‘Brady Anchor!’ sniffed Mona Gilhooley, nestling her small, plump, yet shapely naked body closer to the equally unadorned stocky man. ‘There’s times I wonder if you really care for me, or if you’re just wanting to know something.’
‘Mona-honey!’ Brady protested, oozing innocence and sounding aggrieved. He kissed her, while she responded eagerly, then went on, ‘Would I be here in bed with you, just after sun-down, if I didn’t care a whole heap for you?’
‘All you’ve done is talk about that blasted bank robbery at Rocksprings,’ Mona objected, while her hands did things calculated to take his mind off such mundane matters.
‘Now me,’ Brady drawled, ‘I thought I’d been doing a whole heap more than that. Anyways, I told you why I’m so interested in it.’
‘You don’t need to go to El Paso if you want to become a partner in a saloon,’ Mona pointed out. There’s a mighty good one down under us.’
‘You know me, Mona-gal,’ Brady replied. ‘I like to pay my way—’
‘Then do it, blast you!’ Mona interrupted. ‘And after you’ve “paid”, I’ll be pleased to just lie a while and talk.’
The wounded man at Sanderson had not been able to give much information when questioned further by Brady, Jeff and Marshal Staines. All he had been able to say was that he and his companions were hired guns in search of employment. They had been going towards the Rio Grande and meaning to spend the night in the town. While passing through a bosque, they had been confronted by a tall man wearing brush-country cowhand’s clothes. Clearly he and their leader had recognized each other, although the latter had seemed surprised to see him. They had ridden off together into the trees. On returning alone, the leader had told his party of the bounty which could be collected in Sanderson. Whoever the cowhand had been, and the man had not been able to offer any suggestions on that, he had supplied the quartet with all they would need to identify the wanted men.
On locating Brady and Jeff, the quartet had had no intention of trying to take them alive. Word had already reached the bounty seekers of how they had dealt with the three owl-hoots. So the four had been disinclined to take chances. Instead of making their play in the Golden Eagle Saloon, they had set their hopes on the disastrous ambush.
No amount of questioning had shaken the man’s story. So Brady and Jeff had left him in the marshal’s custody. They had been very interested in the identity of the cowhand; and more so in how he had known about the bounty on their scalps. However, they had not been able to reach any conclusions on the subjects. One possibility had occurred to them, but was rejected. There had not seemed to be any reason why Barnstaple should want them killed.
Staines’ deputies had failed in their attempts to capture the uninjured member of the quartet. However, Brady had not been worried about him. From what his companion had said, he could not have offered any more information; and he was unlikely to cause further trouble, or to make another stab at collecting the bounty.
Next morning had seen Brady and Jeff on their way once more. They had made the short detour necessary to examine the bosque in which the wounded man had claimed that the mysterious cowhand had made his appearance.
All the signs had pointed to the hired killer having spoken the truth. The tracks had told them that a rider had been waiting amongst the trees, had then ridden out and returned accompanied by another horseman. They had halted side by side, in a position from which they could not have been seen by men on the trail. After a short time, the second man had rejoined his companions. The cowhand had apparently watched them ride away before making a half-circle through the bosque and returning to the trail. There had been no hope of following him, for the rock-hard surface did not lend itself to readable tracks.
Continuing their journey, Brady and Jeff had angled across the south-western edge of Pecos County. On reaching the Big Turkey Fork of the Pecos River, they had followed it to its source just beyond the boundary of Brewster County. They had travelled through some rugged, wild terrain and arrived at a place which most honest, law-abiding citizens would have been careful to avoid.
On entering Mona Gilhooley’s Tavern—a wooden-built combined saloon-hotel-general store-livery barn, which towered a full storey higher than the one floor adobe shacks which had grown up around it—they had received a rapturous welcome from the owner.
Apologizing for the saloon section being so quiet, Mona had pointed out that it did not pay her to keep the girls at work in the afternoon. Besides which, she had claimed, the poor dears needed their rest to be ready for the evening’s duties. She had offered to supply feminine company for Jeff, while Brady had accompanied her to her private quarters for a cup of coffee. On Jeff having declined, she had requested that he should go and hunt for a couple of the large turkeys that abounded in the area. If he was successful, she had promised that they would all have a feast fit for a king later that night.
Wanting an excuse to scout around, Jeff had accepted the suggestion. To be able to announce, if challenged, that he was hunting at Mona Gilhooley’s request would be an almost perfect guarantee of safe conduct anywhere in that vicinity. Saying that he hoped Mona and his uncle would enjoy their coffee, he had taken his departure.
Accompanying Mona to her luxurious private quarters at the upstairs rear of the building, Brady had not been unduly surprised to discover there were certain embellishments not normally offered when one took coffee with a lady in the afternoon. On his previous visits, he had won over the hard-bitten, well-informed Mona and been invited to her rooms for similar beverages.
Divesting herself of her blonde wig, to reveal brown hair—just tinged with gray—that was cut almost boyishly short, Mona had undressed. Removing his own clothes, Brady had joined her in a very comfortable double bed.
That’s better!’ Mona enthused, at the completion of the ‘payment’. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘What’s good ole Spit Merton doing these days?’ Brady inquired and swung his feet from the bed to sit up.
‘Spit Merton?’ Mona ejaculated, the disgust in her voice showing how she regarded the man. ‘What the hell’s that no-account yack got to do with things?’
‘His bunch pulled the robbery.’
‘And you let him?’
‘I didn’t have no choice.’
‘You’re not the man I took you for, Brady Anchor,’ Mona teased, running her hands down his sweat-glistening back.
‘It’s taken you a fair time to decide that,’ Brady countered and rose. ‘He handled everything mighty slick and capable, Mona-gal.’
‘You sure you’re talking about Spit Merton?’ Mona inquired, bouncing from the bed with the agility of a schoolgirl and trotting across the room after her visitor.
Opening a door, Brady stepped into a small room equipped with a douche bath. Mona joined him and, as the water played down upon them, heard the story of the Rock-springs bank robbery.
‘And you reckon it was Spit Merton’s bunch did that?’ Mona sniffed, as she applied soap to Brady’s torso.
‘That’s who it was,’ Brady confirmed, returning the compliment. ‘And to top it all, Mona-gal, you should have seen how he got the posse off his trail.’
‘How?’ asked the woman.
Continuing with their ablutions, Mona listened to Brady’s description of Merton’s ruse. Although she had an expressive face, it only showed such emotions as she felt it advisable to display. Yet Brady sensed that her wide-eyed interest and surprise were genuine. Clearly she was finding his story intriguing.
‘And the money was counterfeit, you say?’ Mona asked, turning for Brady to wash her back.
‘Every last bill of it. So good that only an expert could tell it’s not the real thing.’
‘Where’d a two-bit yahoo like Merton get it?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Brady drawled, reaching under her arms.
‘You’ve already washed them,’ Mona pointed out, but did not pull away. Instead, she moved nearer to him. ‘And how would I know about things like that?’
‘Gal in your line of work hears things,’ Brady pointed out, ignoring her first comment and continuing his manipulations.
‘Flatterer!’ Mona chuckled, wriggling in ecstasy and turning to throw her arms about his neck. ‘I’ve never tried it under a douche bath.’
‘There’s always a first time for everything,’ Brady replied.
‘Nope,’ Mona declared, after the experiment had run its course and they were drying each other. ‘I’ve never heard of counterfeiters in Texas. You figure that Merton’s bunch were tied in with them?’
‘With his boys toting along fifty thousand of their dollars, Mona-gal, I’d say they must’ve met at least once.’
‘It can’t be much of an outfit,’ Mona sniffed, moving away and starting to get dressed. ‘Not if they can’t do better than take up with cheap trash like Spit Merton.’
‘Could be they’re a bunch fresh out from the East and don’t know anybody better,’ Brady suggested, tossing aside the towel and picking up his underpants.
‘I’d’ve heard about them, even if that’s right,’ Mona declared and shook her head in a puzzled manner. ‘No, sir, Brady-boy, it’s got me beat who they might be.’
‘Does “two miles to the border” mean anything to you?’ Brady inquired.
‘Not as comes to mind,’ Mona admitted. ‘Should it?’
‘It’s what Merton’s greaser said just before he died,’ Brady explained, watching the woman’s face. When he had mentioned the comment to Marshal Staines, that wily old peace officer had not been able to offer a solution. ‘So you’ve no notions what it might be?’
‘Nary a one.’
‘Somebody taught Merton how to pull a mighty slick robbery. Who’d you reckon it was?’
‘The only man who was that smart couldn’t’ve done it,’ Mona replied. ‘It’s something like a notion the Thinker once said he reckoned would work.’
‘Thinking Fernelley?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Only that he was mighty slick. And got himself killed down in Mexico.’
‘Slick wasn’t the word,’ Mona said pensively, dressing with a speed that was all too obvious to her guest. ‘Aside from you, Brady, he was the smartest feller I’ve ever known. And he sure enjoyed a cup of coffee.’
‘I thought I was the only one who got it,’ Brady grinned.
‘You could count the ones who have on one hand,’ Mona said, a trifle stiffly. ‘And have fingers to spare.’
‘No offence, ma’am,’ Brady apologized, bowing soberly. When she curtsied, he reached towards her but she avoided his hands. ‘No more... coffee?’
‘I’m a working gal,’ Mona pointed out. ‘But we can always come up for another cup—or more—after I’m through for the night.’
Watching Mona as he completed dressing and adjusted his holster’s strap, Brady sensed that no further information would be forthcoming. If she was aware of the counterfeiters’ identities, she intended to keep the knowledge to herself. Maybe she was not, but had no wish to expose her ignorance to a man for whom she had the greatest respect.
Properly attired and looking as calm as if they really had spent the past few hours drinking coffee, Mona and Brady left her quarters. They were starting down the stairs when the door of the bar-room was thrown open. A worried-looking, pretty saloon girl came through.
‘Mr. Anchor!’ she gasped. ‘Come quick. Jeff’s going to get his-self killed!’
On returning, later than he had expected due to the turkeys proving elusive prey, Jefferson Trade had put up his appaloosa in a stall next to Brady’s bayo-tigres. He did not hesitate to leave his saddle, rifle and bed roll in the tack room. As Mona’s favored guest, his property would be safe from molestation. Hoping that his uncle had finished ‘drinking coffee’, he made his way towards the bar-room.
Business had improved considerably since Jeff had set off on his hunting expedition. Already the hitching rail was lined with horses. Laughter, shouts and sounds of merriment mingled with the music of a small band. All around the barroom, armed men in a variety of forms of dress were enjoying themselves. There was a fortune in reward money present, the red-head concluded as he looked about him. Some of the girls had been at the Tavern on his previous visit and one of them recognized him.
‘Jeff!’ the girl called, hurrying forward. ‘I didn’t know you’d ...’
‘Take your hand off me!’ squeaked a lisping voice which the red-head thought was familiar. ‘Please let me go!’
Ignoring the approaching girl, Jeff swung his gaze towards the second speaker. Until he did so, he wondered if his ears might be playing tricks on him. Next he almost doubted the evidence of his eyes.
Although dressed in the somewhat abbreviated, garish costume of a Tavern female employee, Sybil Cravern contrived to look as elfin and innocent as when she had first entered the cells section of the Rocksprings jail house. A burly, unshaven hard-case grasped her right wrist in his left hand. She looked terrified as she attempted to pull herself free.
‘Don’t get flip with me, gal!’ the man snarled. ‘When Joe Brolley says come and have a drink, that’s what he aims to have you do.’
‘But I don’t want to drink with you, Mr. Brolley!’ the blonde protested, struggling feebly and staring around as if in search of help.
A handsome, somewhat dandily-dressed young man, seated with four others whose faces had frequently appeared on wanted posters, made as if to rise when Sybil’s frightened gaze came to rest upon him.
‘Forget it, Buck!’ advised one of his companions, catching him by the arm and holding him on the chair. ‘We don’t want no fuss with the Brolleys.’
‘Staff and Dwight’re here and they’ll back Joe if anybody cuts in,’ another of the party went on. ‘I want to hear the Thinker’s idea, not get mixed in a shooting war with that bunch.’
Even if the young owlhoot had intended to ignore his companions, the need for him to do so did not arise.
‘Just take your hands off her, hombre,’ Jeff requested, walking forward with long, swift strides.
Throwing a scared glance around, the girl who had greeted Jeff turned to dart to a door at the rear of the room. She was aware of the Brolley family’s intense loyalty to each other. So she figured that the red-head, efficient as he undoubtedly was, might need help. There was only one person in the building likely to give it. She hoped that Brady Anchor was available so that he could come to his nephew’s aid.
Sybil’s expressive, pretty face swung towards her rescuer. There was a pathetically grateful smile struggling to come to her lips. It would have made a lion out of the mildest, least susceptible of men had it been directed his way.
The expression died briefly, being replaced by a flicker of recognition and annoyance, just tinged with alarm. Those emotions were fleeting, but Jeff saw them before they were replaced by her more usual look of elfin innocence. He formed the opinion that, for some reason, she was displeased with his intervention. Unfortunately, it was way too late to pull back.
In fact, Jeff was willing to admit that his impulsive nature had once more put him into the river where the water was running high over the willows. Folks claimed that if you cut one Brolley, the whole stinking brood started to bleed.
The other two brothers were somewhere in the room, ready to back Joe’s play. Unless Jeff located them—and had more than his fair share of luck—he was unlikely to live long enough to become a partner in Uncle Ephraim’s saloon.
‘Just how does it come to be any of your blasted concern?’ Joe Brolley demanded, retaining his hold and taking comfort in the fact that his younger brother, Dwight, was standing watching at the bar.
‘I’m making it that way,’ Jeff replied.
‘You ain’t wearing a gun,’ Joe said, in a puzzled, yet relieved tone.
‘Things aren’t allus what they seem,’ Jeff warned, wondering if he should draw straight away. He did not want to take his eyes off Joe, but was equally desirous to discover the whereabouts of the other brothers. ‘I said let her go.’
‘If I do, it’ll be to blow your head off!’ Joe spat out.
‘You do what you want to do,’ Jeff drawled. ‘But, happen that’s your intention, I’ll do my damnedest to stop you.’
Silence had fallen in the bar-room and every eye was fixed upon the speakers. All the crowd knew the Brolley brothers and the greater part of them wondered who the rash stranger might be. Most figured the last question to be academic. In a very short time, he would be dead. The only debatable point was whether he would manage to take Joe Brolley with him.
Still grasping Sybil’s wrist, the burly owlhoot tensed and his right hand seemed to be quivering over the Remington. At the bar, Dwight began to ease his Colt from its holster.
‘Let her go, Joe!’ ordered a growling voice. ‘And you leather that gun, Brother Dwight.’
Looking like a slightly older, if no smaller or lighter, version of his brothers, Stafford Brolley had risen from the table at which he had been playing poker with a couple of other gang leaders.
‘What ... ?’ Joe grunted, staring in disbelief.
‘Ain’t no call for trouble,’ Staff pointed out. ‘The room’s loaded with pretty gals. Us Brolleys don’t need to force ourselves on one’s don’t want our company.’
Having entered the bar-room, Brady Anchor had halted just inside ready to support his nephew. He listened to the conversation and felt puzzled. It was not like the Brolleys to back water, especially when all the advantages appeared to be in their favor. Yet that was what looked like happening.
‘Like you say, Brother Staff,’ Joe grunted, releasing Sybil and turning away. ‘She’s too skinny for my tastes, anyways.’
‘All right, boys!’ Mona Gilhooley called, pushing by Brady and stalking across the room. ‘It’s over. Now how’s about starting to spend some of your ill-gotten gains? Me and my gals have to make a living, you know.’
Noise welled up as conversations were resumed and games continued. Joe and Dwight converged on their brother, with the former clearly annoyed at having been prevented from enforcing his will. However, Staff snarled something in a low voice and they all sat around the table.
‘Well, Jeff,’ Mona said. ‘You like Sybil, huh?’
‘Yes’m,’ the red-head agreed.
‘Then she’s yours for the night,’ Mona declared. ‘Go to it, Sybil gal. I reckon you’ll not regret it.’
‘Yes’m,’ the blonde responded meekly and came to Jeff’s side. ‘Could you take me outside for a breath of air, please?’
‘Surely, Mi ...’ the red-head began.
‘You can call me “Sybil”,’ the girl interrupted. ‘It’s so much more friendly, isn’t it?’
‘Where’d you get her from, Mona?’ Brady inquired, watching the blonde and his nephew walk away.
‘She drifted in two days back,’ Mona replied. ‘Riding a good hoss and wearing a fancy riding habit. I reckon she’s on the run from the law, but that’s not a thing I hold against anybody. And don’t let that innocent look fool you. There’s a real tough gal under it. I’ll just go and have a few words with Staff Brolley, so there’ll not be any trouble.’
‘Why did you interfere?’ Sybil demanded, managing to display annoyance without losing her lisping, little-girl tones.
‘I figured you wanted saving,’ Jeff replied.
‘I did,’ the girl confessed. ‘But by that good-looking young outlaw. From what I’d heard, his gang have had a message from the counterfeiters. If I could have got him alone, I would have been able to learn what it was.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Jeff said contritely.
A faint smile came to Sybil’s lips and she gripped his hand gently.
That’s all right, Sir Walter,’ the blonde purred. ‘You thought you were acting for the best. But it looks as if I’m going to be with you for the evening. Nobody will dare interfere now Mona has given us her blessing.’
‘Is that bad?’ Jeff wanted to know.
‘Only from the point of my gathering information,’ Sybil admitted. ‘Otherwise, I’m quite looking forward to it.’