Near the Santa Fe plaza, Shawn O’Brien checked into a small hotel with the luxury of a kiva fireplace and a thick native rug on the floor. The bed was soft and clean and there was a plentiful supply of logs for the fire. Normally, he would’ve been content, but worry over Julia gnawed at him and gave him no peace.
His only plan was to visit every saloon and cantina in the city, starting with those owned by Zebulon Moss. It was likely he’d put Julia back to work in one of his own establishments, but he could have stashed her away in some other smaller place until the threat of rescue had passed. The city’s many brothels didn’t enter into Shawn’s thinking. Julia was Moss’s woman and he wouldn’t degrade her in that way.
Shawn wore a sheepskin coat, shotgun chaps, boots, and a battered Stetson and could pass for an ordinary puncher in town on a tear. Around his waist, belted high in the horseman’s style, his gun belt carried a long-barreled .44-40 Colt. In the right pocket of his coat he dropped a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun, as Luther Ironside had taught him.
“You go into a shooting scrape with a feller you reckon is faster than you, put your hands in the pockets of your coat and tell him you don’t want to fight,” Ironside had said. “Then when he starts to strut around and sneer at you and brag on himself, whip out the sneaky gun from your pocket and cut loose. Keep shootin’ at his belly until he drops and there ain’t no more brag left in him.”
Stepping out of his room, Shawn smiled at the memory. Luther had a way with words.
The desk clerk looked up from a ledger when Shawn stopped in front of him. “Can I help you, sir?”
Shawn asked for the names of Zebulon Moss’s saloons and the clerk, a rodent-faced man with sly eyes, said, “If you’re looking for wine, women, and song, then the Lucky Lady is the place. If you want peace and quiet, then try the Gentleman’s Club on Lincoln Street. No ladies are allowed, but they serve only the finest liquors and Cuban cigars.”
After nodding his thanks, Shawn stepped into the muddy street. Despite the funneling snow there was a steady pedestrian traffic and a few freight wagons made their slow, creaking way through the crowd, Mexicans in bright serapes at the reins.
Lanky cowboys and bearded and booted miners rubbed shoulders with businessmen wearing velvet-collared coats and ogled the languid señoritas gliding past, their beautiful black eyes seductive and knowing. The white Santa Fe belles were just as bold, dressed in the height of fashion, their bustles huge, tiny hats perched on top of swept-up, ringleted hair.
Above it all was a constant babble of conversation in Spanish, English, and a half dozen other languages. The cold air smelled heavily of peppers and spices for sale in booths lining both sides of the street.
Shawn stood for a while on the steps outside the Lucky Lady, taking in the sights, aware that he was acting like an openmouthed rube. More than a few kohl-lashed eyes turned in his direction and the bolder belles coyly smiled at him, their teeth white in moist pink mouths.
Santa Fe had snap aplenty, Shawn decided, but he wasn’t there for pleasure and that weighed on him.
After one last glance at the bustling street, he turned on his heel and stepped into the saloon.
The Lucky Lady was a long, fairly narrow building with a full-length mahogany bar behind which hung two French mirrors. A piano and small stage were at the far end, along with the usual assortment of tables and chairs. Unusual for a New Mexico saloon, a whale’s jawbone adorned the wall opposite the bar. A narrow staircase led to the upper floor and the small, curtained rooms where the whores plied their trade.
Three bartenders lined the bar, magnificent creatures with slicked-down hair and curled mustachios. Each wore a brocade vest and sported a diamond stickpin in his cravat.
It seemed, Shawn thought, that Moss treated his male hired help well.
Although the day was dark, by the clock it was still early afternoon and the sporting crowd was still abed, gathering their strength before making their appearance at the witching hour. Two gray-haired businessmen stood at the bar talking in earnest tones and a puncher crouched at a table, nursing a beer, a hangover, and a broken heart.
A pair of young Texas guns caught and held Shawn’s attention as they looked him over with insolent, challenging eyes. Dressed like the businessmen at the bar, down to the elastic-sided boots and plug hats, they didn’t have weapons in view, but the cut of their coats suggested their tailor had made an adjustment for shoulder holsters.
It was not in Shawn’s interest to tangle with a couple gents who sported big Texas mustaches and gold watch chains and had hired guns written all over them.
Pretending an indifference he did not feel, Shawn stepped to the bar and one of the magnificent mixologists smiled at him. “What will it be, mister? The beer is cold, the whiskey is bonded, and we have a large selection of the finest cigars.”
Shawn ordered a beer and a Cuban cigar that he took time to light. Then, behind a curling cloud of turquoise smoke, he said, “I’m looking for someone.”
“Aren’t we all.” The bartender had quick, intelligent brown eyes and at one time could’ve been anything.
“Her name is”—Shawn was about to say Julia, but stopped himself in time—“Trixie Lee.”
“Is that a fact?” the bartender said, his face guileless. “I haven’t seen Trixie in a six-month.” He turned and called down the bar, “Miles, Pete, either of you seen Trixie around?”
Both men shook their heads, and the bartender said, “Plenty of pretty girls will be in come dark, cowboy. You can take your pick.”
“Trixie is a friend of mine,” Shawn said. “We go way back.”
“Mister, Trixie has a lot of friends.” The man retreated down the bar, where he and the other bartenders exchanged glances and slight shakes of the head.
Worried that he’d tipped his hand, Shawn pretended to be unconcerned and stepped to the door as though looking through the stained glass would give him a different perspective on Santa Fe and its denizens. As a precaution, he unbuttoned his coat. He had much more confidence in the Colt .44-40 on his hip as a man killer than he did the .32 in his pocket. After a while he turned and had to step around the outstretched feet of one of the guns, who grinned at him. The other gunman said, “Trixie ain’t around anymore, cowboy. Maybe you should try Albuquerque.”
Shawn nodded. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m there.”
“Um . . . maybe you should leave today. It takes time to find a woman in a big city,” the man said in a Texas drawl. He smiled without warmth. “Like leave right now.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Shawn said, “but I enjoy it around here. The town has snap.”
“Ah, that’s a complication.” The Texan looked at his companion. “Is that not so, Mr. Tabard?”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Bohan.”
“Well, when you boys sort it out, let me know,” Shawn said.
“Impertinent, don’t you think, Mr. Tabard?” Bohan inquired.
“I’d say so, Mr. Bohan.”
Bohan rose from his chair, uncoiling like a slender, lithe serpent. His black eyes met Shawn’s. “The air around Santa Fe has just gotten unhealthy for a man of your inquisitive nature.”
“You mean you want me to leave?” Shawn asked. “Pack up and ride on out of Santa Fe, and me only arrived?”
Bohan nodded. “Just that.”
“Which of you two boys is faster with the iron?” Shawn said around the cigar clenched in his teeth.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bohan grumbled.
“It’s a simple question. Who’s quicker on the draw and shoot? Mr. Bohan, meaning you, or Mr. Tabard?”
“We’re both fast, cowboy, faster than you know.”
Shawn nodded and pulled his coat back from his gun. “So it doesn’t really matter who I kill first, huh?”
Alarmed, the two businessmen stepped away from the bar out of the line of fire.
The brown-eyed bartender reached for something, his face grim. “Cowboy, you’re not killing anybody.” He pointed the business end of a Greener shotgun at Shawn. “Now you just slide on out of here. The beer and cigar are on the house.”
Shawn arched a brow. “What about Mr. Bohan and Mr. Tabard? Will they give me the road and let me slide in peace?”
“I’ve got your back,” the bartender said. “I’ve got faith in this here scattergun and every gentleman in this establishment knows it.”
“Just remember, what I said still goes,” Bohan cautioned. “You’re a questioning man and that can get you killed in Santa Fe.”
Shawn said nothing, but he turned and left a dollar on the bar. “I pay my way.”
The bartender nodded. “Ease on out. Real nice and friendly, like you’re saying so long to kinfolk.”
Without a glance at the two gunmen, Shawn walked to the door, his spurs ringing in sudden, hostile silence, and stepped outside. The snow, heavier now, blustered around him and there were fewer people on the street, the belles and señoritas having fled to where it was warm.
Asking about Julia had touched a nerve with the two gunmen, presumably employed by Zebulon Moss. Shawn was convinced the girl was in Santa Fe, hidden away somewhere. But where was he going to find her?
He had no answer to that question, no answer at all.