Bullet for a Bad Man

Den of Chance

Boone Scott looked older than he was. His bronzed skin, from countless hours spent under the burning sun, had a lot to do with it. But it was his ivory-handled Colt, conspicuous on his hip, that drew more than a few glances as he mingled with the saloon’s patrons. Fancy Colts like his cost a lot of money, and men who wore them were the kind to watch out for.

The poker games interested Boone for a while. All the players were armed, some with revolvers stuck under their belts, others with their jackets swept back to reveal holsters. They sat like roosting hawks, tense, alert, their movements quick, their faces as inscrutable as they could make them.

The professional gamblers stood out because they were so at ease and relaxed. They also stood out because of their black frock coats and wide-brimmed black hats. They did not flourish weapons but there was no doubt they were heeled.

Boone had played poker before. On occasion he would sneak out of the ranch house and join the Circle V punchers in the bunkhouse for their usual Saturday night game. His mother branded poker—and all gambling— as the devil’s handiwork and urged him to resist temptation. His brother was doomed to perdition, she would say, but he need not be.

Boone’s father did not like that perdition talk. No son of his, Ned maintained, was bound for hell, and he would thank his wife to stop saying they were.

Ned went to church with Lillian when she visited Tucson, and he said grace at the supper table, and when the boys were little he had said prayers with them at bedtime. But about a year ago Ned shocked Boone considerably one night by remarking that religion was for those who did not like the way life was so they made up a way to make life tolerable.

‘‘Are you saying you don’t believe in God, Pa?’’ Boone had asked.

Ned scowled and shook his pipe as if about to hurl it at the Almighty. ‘‘I am not sure what I believe. I confess it is all too confusing for me and always has been.’’

‘‘What part confuses you?’’

‘‘Every part. But you can start with God is love. The parson says that all the time, and your mother, God bless her, must say it twenty times a week.’’ Ned had gazed out the parlor window. ‘‘But if God is love, why does he allow all the horrible things in this world? Why does he let people get sickly, and die? Why does he let our bodies wither and grow feeble to where we can’t use a chamber pot without help?’’

Boone was sure he did not know and said so.

‘‘The war opened my eyes, son,’’ Ned had told him. ‘‘The things I saw, the awful things I never talk about, changed me. Men with their arms and legs blown off, screaming and wailing in pools of blood. Boys no older than you, gutted like fish with their insides hanging out and begging for someone to put them out of their misery. An officer I knew, the nicest, kindest man you’d ever want to meet, took shrapnel in the crotch and would never be a man again.’’ Ned shuddered. ‘‘Now I ask you: How can a God of love let awful things like that happen?’’

‘‘You would have to ask God.’’

‘‘I have, son, many a time. I have prayed and prayed for the answer to that and other questions I have. And do you know what the answer to my prayers has been?’’

‘‘No, Pa. What?’’

‘‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I talk to God like your mother says to do, but God doesn’t talk back.’’

Boone had not known what to say so he had not said anything.

‘‘Maybe it is me,’’ Ned said. ‘‘Maybe I lack something. Maybe that is why God does not talk to me.’’

‘‘Could be,’’ Boone had said since his father was looking at him as if he expected him to say something.

Ned had sighed. ‘‘Religion confuses me. I doubt I will make sense of it this side of the grave, and once I am on the other side it will not much matter.’’

Boone never forgot that talk. It scared the hell out of him.

Now, watching a gambler lay down a full house and rake in a pot, Boone placed his left hand over the poke in his pocket but did not take the poke out. He was thinking of his mother, and perdition.

From the poker tables Boone drifted to the roulette wheel. Like everyone else, he was fascinated by the bright colors, and how the wheel flashed when the dealer gave it a spin. This particular wheel took two bits to bet and paid out as much as ten dollars.

Farther on, a dice dealer placed dice in a metal cage, closed the tiny door and gave the cage a spin. Players waited with bated breath for the cage to stop so they could see if they were winners or losers.

Boone strolled on and was soon confronted by a game he never saw before. The wheel of fortune, it was called. A giant wheel, as high as he was, painted in gaudy colors. Along the rim were small squares with the four suits, diamonds, spades, hearts and clubs, repeated over and over again. The dealer would give the wheel a hard spin and it would whirl around and around, clicking and clacking thanks to a spoke along the outer edge, and finally come to a stop with a pointer over the winning suit.

Boone started to reach for his poke, but once again he stopped himself.

The next table had another game new to Boone. It was called crown and anchor. The dealer set out squares of paper marked with the different suits, and players put their bets on whichever suits they thought would win. Once all the bets were placed, the dealer took a single die that had the suits painted on its sides, put the die into a small basket and shook the basket. Whichever suit ended up faceup was the winner.

Beyond were faro tables. More popular than poker, faro drew scores of players and onlookers. The idea behind it was simple. The dealer had laid out thirteen cards representing the one through the king, and players would place their money on the card they liked. Matching cards were in a small box in front of the dealer. He would slide two cards out and show them.

Whoever had placed a bet on the first card lost. But whoever bet on the second card was a winner. Bets placed on cards that had not been drawn were allowed to ride or were removed.

Someone jostled Boone and he glanced up in annoyance. That was when he noticed that everyone was watching the faro players except a short man with buckteeth on the other side of the table. He was staring at Boone, and when Boone set eyes on him, the man quickly looked away.

Boone moved on to the craps table. He watched a while, and when he saw the bucktoothed man sidle near, he circled around the craps table to a backgammon table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bucktoothed man staring at the backgammon players.

Coming to a decision, Boone took several quick steps as if he were about to hurry off. The man gave a start and came in his direction. Suddenly stopping, Boone wheeled. ‘‘Why are you following me, mister?’’

The man appeared taken aback. ‘‘What in hell are you talking about, sonny?’’

‘‘You have been following me. I want to know why.’’

‘‘Are you loco?’’ the man said more loudly than he needed to. ‘‘I don’t even know you.’’

‘‘You were at the faro table and the craps table,’’ Boone persisted.

The man gestured and practically shouted. ‘‘Look around you, boy. This place is packed. Is everybody here following you?’’

People were staring.

Boone, uncomfortable, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘‘I reckon I could be wrong.’’

‘‘Sounds to me like you are drunk. Do not bother me with your antics again.’’ So saying, the man barged off.

Boone stared after him, conscious of the glances he was getting. He had pivoted to head for the back and the room his brother was in when a warm hand brushed his and the voice of an angel spoke into his ear.

‘‘You better be careful, whoever you are. That there was Sam Jarrott and he is as mean as they come.’’

Boone turned. The angel was a girl not much older than he was. She had big hazel eyes, long eyelashes and an oval face. Her dress gave him the impression it would burst at the seams if she exhaled.

‘‘Jarrott has notches on his six-gun. I saw him earn one of those notches with my own eyes.’’ She held out a small hand. ‘‘I am Lucy, by the way. What might your handle be?’’

‘‘What?’’ Boone said.

‘‘Your name. You do have one, don’t you? Most mothers don’t call their children ‘it.’ ’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Are you addlepated?’’ Lucy asked. ‘‘You do not seem to have all your wits about you.’’

‘‘I have plenty of wits.’’

‘‘You could not prove it by me. But I will try again. Do you have a name or not?’’

Boone forced his tongue to tell her who he was.

‘‘Scott, you say?’’ Lucy repeated, her brow furrowing. ‘‘Land sakes. I suppose it is silly to ask, but are you by any chance kin of Epp Scott?’’

‘‘I am his brother.’’

‘‘You don’t say.’’ Lucy was impressed. ‘‘He is a big man in these parts. Any bigger and he would be governor.’’

‘‘You must have him confused with someone else.’’

‘‘I would not confuse the man I work for.’’

Boone chuckled. ‘‘Now I know you are mistaken. My brother is a rancher. Our stable has horses, not doves.’’

‘‘Try not to make it sound like the plague if you can help it,’’ Lucy said testily.

‘‘I didn’t mean—’’ Boone began.

‘‘A girl has to eat,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘When she is adrift with no family or friends, she cannot be choosy.’’

‘‘You are all alone?’’

‘‘Not all the time. But say. I can’t stand here doing nothing but talk or I will get in trouble with Condit.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Condit doesn’t like it when his doves don’t earn their keep.’’ Lucy grinned and clutched his arm. ‘‘Why don’t you buy us both drinks so I can spend more time with you?’’

His ears strangely warm, Boone said, ‘‘I would like that. But I am not much of a drinker.’’

‘‘You don’t say? Yet here you are in a saloon. When you are on a horse do you say you don’t ride?’’

‘‘Of course I can ride. And good too. I can also rope and throw a steer when I have to.’’

‘‘My, oh my,’’ Lucy said while leading him toward the bar. ‘‘A man of your abilities is apt to turn my pretty head.’’

Boone’s chest grew tight.

‘‘Are you about to be sick?’’

‘‘No. Why?’’

‘‘You were green there for a second.’’ Lucy laughed merrily. ‘‘I like you, Boone Scott. You are not like most men I meet. A good like, not a bad like.’’

Boone spoke before he could stop himself. ‘‘I am glad it is good. And I like you too.’’

Smiling sweetly, Lucy brought him to the end of the bar. She bawled for a bottle, and a bartender promptly brought one over, along with two glasses.

‘‘So, what do you say, Mr. Scott?’’

‘‘Call me Boone. And what do I say to what?’’

‘‘The glass or the bottle. I can stay with you longer if it is the bottle.’’

Boone nodded at the bartender. ‘‘Leave it.’’

‘‘I have not been this flattered since I can remember.’’ Lucy winked and rubbed her fingers across the back of his hand. ‘‘How would you like a nice quiet place where we can talk in peace?’’

‘‘I would like that very much.’’ Boone gazed around the crammed saloon. ‘‘But where? Outside?’’

‘‘Do it in the street?’’ Lucy said, and was convulsed with merriment. ‘‘Goodness. You are more bold than I imagined. But no, thank you, I have my limits and a public street is one of them.’’ She tugged on his wrist. ‘‘Come on. There are rooms at the back.’’

Boone let himself be led past the room his brother was in and on down a narrow hall flanked by door after door. She opened one without knocking and playfully pushed him in ahead of her. A small oak table and a bed were the only furniture. On the table was a lamp, already lit.

‘‘They have beds in a saloon?’’

Lucy shut the door and faced him, tilting her head as if she were trying to figure something out. ‘‘The floors are too hard. Not that this bed has much to recommend it. I would not use it but I can do without the chafing.’’

Boone was aghast. ‘‘This is where you live?’’

‘‘No, silly. I already told you. This is where I work.’’ Lucy pulled him with her and they bumped against the bed. ‘‘Have a seat. I will pour.’’

‘‘I would rather stand.’’

‘‘Don’t be silly. We can be comfortable, at least.’’ Lucy gave him a shove.

Boone tried to catch himself, but there was nothing to hold on to. He fell onto the bed and promptly sat up. ‘‘You are a bit bossy.’’

‘‘Some men like bossy.’’ Lucy opened the bottle and filled first one glass and then the other. ‘‘Here you go.’’ She held a glass out to him. ‘‘Drink up. You will need it. If you are what I think you are, I am about to give you the treat of your life.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

‘‘Must I spell it out for you? The festivities are about to commence.’’