parties.”

  “Well, there’s the baby in Jessie McCabe’s belly,” Slaughter said. “I suppose you could consider that evidence.”

  “Yes, but we can’t exactly wait . . . what was it? Seven more months? And see whether or not the baby has Dallin Williams’s eyes or nose before we render judgment, now can we?”

  “That might be the fairest way to do it,” Slaughter said, “but I don’t reckon Little Ed would be willing to wait that long.”

  “Neither would the Territory of Arizona. Not to mention the expense of feeding the prisoner for that long.” Burroughs leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together over his rounded belly. “No, the case will have to come to trial as soon as possible. The earliest I can get it on the docket is next week. Can you handle things until then?”

  “I don’t have any choice in the matter, do I, Your Honor?”

  “Not really,” Burroughs admitted.

  “I’m not as well-versed in the law as you are, Judge . . .”

  Burroughs spread his hands as if Slaughter’s comment went without saying.

  “But I was wondering,” the sheriff went on. “If Williams is found guilty of raping Jessie McCabe, will he hang?”

  Burroughs shook his head. “No. But I can put him in prison for life.”

  “I don’t know if Little Ed is going to be satisfied with that. He wants Williams dead.”

  �
�And if his daughter is telling the truth, you can’t blame the man. It’s the question of who is telling the truth that’s the sticking point. A jury will have to decide.”

  Slaughter nodded and got to his feet. “Let me know what time the trial is, Your Honor, and I’ll have Williams there.” He hoped that was a promise he would be able to keep.

  * * *

  Lady Arabella Winthrop closed the wardrobe after putting away the last of the things from her bags and paused to look at herself in the mirror attached to the dressing table. She could see the strain of the trip to Tombstone in the tiny lines visible around her mouth and eyes, but she doubted if anyone else would notice.

  That was good. She had spent years perfecting the art of keeping the truth concealed.

  Someone knocked quietly on the door. Arabella sighed and thought the visitor was probably Morris Upton again. She’d had enough trouble easing him out of the room without offending him after he’d escorted her up to her room. Just like in their past encounters, Upton had made it all too clear that he wanted her, a feeling that she didn’t return at all.

  But she couldn’t afford to offend him, she supposed. A series of financial reverses had left her in need of money, and the poker tournament would be a good way to get it, not to mention an intriguing challenge. It had been a while since she had really tested her skill at the game.

  She turned to the door and opened it as she put a smile on her face. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Morris—” The forced smile became genuine when she realized it wasn’t Upton standing there in the corridor after all.

  The man who grinned at her was much better-looking in a rugged way, with a rawboned, tanned face and prematurely silver hair under his brown hat. His voice held a soft drawl that betrayed his Virginia heritage. “I hope you’re not disappointed, Arabella, but it’s only me.”

  “Steve!” she said as her eyes widened in surprise.

  Steve Drake stepped into the room and took her in his arms. His mouth came down on hers in a kiss that seemed to melt her inside. He had always had that effect on her, damn him, ever since she’d first met him back in Charleston all those years ago!

  She had been little more than a girl then, alone and trying to make her way in a foreign country, ready to do whatever was necessary to survive. He’d been a smuggler and a gambler, and he had taken her under his wing and kept her from having to resort to selling herself.

  He had dressed her, tutored her, and come up with the idea of adding Lady in front of her name, even though she didn’t have a drop of noble blood in her veins. It could be argued that the beautiful and aristocratic Lady Arabella Winthrop was wholly Steve Drake’s creation.

  And he had never asked anything from her in return except her friendship. When she had finally come to his bed, it was entirely her own idea.

  Unless that had been his subtle plan all along, she had thought more than once. But she didn’t really believe that was the case. Steve Drake was certainly capable of scheming to get what he wanted, but not with his friends.

  He stepped back and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I was hoping you’d show up for this game, Bella. It’s been too long.”

  “Yes. Yes, it has. Five years?”

  “Closer to six.”

  When the time had come for them to go their separate ways, they had parted as friends. Arabella had never figured they would be together for the rest of their lives. Both of them were too restless for that.

  “I wasn’t sure whether to accept Upton’s invitation or not,” she said. “Now I’m glad I did.”

  Steve Drake made a face like he had just bitten into a worm-infested apple. “Morris Upton’s a jackass, and I don’t trust him any farther than I could throw him. But the stakes in this tournament of his are to my liking. As long as Upton doesn’t try to pull any tricks, I’m willing to put up with him.”

  Arabella turned the palm of her right hand up and used her left hand to pull back the lacy cuff of her sleeve. The move revealed the snout of a wicked little over/under derringer. “If he tries any tricks, he’ll be sorry.”

  That brought a laugh from Steve Drake. “I see you’re as ready for trouble as ever. Still have that stiletto strapped to your thigh?”

  She smiled. “Why don’t you find out?”

  “Later on, I just might. Right now, I want to see if you’ll have dinner with me.”

  “Of course I will. Upton’s probably counting on me dining with him, but . . .”

  “But he’ll just have to be disappointed,” Steve Drake said with a chuckle.

  She wouldn’t be disappointed with her visit to Tombstone, Arabella thought, no matter how the poker tournament turned out. Not with Steve Drake there.

  * * *

  Oscar Grayson sat at a corner table in the Top-Notch and nursed a beer. He couldn’t afford a real drink because he was saving as much money as he could for the game. It would take almost everything he had for the buy-in. Once he was in the game, he had to win. It was as simple as that.

  Of course, he was working on a plan in case he didn’t win. He always had a plan to fall back on.

  Jed Muller ambled over to the table and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Unlike the dark, slim Grayson, he was big and hearty, with a broad, sunburned face. Despite his cream-colored suit, he looked more like a farmer than a gambler, but he was good at the game, just like Grayson himself.

  “Did you see that Drake’s here?” Muller asked.

  “Yeah, I saw him,” Grayson said.

  “You reckon he’s forgotten about what happened in Wichita?”

  “Have you forgotten about it?”

  “Hell, no,” Muller said with some heat. “He nearly got us both killed. Gettin’ up on his high horse like that and spoutin’ that stuff about him runnin’ an honest game and how he wasn’t gonna put up with us cheatin’. He didn’t have to let on that the two of us were workin’ together.”

  That had been a close shave, all right, Grayson reflected. He and Muller had raked in several thousand dollars from the other players before Drake caught on to what they were doing and called them on it.

  Grayson had come close to drawing on the Virginian that night, but he had stopped himself when he remembered that Drake had a reputation for being quick and deadly with a gun.

  He and Muller had gotten out of town just a couple steps ahead of several of their outraged victims. At best, they would have been tarred and feathered; at worst there might have been gunplay or a hangrope.

  Muller rubbed his big right fist in his left palm. “I sure would like to catch Drake alone and teach him a lesson.”

  An ugly laugh came from Grayson’s mouth. “If you tried, you’d probably wind up getting hurt. Drake may look a little like a city slicker, but he’s plenty tough.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Muller said with a frown. “I’d still like to settle that score with him.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the chance. For now, you’d be better off worrying about this tournament.”

  Muller grinned. “I plan to win that big pot at the end. It’s liable to be enough dinero that I could drift down to Mexico and lay around for the rest of my life with some pretty little señorita waitin’ on me.”

  “Everybody plans on winning,” Grayson said. “You, me, Drake, Lady Arabella, and all the other players.”

  “The English gal is here?” Muller got a wistful look in his eyes. “She sure is pretty.”

  “Yeah, and while you’re thinking about how pretty she is, she’ll bluff you right out of the game. Listen to me, Jed. I’ve got an idea how to come out of this as rich men, no matter who wins the final hand. Are you interested?”

  “Shoot, yeah, but I don’t see how anybody can wind up rich without winnin’ the tournament.”

  “That’s because you haven’t thought it all through.” Grayson drained the last of the beer in his mug, shoved the empty aside, and leaned forward. “Now just listen . . .”

  Chapter 7

  Morris Up
ton was at the bar chatting idly with one of the bartenders when Arabella came downstairs with Steve Drake. The saloon owner’s forehead creased in an uncertain frown as he spotted the two of them. He abandoned the conversation and hurried across the room to intercept them as they headed for the front door.

  Arabella saw him coming and wasn’t surprised by his reaction. She had considered suggesting to Steve that they find a rear door, but neither of them was the type to sneak out of a place. That was just too undignified.

  “Well, hello again,” Upton said as he stopped in front of them. He wasn’t exactly blocking their exit, but they would have had to step around him to leave the saloon. “I didn’t realize the two of you knew each other. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We all move in the same circles, don’t we?”

  “You could say that,” Drake replied. His left hand rested lightly on the back of Arabella’s right arm. “Lady Arabella and I are old friends. Aren’t we, Bella?”

  “That’s right.” She had never been in the same place at the same time as both men. That was pure coincidence, but it explained Upton’s surprise at seeing her and Steve together.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Upton asked. “I thought we might have dinner, Lady Arabella . . .”

  “I’m afraid I’ve agreed to catch up on old times with Steve,” Arabella said. “Another time, Morris.”

  “Of course.” Upton gave them an obviously forced smile. “The two of you enjoy your evening.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Drake said. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a decent place to get a steak here in Tombstone, would you?”

  “Try the Red Top Café,” Upton suggested. “It’s up on Fremont Street and two blocks west.”

  Drake smiled and nodded. “Thanks, we’ll do that.” He linked arms with Arabella to walk her out of the Top-Notch.

  Arabella felt Upton watching them as they left. Quietly, she said, “He’s upset. I hope he doesn’t do anything to hurt our chances in the tournament.”

  “What can he do? That’s one of the good things about the game, it has rules. And there’ll be plenty of people watching Upton to make sure he abides by them.”