THIS COULD BE nasty. In Montana’s mind, there was nothing worse than a lawman who served the lawless; but as long as a man wore a star, he was clad with a certain prestige and immunity. To resist even the symbol of law was to find oneself outside the pale.
They would like nothing better than for him to do that, to be branded both as a killer and an outlaw. That would make him a fair target for any gun, from ambush or otherwise. Whatever happened, it would seriously hamper what he was trying to do.
But if he allowed himself to be locked up, he’d be held in close confinement at least until his usefulness was ended, and whatever scheme was afoot had been carried out.
“You look like a man that’s made a lot of mistakes, Mr. Marshal, but that’s the biggest you’ve ever made—if you think you’re going to arrest Bill Abbott!”
Both swung in equal surprise. Kate was coming up fast, attired in her new finery, a picture to draw an admiring gasp from more than one in the gathering crowd. She advanced formidably, and the marshal suddenly looked uneasy.
“You saw it, did you?” Her finger wagged admonishingly before his eyes. “Well, you mealy-mouthed mistake of creation, so did I see it! So did a lot of others, along with hearin’ what that trouble-huntin’ skunk had to say! He forced a fight and got what was coming to him. If you wanted to flash that star, why didn’t you take a hand when he was spoilin’ to start a fight?”
The marshal tried to bluster, but it was a feeble attempt. Kate turned to the crowd and demanded their verdict, and it was given with a will. It had been a clear case of self-defense on Montana’s part.
“There’s your answer,” Kate said contemptuously. “If he’s a friend of yours, you better look after him.” She linked her arm in Montana’s. “I’m hungry, Bill. Let’s go get some supper.”
Montana eyed her almost reverently.
“You got me out of a bad spot, Kate. I’m mighty grateful.”
“You’d have handled him,” Kate returned. “But I enjoyed giving him a piece of my mind. But what’s going on? Somebody sure seems to have it in for you.”
“Somebody’s trying to discourage me from meddling. Mike McNamara said there was a devil’s brew being mixed, and he was right.”
“And you’re sniffing too close to the kettle, eh?”
“From the way the wasps are buzzing, I must be on the trail of something. But let’s eat; then we’ll go to a show. I have the tickets.”
Once they were seated, Kate studied the menu on the wall admiringly.
“This is some class.” She sighed. “Half a dozen different things to eat, instead of Hobson’s choice. I guess I could polish off a steak, with spuds on the side and a slab of pie, and coffee to wash it down. How does that sound?”
“Fine.”
Kate regarded him sharply.
“Don’t let that hunk of cussedness spoil your supper. He had it comin’. And most men would have downed him for good, ’stead of allowin’ him to go on livin’.”
That was true, but reaction had set in, as always after such an episode. Today had been particularly bad. The killer at graveside had died suddenly, violently, the gun twisting in his grasp as he sought to turn it against his intended victim. Both men had tried to kill him, and he had been forced to defend himself. But the result sickened him.
Kate was talking, seeking to divert him.
“A lot of people in this camp have got money, but the worst trouble is not having any law—that apology for a marshal only makes things worse. There’s a lot of stealin’ and thievin’. The railroad will sure be a big help for the miners and bankers.”
“I suppose so.”
“This way, everybody’s scared, so they put what they have in the bank—but a boom camp like this needs a lot of supplies to keep f running, and grub and powder cost money. There’s lots of money, only how do you get it out to buy stuff? It’s got so bad that nobody dares ship any gold out, or tries to take it out themself. Even the bank’s scared to try, in spite of its heavy guards. So everybody has been waiting, figurin’ to get it shipped out when the trains start running.”
That was probably a fair appraisal, Montana poised a morsel of pie on his fork.
“Trains get held up, too.”
“Yeah, but not so often or so easy. That’s what everybody’s waiting for. The bank is so full it’s bulging. If half the talk’s anywhere near right, there’s a trainload of fortunes stashed in this town.” That was an exaggeration, but it conveyed the picture. Montana relaxed. The food was good, though not above the ordinary.
“I guess it’s the company that makes it taste right,” he observed. “It takes someone like you to cook so that it’s more than just a mess to stay your hunger. Not many can wield a skillet as you do, Kate.”
“I like to cook,” Kate acknowledged, “within reason. What’s this show we’re going to see?”
“ ‘The Millionaire’s Daughter.’ Sounds kind of strange for a Chinese play.”
“I’m the daughter of a man who was handy with a pick and shovel—and not much else, barrin’ a bottle. It’d seem strange to have money—more than enough for the day’s need.”
She exclaimed at the loges, settling comfortably in their private box, above and at one side of the stage.
“This sure is class.” She sighed. “I’ve always wondered how it would seem to plant yourself in one of these. I’ve a notion I could learn to like it without half trying.”
The theatre was filling fast. Montana recognized many patrons from the night before. O’Leary, chatting with friends, caught his eye and waved.
The Mandarin did not appear in the first act, but Lotus Flower came on in the role of an orphan, sold to slavery in the house of a rich man. She quickly gained the sympathy of the audience.
Her attention seemed all for the play, but he noticed that she was covertly studying the audience. Presently he realized that she had seen him.
There was one point of similarity between the two plays. Both made lavish use of fireworks at different points. These were set off backstage, where they could be controlled, but the effect was startling.
In the middle of the second act, Lotus Flower tossed handfuls of red firecrackers, unlit. A brisk tattoo of drums made them seem real. Some rose high, and one fell beside Montana. After a casual moment he picked it up. He put it in a pocket and continued to watch the show.
There were more fireworks as the climax approached, and the building seemed to tremble. Kate leaned to whisper:
“That was no firecracker, Montana. If ever I leard dynamite, and I’ve heard plenty, somebody’s shootin’ it now!”
Her opinion confirmed his own growing hunch. Were these plays, with their excessive use of traditional Chinese fireworks, no more than a cover for blasting, which otherwise could not be done without attracting attention? That nefarious work, which required a line of coolies to cart away dirt in wheelbarrows—
Apparently no one else had found anything unusual. The climax of the play had come at that moment, with breath-taking effect. Ho Hsueh Pin was a craftsman, making certain that attention was centered where he wanted it.
Kate seemed content to walk in silence. They left the crowded section, taking a path up a hill among pine trees which were scrubby by contrast with those of the greater Black Hills in the distance, the few within sight of the town which had not fallen to the axe. From the crest, they could look back and see the lights of the town spread out below. The usual turbulence was hushed, while the rawness of unpainted shacks, the raw gashes in the earth, were cloaked by the night.
“It’s like a fairyland,” Kate breathed. “I never saw anything prettier!”
Soft light lay along her cheek, touching a rounded shoulder below. Looking at her profile, seeing the softness which touched her mouth, the hint of sweetness, he felt her words held new meaning. Montana had never seen anything prettier, but he wasn’t thinking of the town.
Until moments before he had been thinking of Geneva. But for the most part she had been more like a dream woman, while this one beside him was a creature of flesh and blood—with, on occasion, a fiery temper. She had flashed that at the marshal, forcing him to retreat in confusion.
“Why, yes, it sure is pretty,” Montana agreed. “I’ve never seen—”
The spell was broken as a hoarse voice called urgently from somewhere in the gloom below.
“Montana! Montana Abbott! Are you there? Katie! Now where the devil have they gone to?”
It was the voice of Mike McNamara, holding both anger and anxiety. Kate’s face clouded with disappointment. Then she shrugged, squaring her shoulders. Her near-bellow matched McNamara’s.
“Must you wake the dead with your bawlin’, Mike? Keep your shirt on; we’re coming.”