Part 2

Thin-haired, hunch-shouldered Sam Lester looked up from his plate. He wore shot-glass-thick lenses that hid his eyes and gave his face a froglike placidity.

"She feeds me," he said. He put down his fork and reached for a wine bottle. Persia shook her head in refusal. He filled Tesno's glass and then his own.

"Sam lives above the offices in the other part of the building," Persia said, smiling again.

She had white, even teeth, the complexion of an angel, and hair as pale as Montana gold. Her eyes were a mysterious shade that Tesno couldn't decide about, but they were frank and friendly.

"I drag him in to dinner most every night," she went on. "Sometimes I think he would prefer to bolt down a sandwich and get back to his precious bookkeeping. What part of the country are you from, Mr. Tesno?"

The wine was mellow, fragrant with the scent of some fertile, faraway valley. "I was born in New Mexico Territory," he said. "Got into railroading when the Santa Fe was fighting the Denver & Rio Grande for Raton Pass."

Stella set a plate before him with half a roasted duck on it. He was hungry, but he ate without tasting, captivated by the charm of Persia Parker.

She pried him with questions about himself, touching him with eyes that were green or gray or hazel, smiling when he smiled, making him feel that every word he said was important to her. He was not a talkative man, but now he talked as he seldom had before.

He told about his parents being killed by Comanches when he was a few months old, about the whisky-running renegade who had bought him from the Indians and raised him. He told how he had hired out as a wrangler when he was twelve, how a rancher's wife had taught him lessons and lent him books to read. And Persia Parker laughed and frowned and touched him with her eyes, warily now, as if afraid of the tenderness he saw there, afraid he might misunderstand.

Sam Lester seemed content to be ignored. He finished his coffee quickly, muttered that he had paper work to do, and left them alone.

Persia lead Tesno into the parlor. She was taller than he had expected. She wore a simple, black, ankle-length dress, and he remembered that her husband had been dead less than three months. Yet black set off her pale hair, and he couldn't picture her in anything more becoming. She indicated a chair for him and sat down on a sofa two feet away.

"I expect you're a busy woman," he said. "I'd better get to the point."

"I'm not half as busy as you'd think, Mr. Tesno," she said. "The town pretty much runs itself. And my position is entirely unofficial, you know. My husband was mayor, and after his death, I took over some of the more ceremonial duties of the office--temporarily, I thought. But the town council likes the novelty, and I'm afraid, the notoriety, of having a 'lady mayor.' This is no ordinary community, and they seem to feel that anything that adds to its uniqueness is good for business. So they keep postponing the election of Duke's successor."

"You also own most of the business property in town," he said. "Isn't that true?"

She nodded readily. "Duke didn't try very hard to sell lots because when the tunnel is finished, the town will fade away. At least, that's the probability. So he put up buildings and leased them to businessmen on a percentage basis. A few businesses he operated himself, of course."

"So as heir to his estate, you're in a position to tell the town council what to do."

"Not exactly," she said, frowning. "At least, I don't. In fact, it seems as if somebody is always telling _me_ what to do. Sometimes I feel a bit trapped, Mr. Tesno."

"You know I work for Ben Vickers?"

"I presumed you did."

"You must know what the town is doing to his men. A booze town and a construction job don't mix."

"It isn't a nice town," she admitted soberly. "But it makes money. And I owe Ben Vickers nothing."

Tesno's eyebrows went up. "Without him there'd be no town."

"He's fought us every step of the way," she said, emotion creeping into her voice. "If it hadn't been for Ben Vickers, my husband would be alive today."

Tesno was startled. "I didn't know that."

"Duke brought a crew of workmen up here to build Tunneltown. Ben Vickers coaxed most of them away by offering them a bonus to work for him. That left us awfully short-handed, and Duke pitched in himself. He wasn't used to that kind of work, and he got killed.... Oh, I know that Vickers was only playing a rough game the way it's played. I don't want to be bitter. I'd give a good deal to have a cleaner town."

"You could clean it up."

"Me?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"You and the town council. And the marshal. Maybe he'd need a deputy or two."

"I don't know. The trouble is that we're making money."

"That's always the trouble. At least, it's always the argument. But there's a good deal of honest business in town. There's a livery barn and smithy, a general store, hotel, barber shop, restaurant...."

"Most of those aren't doing very well, Mr. Tesno."

"Has it occurred to you that the saloons and gambling tables are hurting them?"

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's money spent in the saloons that could be spent elsewhere. But, Mr. Tesno, three of the members of the council are saloonkeepers. The other is the hotel man."

"Is Pinky Bronklin on the council?"

"Mr. Bronklin? Yes."

"Mrs. Parker, would you call a meeting of the council and tell them what I want?"

"There's a meeting of the council tomorrow night."

"Fine. On second thought, I'll tell them myself."

"That's probably best. But what do you want, Mr. Tesno?"

"Midnight and Sunday closing. No booze sold to drunks. No gambling. That will do for a start."

Persia sighed heavily, then quickly smiled as if amused at herself. "I've heard those words so often from Ben Vickers. The council has heard them, too. What makes you think you'll get them to listen?"

"They'll listen," he said.

"Maybe they will," she said soberly. "I guess if they'll listen to anyone, it will be you. I wish you luck."

He grinned his lopsided grin and started to rise, but she was on her feet ahead of him. She brushed past him, laying a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his chair.

"I'll get you some brandy," she said. Before he could protest, she was gone, and he chided himself for the surge of warmth that her casual touch aroused in him.

She was back at once with a brandy bottle and a glass, saying that she had neglected her duties as a hostess. She poured him a drink and sat down again, not having one herself.

"I'm taking up your evening," he said.

"Mr. Tesno, you have a cigar in your pocket. I wish you'd smoke it."

He smoked it, remembering not to chew the end. They talked and laughed softly and got acquainted. She told him about herself; how she had grown up in her aunt's Tacoma boarding house, how she had met Duke Parker there and run away with him. She would have married anyone, she said (curiously, he thought), who would take her away from the dawn-to-after-dark routine of cooking, cleaning, and table-waiting. She spoke, too, of the house Duke had built on the bluff above Commencement Bay, of sailing parties and picnics and clam-digging at Gig Harbor.

He might have wearied of such talk from another woman, but he cherished every word Persia Parker spoke, weighing it for the subtle, personal message that seemed to be hidden in it. It was as if some strange, almost mystic accident were giving him a glimpse of a world he had never known could exist--not the world she spoke about, but the lovely mysterious world of herself.

At last he rose to leave, reluctantly, the cigar long since discarded. She went to the door with him. When he had walked a few steps into the night, he turned, and she was a waving silhouette in the bright frame of the doorway. Jauntily, he threw her a kiss, wondering if she could see him plainly enough to make out the gesture. She waved again. The door closed. Picking his way in the thick darkness, he moved along an unfamiliar path toward the scattered lights of the main street.

* * * * *

Persia stood frowning at the white surface of the closed door. Footsteps in the parlor told her that Sam Lester had come in from the other part of the building. After a moment, she went to meet him.

"I didn't expect he'd be quite so ... nice," Persia said.

"What did he say?" Sam seemed an emotionless little robot as his thick lenses caught the light from a lamp.

"He's going to be at the council meeting tomorrow night."

"I don't think so," Sam said.

"Why not? It's best to have him dealing with the council."

"He has to go. It's been decided."

"Why? Is he so fierce? Mr. Madrid took his gun."

"Mr. Jay wasn't impressed," Sam said. "He said Vickers has hired himself a he-coon." Sam sat down beside the brandy bottle and poured himself a stiff drink.

"Sam," Persia said, "I wish I owned this town as everyone thinks I do. I'd cash in and get out. Ben Vickers would pay a pretty price for it."

"Get out anyhow, Persia."

"No!" she said emphatically. "Not till I can take a lot of money with me."

"I'd take care of you. You know that."

"Please, Sam. Don't start that."

She sat down at the far end of the sofa to avoid looking into the thick lenses. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was forty--an old forty--and she was twenty-three. He was a dull, ugly little man; a twenty-dollar-a-week bookkeeper when Duke had picked him up. But he was smart about accounts and legal documents. And he was loyal. He protected her from any shenanigans Mr. Jay might have in mind.

Mr. Jay and Duke had been partners of a sort, although this had been a tightly kept secret. The townsite papers were in Duke's name; but it had been Mr. Jay's money that had built the town and he had put himself firmly in control by tying Duke up with notes and contracts and such. Duke had found himself a mere front--just as she was now, passing Mr. Jay's decisions on to the council as if they were her own. She, Sam, and Mr. Madrid, and possibly Mr. Pinky Bronklin, were the only ones who knew this.

Mr. Jay's determination was sometimes frightening. He meant to take over Ben Vickers' contract, and he wanted as wild and dirty a town as possible in order to slow down the work. Some of Vickers' key men had been drugged or beaten. Without coming right out and saying so, Sam had made it clear that Mr. Jay had arranged these incidents. Oh, it was all a pretty rotten business, but there was a chance to make money here, a chance a woman didn't often get. She thought of that boarding house in Tacoma and shuddered. She would die before she went back there.

All the income from rents, leases, and the sale of real estate was going to pay off Duke's debt to Mr. Jay. The only thing in the clear was a three-quarter interest in the Pink Lady, which was in Persia's name and not part of Duke's estate. Since the town paid her living expenses out of tax money, she was able to put aside this income from the saloon each month. It was a tidy little sum but not enough to make a person rich--not in the year or so of existence the town had left.

Her great hope was that Mr. Jay would take over the tunnel contract soon. He could then come out in the open and he would buy the township proprietorship from Duke's estate, writing off the debts and putting up a tidy bit of cash besides. He would also buy the Pink Lady. And thanks to Sam Lester, Persia had this agreement in writing.

Sam set down his glass and refilled it. "You're honest enough with me, Persia. I'm grateful for that."

Before he could go on, she switched the subject back to Tesno. "Sam, how are they going to get rid of him?"

"There's nothing we can do about it."

"Sam, I want to know."

"They're going to put him in the hospital."

"I won't have that!" Persia sat up straight. "I ... I'll see Mr. Jay first thing in the morning!"

Sam sipped his drink. "Persia, I never wanted to marry, but now--"

"Sam, please!" She spoke harshly, sharply. Then she smiled and said softly, "Please."

Sam sighed, drained his glass, and looked speculatively at the bottle. "Forget about seeing Mr. Jay in the morning. It will happen tonight. It's probably happening right now."

Persia found herself on her feet, hurrying to the door. There she stopped, frowning thoughtfully.

"There's nothing anybody can do," Sam said from the parlor.

Then she went back to the sofa and sat down. Sam spoke tonelessly.

"Madrid took his gun; now some money fighter is going to put him in the hospital. It will be a joke around town, Mr. Jay said, all that happening to the big troublebuster the first night he gets in town. It won't be too bad, I guess, Persia. Maybe it's all over by now. Put it out of your mind."

"Yes." She gave a curious little shrug. "Put it out of my mind. There's nothing else to do."

They sat in silence for a time. Then she said, "Sam, if we went away from here, where would we go?"

IV

The main street was an empty, lonely place in spite of the humming bright tunnels of the town's saloons. Tesno stepped off the boardwalk into the dark river of the street, angling toward a dim white globe with HOTEL lettered on it. The pasty-faced night clerk looked up from a game of solitaire as he entered the cluttered lobby. The air was heavy with stale smoke and the smell of unpainted wood.

"I had your saddlebags and blanket roll brought down from the livery," the clerk said, slapping Tesno's key on the desk. "And, oh, a Mr. Warren wanted to see you. He said to tell you he'd be at the Pink Lady. That's a saloon."

"Warren? Did he say what he wanted?"

"He said Mr. Vickers' sent him."

Tesno muttered thanks. He stood toying with his key, then dropped it on the desk and wheeled back into the night. He quickly walked the short block to the Pink Lady, passing no one, not liking the darkness of the town.

The saloon was full, the jangle of the piano half-smothered by the roar of voices, the clink of glasses and faro checks, the whir and clatter of a wheel of fortune. But as he paused inside the batwings, squinting against the stale brightness, the noise ebbed. Heads turned toward him, then cautiously away. And he knew at once something was in the air.

He sauntered on into the place. A little Irishman turned away from the bar and hissed at him as he passed.

"Watch it, Bucko."

Tesno nodded at the man, who looked vaguely familiar. _So I walked into it_, he thought. _They set me up, and I walked into it._ It would be a fight, he guessed. Otherwise the crowd wouldn't know, wouldn't be waiting for a show. Some hired tough had been bragging himself up to it, probably, mouthing off about some pretended grudge.

Men made a place for him at the bar, and he took it. Pinky Bronklin slid up and laid his pincerlike hand on the wood. He looked downright cheerful.

"Man named Warren asked me to meet him here," Tesno said. "You know him?"

Pinky shook his head. The white scar glistened on his flushed face. "You want a drink?"

"I'll have a cigar."

Pinky moved away. Tesno turned casually away from the bar. A huge blond man with a broken nose got up from a table and swaggered toward the bar. Tesno made room for him but still got an elbow in the ribs. The man was half a head taller than Tesno's six feet, outweighed him by forty pounds.

Silence clamped the room now. Even the piano had stopped. Pinky came up with a box of cigars. Tesno took five, laid a quarter on the bar.

"Beer," the big man said. He turned to Tesno, looked him over, grinned. There was a tooth missing from the grin.

"Your name Warren?" Tesno said, biting off the end of a cigar.

"This here is Hobo Hobson," Pinky said, setting a bottle of beer on the bar. "Hobo, meet Mr. Tesno."

"I figured this was him," Hobson said loudly. "He killed a friend of mine at Pend Oreille. Shot him in the back."

"Not so!" A high-pitched voice came from near the door, and Tesno saw that the little Irishman had stepped out from the crowd. "I was there. Ace Gandy was blazing away with a revolver when he died. Tesno took a slug in the leg before he even fired."

Someone pulled the man back. Hobson faced the bar as if to pick up his beer; instead, he swung at Tesno's head with a vicious backhanded blow. Tensed for something of the kind, Tesno stepped back. Hobson's hand missed its target but sent the cigar flying from Tesno's mouth.

"My fault," Tesno said mildly, giving the man room.

Hobson's grin was broader than ever. A shock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead, and he seemed more animal than man. A stand-up-and-swing, stomp-a-man-when-he's-down fighter, Tesno thought. A bear-hugger and an eye-gouger. But a man who depended on his own monstrous strength and fighting knowledge rather than on weapons. Not the sort to pull a knife or a Henry D.

"It seems this Tesno backs away from a fight when he ain't got a gun," Hobson said.

"Depends," Tesno said. He sent his glance over the crowd, which had coagulated into a half circle. In front of a faro table near the far wall, he spotted Madrid's barber-pole shirt. He raked a match across his rump and lighted another cigar.

"Who sent you?" he asked Hobson.

"Sent me? Sent me where?"

"I've seen back-country pros before. You're a Sunday-afternoon pug, a winner-take-all man who doesn't fight for fun. Who's paying you?"

"You killed a friend of mine. That's enough."

Hobson tipped up the bottle of beer, drank deeply, set it down. Tesno laid his cigar on the edge of the bar.

Hobson took one leisurely step forward, then charged, lashing out with his great fists. Throwing up his hands to guard his head, Tesno turned sideways and aimed his left foot at Hobson's left knee. He took a sledgehammer blow on the shoulder that knocked him off balance, but not till he had got his boot sole against the knee. Twisting with his weight against it, he felt the kneecap slide out of place.

Hobson gave a strange little yelp of pain. Stumbling, he grabbed his knee with both hands. Tesno was on him like a cat, seizing him by the hair, hauling him forward. Then he plunged his own knee into the man's face to send him careening into a poker table and off it to the floor in an avalanche of cards and chips. Dazed and awkward, bleeding from his mouth, Hobson struggled to get to his feet. Tesno caught him at the base of the skull with a short brutal rabbit-punch that dropped him open-mouthed and motionless in the filthy sawdust of the floor.

For a moment, nothing broke the silence. Then someone cursed reverently. "God! God almighty damn!" And a rooster cry rose from the end of the bar--the little Irishman, no doubt.

Tesno sauntered to the bar and stuck the cigar between his teeth. "Some of you boys pick him up," he said. "Lug him to the jail."

The little Irishman broke from the crowd, gesturing to others. Four of them turned Hobo Hobson on his back preparatory to lifting him. But Pete Madrid stood over them, muttering something, and they straightened. Madrid faced Tesno tensely.

"Who in hell do you think you are?" Madrid said. "You've no authority to jail a man."

"I want him locked up for the night. And a doctor had better look at him. We'll use the town jail, Marshal."

"You'll use it. You and Hobson both."

"Maybe you haven't got the straight of it," Tesno said. "I tried to back off. Every man here witnessed it."

Madrid's hand made a snake-strike at his hip and came up with his revolver. He gestured toward the door with it and said, "Get moving, cowboy."

The cigar had gone out, and Tesno relighted it. Madrid aimed the gun at Tesno's feet. "Walk to jail or go there crippled. It makes no difference to me."

Tesno headed for the door, swaggering a little, puffing the cigar. As he passed Madrid, he said, "This is the second mistake you've made today, Marshal."

The marshal's office was in a squat log building at the foot of the street. Tesno entered it first. Madrid followed and turned up a low-burning lamp in a wall bracket. The jail was a single cell at the rear of the office. Its iron-bound wooden door stood open. Tesno stopped beside a flat-top desk in the center of the room. The men from the saloon lugged Hobson past him and deposited him on a bunk in the cell. He was still out cold.

"He needs a doctor," Tesno said.

Madrid still held the revolver. He made no reply except to gesture toward the cell with it. Tesno stepped inside the cell and pulled the door shut behind him. He peered out through the small barred window in the door.

Madrid waved the men who had carried Hobson to one side. "Step back from the door," he said to Tesno.

Tesno backed up two short steps. Madrid holstered his gun and moved forward to lock the cell, which was fitted with a hasp and staple. A huge padlock with the key in it hung from the staple.

Tesno raised his hands and plunged into the door. It smashed into the marshal, knocking the padlock from his hand as he staggered backward. Tesno dived into him, seizing his gun hand as it flashed to his hip, driving him hard into a corner of the desk, falling on top of him as he hit the floor.

Tesno was quickly on his feet, the marshal's gun in his hand. Madrid lay on his back, hurt by his collision with the desk, struggling noisily for wind. Tesno seized him by the heels, dragged him roughly into the cell, snapped the lock into place. The little Irishman burst into a high-pitched laugh.

"Now who ever heard of such a thing? He jailed the marshal."

"Get a doctor, Mike."

"Only one's at Vickers' camp."

"Get him. I'll be back at the Pink Lady."

He yanked open desk drawers till he found his own revolver and gunbelt. He buckled it on, feeling weariness rise in him like a quick-acting drug, wanting nothing so much as his hotel room and its bed. But it was necessary now to show himself back at the saloon, to buy these men a drink. That was the way the game was played. You came in tough. And you swaggered a little for the crowd.

V

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Mr. Jay said when he answered the knock on the door of his suite at the hotel.

"Take it easy," Pete Madrid said, pushing past him. "I'm the one who got hurt."

Mr. Jay's beard jerked angrily. "Did you have to come straight here? Don't you know he'll be watching you?"

"I'm not that stupid. He's having breakfast at the restaurant."

They went into Mr. Jay's little parlor. Madrid eased himself into a chair. Mr. Jay stood glaring at him.

"So he let you out. Hobson too?" Mr. Jay said.

"He and Hobson are having breakfast together."

"Will Hobson talk?"

"Maybe. But all he can say is that Pinky promised him ten dollars if he'd break some bones. Pinky had a grudge from back in Idaho, so there's nothing to point to anybody else."

Mr. Jay considered that. When he spoke, his tone was milder. "We've all been stupid. We underestimated the man. How bad are you hurt?"

"Busted rib. It isn't so bad since Doc strapped me up."

"Vickers' doctor?"

Madrid nodded. "I can still draw a gun."

Mr. Jay's beard jerked sternly. "We won't have any of that."

"Seems like the only way left."

"It's what we should have done in the first place, maybe. But after what's happened it would be too raw. We'd have the railroad down on us, the county sheriff up here. No, for the time being well play Tesno's game."

"That means a clean-up."

"We'll go through the motions. We'll enforce a curfew for a while, send a few gamblers packing. The important thing is for us to do it, not him."

Madrid scowled, as if he didn't understand or didn't agree. Mr. Jay walked to a window and stared out, hands behind his back.

"In the meantime," Mr. Jay said, "you're to get along with him. He's top-dogged you, and you're going to have to live with it. Do you understand that?"

"I try to get along with everybody," Madrid said. "It makes things easier."

Mr. Jay turned his back to the window, moving in the quick irritable way that he had. He studied the marshal a moment, then he sighed. His manner suddenly became paternal.