When Bart got back to the hotel there was a wire for him from Bess.
Haven't heard from you.
Any progress?
Bess Dupree
She'd have to wait until morning, the gambler decided. He was too tired and unsure of everything to think straight, and he wearily climbed the stairs to his room.
For once he lay in bed trying to stay awake. He didn't know what was bothering him more – the fact that he'd spent all day deceiving a good woman and a sweet child or the confusion surrounding the real person behind the name Dalton Dupree. How could a man so upstanding, so loving and moral, be a vicious criminal like George Henry? A man that killed mercilessly and stole without remorse? And how had he gotten to be that way? Before the gambler knew it, he'd fallen asleep. And while sleeping, he dreamt and remembered.
As soon as he unlocked the door he knew there was someone in the room. "I've been waiting for you," the voice told him.
"And do you always wait in other people's hotel rooms?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Generally, when it suits my purpose," came the expected reply. "Come in and sit down, Mr. Maverick. I came to deliver a message. You don't have to worry about Raymond anymore. He won't bother you again."
"Oh? And will it be you bothering me instead? Do you have a name or should I just call you sir?"
"Mr. Johnson's right. You are funny. Name's Henry. George Henry. But you can call me sir."
"Well, Mr. Henry, sir, is that all you came to tell me? If it is, I appreciate the message. I'm gonna lay down now – head's killin' me."
George Henry stood up and pointed his Colt at the gambler. "I'll make this short. Just because Raymond's gone doesn't mean the promise has changed. You lose, you live. You win, you'll be lookin' over your shoulder for me. And I don't miss." He holstered his gun and walked past Bart. "Good talkin' to ya, Mr. Maverick. See you around." And Bart's uninvited guest was gone.
He opened his eyes slowly, halfway expecting to see George Henry in the room. It was still night outside, and there was no one there but him. But the lingering feeling that he was missing important pieces to the puzzle remained. He rolled over and ran through everything that he'd learned one more time. The dual identity. The possible murder. The truth of the marriage and birth, both Dalton's and Bess's. The ugly picture of Hanford Dupree. The shamed and grieving mother. The drunken uncle. The loving wife and child. Two entirely different personas. Nothing made sense anymore, and Bart finally fell back asleep with all of it spinning in his head.
When morning came he had no more sorted out than he did the night before. He got cleaned up and changed clothes, then went downstairs for breakfast. When he'd finished that he went searching for the barber, and found one within a few feet of the hotel. After a haircut and shave he went back to the telegraph office and sent an answer to Bess Dupree.
Making headway
Back next week.
Maverick
That should keep her happy for a while. It was the truth, and about all he could tell her right now. There was still something not quite right about the whole situation, and until he knew just what it was there was no sense trying to explain.
He was restless and needed time and space to think, and he finally went back to the livery and soon rode out of town, hoping to clear his head. He traveled south this time, riding out to the Lake the town took its name from, and found a shady spot to sit and think. It reminded him of the river that the three Maverick boys had grown up by, and he spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon there, letting his mind wander back and forth among the overgrown weeds that this journey had become.
He missed his brother more than ever right now. Whenever something was bothering him and he couldn't see the forest for the trees, Bret was usually close enough to talk things out with. This time Bart had no earthly clue where his brother was, and it bothered him greatly. He'd put out 'feelers' before he'd left Delmont, hoping there would be some trail for him to follow up on his return, but that didn't help him right now. And Beau was still in Montana, for all he knew. No, he was just going to have to work this one out all by himself, a daunting prospect at the moment. Finally tired of sitting on the ground, he got up and mounted his horse, missing Noble almost as much as his brother.
He rode partway around the lake before heading back to town, and found himself thinking about food. That was something that didn't happen often, and he turned the horse back to the road. There was a café in town, down on the other side of the barbershop, and he wandered in there to see about an early supper. The food was good and the waitress bright and perky and Bart did his best to be pleasant and friendly, traits that typically came to him without thinking about them. Today he almost had to force himself to smile.
Back in his hotel room, he decided the best thing he could do was play poker. Maybe concentrating on something other than the confusion he found himself surrounded by would allow him to think clearly. Since there was little chance that Bret would come riding into Lake Charles tonight, that seemed the best idea he'd had all day. He tried to put everything out of his mind and concentrate on the clothes he'd brought with him. Walking around town looking like your average, everyday cowboy was fine, but he needed to be Bart Maverick, professional poker player right now. And that required a different style of dress.
After a great deal of debate he settled on the gray coat and silver vest, with his preferred pin-tucked white shirt and black tie. As he settled his hat on his head he blew out a breath and headed for the nearest saloon. He was determined to think of nothing but poker tonight.
XXXXXXXX
That sentiment lasted about three hours until one of the cowboys playing at the same table decided there was someone cheating and it was probably the tinhorn. How many times had he heard that particular label thrown at him, and how many more times would he hear it in this lifetime?
"I don't cheat, friend," was Bart's standard answer, said with a smile and a conciliatory tone of voice.
"Y'all cheat," the cowboy slurred his words but had no trouble making his sentiment perfectly clear. "All you tinhorns. Cheat. Ask anybody here."
"Is that what you think?" Bart asked, looking from one poker player to the next. Everybody but the cowboy shook their head 'no' or said the word. The man to Bart's immediate right looked at the drunk.
"Come on, Stan, we've been over this before. You can't drink when you play poker, it just turns you into a lousy player."
"Doesn't either," answered Stan. "He's cheatin'. I seen him."
"No, you didn't," the gambler answered, tired of hearing the same imaginary complaint.
"Saw ya. With my own two eyes. You got one a them fancy contrap . . . contraptions up yer sleeve."
Bart pulled the sleeves on his coat almost up to his elbows. There was nothing to be seen but his shirt. "Where?" he asked.
Even though it was plain to everyone Stan was drunk and in the wrong, he wouldn't let it go. "Don't know. Ya got rid of it." He stood up and began to reach for his gun. That's when a voice loud enough to cast a pall over the entire saloon was heard.
"Get your hand off your gun, Stan. This man's a friend of Dalton's. He ain't no cheater." Slowly, ever so slowly, the cowboy moved his hand away from his gun. Only then would Bart take his eyes off the man that threatened him and look to see who had spoken.
The stranger was tall and dark, and wore a tin star. Bart sighed, waiting for the voice to tell him he was under arrest. Instead what he heard was, "Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Jamison. Stan tends to get out of control when he drinks. He won't bother you again, will you Stan?"
Stan shook his head 'no.'
"Come on, Stan. Time to spend the night sleepin' it off." The cowboy pushed his chair away from the table and walked towards the sheriff, who motioned him on out the door. "You can go back to your game now, folks."
Bart let out a slow breath. Just who was Dalton Dupree, that even his friends were held in such high esteem?