Chapter 3 The Jail

Sheriff Hardee had returned to the jail at Drinkin' Springs and not finding anyone t'home, had wandered about town asking the whereabouts of Maverick and Hiram. He was talking to a couple of older men who had watched the posse ride out (wishing they were going with it, no doubt), when the Drinkin' Springs Elect rode back in. Maverick and the boy were riding double with some of the Elect. Hiram had the boy up on the saddle with him.

"Where've you all been?" asked Hardee, distressed. "I came to the jail lookin' for you."

"Out chasin' down these two no 'count varmints, Sheriff."

"Sir, when you are talking about me and this fine young lad here, keep a civil tongue in your head."

"Are you jokin', or what, mister?" asked Hiram, eyeing him with an ox-like eye.

Maverick swung down from the horse he was riding and started walking towards the jail.

"Jokin'," he said, ignoring everybody. "I'm going to get some rest tonight."

"I'll just come along and make sure you're locked up."

Hiram pulled the keys out of the sheriff's hand, much to his surprise, and dangled them in the air for effect. Maverick, smirking at the sound Hiram made behind him, broke stride. As soon as Hiram reached him, he grabbed the keys from Hiram's hand and made off again. At the door, he entered the jail, walked straight back to the cells, slipped in, closed the bars on himself with a decisive clatter, reached through the bars and locked the door, then flopped face-down on the cot.

After a moment, he turned on his side facing the dividing bars between the two cells. Suddenly he had a start. In the dim lamplight on the outer wall, he saw the two hulking forms of the bandits who had robbed him and Tommy on the road. He sprang off the bed and backed against the far wall as fast as he could. Thought could not have been quicker. Hiram, too, had a start when he entered the room where the cells were and got a look at the occupants in the left-hand cell. He glanced over at Maverick behind the bars that he must have closed and locked on himself—oh, so foolishly now!—and could understand the reason for his jumping off the bed.

One outlaw had his hand thrust through the bars. In his clenched fingers was the blanket on Maverick's cot. Hardee and the boy entered, the boy barely squeezing in past Hiram, watching as the thief spoke up. Everybody in the room froze as they heard him seethe, looking through the bars at Maverick, "You told them where to find Dan'l and me."

Maverick dumbly shook his head.

"You did! Told Hardee and now here we are!"

"Wasn't me," said the lame-sounding gambler.

"Was you, too!" hollered the other bandit from the stool against the far wall.

"No, it wasn't. Would I be in here too if it was?"

"I don't know," said the first. "You come in 'ere and swing the door shut on yourself, lock yourself in, maybe you like jails."

"What a ridiculous notion," Maverick whispered to himself.

"What!"

"Pipe down, you three," called Hardee, squeezing past Hiram too in the small space between the door and the cells. "Get some shut-eye. Maverick, if you're so afraid of sleeping next to the bars where those men are, then move your cot over to the wall."

"How—how am I supposed to get that close?" Bret stammered out. "He's got a hold of my blanket."

Sheriff Hardee whipped out his revolver, aiming it low at the first bandit. "Let it go," he said, "and move back."

"Sure," said Dan'l's companion, sniggering. "Let 'im have his blanket. And his bed. He won't have nothin' else by mornin'."

"Sheriff, let me out of here," said Maverick. "You have the boy now."

"I'm inclined to honor your request," said Hardee, seriously enough. "I don't know how they'd do it, but I think they would. Strip you clean!"

"Come on in, sheriff, and see if we don't have any knives."

"Sheriff—!" Maverick urged.

"Unlock the door, Maverick. You've got the keys still," said Hardee.

"Oh, yeah," said Maverick, coming to the bars and fumbling in the lock. In his nervousness, he couldn't quite make the iron key do its work, or even find the right one of the pair.

"Look! The bird's stuck in his cage," said one of the thieves, laughing.

"He won't get out until he's an old graybeard!" said the other one.

Hiram tried to grab the key ring from Maverick's blundering fingers, but Hardee shoved Hiram aside. Behind Hiram's legs, pushed to the back against the brick wall, could be found a rather thin, pale, brown-haired lad of nearly thirteen. Now, as bulky Hiram suddenly fell backward against him, Tommy floundered forward against the bars of the left-hand cell. That was all the two bandits needed. One of them reached out an arm and scooped up the boy's neck in the crook of its elbow.

"Hurry up!" yelled Maverick. "They've got Tom!"

He stared in horror, looking from his locked door to the boy struggling in the huge grip of a desperate outlaw. One jerk, and he'd snap the boy's neck. Hardee was frozen with his gun pointed at the outlaws. Hiram was simply unmoving. Maverick raced forward, slewed the bed out of his way with his right foot and lower leg, then tried reaching through the bars. The bandit holding Tommy was too far away. Maverick retracted his arm as the second thief leaped onto his own cot. Maverick was not quick enough in getting out of the way, though. Dan'l grabbed his neck one-handedly and pulled Maverick against the bars, crushing the side of his face against them. He whipped out a knife from a battered boot with his other hand—the bandit hadn't been joking about the possibility of knives—and held it to Maverick's throat. The commotion in the room came to an abrupt stop as everyone realized how close the gambler was to receiving his great reward.

"Let him go," whispered Hardee in a hoarse voice, as he still leveled the gun.

"Put down that gun, first."

"I will, but take your knife out of his throat. And you, let the boy go."

"Nothin' doin'. I'll hold onto the rascal here, while Dan'l holds that other one. You," he said to Hiram, "come unlock this door." He moved away with the boy from the door lock.

Hiram looked around at Hardee for guidance, then ox-like made his way over to the other door. The bandit holding the boy moved back. Maverick stayed still against the bars, streaks of pain running down the right side of his face. The knife tip was in his throat. He couldn't move. But he could speak.

"Come on, Hiram. The key!" The hold on the back of his neck tightened, pressing his face even more closely into the bars. He cried out.

Hiram finally got the door open, standing as far back as he could while the bandit maneuvered the boy out beyond him. Hardee stepped back, but he spoke up.

"You're both free now. Let that man go. And let the boy go once you're outside. Nobody will follow you," he called to the unnamed bandit as he backed out into the marshal's office, dragging the boy along. Inside the cell still, Dan'l laughed, giving Maverick's neck an extra tug toward the bars.

"Should I stick him, Harvey?" A bandit named Harvey?

"Naw, not now at any rate. No need to put murder to our charge. We're just thieves, sheriff. You can have your fancy-cuff man back." There was a fine edge of ruffle, made out of the shirt material, around Maverick's cuff.

Dan'l let Maverick go and slipped out of the cell, following Harvey. As the bandit made his getaway, Maverick slowly unpressed his face from the bars and staggered back, rubbing his cheek. A fine trickle of blood ran down his neck and disappeared in his shirt front. Hardee caught him as he staggered away, leading him back to the cot.

"You've had a rough time of it, mister, but I've got that boy to think of."

Maverick nodded, swallowing. "That's right. Go get him."

At the stable, the bandits got their own horses, leaving Maverick's and the farmer's which Hardee had brought back, and saddling quickly, kicked up dust in the street as they flew away. A large-eyed stable hand watched them go, wondering why the sheriff had just up and freed them. Tommy had been thrust in the straw where he was found by Hardee, then Maverick, and lastly, Hiram.

"Now, I've got to catch them all over again!" wailed Hardee.

Maverick shot a look over at him and wiped at the blood on his neck. "Think I need a drink," said this usually non-drinking man.

"Come on," said Hardee, gathering up Hiram, too, by the arm. "I'll buy us all one. Sarsaparilla for the boy."

"They're all out of it here in Drinkin' Springs," said Maverick, without thinking. "I asked for some when I first got here yesterday."

Hardee laughed uproariously. "They just told you that."

It was true. Nobody in Drinkin' Springs thought that a full-grown man should be drinking the likes of sarsaparilla. But Tommy merited the right to drink it. As the foursome sat in the saloon, he sipped it through a paper straw, while Maverick watched him with a listless air, as if vicariously experiencing the joy of drinking Tommy's sarsaparilla. The boy looked up at him a couple of times and turned slightly away as if he knew his sarsaparilla wasn't in safe company.

"Go 'head, Maverick! Finish your drink." Hardee laughed a loud guffaw.

Maverick looked down at the shot-glass of whiskey, an amber shade of destruction, that liquid. He made a persimmon-eating face and brought the glass to his lips again. Carefully, he polished off the last of the whiskey, then awkwardly set the glass down on the table. His head felt a slight buzz. He could hold his liquor—he just couldn't hold that much of it.

"Want a game?" asked Hiram. "I'd like to try winnin' some more of my money back, Maverick."

The card sharp laughed. "You might try, but those outlaws practically cleaned me out."

"You mean you're not buying your round of drinks, young fellow?" asked Hardee.

Maverick grimaced again. "No, I hadn't thought to. I mean, I only have a few dollars left. It was your treat, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and if you throw up two bits, I'll treat you again."

"No, thanks, I'll keep my money for something less explosive, like dynamite."

They all laughed. Hardee ordered more drinks, but Maverick did the honorable thing and paid for them.

"Speaking of dynamite, what about the outlaws, sheriff? Are you going back out after them any time this evening?" Bret asked.

"Not tonight. Got to get some sleep first. Like your drink, card sharp?"

Maverick said nothing, but politely lifted the small glass to his lips again. But did he drink? Hardee tried, but when Maverick brought the glass down again, he couldn't tell how full it was. Time passed. Other men came and left. Steaks came. Sheriff Hardee and Hiram recited worn-out jokes, loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear. That was when laughter filled the room. With the boy's permission, Maverick took a sip of sarsaparilla through Tommy's straw, seeing which the bartender relented and let him have his own brown, stoppered bottle. Then it grew late. Time to find a place and bed down.

Maverick and the boy went across the street and shared a room at the untidy and louse-ridden Drinkin' Springs hotel, called Miners' Acres. There may have well been acres of men from the mines in that hotel. Maverick and his companion had to share their specific digs with about three or four of the local men, all of them with a restless propensity to hawk and spit through the night. The one bed in their room sagged to the ground under their weight. Maverick kept himself to a chair, and Tommy lay on a blanket-covered spot on the floor. What with the consumptive coughs and all the expectorating going on, about midnight Maverick and the boy eased themselves out the door and headed back to the jail. Convincing the sleepy sheriff that they weren't the two thieves returning for revenge was not easy, but he put away his gun and let them stay in the two cells. This time he left both doors open.

That he shouldn't have done.

In the morning, Maverick drowsily called over to Tommy in the other cell. No response. He opened his crusty eyes one at a time and squinted through the bars. The bed was messy. Tommy had lain there, but it must have been only for a short while, at least until the sheriff had re-entered the land of dreams. Maverick remembered dropping off the moment his still aching head hit the gunny-sack pillow.

But the boy was gone.

"Oh, no," came softly from the gambler's lips. Not again. That boy could not stay put anywhere you put 'im!

Maverick got up, passed a hand over his eyes and staggered out of the cell to wake the sheriff in the outer room. Hardee started up from his own cot as if suddenly catching himself on fire. Maverick helped him to sit up.

"Don't ever do that again, young fellow. Last time somebody woke me up sudden like that, I let 'em have it across the jaw."

"I'll remember. But, sheriff, the boy's gone."

"Gone. Gone where? Out?"

"No, it's been a few minutes, and he hasn't returned. I'm going to look for him."

"I'll join you in a minute. Just let me get my boots on."

Maverick didn't wait for him to struggle into his boots. Hardee was a large man and it might have taken him some time. Maverick couldn't wait that long. He fled the town marshal's office and headed straight to the stable. Kicking up a little straw, he found the stable hand asleep in it. Bending down and lifting that worthy to his feet, Maverick beseeched him to tell which direction the boy had ridden out in. The stable hand had no idea. Hardee appeared.

"Sheriff! You take the road back to the Jaspers' farm, and I'll head east."

"To Denver? That's a good fifteen, twenty miles."

"I know. But that boy's determined to find this Katie French, whoever she may have become. Never heard of anybody by that name myself. Though I knew a Mrs. Delacourt once. Looked like the boy some. Her name happened to be Catherine. But she was a wealthy lady in a big house. Still, strangely enough, the resemblance is there—"

"How did you ever meet a wealthy lady, Maverick? Doesn't seem like your type."

"Did some work for her once. On the county."

"What kind of work?"

"Painting and gardening. Lasted two days. Best food in Denver, even if I had to eat it standing up outside the back door."

Sheriff Hardee laughed. "You got some pluck, Maverick. I'll say that for you."

Maverick was right. Tommy was riding toward Denver. A boy as set in his mind as he was on running somebody down could easily find directions to the place where he hoped to find her. Nothing like a hungry night or wolves would deter him. The intrepid twelve and a half year old spent a lonely day and a howling night on his horse, the wind mixing with a little rain that evening. He rode hard, harder than he'd ever ridden. His ma, the way he remembered her, loomed up in his mind and acted as his Lorelie. He had not been much more than nine when she left, but he remembered her silky hands, the way those delicate fingers brushed his cheek while he lay in bed that early morning. That was the day she had left them all.

He could remember a bit more. Her smile. Clean and wholesome, like his ma could do no wrong. But Tommy had enough smarts about the world now to know that his ma probably had done something wrong with that man she ran off with. And she had not written them, or sent them word in any way as to how she was, or her whereabouts. She had seemed to forget them. Just gone away and entered another world without them. Their own ma. What had made her do it? How could she be so unkind? What had the three of them done?

Tommy guessed he'd know something more of her and why she did the things she did, but only when he grew up. He was looking forward to it, to finishing his knowledge about his ma. He knew he had a lot to learn. Would Maverick be some kind of teacher? Sobbing a little, and kicking his heels into the horse's laboring sides, he admitted to himself that he didn't know.

Maverick caught up with the boy just at the edge of the big town of Denver. They looked down into it from a ridge-top, then rode towards it together, two silent men. There was no more talk about the Jaspers' farm right then. Maverick looked around himself as he always did. Denver had grown by leaps and bounds since the last time he had seen it, about half a year back. New streets. An expanded hotel or two. A whole new bank. Far too many buildings were going up. A few were coming down. Pigs still wallowed in backyard pens, but there was an infectious cosmopolitan feeling about the place. Maverick caught it, and smiled. Pretty soon, east would meet west. He could just dream about the changes to come now, but in a little bit, it would all happen. He wondered if the tired east would be proud then of the daughters, all the new cities and towns, all over the west, which the older city would engender. He had an inkling the competition would be fierce. But let each its own.

He nodded towards one of the three livery stables in town, liking the feed there better than in the others. They rode towards it. Tommy dismounted as soon as he did and ran behind him into the fresh straw-smelling stable. Very clean in here, he thought. Not like the stable at Drinkin' Springs, where the straw stood much in need of changing. Plump horses on every hand. Feed in their troughs. A boy or two rubbing a couple of mounts down. Another using a curry comb. The stable keeper himself removing a heavy saddle from a newly arrived mount.

Maverick spoke something to him, tipped his hat and left their horses in his care. Then the two of them went out to see the sights of the town, not really sleepy at all. They walked along the boardwalks up and down the streets, munching on biscuits with eggs sandwiched between, gazing at the shop windows, pointing out things that could only be useful if one loved frills, which both men said they did not. Then near noontime there was a meat-pie shared on two plates, lots of bread, milk (for both) and a rich white tablecloth underneath real china dishes. Tommy looked around the overdone room, amazed at it all. Cloth hangings at the windows, pictures of trees and white stone buildings, a lady's face in an oval frame over the fireplace. Cushioned sofa and chairs in a tiny reading nook by a potted plant.

It took his breath away. Then the boy began to droop. Time for Maverick to find him a room for some much needed sleep, though it was only an hour gone past mid-morning. That same hotel where they dined for lunch seemed fine, so he paid for a room with just about his last two dollars, carried his own saddlebags but still tipping the porter, and maneuvered the boy up to the room. He knelt by the bed and took off his shoes and then placed him under the covers. Tommy hoarsely thanked him, rubbing the sleep in his eyes. Maverick finished covering him, then stood up and smiled.

Grateful for a few moments to himself, he exited the room and the hotel, too, finding his way into the street. He had to find a stake since he wanted to play in a couple of games that night. Hitting a few old acquaintances, men acquainted with how Maverick played, he was able to secure ample table stakes. Then with just a few hours until supper, the time when he would wake the boy for something more to eat, Maverick thought he'd just ask around a couple of places to see if anyone had ever heard of Katie French. Maybe he could surprise the boy with the news, favorable or unfavorable, at supper. He'd ask him to stay in the hotel room that night while Maverick himself played cards, then ride back with him to the Jaspers tomorrow. It'd be a long ride unless he met Sheriff Hardee or Hiram along the way and turned the boy over to them.

The gambler would be gone for five or six hours, but he'd remember to bring them both back a couple of bottles of Banks' Sarsaparilla to have for a late-night snack.

He strolled from place to place, or saloon to saloon, asking about Katie French. He aroused quite a few ears with the request for information, if there was any in that town to be had. No one knew for sure that this Katie French had ever come to Denver after quitting Drinkin' Springs. But he kept asking. Whispers started.

"Who's Katie French, and why's Bret Maverick interested?"

"A flame from the last time he was 'ere?"

"Never thought he'd ever ask about anyone like that. Second time around ladies are not quite his style. Imagine."

"I think there was a Katie Mulligan two years ago, but she got struck with typhoid."

"I remember. Irish gal. Red hair like the sunset."

"Real pretty, and a smart dresser. But she died. No, couldn't be her."

Maverick caught some of these whispers. He disavowed some, such as the one about the old flame, but he grew interested in the Kate Mulligan theory. But she was too young. If she had died only in the past two years, at about the age of twenty-four, then she'd have been too young for her son today to be twelve. It was possible, but unlikely. No, this Katie was somebody else, and he resolved to keep seeking her, even if he was tempted to put the boy's yearnings to rest and tell him his ma had passed on to her great reward through the agency of sickness. But he had not the heart. So he kept asking.

Then, suddenly, some of his inquiries bore fruit, but not the kind of fruit Maverick had hoped for. He was passing an alley on one of the older streets between two stores when he stopped to see a face peek out of a window belonging to a saddle shop. The curtain slid back, a face appeared, then was gone. Just about a second later, a side door to the shop opened, a door into the alley, and two men burst out of it. Grabbing his arms before he had a chance to react, they pulled him back into the alley and down to the dirt. He wrestled, but found their weight too much to resist. He couldn't break free. Then for the second time in a few days, something hard struck his forehead and dazed him. He closed his eyes and stopped struggling, feeling very much out of it all of a sudden. Limp as a rag doll, he could not fully awaken even as he was lifted and dragged into the side door of the saddle shop from which the men had come.

Heels dragging on the wooden floor, he found himself taken into a dark room and tossed on a bed. A candle was lit, then placed close to his face. Sitting up on his elbows, he rolled his head and tried to open his eyes, but pulled his face away at the first touch of the flame.

"What—what do you want?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"Good questions, Maverick. But let me ask you to answer one first. Why are you looking for Katie French?"

Maverick squinted to see, and a heavy older face loomed in front of him, just in the range of the burning candle.

"Katie—?"

"Don't play dumb, for I know you've had nothing else on your lips all afternoon but Katie French. Why do you want to know anything about her? Did you meet her before somewhere?"

"No, I—I don't think so. But she's got a son, he's looking for her."

"A son, where is he?"

Maverick bit his tongue on the whereabouts of the boy.

"In one of the hotels, likely," said another man in the room, deferring to the older one with a respectful tone. "Where Maverick's staying, no doubt."

"Then we should find him with ease. Take our gambler friend here, and make sure he doesn't go snatch the boy, himself. I don't want the two of them going off anywhere, not just yet."

With that, the candle left Maverick's face and feeling the burning heat gone, he relaxed ever so slightly. He heard a door slam. Then he found himself twisted off the bed he had been lying on and brought to the floor. His feet under him, he suddenly bent double from a blow to his midsection. Faltering back, he suffered several more until he found himself on his knees, bleeding from mouth and nose. He shakily wiped his lips while holding his stomach with his other arm. Then a hand grabbed his hair and tilted his head back. A gun prodded his nose aside.

"Never ask about Katie French again, you hear? It'll cost you, if you do."

"Who are—you!" he demanded, trying to look back at the gun. The hand wrenched his head further backward on his neck. He groaned.

"Swear!"

"Swear what, who!"

The hand forced his head back farther until his Adam's apple felt as if it was splitting open his throat.

"I swear," he muttered. "No more Katie French."

"That's good. You're a quick learner. Make sure you remember the lesson!"

The man holding him pushed Maverick's head suddenly forward, then after a second's pause, he again struck him with the weapon, a long-barreled Colt such as some of the Texas Rangers used to carry. Maverick had seen it when the end of the barrel had first touched his nose. He slumped forward to the floor and lay quite out for about an hour. When he came to, it was fully dark in the room, and outside. He pushed himself up and made it to the bed. Resting his forearms upon it, he gazed around the unlighted stockroom and tried to pull himself together.

Squinting, he blinked, experiencing a mighty ache behind his eyes. Shaking his head only served to dull it further. With a mighty heave, he pushed himself up to his feet, leaned across the bed with his hands against the wall, turned and staggered along the edge of the bed. He fell against an old roll-top desk, balancing on it. Easing by that, he reached out and fell against the wall near the door. Turning around, he lay against it for a few seconds, trying to overcome a dizzy spell. Then he lurched forward toward the door, turning the handle and pulling it open. He found another darkened room, a much larger one, awaiting him. The saddlery was closed for the night. He stumbled from counter to counter, leaning for a moment on each of them, then shoving off again. At last, he made it back to the side door and turning the handle, found it locked. He pulled and pulled, upsetting his dizzy head further.

"It won't budge, Maverick," said a firm voice from somewhere in the room. He whipped around, peering into the darkness, an almost utter blackness.

"Tell me where you are," he beseeched.

"Over here, by the window. Can you see me?"

"Not well. It's so dark. Are you the same man with the candle?"

"That I am. My young friends didn't hurt you too much, did they?"

"Not if it's good for a stomach to turn to jelly."

There was a loud laugh.

"Do you own this store?"

"It's part of what I own here and about Denver."

"What's your name?"

Maverick had stayed over by the door, his hands still grasping the shiny brass knob. Now he slipped a couple of feet into the room, stopping by a counter to rest himself on it.

"It's not worth keeping secret, I guess, especially as you'll be, ah, leaving town soon. I'm Charles Demarest. Born in County Galway, Ireland. But I've been in the States for almost forty years. I feel that I'm a native now."

"What's between you and Katie French?"

"Well, you probably wouldn't have ever found out, but she's the widowed Mrs. Delacourt. You've heard of that name, surely."

"I have. Wealthy lady. Lives in a house on Main Street down around the oaks. Yeah, I know her."

"You say you … know her?"

"I mean, I know of her. I'm not thinking too straight." He winced and rubbed a hand over his forehead to clear the muddle lurking behind it.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be. Were they very rough? I told them just enough, and no more, to get you to swear you'd leave well enough alone."

"The boy—" Maverick began. "What's been done with him? Your men said you were going to my hotel, and …"

"I've been to see him. Fine looking youngster. Resembles Mrs. Delacourt in every way. Though a bit on the small side for a lad his age. But he has Catherine's eyes. As she and I are to be married, I would have liked to give him my name. But I'm to become the lady's rightful heir, after we're married."

"Married? You and—?"

"That surprise you?"

"No." Maverick thought about it. Why shouldn't they be marrying? He had no prior claim on Catherine Delacourt, or Katie French. "I wish you'd let me out of here. I want to see the boy. He's still there, isn't he, where I left him?"

"He is. You'll both be leaving town together. Take him back wherever you found him, or them. He told me about a sister and brother. Both younger. I don't want them to ever find out about their ma."

"Why not? You could provide a home for them. Everything. Schools, travel."

"And what if Catherine didn't marry me, on account of the long-lost children? And there's something else."

"What's that?" Maverick feared the worst, and was so rewarded.

"Catherine hasn't long for this world. She's in a lot of pain every day and not getting any better. I'm almost ashamed to have designs on her money. But I have business interests to uphold."

"You won't let her see the children then? Just because of the money?"

"No, she might make other arrangements than the ones she already has. We're having the preacher visit next Sunday, about six days from now. She'll last until then, the doctor says, though not for long thereafter."

"You sound all broken up."

"I want to marry Catherine Delacourt."

"And if I take the boy away, tell him some story maybe about his ma's dying, get him off the scent, then you can live a much wealthier man all your days?"

"That's about it. But with the others tuggin' on the lady's heart-strings, I fear my portion might become small indeed. Blood's thicker than water, you know."

"But she abandoned them. Maybe if she knew they were in the area, she'd not even want to see them."

"Can't take the chance." Demarest stood up straighter and came forward. He appeared to be all alone, though Maverick, his eyes scanning the room suddenly, still had trouble seeing into the corner shadows elsewhere. "Here's my plan. You're to ride out of here with the boy, Tommy. Don't come back to Denver for as long as you value your whole skin, and say nothing at all about this if you ever do."

"That's a tall order. Lie to an earnest boy like Tom. Stay away from one of the most profitable places in all the west to play cards. And keep my lips sealed on that kind of fraud. Trickin' somebody into giving you their money."

"You had better do it."

Maverick bit his swollen, cracked lip and felt of his bruised eye.

"Just unlock the door," he muttered, leaning back on the counter as Demarest, after laughing once, came forward and unlocked it.

As Maverick passed out of the side door, Demarest said to him, "Take care of the boy, and don't ever let him find out." The card player didn't answer him, but slipped on by.