Sipping at his latest bottle, then grinning stupidly to no one in particular, he cackled out loud. “Banion! That’s a good one. Banion...”
Then he took another sip, curled up, and went back to sleep.
Chapter three
When Sheriff Harry Gauge pushed open the telegraph office door, he hadn’t intended to startle operator Ralph Parsons. But the skinny, four-eyed Parsons was always on the skittish side, and plainly the wire Old Man Cullen had sent earlier today — now the talk of Trinidad — had the pip-squeak well and truly spooked.
Faintly amused, Gauge leaned an elbow at the counter and gave Parsons a small, calm smile in exchange for the operator’s big, nervous one.
The sheriff asked, “Any message for Cullen come in yet, Ralph?”
The nervous smile disappeared and a rush of words squawked out: “Oh, uh, oh no, sir, Sheriff.” The man’s expression was gravely serious now. “And, uh, look... about the wire Mr. Cullen sent this morning? I didn’t want to do it. No, sir, I didn’t. But that old man had a gun, and—”
Still amused, Gauge said, “Why, do you want to press charges, Ralph?”
“No!” Eyes behind glasses went so wide that white showed all around. “I mean... did you want me to?”
Gauge shook his head. “Forget it, Ralph. The old boy’s in a tizzy ’cause of the man he lost. Grievin’ and all. We’ll cut him some slack.”
“That’s real white of you, Sheriff.”
Gauge curled a finger to draw Parsons closer. “But I want you to let me know the minute an answer to that wire of his comes in.”
The operator swallowed thickly. “I’m all alone here, Sheriff. But I can come over right after closing.”
“Well, you just close the second something comes in. That sign in the window has two sides, don’t it?”
“It does, Sheriff. I’ll be glad to do that, Sheriff. Is there... anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”
Gauge thought if the man said “Sheriff” one more time, he might slap him. But he forced a smile and kept his tone friendly.
“Yes. Take this down for me, would you?”
“Surely.” The operator reached for a form and a pencil.
“ ‘To all territorial sheriffs,’ ” Gauge dictated. “You do have that list, right, Ralph?”
“I do indeed.”
“ ‘To all territorial sheriffs. Send photograph and general information regarding Wesley C. Banion immediately. ’ Sign it, ‘Harry Gauge, Sheriff, Trinidad, New Mexico.’ ”
The operator had blanched upon hearing the name. Parsons let out enough air to blow up a balloon and said, “You think... you think maybe this Banion character is around these parts, Sheriff?”
“I surely hope so.”
Parsons didn’t know what to make of that. “Well, from what I hear, he’s...”
“He’s what, Ralph?”
Now it was the operator who forced a smile. With the filled-out form in one hand, he made a dismissive gesture with the other. “Nothing, Sheriff. Not my business. I’ll get this right out for you.”
“Thank you, Ralph. In case you’re wondering, I’m well aware this Banion is the gunfighter Old Man Cullen sent for. And it doesn’t bother me a lick. I just like to keep... on top of things.”
Parsons nodded, said, “You bet, Sheriff, you bet,” and went to his telegraph key to send the wire.
That evening, back in his office by himself, Gauge sat with his feet on the floor, hunkered over a WANTED poster he’d plucked off the wall. His request for a picture was likely a long shot. This poster had no photograph or drawing, just the following information:
The bell over the door jangled as if announcing a customer in a general store — Gauge was a careful man in practice, if reckless in ambition — and a beautiful woman familiar to everyone in town entered.
If Lola had a last name, no one in Trinidad, not even Harry Gauge, knew it. Not that it came up much in conversation. Darkly beautiful, her black curly hair worn up, tall and slender but for a full bosom, Lola was Gauge’s partner in several ways, among them co-owner of the Victory Saloon, where she ran the girls, though she herself was available only to the sheriff.
She wore a long gray mannish coat over her blue-and-gray satin gown. She wore the coat in part due to it getting chilly here after dark, but also because she rarely traversed the boardwalk in her low-cut dance-hall-queen working clothes.
Entering as if she owned the place, Lola removed her coat in a swirl, folded it like a blanket, and dropped it on the sheriff’s desk like a present. Her satin gown had black lace that caressed and lifted her bosom, and the dress parted in front at the knees to reveal fishnet silk stockings and high-laced high-heeled shoes.
She sat on the chair opposite him, shoulders back, chin high, folding her lacy-gloved hands in her lap. Her eyes were big and dark brown and wide-set in her oval face; her nose small and tip-tilted; her lips wide and sensual and red-rouged. The dark beauty mark near the lush lips was nature’s work.
Her voice was a throaty purr as she said, “Working a little late, aren’t you, Harry?”
“Shouldn’t you be over at the Victory? Your ‘day’ is just starting, ain’t it? Cowhands get paid today, remember.”
She shrugged and the half-exposed bosom did a little shimmy. “They won’t be in for another hour or so yet. I thought maybe you and me could kill a little time, Sheriff. Don’t you have a bottle that isn’t swill, down in one of those desk drawers?”
“I do.”
“And don’t those shades draw?”
“Ain’t in the mood, Lola.”
She got out of the chair and sat on the edge of the desk, leaning in to show off the breasts even more. “Since when are you ‘not in the mood’?”
“Since I said I wasn’t. I got work to do.”
“Where’s that dumb deputy that follows you around? Not that I care.”
“Doin’ my bidding. What else?”
Smiling at that, she glanced at the WANTED poster on the desk, turned the sheet toward her. Then she nodded. “I heard about this, Harry. That’s why I came over.”
“Is that right.”
She leaned in even more. “I figured you might like to take your mind off your troubles, Harry.”
He gave her something halfway between a smile and a sneer. “Sit it down. I ain’t buyin’.”
Hurt flashed in the dark eyes. He’d meant to give her the needle — she hadn’t sold herself for a very long time, so the insult surely stung. But she did as she was told, sitting back down, folding her arms, hiding the exposed flesh as if to punish him.
“There was a time,” she said, voice still throaty but the purr gone, “when there was nothing in your life that meant more to you than me.”
“You’re wrong. You’ve always come in second to my life, Lola.”
She frowned. “You’re that worried? When I first brought you here, nothing used to bother you.”
“Bigger a man gets,” Gauge said quietly, “bigger his troubles.”
She smiled. She had nice teeth, a rarity among her breed. “Well, you’re a big man, all right. County sheriff, land owner, co-owner of damn near every business in town.”
“I told you not to curse, Lola. Ain’t ladylike.”