Longarm and Haven followed the ranger’s gaze to a saloon on the other side of the street and about half a block to the east, the direction from which they’d come. A crude, hand-painted board sign over the brush-roofed gallery announced simply: SLIM’S. There was a good dozen or so ranch ponies standing at the two hitch racks fronting the place, their latigos drooping. A black-and-white collie dog lay on its side in the shade atop the gallery, sound asleep.
Haven scowled skeptically at Roscoe Sanders. “You have a prisoner working at a saloon? A man who might know the whereabouts of stolen gold as well as whom might have killed five lawmen?”
“Ah, heck, Miss…uh, what was the name again?”
“Delacroix.”
“Ah, heck, Miss Delacroix, Big Frank ain’t goin’ nowhere. He’s got nowhere to go and even if he tried, he wouldn’t make it as far as the livery barn.” Sanders snorted a laugh, brushed his fist across his nose, and walked down off the building’s sagging porch.
“Follow me—I’ll introduce you to Big Frank.” Sanders swung back around and thoughtfully fingered his chin. “You don’t mind goin’ into a saloon, do ya, Miss Delacroix? Slim’s place…well…there might be some business upstairs, if you get my drift?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it a bit if Slim’s place doubles as a sporting parlor, Rangers Sanders,” Haven said, reining her horse away from the ranger post. “I wasn’t born yesterday, and my investigations have more than a few times required me to enter drinking establishments possibly even more raggedy-heeled than that of Mr. Slim.”
Sanders glanced at Longarm, who merely shrugged.
Sanders brushed his fist across his nose again, fidgeting, obviously uneasy, and then spat to one side as he swung around and tramped on down the street, angling toward Slim’s, the mule ears of his boots flapping this way and that with his badly bowlegged stride. Longarm and Agent Delacroix followed the man, put their horses up to the less crowded of the two hitch racks, swung down, and looped their reins over the cottonwood crosstie polished to a smooth, silver shine.
Longarm had heard a loud commotion from inside the saloon when he’d passed on his and Haven’s way through town a few minutes before. He heard it again now—a raucous din like only cowpunchers fresh off the ranch after payday could make.
Ranger Sanders stopped in front of the batwings, hooked a thumb at the doors. “Kinda rowdy in there. Maybe you’d like to wait out here, Miss Delacroix, while me and Custis talk to Big Frank.”
Longarm looked at her just now walking up the gallery steps and crouching down to pat the shaggy, dusty dog still lying there as though he’d run hard all day. He didn’t lift his head but merely flapped his tail against the gallery floor in acknowledgment of the woman’s ministrations.
“Boys will be boys. They don’t bother me at all.” She gave the dog one more pat, winked at Sanders, nearly causing the ranger’s knees to buckle, and then brushed past Longarm and pushed through the batwings.
The dog lifted his head suddenly, watching her go and giving a forlorn moan.
“Forget it, feller,” Longarm muttered to the dog. “That woman walking away is the best thing that ever happened to you. Let her keep on walkin’!”
He followed her and Sanders into the saloon. Most of the sweaty, dusty punchers seemed to be grouped around a table at the back of the room, holding up wads of greenbacks and yelling out bets. A big, long-haired man with Indian features—probably a half-breed—and wearing a white apron shuffled amongst them, delivering frothy beer mugs from a round tray. As he turned from the group at the back of the room and started toward the bar, he tripped on something and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught himself against a table.
Just then his molasses-dark eyes found Sanders, and he snapped out angrily, “Goddamnit, Roscoe, how’m I supposed to work when I keep trippin’ over this goddamn ball an’ chain?”
Just then, Longarm noticed two things about the big, hawk-nosed half-breed with close-set, angry eyes. He had only one arm—the right one. And around one of his ankles was a stout iron shackle to which a six-foot length of chain trailed away to an iron ball hooked behind a chair leg.
Longarm had no sooner finished sizing up the half-breed than he saw what the cowboys were betting on at the back of the room. Apparently one of them was fucking a dark-haired girl bent forward across the table in front of him, the whore’s skirt pushed up around her waist, the cowboy’s denims and longhandles shoved down around his ankles.
He was crouched low over the whore, who was propped on her elbows on the table, leisurely resting her chin against the heel of her right hand as the waddie hammered away behind her. The whore was laughing and yelling encouragement in Spanish-accented English.
She was a big, comely girl, and her full, brown breasts raked their heavy nipples across the table beneath her.
The men around the hip-thrusting waddie were calling out times, betting on how long it would take him to finish, some cheering him on while others yelled for him to slow down and take his time.
One of the gamblers had him at twelve minutes while another—an older, short, wiry gent with pewter hair—had him at twenty. The little, older gent stood atop a chair near the whore’s head, yelling and stomping one boot as though to the beat of a mariachi band, his spurs ringing like rusty chimes.
Longarm looked at Haven, who stood to his left, staring toward the back of the room. “Are they doing what I think they’re doing?”
“Maybe you’d better wait outside.”
“Men are disgusting.” Haven drew a deep breath and turned to Sanders. “Mr. Three Wolves, please, Ranger?”
Sanders beckoned to the big half-breed, who had just returned his tray to the bar and was glaring at the old ranger. The half-breed had apparently noticed Haven, because his eyes were riveted on the beautiful Pinkerton as he went over and picked up the iron ball and carried it down the bar to where the newcomers stood clomped at the end near the batwings.
“What do we have here?” he said.
Sanders said, “Can you take a break, Frank? These folks wanna talk to you.”
“Who are they?” Three Wolves had only glanced at Longarm, his gaze remaining on Haven.
“Law.”
“Really?” Big Frank’s dark eyes flashed surprise as they roamed up and down the woman’s busty frame clad in tight denims, long duster, and dusty stockman’s boots. “They sure don’t look like law!”
“Why don’t we have a drink?” Sanders said.
“I don’t drink while I’m working,” Haven said reproachfully.
“Don’t you ever get tired of the same old song?” Longarm looked at the half-breed. “I’ll have a beer and a shot of rye.”
Haven flared her nostrils with disdain.
Longarm, Agent Delacroix, and Roscoe Sanders took seats at a table near the front of the saloon, a good distance away from the festivities, which were continuing, Longarm couldn’t help noticing though the hip-thrusting waddie looked about ready to blow his load at any second. His face was red and swollen and he was shouting, “Ah, shit! Ah, shit—I ain’t gonna last!” while the whore said, “Two more minutes, Elwyn, and you will make Carmella one rich puta!”
She cackled wildly.
A couple of the waddies clapped. The little, pewter-haired cowboy on the chair was bellowing encouragement in a heavy Scandinavian accent. Apparently, a couple of the bettors had lost out and were slumping into chairs to ease their loss with beer and whiskey.
Three Wolves came from the bar carrying his iron ball as well as his beer, not an easy maneuver for a one-armed man. He’d already delivered beers and whiskey shots to Longarm and Sanders, and a glass of water to Agent Delacroix. He looked worn-out and angry but Haven’s appearance had gained his attention and tempered his owly mood. Like every other man who encountered her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.