He worked to drain the mug, but he swallowed crooked, choked on the beer and puked some of it onto the table. In better times, such a spew would have embarrassed him. Finding where he’d spit the brew challenged him. Too many other stains and fresh wet spots covered the table.
A few more swallows of beer remained. As bad as the beer was, he wasn’t inclined to leave it behind. Giving his palate a rest, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out the leather wallet. Before he opened it, the envelope slipped out. He rescued it from a puddle of beer before it soaked through and through. Ike shook off the damp and opened the letter. Granger had kept one but left him this.
He blinked when he saw the letterhead. Ike caught his breath as he read the letter. His lungs about burst by the time he finished. Hands shaking, he replaced the folded paper in the envelope and opened the wallet.
Dizziness hit him. If he hadn’t been seated he would have toppled over. He recovered and snapped the wallet shut. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed what lay inside. Panting like a hound dog in the summer sun, he shoved the wallet and envelope with its letter back into his coat pocket.
Isaac Scott had no idea what to do.
CHAPTER SIX
Ike drifted in a bubble, all alone, sound cut off, seeing only blurs moving in front of him. When a drunk collided with him and almost knocked him out of his chair, the bubble popped and he returned to the gritty reality of the Grand Palace Saloon. The music hadn’t improved, and the off-tempo clickety-click sounds from the direction of the stage warned him that the dancers weren’t even close to matching one another’s steps. They were as terrible dancers as the trumpet player was a musician.
His only thought was that it could be worse. A piano player with no skill at all belting out a tune would have added to the general noise.
He looked at the floor, where the drunk fought his own inebriation to stand. He flopped about like a fish pulled out of a stream and heaved up on the bank.
“Let me give you a hand, partner.”
Ike caught the man’s arm and yanked him up. At the same instant the drunk started to tumble back to the floor, Ike kicked a chair under him. The man threw up his hands and thrust out both legs and yelled, “Yippee!”
“Settle down, old-timer,” Ike ordered. He looked around. Nothing the man said or did was going to draw attention away from the stage show. “You can finish it for me.” He shoved his mug across the table. Only a rime of foam around the lip remained.
“You’re a good man, no matter what anybody says.” The drunk snatched up the mug and licked away the foam, smacked his lips and wiped his lips with his sleeve. “That wasn’t enough to sate my thirst. No, sir, it weren’t, but it’s a start.” He tried to focus his eyes on Ike and failed. “You buy a poor, down-on-his-luck cowboy a drink?”
“Why not?” Ike said. “But you’ve got to tell me something. Is there a bookstore anywhere near?”
“Books? Them things with words in ’em? I reckon so.” He waved his arms about and finally pointed. “Not five doors down the street. Goin’ west. East! Nope, I was right the first time. West.”
Ike slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t go anywhere, you hear?”
“No, sir, nowhere a’tall.”
Ike moved from the table heading for the swinging doors. He stopped when he saw a lanky, handsome man go to the center of the stage. The man was dressed to the nines and had an arrogance about him that made Ike want to punch him before he uttered a word.
“Gents,” the man onstage called, “if you’ll pass a hat and everybody generously contributes as much as they can, the Grand Palace Dancers will come back.” He stepped toward the crowd and said, as if confiding a secret, “The quicker you fill that hat, the sooner the ladies will return. They might not have time to get dressed all the way if you’re fast enough.”
A cheer went up, and a hat bobbed from one side of the crowd to the other. The man—he had to be the owner, Zachary—scooped out the money and stuffed it into his coat pockets.
Ike saw how so much coin and specie ruined the line, but he knew Zachary wasn’t concerned.
“Back, you prancing fillies, get on back out here, naked or not!”
Zachary rushed from the stage, the curtain went up, and the dancers, in various degrees of dishabille, pretended to be shocked and embarrassed. Ike doubted the dancers got a penny of the money the owner just collected. Disgusted, he left the Grand Palace. A small smile came to his lips as he wondered how long the drunk would wait for that beer.
“Not long enough to sober up,” he said to himself. Ike stepped into the street, got his bearings and hurried to the bookstore. The drunk had been accurate about his directions.
The bookstore owner was closing for the day. He looked up from wrestling a bookcase of dime novels that had been on the boardwalk into the store.
“You in the market for some fine literature, Mister?”
“I am,” Ike said. “You have any magazines telling about the exploits of a Federal marshal?”
“Got a few. Even a new one. This here’s a popular series.”
Isaac Scott wobbled and closed his eyes, hoping the dime novel would be gone when he again looked. It wasn’t.
“All about one of Judge Parker’s top lawmen.”
“Deputy Federal Marshal Augustus Yarrow,” Ike said. “He’s real? Not made up?”
“I can’t swear that every word in here’s the Gospel truth, but Deputy Yarrow is as real as a toothache.” He held up the dime novel, looked from the lurid cover to Ike and back. The bookseller shook his head. “You look a tad like him, but your mustache’s not thick enough. The drawing on the cover, at least makes the two of you look like brothers. That’s supposed to be a good likeness, but you never can tell.”
“No, no, I don’t look a thing like him,” Ike denied. “It’s the bad light.” The sun had long since set and gaslights hissed along the street, casting dancing shadows and turning details into murky swamps of gray.
“I don’t have any notion what the real Augustus Yarrow looks like. I don’t think the artist that drew this does, either, but it’s as good a likeness as a wanted poster. Yours for a dime.” The clerk held out the book.
Ike stood frozen, staring at the cover and the title, A Noose for the Banker.
“Heard tell Deputy Yarrow actually works like the character in the book. He doesn’t go after stagecoach robbers or Indian raiders. No, sir, he goes after a different breed of crook. This one tells how he brought a thieving bank president to justice. Last month was a tale about catching a stagecoach agent who’d rob passengers while they were eating at his way station.”
“The kind of lawman who goes after crooked railroad presidents, too?”
“Like that, sure,” the bookseller said. He thrust the book out impatiently. “I got to get home to the missus. You buying this or not?”
Ike fished around in his pocket and found a dime. He passed it over and almost dropped the book when the clerk tossed it to him.
“Much obliged. Enjoy that fine tale. Check back next month. There’s sure to be another story that’ll snap your suspenders.” The man pushed the bookcase inside and closed the door. The lock snapped shut with a grim finality that reminded Ike of the sound made when the jail cell door clicked shut behind him.