“Then we would have had to name you the Saint Louis Black.”
“I am in no mood for badinage, John. Was your trip to Nevada City worthwhile?”
“Up to a point. Glen Bonnifield is in fact keeping Lily in her cottage and has been for more than a year. He has an evidently justifiable reputation for jealousy and an explosive temper. Last year he threatened to shoot a man who had been pestering her. And he carries a Colt Peacemaker and is reported to be an excellent shot.”
“A dangerous man. And likely the one who shot at you at Lily’s cottage last night.”
Quincannon nodded agreement. “A hothead of direct action, not devious design. Would such a man write a note forewarning both a rival and the rival’s wife?”
“No.”
“No, indeed. So was it Jack O’Diamonds who wrote the note, to pave the way for a murder plot against Lady One-Eye devised by him alone or with the collusion of Lily Dumont? Or was its author, after all, some anti-gambling individual who might or might not intend to carry out his threat?”
“Rhetorical questions, John.”
“So you learned nothing that might point in either direction?”
“Nothing more than yesterday. The anti-gambling faction here has more than a few ardent members. If the note was written by one of them there’s no way to identify him — or her — short of asking for sample handwriting from every local resident.”
“Faugh.”
She told him of the intense breakfast-table discussion between Lady One-Eye and Jeffrey Gaunt, and of her own conversation with Gaunt. “Unless I miss my guess,” she said, “the brother-and-sister discussion concerned Jack O’Diamonds and Lily Dumont.”
“It would explain Lady One-Eye’s anger. Did Gaunt seem upset beneath his calm demeanor?”
“I would say he was,” Sabina said. “He is certainly aware of the affair, if their infatuation with each other has gone that far.”
“There seems little doubt that it has. Does he strike you as capable of violence to preserve his sister’s alleged honor?”
“As capable of it as Bonnifield, if I’m any judge of men.”
Oh, you are, Quincannon thought, and none better at it, I’ll warrant. “A bad situation, in any case. One I have a feeling may soon come to a head. But how soon?”
“Yes,” Sabina said, “and where and in what way?”
At five o’clock, in fresh clothing and with a plate of liver and onions residing more or less comfortably within, Quincannon returned to the Gold Nugget to resume his duties behind the bar.
Lily Dumont was there, setting up her faro bank. No one was with her, and when a bearded miner drifted over and attempted to start a conversation, she brushed him off with a sharp word. She seemed preoccupied — and almost as nervous as McFinn. Quincannon wondered if the cause of her agitation was that she’d gotten wind of the shooting last night.
Lady One-Eye and Jack O’Diamonds arrived together, but soon parted without a word to each other. The Lady took her place at the platform table and was immediately challenged by a pair of whiskered gents who had the look of nouveau riche prospectors. Diamond made his way to the bar, where he drank two brandies in short order. Then he moved restlessly about the room, stopping for a time to play vingt-et-un and then again to play faro. But it was not Lily’s bank that he chose. He avoided going anywhere near her, as if she were not even on the premises. Lily, likewise, paid not the slightest attention to him. A falling-out of some sort? Or part of a plan that might have been hatched between them?
The last to arrive was Jeffrey Gaunt, dressed in his customary rusty black suit and string tie, his pomaded hair glistening in the lamplight. He sat alone at the same table he’d occupied the night before, where he alternately watched his sister play, cast long, hard looks in the direction of his brother-in-law, and made notations in his ledger book.
The Saint Louis Rose made her entrance shortly afterward, wearing a frilly green outfit with a low-cut bodice that struck Quincannon as even more revealing than last night’s scarlet number. Where had she gotten such clothing? From a costumers, probably, though she hadn’t said so. For all he knew she had a closet full of such apparel and had been leading a wanton double life, slipping out once or twice a week to Barbary Coast deadfalls. Hah! Fanciful notion if ever there was one.
Still, there were hidden depths in her, of that he was sure — a wanton within a proper lady, waiting to be released. That thought, in spite of the time and place, quickened his blood. It also put him in mind of a quatrain from a poem by Emily Dickinson.
He sighed as he watched her sashay across the room, drawing admiring and lustful looks from the early-gathered customers. It made him testy to see the men ogling her in such a fashion. As if he were a jealous husband.
She joined Jack O’Diamonds at the faro table, attempted to engage him in conversation. The gambler spurned her; he seemed as preoccupied as Lily Dumont. Three times in less than an hour he ordered brandy from one of the percentage girls. But the liquor seemed to have little or no effect on him.
Lady One-Eye made short work of the two Cornish miners, taking a hundred dollars from one and twice that amount from another. They accepted their losses more or less good-naturedly, the biggest loser offering to buy her a magnum of champagne as a token of his esteem for her skills. She declined. There was a tight set to her mouth tonight, a distracted mechanical quality to her movements.
Shortly after the prospectors left Lady One-Eye alone on the platform, Glen Bonnifield walked in. Or, more precisely, weaved in. His face was dark flushed, his eyes blood flecked, his expression brooding: the look of a man who had spent a good part of the day in close company with a bottle of whiskey. Trouble afoot, all right, Quincannon thought darkly, and no gainsaying it.
Bonnifield lurched up to his station, stood for a few seconds glowering in the direction of Lily Dumont. Then he called for rye.
Quincannon said politely, “Carrying a bit of a load tonight, eh, Mr. Bonnifield?”
“What if I am? No concern of yours.”
“No, sir, except that you forgot to check your weapon.”
“My what?”
“The Peacemaker poking out from under your coat.”
“No damn concern of yours,” Bonnifield growled. He spat into one of the knee-high cuspidors. “Pour my rye, barkeep, and be quick about it.”
“Not until you obey the rules of the house and check your weapon.”
“Well, now. Why don’t you try checking it for me?”
His voice was loud, belligerent; some of the other patrons swung their heads to stare at him. So did Lily Dumont. When she saw the condition he was in, her nervousness escalated into visible fright.
“Let’s not have an altercation, Mr. Bonnifield.”
“There’ll be an altercation, all right, by God. But not with the likes of you.”
Abruptly Bonnifield shoved away from the rail, staggered over to Lily’s faro bank. She shrank back while two of her customers moved out of harm’s way. Quincannon was on the move through the notch in the bar by then. He heard McFinn shout a warning to his bouncers; he also glimpsed Jack O’Diamonds jump up and start past the raised platform to Lily’s defense.
What remained of Bonnifield’s self-control had dissolved in drunken fury. He yelled, “You little tramp, I won’t let you make a fool out of me!” and his hand groped under his coat for the Peacemaker.
Quincannon reached the saloonkeeper just as he drew the big-barreled weapon, knocked his arm down before he could trigger a shot. Bonnifield swung wildly with his other hand, struck Quincannon’s shoulder a glancing blow that drove him backward on his heels. Two of the bouncers muscled up, grabbed hold of the saloonkeeper, and tried to wrestle him into submission. He broke free and stumbled into a confused group of customers and Gold Nugget employees, still clutching his Peacemaker. Men shouted; a woman let out a shrill cry of alarm.