The Company of Strangers
Jantallian
2
Peril was never in short supply in Denver, where the night was filled with gambling, drinking and fighting, not to mention beatings, robbery and not infrequent cases of murder. Cruising the gambling tables of the town, June Dark and her escort drew plenty of attention: she because of her skills as a dealer, not to mention her beauty; her escort because of his reputation with a gun and because it was obvious after only a few games that he did not depend on her dealing to win. But the pair were not seriously in the business of making money and seemed more occupied with their own pleasure and amusement. This did not go unnoticed in certain quarters, including Rick Turner and his drinking companions.
Rick returned his charming companion to the Central Hotel, but had no intention whatsoever of calling it a night. As it happened, he wandered into a saloon where June Dark's escort was in the process of making short work of a man unwary enough to have presumed on a previous acquaintance with her. He was using a knife, but Rick noticed the well-worn gun belt and the sleek gun, polished and honed through much use. He considered the offender was lucky not to get his head blown off. He also considered thoughtfully whether this was a man he himself would care to take on in a shoot-out. He would need more proof, but he was beginning to think his father would do well to recruit the services of such a gunslinger in their latest enterprise. Meanwhile the mere fact that Harper was painting the town in the company of that particular woman suggested a level of reckless confidence or a knowledge of his own skill which made him disregard the reactions of one of the fastest Marshalls in the territory.
The proof of this came at noon the next day.
Emory Turner had ridden into town to his offices, where his son had joined him to discuss their current money-making venture. Turner Senior listened carefully to his son's account of the previous evening, after which he rubbed a thoughtful hand over his sharp jaw and raised one eyebrow in query. "You're sure he's that fast?"
"His rep says so. Talked to a man who saw him in action when the Reeves boys were taken down."
"Dark had a broken hand then. Must have needed help."
"Yeah. That doesn't mean Harper isn't fast enough to beat him now. And he'll need to be, if he's playing fast and loose with Dark's woman." He grinned a little at the pun.
"His wife," Emory corrected punctiliously.
"Even worse!" Rick grinned some more.
His father regarded him with what might be mistaken for distaste in anyone else; the younger generation seemed to want to break all the boundaries, instead of choosing the most profitable ones. Still, he might have a point about this hired gun. He nodded to the four men lounging about the room, indicating that they should accompany him. "He must have been well paid to help Dark against the Reeves. I want to look him over, before I decide if he'll be useful – and how expensive he'll turn out to be!" he said, picking up his hat. His wish was about to be unexpectedly fulfilled.
The main street was crowded as usual. As they left and strolled in the direction of the Central Hotel, a violent altercation erupted onto the street from the Marshall's Office on the other side. Emory Turner stopped, gesturing his followers to stand back and watch.
"You fool, Jim!" The senior Marshall, Stan Peterson, was yelling at a powerful, stocky, dark-haired figure, who shook off his restraining hold contemptuously. "Why risk everything we've worked for over a woman?"
The dark man flung back his head and looked his fellow Marshall in the eye. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was immensely strongly built. His whole stance was a silent warning to anyone foolhardy enough to take him on.
"You saying my wife isn't worth it, Marshall?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice.
There was no answer, although this was all too obviously what Peterson did think. The stocky man dropped his hand to his gun, seemingly checking his own intentions. Then he walked swiftly towards the Central Hotel. The street miraculously cleared, as passers-by took instant refuge in the nearest door or alleyway.
When he reached the front of the hotel, a glazed door into one of the bedrooms on the first floor opened and a man strolled out onto the balcony. He leaned against the rail, looking over and shaking the ash off the cigar he was smoking, so that it drifted down and powdered the hair of the man below. As a gesture of derision, it was unmistakable.
"You lookin' for somethin', Dark?" The deep Texan drawl was both contemptuous and amused.
"You have something of mine, Harper!" the man below told him. "And if you think you're going to keep her, you'd better come down here and prove that you can."
"Reckon I'm provin' I can, just by bein' up here!" The other was laughing openly now.
"All you're proving is that you aren't fast enough to face me," was the cold retort, "and that rep of yours is just a cover for a yellow streak a mile wide!"
In the pause which followed, the crushed remains of the cigar tumbled down into the road. Suddenly there was no-one on the balcony. The whole street held its breath.
The gunslinger emerged from the hotel doors. The blonde woman was close behind him, clutching at his coat and obviously arguing with him, but he pushed her aside carelessly, as if she did not exist. To free up his holster and gun, he slid out of the coat and dropped it over the rail. He strolled casually out into the middle of the street.
"You sure about this, Dark?"
"I'm surely going to kill you!" was the reply.
"Really?" The gunman raised an eyebrow, shrugged and looked utterly bored. He stood completely still, as if he were daring his opponent to take a shot at him. Only the gentle movement of his left thumb against his palm would have warned anyone who knew him intimately that he was about to demonstrate the lightning-swiftness of his draw.
"Really!" Dark's left arm moved as his hand dropped onto his hip while his right flashed towards his gun.
Despite the blur of movement, Harper seemed still to be waiting, holding his fire until the other's gun was virtually out of the holster. Then his right hand moved too swiftly for the eye to see, his left thumbed the hammer just once and a shot cracked through the air, only a split-second before Dark's finger tightened on the trigger. The second shot was so close it sounded like an echo; it went wide as Dark crumpled to the ground, his left arm clutched against his side.
The blonde woman gave a shriek and ran frantically to the fallen man. "Jim! Darling!" She fell on her knees, lifting him into her arms as a dark red stain spread rapidly across the chest of his shirt. "No! No!" Her heart-stricken sobs filled the air.
The gunman holstered his weapon and walked slowly towards the couple, his gaze burning into them unwaveringly. "You can leave off the crocodile tears!" he snarled at the woman. "This is what you were askin' for, isn't it?"
She looked up at him, her face ravaged with shock and glistening with tears. "I hate you, you killer! Hate you! Get away from me! He was worth a thousand of your kind!"
The gunman continued to stare at her for several seconds before he reacted.
"Why, you good-for-nothin' bitch!" A sharp crack echoed down the street like another gun-shot as he hit the woman a back-handed blow which knocked her across her husband's body. He stood over the pair of them as if contemplating finishing them both off, but then he kicked the inert body with a booted foot and remarked coldly, "I feel sorry for you, Dark! At least I know she's not worth dyin' for."
He turned on his heel and strode across the street to where his coat was draped over the rail. As he shrugged it on, Marshall Peterson came up behind him, an unwise move as he found himself looking straight down the barrel of that gun. "It was a fair fight, Marshall – you saw and so did every other person hidin' in a doorway. I even gave him a chance!" A bitter grin touched the speaker's lips. "He's dead and there ain't nothin' y' can do to me."
Peterson glowered and told him "Nothing except to suggest you take a long vacation from Denver, Harper. It might be better for your health."
"Or yours." The gunman's contempt was obvious. He walked away into the saloon and ordered a whiskey at the bar which had somehow emptied on his entrance.
Outside the body of Jim Dark, followed by his weeping widow, was being carried from the street.
Emory Turner smiled without mirth but with great satisfaction. "How very convenient. Dark was becoming far too nosy." He turned to one of his men and ordered, "Pick Harper up and bring him out to the house. He should be willing enough to quit Denver, especially if there's a fat fee in it for him." Then he addressed his son. "Perhaps you could offer the young lady our hospitality for a while? If you've made yourself pleasant, she should be willing enough too!"
# # # # #
The young lady, meanwhile, had been leaning on the window sill once more, willing herself not to look away from the street below. The confrontation between the two men had been clearly audible and despite her horror at the implications, she forced herself to watch the outcome. She'd seen Jess dispose in no uncertain terms of dangerous opponents in a fist fight, which was indication enough that he did not back down easily. But she had no idea he had this kind of reputation with a gun or whether it was deserved. If it wasn't, she could soon be looking down on his corpse.
As it was, she saw a dead man carried into the hotel. Someone else's man. A brief pang struck her heart on behalf of the blonde woman, despite her previous feelings. But her mind was grappling with the scene she had just witnessed. It had all happened right in front of her eyes. But she simply could not believe it. She could not believe that someone she knew – or thought she knew – could have just behaved in such a cold-blooded and vicious way. And over a married woman! In her confusion and pain, all she wanted was to get away from Denver and from the claustrophobic confines of the Central Hotel as fast as possible.