“Zat so?” the sheriff inquired of the players remaining in place. “You been losin’ hands, there, Danny? Your wife know you’re here, spendin’ the grocery money, Frank? You hit some private bank account b’fore you come up here, Taylor?”
“It’s just a friendly little game,” one of those called out said sullenly. “You got no grounds to interrupt when we’re in the middle of a friendly little game.”
“Ahuh. How long did you figure to let him rake in cash until you started fleecin’ him? And on a Sunday, no less. Ain’t you an elder in your church, Calvin? Whatddya think your preacher would say about that?”
The man addressed as Calvin looked up cheerfully from his cards. “Rev. Holcomb? He’d prob’ly be cheerin’ me on. A bigger cut in the collection plate, y’ know.”
Ignoring the byplay, Hennessey was hurriedly gathering up whatever greenbacks had accumulated in his corner to stuff into a side pocket of his flashy coat. Then, warned by a little growl by Deputy Blakely that time was of the essence, he rose gracefully and offered an elegant bow to his fellow poker enthusiasts.
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your consideration. Perhaps we can expect another game in the near future—a game that will not be so rudely interrupted.”
The law and its accused clomped heavily down the bare wooden stairs. As owners, the Putnam brothers had put no extra funds into the amenities of their saloon / gambling den; as temporary owner, Clunker had followed suit. Stepping back outside, into the twilight air that felt so fresh and welcome compared to the Prairie Lot’s stale atmosphere reeking of cigar smoke and sweat, came as a considerable relief.
“Am I under arrest for some reason?” Quinn wanted to know, as the group began their return to civilization.
“You ain’t wearin’ cuffs, are you?” jeered Colton, the younger and more garrulous of the deputies.
“But, then, why am I—”
“You’re with us,” Paul explained patiently, “b’cause we need to talk over a few things with you. And the bes
t place to do that, away from the rest of this town, is at the jail.”
“Been lookin’ all over for you, too.” This was Colton again. His elbow accidentally jarred their detainee, who stumbled before righting himself with a glare. “Sorry.” Although there was no trace of apology in the tone. “We wasted a few man hours trackin’ you down. Mister Hennessey.”
“Well, I certainly regret your effort.” Quinn could high-hat with the experts, and his bearded chin raised a few inches in challenge. “Simply because I’ve been briefly incommunicado...”
Now it was Austin’s elbow that grazed the man more held hostage than free, from the other side. Another stumble, another glare, this time full of outrage. “Yeah, we been combin’ the streets, checkin’ all your favorite hang-outs. Mighta known you’d be set up with Wild Card and Caribbean Stud.”
Quinn turned toward the sheriff, honestly perplexed. “I’ve never heard of either of those. I was just trying to get a little money ahead for—what is this all about, anyway? You haven’t even explained why you need to talk with me. Wait!” He halted dead, there, half across the dusty street; a few passersby, on their way to or from legitimate business, sent casual but curious glances their way. “Is it Molly? Did something happen to Molly?”
“Well, you would know, wouldn’tcha, fellah?” snarled Deputy Bridges.
For most men, women in the west, even the soiled doves among them, were considered a precious commodity. The ladies might have pioneered in ranch building and child-raising; they might be as lovely as Eve or as decrepit as the Witch of Endor; they might wear flounces and perfume or trousers and cow muck. But they were, for the most part, revered and treated like delicate flowers who needed a masculine hand-up to survive.
That a member of their own species might have abused one of these fragile creatures had set the blood of both young officers boiling. Formally charged or not, Quinn Hennessey now ran the significant risk of some injury—or worse—once he was shut up behind the town jail’s solid door. Mere suspicion, let alone solid proof, of a crime had sent plenty of innocent travelers to some shallow grave.
“Boys,” said Paul, in mild reproof, starting forward again.
But Hennessey was having none of it. His elegant black boots were planted firmly in the fine powder underfoot, refusing to budge. “Tell me, now. Is it Molly? Is she all right?”
“A little farther,” Paul soothed. “C’mon, we’ll have us some coffee and a little confab.”
A careful prodding, or a determined strong-arming? Either way, there was, apparently, no escape. Quinn put up one more feeble defense: “It’s near to supper time, is it not? Perhaps a stop at one of the restaurants, first...”
“Naw. We got enough busybodies in this town. You don’t want the whole place knowin’ your personal business.”
Not that it mattered, thought Paul glumly, as they trudged along. Enough game-players had seen (and probably commented upon, later) Hennessey’s rather dictatorial removal from the table; enough spectators had witnessed his somewhat ignominious exit from the Lot to question the whole affair. Were he a betting man, himself, he’d wager that gossip was already spreading like the sludge on a pond.
Which was how the jail house coffee tasted. Nothing new there; it always did. It lightened his heart, just a little, to observe their detainee take a sip, screw up his face, and nearly spew the contents out into a spittoon.
“Now, tell me about Molly,” Quinn, seated in front of the sheriff’s imposing desk, demanded.
“You know she’s been hurt pretty bad.”
“Hurt? Molly?” Again that look of honest bewilderment. Amazing, how he had his act down to a science. You’d almost believe he was a very worried husband. “How was she hurt? Where is she? What can I do?”
“You’ve already done enough, you—” and Colton, bursting in where he shouldn’t, with a healthy snarl, added a filthy epithet that whitened Hennessey’s already pallid face.