Discerning that everyone could use a change of atmosphere and a drink—or drinks—Belinda wasted no time in nodding toward the piano player, signaling him to go back to playing.
He did, hitting nearly as many false notes as true, due to the fact that all his fingers and both thumbs were still trembling.
Francine and her erstwhile customer descended the stairs, the expression on her painted face exactly the same as it was when she ascended. In the customer’s eyes was a look of sated satisfaction.
Two of the male customers in need of diversion escorted Alma and Marisa toward the second-story sanctums.
Tom Bixby, the sign painter, and Antonio Gillardi, the barber mortician, did their best to beat each other to the bar, as did most of the other customers. Binky managed to approach Belinda and Ike, removed a flowing kerchief from an inner pocket, daubed the glistening perspiration from his mouth and chin, blinked and finally found his voice.
“ ‘What stranger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just. True nobility is exempt from fear.’ ” Binky replaced the kerchief and smiled at Ike. “Noble sir, may I buy you a drink?” Then he looked at Belinda. “On my bar tab, of course.”
“No thanks, Binky. I think I’ll call it a night.”
“In that case, I shall repair to the bar and seek solitary succor . . . unless I can find a pigeon.”
As Binky departed, Oliver Knight approached with a half-filled tumbler of whiskey in hand.
“My boy, you have given this newspaperman one of the most miraculous stories I could ever hope to write. A full account will be on the front page of the next edition.”
“Mister Knight . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to ask you to do something.”
“What?”
“Actually not to do something.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Not to write anything, anything at all, about what happened here tonight.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I think you do. I think you can understand that Major Rawlins went through enough here . . . and before, without his having to go through it all over again in a newspaper story, for him and everybody else to read.”
“I guess that I’m too good, or too bad, a newspaperman to have thought about it like that.” Oliver Knight smiled and nodded. “There will be no such story in The Prescott Independent . . . and I thank you, Mister Silver. Good night, Miss Millay.” Oliver Knight drained the whiskey from the tumbler, set the empty glass on a table and made his way toward the bat wings.
“And I thank you, Miss Millay,” Ike said.
“What for?”
He looked down for just a moment.
“The derringer.”
“Oh, that. Did you see me draw it?”
“Good night, Miss Millay.” Ike smiled and walked away.
“Well, it looks like you won again, Mister Lessur,” a card player said.
As Rupert Lessur collected the pile of money, the other card players also rose and left him alone at the table with his winnings . . . and his thoughts.
Lessur, as he often did, had won the hand, but in his mind he knew that he had lost something else, something much more important to him. When Major Montgomery Rawlins lowered his sword instead of striking Ike Silver, Rupert Lessur had lost the opportunity of being rid with one blow of the one man who constituted the greatest threat to his plans in the Territory.
But that blow was never struck, not by Major Rawlins—and Lessur would have to get rid of Ike Silver by other means. He did have other means at his disposal, not as immediate, but in the long run, just as effective. He had to ruin Ike Silver—by driving him out of business; by disgracing him; by making sure that the truce with Colorados was broken; or ultimately by a less subtle, but more decisive and fatal means.
If all else failed, Rupert Lessur had a hole card.
A gunfighter-for-hire, a rabid, unrepentant Confederate who would not be as forgiving, forbearing or as clement as Major Montgomery Rawlins. A man who would take the money and relish killing a Yankee officer.
A man called Cord.
Ike Silver unlocked the door and entered the store. Jake was at the desk going over some papers. He looked up and removed his spectacles.
“Back already. That didn’t take long.”
It might have taken a lifetime, Ike thought to himself, but said nothing.
“Ike, we’re going to have to get more inventory if we’re going to stay in business. The goods are flying off the shelves.”
“I know.”
“We got to send those wagons to La Paz and load ’em up. Coffee, sugar, tobacco, shovels . . .”
“We will.”
“You’ve got to talk to your friend, the colonel, about an army contract.”
“I will.”
“Did you enjoy your drink?”
“Come to think of it, I didn’t have a drink.”
“You didn’t play cards,”—a note of concern crept into Jake’s voice—“did you, Isaac?”
“No. No cards.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“I . . . I met a man from Shiloh.”
“Somebody who was in the army with you?”
“No. Not with me.”
“Against you?”
“Not anymore.”
“What does that mean? What happened”
“You’ll hear about it soon enough. But don’t worry, brother. Nothing happened.”
Jake shrugged. “Getting any information from you is like conversing with a wax cat.” He rose. “I’m going upstairs. Turn off the lamp when you come up. Good night.”
“Good night.”
As Ike reached for the lamp, he paused and looked at the gun and gun belt on the desk.
He wondered if things would have turned out any different if he had taken the gun with him.
He wasn’t sure. But he was glad he hadn’t.
Ike Silver put out the light.
Melena’s deep brown eyes were vessels of tears as she lay next to Ben, both their naked bodies gleaming with perspiration from the passion of their lovemaking.
“Melena, why are you crying? Was it something I—”
“Oh, Ben . . . Ben . . .”
“What is it, honey?”
“For the first time since Benjie was born, I feel like . . .”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m your wife again. Ben, I can’t remember when I’ve been so happy . . . ever since you decided that we stay here in Prescott . . .”
“And live in a stable . . .”
“I don’t care where we live. It’s been so long since I felt we were both really alive. . . . Oh, Ben, ‘I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him. I called him but he did not answer.’”
“Song of Solomon?”
“No, Ben, song of you and me. . . . You don’t know what it is for me not to have to wonder what we’re going to do . . . and where we’re going to go tomorrow . . . what’s going to happen to Benjie . . .”
“I’m sorry, Melena, that I haven’t done right by you and the boy.”
“You’ve done all that a man could do and more.”
“I’ll do better yet. No matter what it takes . . . I’ll make a place on this earth where you and Benjie—”
“Don’t say anything, Ben. You don’t have to. This isn’t a stable, Ben, not anymore. . . . My beloved, it’s home.”