“You know Strong Bill and Rope. This fellow is Bullet Lamar. He looks after the stock.”
Teddy had assembled the main crew of the Gamble Line for Rhys to meet. She wanted him to know about each man’s duties and to understand just what it took to keep a stage line running. All the way from the Diamond to the Gamble office, which was across the street from the stable, she had been telling him about the various runs and schedules. She had also told him that the Gamble Line began with her father’s dream to build a premier stage line out of Wishbone. And she spoke of her desire to keep her father’s dream alive.
“Bullet,” Rhys shook the man’s hand, thinking “bull” would have been more descriptive of the stocky fellow. About Rhys’s height, Bullet had twice his bulk. His massive arms were as large as many a man’s thigh. He looked more Indian than white. He wore his straight black hair long, and it was held close to his head by a beaded leather band tied around his forehead. Like Teddy he wore a heavy silver bracelet set with turquoise stones. At his waist was a silver concha belt threaded onto a thick strip of tanned leather. The inevitable gun belt rode low beneath it. Bullet’s tooled holster was anchored by a strap to his heavy thigh.
Bullet’s eyes were black as a night sky and seemed never to blink. He seemed ageless. His stoic face was as impassive as one of the high canyon walls found throughout Arizona.
He was a man of few words and he didn’t spare any of them for Rhys, merely nodding when Teddy told his name. She took it upon herself to reveal a little about Bullet as they walked through the dusty street to the stable for a look at the stock and equipment Rhys now owned in part—or would own. “He keeps the horses healthy and he trains them to pull as a team,” she explained. Her stride found the same cadence as Rhys’s as they entered wide doors of the stable. “We call him Bullet because he’s got three slugs in him no doctor could dig out.” Bullet, listening to but not looking at Teddy, moved away from the others and slipped into a stall where he began rubbing down a dappled mare whose bulging belly indicated she was soon to deliver a foal. “Fifteen years ago my father found Bullet out on the desert all shot up. He hauled him in to the ranch, looked after him until he got him well, and,” she paused, “we haven’t been able to get rid of him since.” Smiling mischievously she looked at the half-breed who had made himself busy feeling the mare’s legs from shoulders to fetlocks. “Isn’t that right?”
Bullet, crouched beside the mare, spoke without looking away from the animal. His voice was nearly as overpoweringly big as the man himself, but Rhys thought he detected affection in the gravelly tone. “Tell it your way, Little Bit,” he said.
Little Bit. Rhys tried to find the rationale for the term Bullet had used to refer to Teddy. Though not petite, she was a small woman, so little he understood. Bit he did not. A bit was the metal bar which fitted into a horse’s mouth. He didn’t get a chance to ask what unknown meaning the words also had or how they related to Teddy. The restless mare had begun to snort and whinny and had drawn his attention. The animal was fidgeting in the stall, complaining of her burden to the man who gently stroked her underbelly. A brood mare who acted that way could have a difficult delivery when her time came. He knew more than he had ever wanted to about horses, since he’d spent his early years as a stable hand, tending the hundred head on the French estate where his mother had worked.
A dalliance with the master’s youngest daughter had sent him packing before he was sixteen. For the next five years he served as a groom elsewhere. Finally he had gotten proficient enough with cards and other games of chance to decide he could make a better and easier living at the gaming tables. He had been right. His skill and his good looks had brought him out of the stable and into the parlors of the class he had once served.
He nearly laughed aloud as he considered that somehow life had brought him back to the stables. Given the route he’d taken, he was not sure he was any better off than he had been ten years before when he had eagerly departed them.
“Another thing about Bullet,” Teddy said, walking toward a row of empty nail kegs that did duty as stools. “He won’t talk your ears off, not unless maybe you’re a horse.” She sat on one of the kegs. “Besides looking after the horses we have, he’s the man responsible for buying new stock. He also rides the line and sees that the animals get rotated properly from station to station so no one horse is overworked. Watching how the animals are used saves the horses and saves us money,” she said. “Strong Bill—”
The rangy shotgun man, who had propped against a hay bin, spoke up. “I’m chief messenger—” Seeing the confusion on Rhys’s face he tried again. “Guard,” he said. “I hire and train the men who ride as guards. It’s my job to decide when a shipment merits more protection than our usual single man on a run. Until lately the reputation of our marksmen kept us trouble free.” He shrugged uneasily. “We haven’t lost a payload yet, but we’ve sure had our share of trouble lately. You’ve seen some of it.” Pausing, he cocked his head to one side and took a long, studied look at Rhys. “You any good with a rifle?”
“I’ve had more experience with a pistol, but I can usually hit where I aim,” Rhys said.
Strong Bill laughed, remembering how accurate Rhys had been aiming a rock at the fleeing holdup man. “Your aim is sharp enough,” he said. “I could give you some lessons with my Winchester if you like.”
“Whether he likes it or not,” Teddy volunteered. “Anybody who’s part of the Gamble Line has to be a good shot. If we have to double up on guards we’ll need every man we’ve got.”
“Your pardon,” Rhys said, rebelling at Teddy’s assumption. Since she had decided to give some credence to his claim, she expected him to follow her orders. “I do not need instruction to shoot a rifle. While I am happy to have been of service when required, I have no intention of becoming a stage messenger.” He nodded politely to Strong Bill. “Or of tending horses.” He nodded to Bullet. “I’m sure these men are excellent at what they do and as they have managed without me in the past will not need me in the future.” He turned a steady gaze on Teddy. “I have a way to pass the time until the verification comes from London.”
Teddy jumped up. “Do you mean dealing cards or bedding chippies?”
Eyes fiery, face flushed, she looked like a cat ready to pounce. Rhys smiled at her, that maddening half smile that drove Teddy closer to the brink of fury. “Both,” he said.
Her flushed face darkened. She turned her wrath on him. “I should have known a no-count dandy wouldn’t want to throw his lot in with real men.”
With a small bow, Rhys tipped his hat to Teddy, intensifying her anger. “Well, now, if you had said ‘real women’ we might have had a point of contention.”
He felt a little ashamed at the pleasure he got setting her off, but she never spared the nettle when she spoke to him, and she was terribly pretty when her temper soared. He grinned and gazed into her fiery eyes, wondering if Teddy’s other passions would be as intense. How very interesting it could be to find out.
“I ought to wipe that grin off your face with a pitchfork!” she shouted.
Rhys saw her reaching for the instrument she had threatened to use. But Rope stepped in and stopped her. “Simmer down, Teddy,” he said. “Ain’t you got something to do anyway?”
“No!” she retorted, set for an all-out row with Rhys and backing off only when she got a good look at Rope’s face. He didn’t get that cockeyed expression often, but when he did Teddy knew better than to buck him. “Oh, all right,” she said, though not graciously. “I’ll head back to the office and check over the schedules for next week.” She spun around, giving Rhys one last look that showed the depth of her irritation. “No use wasting any more of my breath on this tinhorn,” came over her shoulder.
Strong Bill knew Rope well enough to say he also had something to do. Bullet said nothing, but rambled off through the stable and toward the corral in back.
Rope let the dust settle behind the three of them before he spoke up again. “The Gamble Line means a heap to Teddy,” he said. “How about you and me have a drink over at the Brass Bell and I’ll tell you the reasons why Teddy left off.”
“My pleasure,” Rhys said. Any help in understanding Teddy’s volatile disposition was welcome, and he wanted to see how Lucien had fared at the Brass Bell. “She has a way of giving me need of a drink.”
Rope nodded his agreement and reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch and cigarette papers. He offered to roll one for Rhys but Rhys declined. “My mama used to say a rhyme about little girls bein’ made of sugar and spice and everything nice.” As he spoke he sifted tobacco into the waiting paper and, using one hand and the skill born of much practice, quickly rolled the smoke. “Teddy’s a girl that shook out with too much spice.” Pausing on the wooden sidewalk he tucked the pouch back into his pocket, pulled out a match and drew it across the rough surface of a post that held a tin top over a portion of the walk. “But she ain’t half as mean as she acts.” Walking on, he cupped his hand over the match, lit up and took a draw off the cigarette. “Well, hell, yes she is—but there’s a reason for that too.”
Intrigued, but not wanting to look half as interested as he was, Rhys merely nodded and looked down the street where the Brass Bell’s sun-faded sign hung above the front doors. Wishbone’s other saloon was as unassuming as the Diamond was pretentious. A person might walk by its unpainted front without noticing, had there not been the merry tinkle of piano music floating out the open window and doors.
Rhys wondered why Rope preferred the Brass Bell to the better-appointed Diamond as, shoulder to shoulder the two of them, a truly odd pair, continued toward it.
Rope, in his worn denim trousers and red suspenders looped over the shoulders of his buckskin shirt, left a wisp of smoke behind as he went. He hoped, with a few drinks and a lot of honesty, that he could mend any fences Teddy had torn down. But secretly he was worried that the nattily dressed Rhys Delmar might have been insulted one time too many, and might not care why Teddy Gamble was prickly as a cactus spine. He wasn’t sure either that he wanted to know how Teddy had gotten Delmar out of that saloon girl’s room. Lord, she was a trial to a man. He reckoned if he had a dime for every time he had wanted to take her over his knee they wouldn’t have any money trouble.
At least the Frenchman didn’t act as if he’d been propositioned by anyone other than the girl. Which was a good thing. Right now all he and Teddy had to offer the man was a promise. He wasn’t sure how that would stack up against Adams’s hard cash, especially not after how Teddy had got at the Frenchman’s throat. But maybe if he got his offer in first, there might be a chance.
Rope pushed open the Brass Bell’s doors. The place smelled of sawdust and beer and cheap whiskey, but had its share of customers. A glance confirmed what Rhys had been too preoccupied with Teddy to notice the first time he’d come in. The decor was no match for the Diamond’s. The gold, flocked paper on the walls was spattered and stained where careless cowboys had sloshed beer. The worn tables, many with names carved in their scarred tops, proved that many customers left their manners at home. But the place was lively and none of the customers looked as if they wished they were somewhere else. He hoped the same was true for Lucien, who was nowhere to be seen. His valet—former valet, he reminded himself—might have felt ill at ease in a rough-and-tumble place like the Brass Bell.
“I’ll get a bottle. Find yourself a seat,” Rope said and made for the bar.
Fearing Lucien might have found his first day on his own too much to contend with, Rhys first made a round of the saloon but failed to find Lucien. He had either left or sought solace upstairs.
A simple set of steps ran up to a narrow balcony above the saloon. Rhys looked for someone to ask who had gone up recently. A Frenchman who limped would not be hard to remember. Knowing that the bartender probably kept tabs on who the girls entertained, Rhys started toward the big red-faced man. As it turned out he did not need to inquire. From a cluster of men in a back corner he heard Lucien’s distinctive accent, and surprisingly, the sound of feminine laughter.
The group parted before Rhys reached it. A faro box had been the attraction. Behind it stood Lucien Bourget minus his coat. A fat purse protruded from his breast pocket. He’d evidently had a good day running the game.
“Monsieur!” Lucien waved excitedly to Rhys.
“Lucien.” Rhys stood back and shook his head. “You amaze me. In a day you acquire a faro game and—what is this? A friend?”
Standing beside Lucien with a hand possessively on his shoulder was a woman in a bright yellow and black striped dress. Her raven hair, pinned up in a chignon, made a sharp widow’s peak which was cut through by a streak of silver. In her youth she had undoubtedly been a ravishing woman. Even now, in what appeared to be her middle years, despite a more plump than fashionable figure, she still caught a man’s eyes.
“Monsieur,” Lucien spoke excitedly. “This is Carmen. Carmen Bell. The Brass Bell is hers.”
“And this is my new faro dealer.” Carmen bent her head to Lucien’s and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Straightening up, she winked at Rhys. “He’s got the most skillful hands I ever saw.”
“Carmen has kindly given me a room here.” For a moment Lucien’s eyes were downcast. “Of course, I told her that you and I had plans togeth—”
“No.” Rhys spoke up quickly. “You are free to make plans as you wish.”
“Monsieur—” Seeing Rhys’s frown he corrected himself. “Rhys. You are certain? I feel I am obligated—”
“You aren’t. Stay here with Carmen. Work for her.” Seeing that Lucien fairly beamed at his assurances that he was his own man, Rhys continued. “You have been a fine servant and a fine friend but this is right for you now. As for me I too have found I can provide for myself in this town. So, my friend, with no doubt that you will be the best faro dealer in the territory, I wish you well.”
Lucien grasped his shoulders and, in the European style, would have embraced him had not Rhys pointed out, that here, a handshake was the proper gesture.
Lucien clasped Rhys’s hand and pumped his arm. “I thank you for all you have been to me.” The tremor in his voice expressed his emotion even better than his words. “Monsieur, should you ever need me again, know that I stand ready to resume my position with you.”
“Be happy in your new life, Lucien,” Rhys said, knowing instinctively that Carmen had a good heart and would be just the guide Lucien needed to help with the changes in store for him. He took her plump hand and kissed it. “You, madame, I congratulate. You will find no finer man than Lucien Bourget.”
“Honey, I know that already,” Carmen said sweetly. “Why he’s got more style than all the cowboys in Arizona territory tied up in one sack.” When Rhys freed her hand she locked her arm with Lucien’s. “You can bet I’ll hold on to him.”