Act Three, Part One

Mrs Mills was in a foul mood as she finished scrubbing the blood stains from wall and carpet. Not only was it a messy job and one that had to be done quickly before the blood could dry, but it was her own son's blood, and shed by that little hellion Rose!

And to top it off, she could hear whispering coming from the Blue Room, Liliana's and Jamie's voices. No doubt their wildcat of a sister was in there too. Did the obnoxious Mr Gordon know they were in his room, possibly messing with his things? "Hmph!" she grumbled to herself. "On the other hand, serves him right, the interfering busybody!"

She opened a window at the end of the hall and flung the dirty water out into the yard, then piled the used rags into the basin and bustled back downstairs.

And as she reached the foot of the stairs, she was astounded to hear laughter coming from the front hall. Why, there was Mr Gordon in there, swilling booze well before nightfall! And with him, his voice loud and giddy, was her own Frank!

"An' he agreed! Can you be… believe it, Mizzer Gordon? He agreed t' th', th' deal I pro… propososodeded…" He stopped and frowned. "That… that don't sound right," he muttered.

Sounding tipsy as well, Gordon chuckled. "So thass why ol' Gabe went off back, uh, back t' town in th' middle o' th' night, in th' middle o' th' storm, eh? Gave y' his word t' back off for three days?"

"Yep! An' he is so sure she'll still pick him! Even with givin' me three days t' work on 'er." He snickered, then hiccuped. "What a gold-plated knucklehead, right?"

"Aw, well, there's lotsa knuckleheads in this ol' world."

"Ain't that the truth!" Frank howled with laughter, and Gordon joined in. Frank leaned forward then and held out his glass. "Hey, pour us another, wouldya? Thass a mighty fine painkiller, Mizzer Gordon!"

"Only th' very best!" Gordon aimed the bottle at the deputy's glass. But before he could pour, a horrified screech of "Frank!" rang through the room.

Both men turned and blinked at the angry woman glaring at them. "Oops!" said Frank and giggled.

"Af, af, affernoon, Miz Mills," said Artie. "Care for a little whiskey?" He waved the bottle in her general direction.

"Whiskey! At this time of day? What do you think you're doing?" She bore down on Mr Gordon and snatched the bottle from his hand to return it to its proper place. Then she stormed back and took both glasses away as well. "And you, Frank! Drinking! Of all things!"

"Why, it's, it's painkiller, Ma! 'Cause o' m' head." He gestured at his big bandage. He broke out laughing, adding, "Bes' painkiller I ever had!"

"Uh-huh," put in Gordon, nodding like an idiot. "Purely medici… medicin… medicinicinal." He blinked and gave her what was probably supposed to be a sober look. It wasn't, not by a long shot.

"Oh!" Mrs Mills exclaimed. She hauled Frank to his unsteady feet. "You are going home this instant!" she announced.

"Home!" He tried to protest, but she grabbed him by an ear and marched him from the room. "Ow! Ma!" he howled.

"He'll never stay on 'is horse," Artie called, following them to the kitchen. He swayed and leaned against the doorjamb for support. "He's schnockered. Plastered. Pickled." Each P sent a small explosion of spittle raining into the kitchen. Lifting a finger, Artie said, "In fac', I predict he'll fall splat off 'is horse before… uh, before he can even leave, leave th' yard out there!"

Mrs Mills snorted. Much as she hated to admit it, the sot was probably right. "Then I'll take him home myself. I'll hitch the chestnut up to the carriage and make sure he arrives home safely. And you!" She rounded on Mr Gordon and shook a finger in his face. "You should be ashamed of yourself, getting the boy drunk like this! And you should go at once and sleep this off!"

"Your wish is my command, dear lady," he replied and attempted a low bow to her, a bow that nearly overbalanced him.

"Hmph!" She caught Frank by the ear again and steered him out the kitchen door into the yard. At the stable door she looked back toward the house to find that Mr Gordon had made it to the back door himself and was now waving goodbye.

"Oh!" she snorted again. "You may think you're a charming drunk, Mr Gordon, but I can assure you, you are not! And," she added as she got the stable door open and shoved Frank inside, "it may not be the most Christian sentiment I've ever had, but I do hope that you wake up with the worst headache of your life!" She slammed the door behind her.

Artie slipped back inside the kitchen and chuckled. "Oh, that's not too likely," he murmured, instantly sober again. Quietly he took the back hallway to the office and listened briefly at the door. He could hear Hargill within, muttering. Good. The manager was out of the way for the nonce, as were the Mills, both mother and son. And that was exactly what he wanted.

Artie hurried up the stairs and rapped lightly on the door to the Blue Room. "All right, kids," he said when Liliana answered, "we've got a little job to do and who knows how much time to do it in. And Rose Petal, I apologize in advance, but we're going to have to let your brother in on a little secret of yours."

…

Jim rode on up the wilderness path, finding no more prints of any kind. Evidently the horse he'd been following was the gelding, the so-called Sadie, the one at the old man's camp.

The old man. There was something about him, something shifty, less than aboveboard. Just the fact that he'd misidentified the horse he'd supposedly owned for years as a mare had been enough to raise Jim's suspicions. Now granted, the old timer was on his way up to Dallas with something he had thought to be extremely valuable, and that sort of excitement might well have been enough to, oh, scramble his recollections some. But there was something else to it, Jim thought. Something fishy…

BLAM!

Jim reined up in a heartbeat. That had come from behind him, from the direction of the old man's camp! Instantly Jim wheeled his horse and spurred the stallion into a gallop.

He arrived back at the camp and flung himself from the saddle to kneel at the side of the old man where he lay in a crumpled heap beside his campfire. "Who did this to you?" Jim asked urgently.

The old man blinked up at him and wheezed, "You… you were right, sonny. Fool's gold. Yeah, an' me the fool carryin' it."

"Who shot you?" said Jim, ignored the man's ramblings. "Did you see him? What's his name?"

"Didn't… didn't gimme no name," said the old man. "Jes'… jes' his callin' card." And he lifted a hand to touch the dark spreading stain on his chest.

"Who did this?" Jim asked once more. But the old man only stared at the blood on his hand.

Then collapsed.

Jim rocked back onto his heels, frowning. Someone shot the old man, but why? To rob him of the nugget? But no, there it was on the ground a short distance away, along with the bandanna.

Then why? The horse was gone; had someone taken the gelding then and shot the old man to do so? Or had…

Blackjack bugled at that moment, and Jim rolled instantly, just as…

BLAM! A bullet slammed into the ground where Jim had been kneeling half a second before.

Jim bounded to his feet with his revolver in hand and dove for shelter behind the log the old man had used for a chair. Another bullet splintered the wood at the top of the log. Jim popped his head up just long enough to take a shot of his own, then ducked down again.

A man was out there, mounted on the gelding. A bandanna was tied around the lower half of the man's face, concealing his identity. He shot once more and splintered the log yet again.

Jim fired back, then dropped down behind the log again. He frowned and shook his head. This was no good! He had no more concealment than this log while his opponent was mounted; Jim needed a way to shift the odds of the fight into his favor. So he reached into a pocket and scooped out a little item Artie had cooked up for him. It looked like a simple rubber ball, and for the most part, that's what it was. However, when someone twisted the two halves of the ball in different directions, as Jim was doing just then…

He popped up from behind the log once more and hurled the ball with all his might, then hit the deck again, counting.

One… two… thr…

FOOM!

Dirt and debris blasted into the air and rained down in all directions. Both gunman and horse fell to the ground together. The man leapt up again and scampered a few feet away from his horse.

And grabbed Jim's.

He jammed his revolver into its holster and vaulted into the saddle, then wheeled the horse and set off up the trail. Jim charged out of hiding and ran to the fallen horse. He hadn't intended to harm the animal! But just as he reached it, the gelding snorted and shook his head thoroughly, then surged to his feet. Jim spoke soothingly to the gelding, patting the side of its neck, walking it a few paces.

The horse had no limp nor any other apparent harm. Good. Now for the gunman. Jim licked his lips, then cut loose with a shrill whistle.

Several yards up the trail, out of sight beyond a bend or two, there was a sudden commotion that included plenty of hoarse cussing, a loud thud, and Blackjack's bugle of triumph. Moments later the stallion came dancing back down the trail, riderless.

Jim grinned and caught his horse's reins, then mounted up. "Let's go see where you left him," he said.

But while the mark where the gunman had measured his length in the dust was plain to see, where he had gone from there wasn't. Jim shoved his hat to the back of his head and peered at the ground, then at the underbrush on either side of the trail.

The gunman had vanished.