The Union Belle Page 9

  “I’m very grateful. My name is Lola Montez,” Lola said quickly as the tall man pulled off his apron.

  “I’m Austin Carroway.” He offered his name as he reached up and pulled down a gunbelt from a peg. She watched as he strapped it on, clapped a brown hat on his head, then followed her out on the street. She knew at once that without him, she would never have made it, for the eyes of all the men they passed were drawn to her. Seeing Carroway holding her arm tightly, though, the men refrained from the usual crude invitations.

  The house Carroway led her to was tucked away in a grove of scrubby trees. It was a single-story house with a porch wrapping around three sides. As Carroway’s boots echoed on the porch, a woman opened the screen door. “Come in, Austin,” she said, then peered into the fading sunlight. “Who’s that with you?”

  “This here is Miss Lola Montez, and this is Hattie Langley,” Carroway said, gesturing to the two women. “She just got off the train from Omaha and needs a room. You got one left?”

  The woman, Lola saw, was instantly suspicious, but she said slowly, “Just one. How long will you be staying?” She was an older lady, but traces of beauty still remained on her oval face and in her trim figure. She had light blue eyes and blonde hair, and would have been pretty except for the cynical attitude that hardened her lips and narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m looking for a relative of mine,” Lola said. “I don’t know if I’ll stay very long—but I can pay in advance for a week.”

  The woman hesitated, but Carroway said quickly, “Guess that’s all right, isn’t it, Hattie?” He waited for her slow nod, then turned to Lola. “Got to get back to the store. Hope you find your relative.”

  Lola put out her hand, which took him off guard, but he took it. “Thank you for helping me. You’ve been very kind.”

  Carroway nodded sharply. “Let me know if I can be of any more help.”

  “I’ll show you the room,” Hattie said as soon as Carroway left. She picked up a lamp from the mantel and led Lola through a parlor and down a short hall that veered off to the left. She opened a door, and stepping inside, placed the lamp on a cherry-stained wash stand. “Sheets are fresh. Breakfast is at six.” She gave Lola a hard look and warned, “I run a decent place, Miss Montez. No men in your room.”

  “No,” Lola agreed quickly. She had an urge to break through the obvious suspicion on the woman’s face, and said, “I was in a pretty bad way. Mr. Taylor told me in Omaha that North Platte was rough, but I didn’t pay enough attention.”

  Hattie asked at once, “You know Lowell?”

  “Well, not really. He was very helpful to me in Omaha.” She saw that the mention of Taylor’s name had modified the stern look on Hattie’s face, and added, “It will be nice to stay with you. From what I hear there’s no other place in town where a single woman would be safe.”

  Hattie studied the beautiful face of the girl, her thoughts hidden, but she said, “Freshen up a bit, Miss Montez. There’s some fresh bread, and I’ll fix some bacon and eggs.”

  “That would be nice—and please call me Lola.”

  Hattie left and Lola removed her travel-stained dress, washing her face in the lukewarm water from the pitcher. She put on a clean beige cotton dress with a high neck, brushed her hair, then left the room.

  Hattie was in the kitchen shelling peas. “I’ll fix your meal in a minute,” she said.

  “Please let me shell the peas,” Lola offered readily. “I’m not a very accomplished cook, but I’d like to help.” She sat down and began to shell the peas, and for a time neither of them spoke. Hattie Langley was not a talkative woman, Lola sensed, and she herself was too tired to carry on more than a casual conversation. When the meal was ready, she sat down and ate hungrily. Hattie hesitated, then sat down across from Lola and drank a cup of coffee.

  They talked for a time, and Lola understood that Hattie was puzzled by her coming. She had an impulse to tell her story, but she didn’t know the woman well and was very tired. She insisted on washing her dishes, then said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but the trip from Omaha was longer than I expected, Mrs. Langley, and I’m very tired.”

  “I’m not married,” Hattie said with a sharp edge to her voice, as though she were angry or defensive about the fact. When Lola didn’t respond, Hattie Langley spoke again quickly, “Breakfast is at six.” When the girl had left, she stood there staring at the door, her lips tightened in a frown. “Too pretty for this town,” she muttered, turning to leave the kitchen through another door.

  For the next three days Lola kept close to the house in the evenings. The town was a beehive of activity, work by day and drink by night. She got somewhat closer to Hattie Langley, but understood thoroughly that the woman would not give her any solid trust until she was somehow able to prove herself.

  For large parts of the days, and most of the nights, Lola puzzled over just how to accomplish that. A sense of desperation began to grow in her, for it was obvious that she could not continue living as she was for long. Her money was draining away, so that she would soon have to work. She considered going back to Omaha more than once, even back to the border, to a world that was more familiar to her, but that choice repelled her more than remaining in North Platte.

  Her one great hope was to locate her father, but even that seemed beyond her grasp. “How can I find him among all these men?” she pondered late one night. Her window was open and the sounds of the rowdy men floated across to her ears, muted by distance. She was sitting in the single chair, looking at the yellow glow in the dark sky that rose from the lanterns of the saloons and dance halls. She had counted her store of cash before dressing for bed, and was frightened by the sum. “I’ve got to do something,” she whispered, “and very soon.”

  Lola sat there quietly, but inside, her mind was beating almost frantically. She thought once of Mark, and the memory stirred her. He had been kind to her—but that door was closed. She wondered if they would meet again, then hoped that they would not. They could not go back to what they had been, and there was no use trying.

  Finally a thought came to her—a thought that she rejected at once. But it came back several times, and she forced herself to consider it. For over two hours she sat in the chair, struggling with her sparse choices. Finally she said aloud, “It’s the only way left for me.” Her lips tightened, and she went to bed at once. For a long time she lay rigidly in the bed, considering the next day, and finally said again, “It’s the only way. I’ve got to do it.”

  ****

  Cherry Valance, owner of the Wagonwheel, the biggest bar in North Platte, saw the girl as soon as she came through the entrance. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning and he was seated at a small table eating breakfast. The swampers were cleaning up and one bartender stood behind the long bar idly polishing glasses.

  The girl was a beauty, Cherry noticed, as she went over to Shep Yancy, the best bouncer in North Platte, and spoke to him. Yancy was sitting in a chair that was tilted back against the wall, half asleep. He pushed his hat back, allowed his chair to settle, then said something to the girl and gestured toward where Valance was sitting.

  As the woman came up to his table, Cherry took in the strange combination of dark blue eyes and olive complexion. He would not have imagined that mixture to be attractive, but admiration came to him as she stopped in front of him and asked, “Mr. Valance? I’m Lola Montez. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Sure.” Cherry rose and pulled a chair around saying, “Sit down. Care for some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Not a talker, Cherry thought, but she’s a real looker! He bit into his bread, waiting for her to continue. Valance was twenty-eight, a trim, well-built man with crisp dark hair and heavy black eyebrows. He was finely dressed, as always, with a fawn-colored suit and a snowy-white ruffled shirt. Yet for all his fancy clothes, he was a hard man, handy with gun, knife or fists. A Cajun from New Orleans, he had built a fortune by pandering t
o the raw desires of the wild railroad laborers who spent their hard-earned cash at his gambling tables and bar.

  “I need a job, Mr. Valance.”

  Cherry was surprised, for Lola Montez didn’t have the air of a saloon girl—the only job he had to offer. He said as much at once. “Lola, there’s only one job for a woman in this place. And I can see you don’t want that.”

  She allowed a smile to lift the corners of her lips. “I want to deal blackjack for you,” she said.

  Her statement achieved what she had hoped—and expected. She had picked up enough information about Valance from Hattie to know what his reaction would be. She knew by looking at him that he was a man who used women—and she had heard that he prided himself on his skill with cards.

  Valance gave her a sharp look, then shook his head. “A woman can’t deal blackjack. She’d lose her shirt—” He laughed, and amended his words. “Better say, she’d lose my shirt!”

  Lola had planned what she would do, and he had given her an opportunity. “That’s what you think now, Cherry,” she smiled. “But suppose I beat you at the game?”

  His pride was aroused, and he said immediately, “Can’t happen!”

  “Then you’re not afraid to play against me?”

  Cherry laughed quickly, but his cheeks reddened. “Afraid? Lady, I never heard the word!” He called out suddenly, “Nick, bring us a fresh deck.”

  While the barkeep was bringing the cards, he studied Lola. It pleased him that she was there, and the thought of losing to her never entered his head. He’d had a lifetime of practice and knew himself capable of handling cards with anyone. Still, there was something rich and strange in the encounter, and he was a man who enjoyed new experiences. As he took the deck, he asked, “How about the stakes for this little game?”

  She said, “I don’t have much money. If I did, I wouldn’t be asking for a job, would I?”

  “I guess not,” he admitted.

  “But I’ll risk all I’ve got, Mr. Valance.” She took the bills out of her purse and put them on the table. “You win that and I’m broke. But if I’m ahead in an hour, you’ll think about the job?”

  “Fair enough, Lola.”

  She took the deck from him, laid the cards down, and he said, “Hit me.” When she laid the next card down, he laughed and said, “You win first blood, Lola.”

  The game began slowly, and within twenty minutes the stack of bills in front of Lola was almost gone. But she knew her man, and forty minutes later she had won three times her original stake. “Want to stop?” she asked.

  “You said an hour,” Valance said. His lips were thin, and he looked angry. “Deal the cards.”

  An hour later he had won back a portion of the cash when she pointed out, “The hour is up, Mr. Valance.”

  “Let’s play thirty more minutes,” he urged. “I can take you now.”

  “That wasn’t the bet.”

  He stared at her, then taunted her. “Afraid to take a chance?”

  Lola put the remaining bills into her purse, then sat there, her eyes suddenly bright. “I did take a chance. The only question now is—are you going to give me the job I won—or are you going to be a welcher?”

  Valance flushed and said instantly, “I never welched on a bet in my life.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Lola said. “Now, let’s talk terms. We won’t argue over money, but one of my terms is very clear. I deal blackjack in your place. And that’s all I do.”

  Cherry Valance figured himself for a pretty tough character—but he also had a romantic streak. A thorough cynic in most things, from time to time he would see a situation that caught his imagination. This beautiful woman who had walked into his place, beating him in a way he would never have dreamed possible, suddenly became an appealing challenge to him.

  “Why, sure, Lola,” he said smoothly. “That’s fair enough.” He gave her a smile and added, “If you want to change the rules later, why, I’ll be happy about it.”

  “All I want is a job, Mr. Valance,” Lola stressed quietly, a direct look in her eyes.

  “Be mighty fine, Lola,” Cherry said at once. “Now, let me tell you a little bit about how our operation works. . . .”

  Thirty minutes later, Lola rose, saying, “I’ll be back at six.”

  Shep Yancy came over and stood looking down at his boss. “Who was that, Cherry?”

  Valance gave him a crooked smile. “Why, that’s my new blackjack dealer, Shep.” He watched the face of the huge man change from curious to astonished, and added, “May be trouble for you. I figure the boys will be anxious to get their hands on a pretty thing like that. See that they mind their manners, Shep.”

  “Can she deal?” Shep asked, still incredulous.

  Cherry pulled a thin cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the end and lit it. The fragrant smoke rose, and he said slowly, “Yes—but even if she lost, I figure she’ll make me a whole pile of money. Way I see it, every man in camp will want to sit down and try his luck with that lady. If they win from her, we’ll win it back from them.”

  That was exactly the way it worked out. Lola came back at six wearing a black dress with blue sequins that matched her eyes. Her shoulders were bare, and she no sooner sat down than a line formed waiting to play at her table. Some of the remarks were coarse, and most of the men laughed at the idea of a female blackjack dealer, but they soon discovered that she was almost impossible to beat.

  After a couple of hours, Cherry said, “Shep, she’s winning, and she’s making them like it. Now, that’s talent for you.”

  Shep started to answer, but a movement caught his eye. A short, chunky man had reached out and grabbed Lola’s arm, saying, “Honey, you and me need to take a little walk.”

  Shep Yancy was six four and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, but he moved like a cat across the room. His huge hand closed on the back of the track-layer’s neck, and the surprised Irishman found himself lifted up on his toes. “Now, Paddy,” Shep said, “you can’t touch the lady. Either play cards with her, or move along.”

  The Irishman took a wild swing at the huge bouncer, who avoided the blow easily and walked the man out the front door. When he came back he smiled and said, “Sorry about that, Lola.”

  “Thanks, Shep,” she nodded. “It’s nice to know you’re here.”

  When Shep returned to stand beside Cherry Valance, he said, “She’s a pretty little thing—but I figure she’s right tough, Cherry.”

  The owner of the Wagonwheel agreed. He had been doubtful about the experiment, but looking across the room at the smooth profile of Lola Montez, he felt a streak of admiration.

  “She’s that, all right.” He lit a cigar, and a thought brought an amused light into his dark eyes. “She’s made out of iron—or so she thinks now, Shep.” The thought grew in him, and he laughed softly. “I guess she’ll stick with the Union Pacific all the way to Utah. She’s so much a part of this railroad we could call her the Union Belle!”

  Shep stared at Valance, then turned to look back at Lola. “She don’t look like no Union belle to me, Boss.”

  But the name got around. Perhaps Shep mentioned it, or Valance. But however it happened, within a week, every man in the camp knew that there was a new dealer in the Wagon-wheel—a beautiful woman who distanced herself from men. She took their money at cards, but remained aloof.

  And so they called her the Union Belle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  An Old Acquaintance

  Ray Hayden leaned back in his chair and let his eyes run around the table with an air of satisfaction. He was a man who loved the finer things in life, and few things were finer, materially at least, than the luxury coach that had been built to order for Sherman Ames. All of the plush chairs were a deep crimson, and the delicate lace curtains that were drawn back from the windows were snowy white. The table glittered with the sheen of heavy silver bowls, tureens, and only the best silverware available. Polished rosewood paneling lined the walls, and the cut-glass ch
andeliers—three of them—illuminated the car with a shimmering light.

  Hayden picked up his Dutch crystal goblet, tasted the wine, and thought, This is the way a man should live. He knew that he fit the surroundings, for he had developed the air of a man accustomed to fine things. He was a handsome man, with wavy blond hair, fair skin, and a pair of quick blue eyes. There was something almost feline in his features, but his quick smile and gracious manners drew attention away from that. He wore an impeccably tailored brown suit and low-cut brown shoes. A brilliant diamond gave off its blue fire from where it rested on his left hand, and another matched it in his tasteful cravat.

  “You’re looking like a contented cat, Ray,” Moira Ames said. There was a light tone of mockery in her voice, and she was amused to see that the remark flustered the man beside her. “I expect you’ll start purring any second.”

  Hayden gave her a quick, embarrassed smile, but laughed off the remark. “I was just regretting that this will be the last time I’ll be dining like this for a long while.” He moved his hand across the Irish linen tablecloth, feeling its crisp softness. “For the next few months I’ll be eating half-cooked buffalo steaks and hard beans,” he muttered dolefully.

  Moira turned slightly to get a clearer look at Hayden. She had deep-set green eyes, and now a light of speculation glinted faintly in them. “You could have stayed in Boston, Ray,” she offered. “Dad didn’t insist on your working on the line.” Then she smiled, for she knew him well. “But you’ve got bigger things on your mind than just a job in a shovel factory.”