Susan Amarillas - Scanlin's Law

“Come in, Marshal Scanlin.”

Rebecca was sitting in the Windsor chair and holding Ruth’s hand. She was still wearing her navy dress, and Luke could see that she was drier now, though he figured that she was soaked to the skin underneath.

She should have changed, but she was stubborn to the end.

“Why, thank you, Becky.” He used her familiar name, disregarding her formality. He saw the irritation flash in her eyes, and he had to fight the smile that tugged at his lips.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you are feeling better. I saw the doc downstairs, and he said you were doing better, so I thought it would be okay for me to stop by.”

For a long moment, Ruth didn’t speak, didn’t even move. She just stared at Luke. Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted his stance and raked one hand through his hair. “Ma’am, is something wrong?”

Ruth blinked, then blinked again. “No...Marshal, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Luke Scanlin. I’m the marshal for this region.” He gave her his best smile.

“Have we met before, Marshal?” She kept on studying him. “You look like someone...” She shook her head, and Rebecca stilled.

Luke arched one brow in question. “Who?” He shoved one hand through his hair again.

Ruth’s face drew up in a puzzled expression. “I...” Slowly her eyes widened. “So it’s you...” Her gaze shot to Rebecca, then back to Luke. The color drained from her face.

Rebecca surged from her chair. “Ruth? Are you all right? Shall I send for the doctor?”

Luke made a half turn, as if to do just that.

“No.” Ruth’s voice cracked. “No,” she repeated, holding up one hand. “I’m all right.”

“Maybe I’d better go,” Luke said.

“No, Marshall, stay,” Ruth countered, more firmly. She adjusted her position on the propped-up pillows behind her back. Rebecca helped her.

“So it’s me what, ma’am?” Luke asked.

“What? Oh, so, it’s you who helped me to my room,” Ruth answered quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The marshal is new in town,” Rebecca said, smoothing the covers before sitting down again.

“Well, that explains a great deal.” Ruth’s tone was thoughtful. “Under the circumstances, Marshal, I think you know me well enough to call me Ruth. `Ma’am’ sounds so old, and—”

“And old is twenty years older than you are...Ruth,” he filled in, grinning.

“Marshal, I think I like you. I always did have a weakness for charmers.”

“Not me. I’m telling the truth,” he teased innocently.

Ruth laughed. “So this must be the help you said you had.”

“Yes” was all Rebecca said.

“Well, Marshal, we are thankful for all the assistance we can get. Aren’t we, Rebecca?”

“Grateful. Yes.”

Luke came around to stand close to Rebecca. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. I hope I can help find Becky’s boy. Actually, one of the reasons I came up here was to tell you that the search parties have gone out and I’m going myself, right now.” He touched her shoulder lightly in a familiar gesture. “They’ll come back here as soon as they’ve covered their assigned areas.”

Rebecca spared him a look that didn’t last as long as a heartbeat. “Thank you.”

He headed for the door.

Ruth’s voice stopped him. “Marshal Scanlin.”

“Yes.” He didn’t turn, only looked back over his left shoulder, one hand braced on the edge of the door frame.

Her expression and tone had turned serious. “It’s very important that you find Andrew.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know.”

“I wonder if you do,” Ruth said gently.

The Barbary Coast was only a few short blocks from Nob Hill, but it might as well have been the other side of the earth. The Coast was several square blocks of the seediest, raunchiest real estate anywhere. It was the reason San Francisco was the most dangerous city in America.

Sin was for sale on the Barbary Coast. A man could name his pleasure and be certain to find it. He could lose his money in the gambling halls and saloons, lose his virtue in the brothels, or lose his life in the opium dens along Pacific Street. All in all, there were over five hundred concert saloons serving alcohol, and anything else, to the unsuspecting.

The good people of San Francisco gave the Barbary Coast a wide berth. The trouble was, so did the law. “Enter at your own risk,” said some. “Let ‘em kill each other, and good riddance,” said others.

So it was only natural that when a man wanted something done that was, well, less than lawful, he’d come to the Barbary Coast.

That was exactly what Frank Handley had done last week, and tonight he was back, seated at a table near the back wall of Fat Daugherty’s.

It wasn’t much of a saloon, he thought, taking in the long, narrow room. The ornate mahogany bar took up all of one wall, and the mirror behind the bar had a couple of cracks as big as earthquake fissures. A bartender with a handlebar moustache and greasy hair was serving rotgut that the patrons didn’t seem to mind consuming.

Cigarette smoke grayed the air, and the planked floor was sticky from too many spilled drinks and too much tobacco juice.

The place was doing a brisk business, though, he noted with a bit of surprise. Nearly two-thirds of the tables were taken, by groups of sailors—whalers, most likely—and wide-eyed farmers and cowboys in town to “see the elephant” before going home flat broke, if the cardsharps had their way. They usually did. Hell, Will and Finck were actually putting out a catalog of devices for the professional gambler who didn’t mind using a little sleight of hand to ensure that he won. Yup, cheating was an industry, he thought, somewhat amused.

A man dressed in denim pants and a buckskin shirt edged past on his way to the bar, bumping into Frank with a thud, then glaring at Frank as though he were the one doing the bumping.

“Sorry,” Frank muttered.

“Yeah,” the man growled, and blessedly continued on his way.

Frank released the breath he’d been holding. He felt as out of place as a rabbit at a wolf convention. But he was here now, and he had business, so he leaned back in his chair and tried to look calm and composed.

The chair wobbled pretty much like Frank’s confidence. One of the back legs was shorter than the others, so he leaned forward again, forearms on the edge of the table. His finely tailored gray suit was in sharp contrast to the stained and gouged surface of the square table.

He was waiting for the Riggs brothers, who were late. Where were they? All he wanted was to say his say and get the hell out of here. This was not his sort of place, after all. Frank had finer tastes. He preferred saloons like the one on Montgomery Street—slate billiard tables, gilt-framed paintings and glittering chandeliers.

If it weren’t for his job, he wouldn’t spend five seconds in a place like this.

Music started up from the out-of-tune piano. An argument broke out at the table next to him. A man shouting at another about fixed dice in a game of high-low-jack. The two lunged for each other, and Frank shrank back against the wall, praying he wouldn’t get involved, or hurt.

The bartender scrambled over the bar, wielding an ax handle, and effectively and efficiently ended the dispute with a resounding blow across the shoulders of one man. Frank winced as the man sagged to the floor.

“I ain’t puttin’ up with no fightin’ in here,” he snarled, the saloon suddenly quiet. He waved the ax handle in the air to punctuate his order. Grabbing the unconscious man by the shirt collar, he dragged him toward the door. His boot heels left trails on the filthy floor. For the span of two heartbeats, no one moved. Then, as if nothing had happened, everyone went back to doing what they had been before.