Among others, some half-a-dozen women and a couple of men emerged from the batwing doors of the Cattle Queen, attracting Danny’s attention. At least one of the women caught his eye. Even without being told, he knew that black-haired, beautiful woman in the center of the group to be Ella Watson, female saloonkeeper and maybe the boss of the cow thieves plaguing Caspar County. No ordinary saloon-girl could afford such a stylish, fancy light blue gown; a garment more suited in cut and line to a high-class New Orleans bordello than in the saloon of a small Texas town. The dress did little to hide the fact that its wearer’s five-foot-seven figure would be something to see. Cut low in front, it showed off a rich, full bosom, clung tightly to a slender waist, then spread out to eye-catchingly curved hips, although concealing the legs from view. Her face, beautiful yet imperious, carried a look of authority which none of the others showed and set her aside as one above the herd.
“That’s Ella Watson, runs the Cattle Queen,” Tommy confirmed, waving his hand to a small buxom, pretty and scared-faced blonde girl who stared in wide-eyed horror at the scene.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Danny replied. “Soon as we’ve seen the great siezer, we’ll go get one.”
“I can use it,” Tommy stated.
The great siezer, the cowhand’s disrespectful name for the county sheriff, was not in his office; having gone along to the Bon Ton Café with his deputy for a meal, according to one of the gathering crowd of onlookers. Throwing a glance at his two hands—he had hired Danny on the way into town—Jerome gave instructions.
“Go get that drink, but keep it to one or two at most. I’ll send word if Sheriff Farley wants you.”
Leaving Jerome to take care of the bodies. Danny and Tommy fastened their horses to the sheriff’s office hitching rail and then walked back toward the sturdy wooden front of the saloon. The little blonde girl came running from among her fellow workers, making for Tommy.
“What’s happened, Tommy?” she gasped. “Who—what——”
“Easy, Mousey,” Tommy answered gently, taking the girl by the arms. “Sammy and Pike ran into trouble.”
Danny studied the girl. Wide-eyed horror showed on her pretty, naïve face. She was a fluffy, shapely, if a mite buxom, little thing, wearing a short green dress, black stockings and high-heeled shoes. Maybe not too smart, she looked like she would be happy, merry and good company under normal conditions—and clearly Tommy regarded her as something extra special.
“They were in last night,” the girl said.
“Who with?” growled Tommy.
“Sammy was with Dora, but he left with just Pike,” answered the girl, turning curious eyes in Danny’s direction.
“Mousey, this’s Danny Forgrave,” Tommy introduced, taking the hint. “He’s come to ride for Bench J. Danny, meet Mousey, she’s my gal.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” Danny greeted.
“Call me ‘Mousey’,” she told him. “My real name’s Mildred, but I like Mousey better.”
“Then Mousey it is,” Danny replied.
At the same time as he spoke to the girl, Danny became aware that one of the men standing with Ella Watson studied him carefully. The man wore a low-crowned white Stetson shoved back on his head and a scar ran across his skull just over the right ear, the hair growing white along its line and in contrast to the blackness of the rest. Standing around six foot, the man wore a black cutaway jacket, frilly-bosomed shirt under a fancy vest, black string tie and tight-legged white trousers. Instead of a gunbelt, the man had a silk sash around his waist, a pearl-handled Remington 1861 Army revolver thrust into the left side so as to be available to the right hand. Cold, hard eyes in a fairly handsome, swarthy face, took in every detail of Danny’s dress, with due emphasis on the way he wore his guns. For a moment the man stared, then whispered something in Ella Watson’s ear, bringing her eyes to Danny.
“Let’s go get that drink, Danny,” Tommy suggested. “Come on, Mousey, gal.”
Taking Mousey’s arm, Tommy escorted her into the saloon and Danny followed. Inside he studied the place with interest. For a small cow town, the Cattle Queen sure looked mighty elegant. There were tables and chairs around a dance space for use of the customers; chuck-a-luck, faro and blackjack layouts, the usual wheel-of-fortune stood against one wall. A long, fancy bar with a big mirror behind it offered a good selection of drinks and was presided over by a tall, burly man with side-whiskers and bay-rum slicked hair. The bartender nodded to the new arrivals as they came to the bar and laid aside the glass he had been polishing.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Beer for me ’n’ Mousey,” answered Tommy. “How’s about you, Danny?”
“Same’ll do for me, amigo,” Danny replied.
“What’s all the fuss outside?” the bartender inquired as he poured the three beers with deft hands.
“We just brought in Sammy Howe, Pike Evans and Gooch,” Tommy explained.
“Whooee!” ejaculated the bartender. “What happened?”
“How the hell would I know?” snapped Tommy, the tensions of the day putting an edge into his voice.
A dull red flushed into the bartender’s cheeks at the words and his hand went under the counter toward his favorite bung-starter; a most handy tool with dealing with cowhands who forgot their menial position in life.
“I thought Gooch maybe——” he began.
“Thinking’s bad for a man,” Danny put in quietly. “Especially when you’re talking to a feller who’s just lost two good friends.”
Slowly the bartender turned his eyes to Danny’s face. Something in the young man’s level, gray-eyed stare caused the bartender to remove his hand from the bung-starter. Having a well-developed judgment of human nature, the bartender knew when to sit back and yell “calf rope,” so he backed water. While he might get by bullying a youngster like Tommy, the bartender reckoned he had best not try any of his games with that tall, blond newcomer.
Then a feeling of relief came to the bartender as he watched the women stream back into his room. At the rear of the group walked Ella Watson and the fancy-dressed hardcase who found Danny so interesting outside. With backing like that, the bardog allowed he might be able to chill the blond Texan’s milk. However, he remembered that his boss did not go for rough stuff in the rooms, especially at so early an hour and when dealing with cold-sober and unoffending men.
“Feller seems tolerable took by you, Danny,” Tommy remarked, nodding to the mirror’s reflection. “Ain’t hardly took his eyes off you since you come near him.”
“It’s not often they get a feller as handsome as me around,” answered Danny, taking up his drink in his right hand. “Who is he?”
“Name of Ed Wren. They do say he’s real fast with his gun. He works here as boss dealer.”
The name did more than ring a bell for Danny, it started a whole danged set of chimes going. In fact, Danny knew more than a little about the gunhand called Ed Wren. Among other things, he knew where the man picked up that bullet scar across the side of his head. A couple of years back Wren had hired out to prevent trail hands taking on to help drive the Rocking H herd to market. Trouble being that the Rocking H’s owner was kin to the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan and so Dusty Fog rode to his kinsman’s aid. Dusty had been the first man Wren tried to forcibly dissuade. That white streak across the side of Wren’s skull told the attempt had not been successful.*
Not for a moment did Danny believe Wren had forgotten the incident. Which could account for the gunman’s interest in him on his arrival. Although taller than his elder brother, Danny’s facial resemblance had always been fairly marked. Even now Wren must be trying to decide if this be coincidence or if Danny was either the man who shot him, or kin of the man. Either way, Danny found he had a further piece of trouble he must watch for.