William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

He had long, stringy gray hair, bloodshot eyes, and a face full of broken, spidery blue veins where it was not covered by a straggly beard. He wore a red-and-black flannel shirt, bib denim overalls and hobnailed boots. An oversized horse pistol was stuck into a hip pocket, gun butt jutting out.

“Take the girls over to Honey Bailey’s,” Mrs. Frye said. Honey was a brothel keeper, a friendly rival. Her “house” was a few streets north of the Spur. Mrs. Frye turned to the girls. “You girls can stay at Honey’s until the trouble’s blown over. Worse comes to worse, you’ll all find work there. With what you’ve got to sell, none of you will have to worry about starving.”

She turned back to Swamper. “Take them out the back way. Wait until Monk gives you the word.”

“Yes, ma’am. C’mon, ladies.”

The women picked up their bags. Swamper started toward the rear of the building, weaving slightly. The women followed.

“Good luck, Damon,” one said.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Get on with you and don’t bother the man,” Mrs. Frye said, shooing the whores on their way.

Swamper led them through a passageway behind the staircase to the back door that opened onto Commerce Street. He opened the door and stuck his head outside. The street was quiet. Only a handful of people were scattered along its length, none showing evidence of any hostile intent.

Exiting, Swamper staggered a few paces away from the back of the building. He tilted his head back, looking up at the roof. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he bawled, “Hey Monk, what d’you say?”

The bouncer, up on the roof keeping watch for Ramrod riders, shouted, “All clear!”

Mrs. Frye hurried the whores out of the building into the street. “There’s only five of you—one’s missing. Wait up, Swamper.” Cursing under her breath, she went back to the main floor.

The sixth whore, Nicole, stood lingering by the staircase. She was plain faced, with a sensational figure. Her eyes were downcast, her expression sullen, a stubborn set to her chin.

“What’re you waiting for, a special invitation? Git!” Mrs. Frye exclaimed.

Nicole stayed in place. “What about Francine?”

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Frye snapped. “Other arrangements are being made for her.”

“What arrangements?”

“That’s none of your business. On your way!”

Nicole squared her shoulders. “I’m making it my business. Francine’s my friend.”

“Why, you little—” Ruling her female charges with a free hand, Mrs. Frye was quick to lash out if anyone got out of line. She raised a hand to slap Nicole’s face.

“Mrs. Frye! Kindly desist, if you please,” Damon called.

Mrs. Frye restrained herself with some difficulty. “I don’t take sass from tarts!”

“Your disciplinary zeal is well known, but in this case we might make an exception. Loyalty is such a rare virtue that I hate to discourage it.”

Damon rose, crossing to the rear of the building. He went to his office, opened the door, and stuck his head inside. “Francine, if you’d be good enough to step out here for a moment.”

Francine Hayes exited the office, stepping into view. White-blond hair framed a fine-featured, heart-shaped face. Dark blue eyes contrasted with her light hair and fair skin, making the orbs seem deeper and more alluring. She wore no face powder, lipstick or rouge; her clearcut features were vivid without cosmetics. A demure, blue-and-white checked gingham dress covered her from neck to ankles, though not concealing a high-breasted, slim-waisted physique.

“What is it, Damon?” she asked.

“Nicole’s worried about you.”

Francine went to Nicole, putting her hands on Nicole’s upper arms. “You’re sweet.”

“Ain’t you comin’ with the rest of us?” Nicole asked.

“No, I’m staying here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to bring any trouble down on Miz Bailey or you girls. You won’t be bothered if I’m not with you.”

“Why should we be bothered?”

Francine smiled sadly. “Staffords are hard and unforgiving. They might take it out on anybody giving me shelter. I’ll be safer here and the rest of you will be safer without me.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Nicole declared.

“You’d just put yourself in danger. I don’t want that.”

Nicole’s agitation grew. “You’re the only friend I got. I ain’t gonna run out on you.”

“We’ll take care of Francine,” Damon said. “You’d just be one more distraction, Nicole.”

“Please.”

“The longer you wait, the more danger you’re putting all of us in. Francine most of all,” Mrs. Frye insisted.

“Please, Nicole, for my sake,” Francine urged.

Nicole nodded and blinked rapidly, her chin quivering. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Francine hugged her and kissed her cheek, then she and Mrs. Frye escorted Nicole through the passageway and out the back door.

Nicole joined the others. Swamper led them across the street, north up a side street, around a corner, and out of sight.

Francine and Mrs. Frye returned to the main floor. Mrs. Frye studied the other. “You all right, Francine?”

“Yes, Mrs. Frye. I’ll be in my room.” Francine climbed the stairs to the second floor, crossing the balcony to a door, opening it and going inside.

Mrs. Frye cut a glance at Damon. He poured her a drink. She drank it. He went to the table, sat down, and resumed his card game.

Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew entered the Golden Spur.

“We’re closed, gents,” Mrs. Frye said.

Luke gave her a big grin. “Aw, Miz Frye, after I done humped my way over here on my one good leg, you ain’t gone send me away without one measly little old drink?”

“Save the blarney. You walked in, you can walk out,” she said.

Damon cleared his throat. “I think we can make an exception, Mrs. Frye. Belly up, gentlemen, and have one on the Spur.”

Luke beamed. “That’s a go!”

“You’re a gentleman, Damon,” Johnny said.

“Am I? How nice it would be to think so,” Damon said, returning to his card game.

Johnny and Luke made their way to the bar. “Howdy, Creed,” Luke said.

“Creed.” Johnny nodded to the other.

“Hey, y’all,” Creed Teece mumbled.

“How’s it goin’?” Johnny asked.

“Can’t complain,” Teece said. “You?”

“I’m getting along.”

Morrissey poured drinks for Johnny and Luke. They downed them, setting empty glasses on the countertop. Johnny slapped a coin down. “How about letting me buy one?”

“Why not?” Teece said. Morrissey poured three shots.

“Pour one for yourself,” Johnny said.

“Thankee,” the barkeep said, filling a fourth glass.

“How about you, Miz Frye?”

“I’ll pass, cowboy. But I’ll take the money.”

“Now, Mrs. Frye,” Damon chided.

“The way things are going today, we could use it. Well, all right, I can’t say no.”

“I heard that about you,” Luke joked.

“No to a drink.”

“I heard that, too.”

She gave Luke a hard look. “Don’t push your luck, hayseed.”

“What’ll you have, Damon?” Johnny asked.

“This’ll do me fine, thanks,” Damon said, reaching for the bottle on the table and refilling his glass.

“Mud in your eye,” Johnny toasted.

They drank.

“Enjoy yourself while you can,” Mrs. Frye said, “the climate here’s liable to turn distinctly unhealthy anytime now.”

“That so?” Luke said.

“Too much lead in the air.”

“Maybe sooner than you think.” Johnny’s tone was sharp, pointed.

Wyck Joslyn and Stingaree came in through the front door.

Luke whistled through his teeth. “They dogging us, Johnny?”