Maverick Marshall Read Free Page B

those who rode after cattle, was sold on duns, particularly duns with zebra marks descended from the toughest Spanish stock in the land.
    Still riled with himself Frank got into the saddle and pointed the horse toward the west end of town.
    Minnie was a character, practically an institution. A lot of folks would have liked to see her moved but she had, in Frank’s mind, as much right to her business as anybody else. She kept an orderly house, which was more than could be said for the likes of Chip Gurden. More he thought about the place the more convinced Frank became that he would find his man holed up there. Tularosa made no secret of his affinity for the ladies.
    All the shades were drawn but there were horses at the tie rail — two roans, a paint and three sorrels. Frank tied the dun and took a last look behind him. He ducked under the rail and felt to see if he had his pistol, resettling its barrel lightly, not hankering for anything to balk his need if he were forced to put hand to it.
    He drew off his dark thoughts and pulled open the door.

CHAPTER TWO
    This layout had once been a food stop on the overland stage line between Elk City and Dalhart, and the face-lifting Minnie had given the joint had not greatly changed its flavor. The big room Frank stepped into had all the look of a stage stop bar. She had got the place cheap when town expansion had decided the company to remove to a site directly across from the New York Cafe.
    The old potbellied stove still held its key spot in the middle of things. The scarred pine bar took up most of the left wall, the wall across from it being cut by three doors. No mirrors, no pictures; five kitchen chairs were racked before the north wall, the south wall was set up similarly except that here only two of the five were empty. Strangers held down the other three, men Frank had never run into before. None of them much resembled Tularosa beyond their big hats, brush-scarred boots and the gun-weighted cartridge belts strapped about their middles.
    Frank, after that one sweeping glance, darkly stared at the three closed doors to his right. The nearest, he remembered, let into the woodshed. The farther, opening onto closed stairs, gave access to the rooms above. It was the middle door that held his attention. It led directly outside behind the screen of the woodshed and was a means of escape for men embarrassed to be found here.
    Frank, ducking out, left the door standing open and ran around the shed’s bulk, eyes expectant, gun in hand. But if there was anyone lurking in these shadows he didn’t see them. Holstering his gun, he went back inside, ignoring the truculent looks the men gave him.
    Minnie’s raw Irish voice came from back of the bar. “Whativer are ye doin’ a-runnin’ around me place like a banshee?”
    She was a big coarse-boned woman with an orange-colored pompadour untidily bushed above crimson cheeks. Thirty years ago she might have been handsome but time had taken away this advantage; she had given up bemoaning or bothering about it. She was interested in one thing — cash, like the rest of them. “What’s that ye’ve got on yer shirtfront, Frank? Don’t be tellin’ me ye’ve turned plumb fool at last.”
    Frank grinned a little sheepishly, rubbed the palms of his hands against the thighs of his pants. “Any redheads around?”
    “Redheads, is it?” She was watching him shrewdly. “I got the one from Saint Looey, if that’s who ye’re meanin’. I figured after the — ”
    “I’m not talking about fillies.”
    “Then ye’re in the wrong stall. Do yer huntin’ some other place.”
    Frank swung around. “What outfit you fellers with?”
    Resentment was plain in the cut of their eyes. Minnie said, giving him the flat of her tongue. “Don’t be rowellin’ me guests, ye dom star-packin’ blatherskite!” But after a moment the smallest one said, “Gourd an’ Vine. Out of Corpus.”
    “Get shucked of that hardware if you come into town