The Damnation Affair

Chapter 21

The Lucky Star was going full-tilt, rolling like a whaling ship on the North Atlantica. The tinkling pianoforte was spitting out a reel, and miners and gamblers were dancing, either with the saloon’s fancy girls or the dancing girls who would cozy up to a miner through “Clementine” or “That Old Gal of Mine,” as long as he paid for the drinks.

Doc was the first to arrive, in his dusty black, and he gave Jack Gabriel a narrow-eyed stare. “You look like hell, Gabe. Something been keepin’ you up nights?”

“Riding the circuit.” That damn storm’s too thick tonight. Wonder where Russ got himself off to, he should be back by now. Gabe tossed back the shot of what passed for whiskey, set the bottle in the middle of the table. The thumping and jollity from downstairs was enough to give a man a headache.

“Not a pretty pair of dark eyes?” Howard’s laugh was dry and rasping as the dust. “Someone should tell Laura Chapwick she’s still got a chance.”

Gabe stared at the amber liquid in the bottle. The old man would grow tired of baiting if the bear didn’t respond.

Sure enough, Doc dropped down in his usual seat. “You are looking rough, Sheriff. It isn’t like you to drink before the game, either.”

“Might make it easier to lose.” Since my luck’s been so bad.

“Might, at that.” Doc’s spidery tabac-stained fingers drummed the table.

“Well, Hell,” Paul Turnbull announced, stamping into the room and slamming the door so hard it was a wonder the whole place didn’t shake. “Gabe, God damn it. The whores are accusin’ Tils of skimming, and that goddamn man’s been taking it from my cut too. He’s drunk, the books are a damn mess, and that Tiergale whore says she’ll fix ’em if I pay her. What in God’s name is goin’ on around here?”

Gabe made a noncommittal noise, and Doc’s laugh scraped the corners of the room again, harsh as the grit-laden wind outside. “You’re just now noticing Tils is a thief? There’s a reason I won’t play cards with him, Turnbull.”

Paul’s footsteps were like to rattle the room. He yanked out his chair, its legs screeching discordantly against the floor, and a shout went up downstairs. Gabe tensed slightly, but it was immediately followed by a flood of drunken laughter. Seems usual enough, he decided.

“Hell, I knew he was a thief.” Turnbull eased his bulk into the chair and sighed, rubbing at his moustache. “I just didn’t think he’d steal from the whores. Ain’t good business, what with the trouble of getting more of them out here. No reason for the dancin’ girls to work like that when they can get what they want for a few turns around the floor.”

“Maybe Letitia Granger could take up a subscription.” Doc found his own witticism hilarious, and wheezed through another laugh.

There was a tentative tap at the door, but instead of Russ Overton, a corn-gold head poked through atop a pair of massive shoulders. It was Billy, the boy who ran errands for Coy and the girls, and he shuffled into the room with his hat in his broad paws, blunt fingers working nervously at the battered thing. His dark eyes were sleepy and one of them drooped at the corner; whenever he was nervous that cheek would twitch madly like a spider-charm was trapped under the flesh. His charing was a cheap brass disc, barely sparking even when he worked a simple mending. For all that, he was good with those graceless hands, and never touched the booze.

“Now what?” Turnbull barked, and Billy all but cowered.

“Guh-guh-guh…” The stammer got worse when he was excited. Nobody knew where he’d come from; he’d just arrived in Damnation and slept out on the main street in the dust until Turnbull let him sweep the boardwalk in exchange for a meal. “Gabe. Missah Gabe.”

The flash of white he was crumpling along with his hat was a piece of paper, and Billy extended his arm. He stayed where he was, trembling in the face of Paul’s glower.

What the Hell? Gabe gained his feet and did his best to block Billy’s view of Turnbull. “What’s this now, Billy? For me?”

“L-l-lady.” Billy nodded his head several times. “Lady.”

The note was stained by Billy’s moist palm, and Gabe clapped him gently on one meaty shoulder. The boy was built like an ox, and it was a good thing he didn’t like the liquor. He’d be unrestrainable if he took a mind to go on a tear. “Good boy, Billy. Thank you.” He dug in his pocket and found a half-bit, pressed it into the boy’s palm. “Good boy. You done good.”

“A billet-doux?” Doc Howard found this intensely interesting. “Oh, my.”

The paper was high quality, and as soon as he touched it he knew something wasn’t right. His heart gave a thundering leap, because when he opened it, the firm, clear handwriting was familiar.

She had a beautiful hand, that was for sure.

Jack, I need you. Yours, etc., Catherine.

He folded it up, deliberately. “She waitin’ on a reply, Billy?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, his hair flopping in his face. “Y-yuh-yussir.”

“Show me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Duty calls, boys.”

Doc Howard was about to make some sort of rejoinder, but it was lost in Turnbull’s exasperated sigh. The silent owner of the Lucky Star threw his hands up in an almost comical gesture of disgust. “Ain’t that just great. Get the cards out, Doc. I ain’t leavin’ this room until I’ve had a few hands.”

“Russ’ll be along soon.” Jack followed Billy out into the hall, closing the door on Paul’s curse. Doc would be the one to keep the peace between those two tonight, and it served the old buzzard right.

I need you. It was after dark, and she was outside her house. And Yours, etc., Catherine. As if he had a right to her charing-name.

There was something in his throat. Gabe swallowed, hard, and wished Billy would shamble faster.

Billy pointed him out the Lucky Star’s front door, and Gabe had to peer into the dust-heaving dark before he saw her.

She was at the corner, a shawl wrapped over her head, blinking furiously against the grit. A charmed handkerchief was pressed over her nose and mouth, struggling to filter the air before she breathed it. Stray curls fluttered on the wind, and he stepped around her, blocking the force of it, without thinking. He leaned down to examine her—she wasn’t visibly injured, but her jacket had been hastily buttoned and was slightly askew. Under the shawl her hair was braided and pinned, and she trembled so hard her skirts shook when the wind wasn’t flapping them.

He tilted his head to the side and took her arm. She went willingly enough, and the wind fell off sharply as he got her into the shelter of the Skell boardinghouse—not nearly as nice as the Hammises’ place, that was for sure. The day’s heat had dropped off as well, and with the wind now it was too chilly for what she was wearing.

She shook the charmed handkerchief, a flash of white. “Th-thank you. You c-came.”

“’Course I did.” What, you thought I wouldn’t? “What is it? Another little somethin’ on your porch?” Because if it is, I will hunt someone down tonight. I’m just in the mood to do it, too.

“N-no. It’s w-worse.” The shaking was all through her, and even in this dimness he could see she was paper-pale. “I c-can’t even begin to tell you how much worse.”

“Are you hurt?” He had her shoulders, and she winced. Was he hurting her? He tried to make his fingers unclench. “Catherine, someone hurt you?”

“N-no. Well, my stomach, but…” She drew in a deep, shaking breath. “It’s Li Ang. Someone…he broke in through the parlour window, the shutter was loose. He…he wanted the baby. He hurt…he hurt Li Ang.” Another deep breath. “Jack…Sheriff…sir, he is dead.”

“Dead.” He repeated it, just so he could be sure he’d heard her correct-like.

“Yes, sir.” Her pupils were so large her eyes looked black. “Sir…there is a corpse in my kitchen. I don’t…I do not know what to do.” The shaking in her threatened to infect him.

There was a fist made of cold metal in his guts, and it squeezed. Jack pulled her to him, resting his chin atop her shawl-covered head. He hunched a little, wishing he could close himself around her like an oyster’s shell around the meat. “Easy,” he murmured, under the wind’s low moaning and hissing. “Easy there. I’m here, sweetheart. All’s gonna be well. You did right coming to fetch me.”

She said something he couldn’t hear, muffled by his shirt. Her breath was a warm spot through the material, and perhaps she was crying. He hoped not—maybe she needed it, but the thought of tears leaking from those big dark eyes made him feel a little unsteady. Like he’d been after Annie, powder looking for a match.

He could have stood there a little longer, but she moved restlessly and he had to let her go. She wasn’t so pale now, though, and there was that determination on her soft little face again. It was right cheerful to see.

“Thank you.” She swallowed, hard, and he could not look away from her lips shaping the words. “I…thank you, Jack.”

“Catherine.” The rock was back in his throat. It was dry as the sand in the air, and he suddenly longed for another jolt of whiskey. Digging out his flask now didn’t seem like a good idea, though. “No need. Give me that rag of yourn, I’ll charm it to keep the dust out and we’ll set this to rights.”

The transparent relief on her face was worth all the gold in the hills, so he repeated himself as she handed over her handkerchief. “Yes ma’am, we’ll set it to rights. You can just rest easy now.”

I sound like an idiot. But he would say it as many times as needed to reassure her. Which meant a number of things. Not least of which was that he was going to have to have a serious talk with Miss Catherine Barrowe about her future.

And his.