Nan Ryan Read Free

hard-as-nails veteran Texas Ranger with a gun on his hip and a star on his chest, Captain Virgil Black had earned a reputation for his many feats of derring-do. Tales of his numerous exploits had been told and retold until his name was recognized by almost everyone in the vast deserts of the Southwest.
    It was said that in his fifteen years as a Ranger he had, on more than one occasion, single-handedly stood off bands of Indians and fought more than his share of Mexican marauders and border bandits. Nobody knew how many men Virgil Black had killed, but everyone wondered when Black’s own number would come up.
    It was, they whispered, overdue.
    Texas Rangers rarely lived as long as Virgil Black. Half were killed in their first year. The lives of those who went into the service were not considered good for more than a year or two.
    Captain Virgil Black had beat the odds. He had looked into the face of death many a time and spit in his eye. It was the opinion of those Rangers who served with Black that the hardened captain had survived so long because he didn’t much care if he lived or died.
    A quiet, brooding, dark, and dangerous-looking man with steely muscles that matched his steely stare, Captain Black was said to be trigger-happy and coldhearted. Some even thought he belonged on the other side of the law.
    Desperadoes feared him. Women desired him. Nobody knew him.
    Nobody, save one retired Ranger: William “True” Cannon, the proud silver-haired Confederate war veteran whose life Virgil had saved more than a decade ago. The two had since become like favorite nephew and uncle. They were each other’s only family.
    On this warm May evening in the crowded, smoke-filled saloon in Las Cruces, Ranger Black was alone. As usual. On special assignment, Black had ridden up from Ysleta headquarters outside El Paso, to track down a daring desperado who was wanted for murder.
    Earlier in the day, Black had captured his man. Tomorrow he would escort the prisoner back to Texas. But tonight he sat in the Silver Dollar Saloon, relaxing, a half-full bottle of bourbon in one hand, a shot glass in the other.
    His prisoner safely ensconced in the Las Cruces jail, Virgil Black was doing some hard drinking as he gazed with mild interest at the red-haired entertainer onstage. He coolly stared as the seductive young woman came to the lip of the small stage, bent over, and tickled a grizzled, dark-bearded old cowboy with her white ostrich feather.
    Bending from the waist, flashing a naughty smile, the Queen of the Silver Dollar allowed the appreciative gents an eyeful of the pale, abundant cleavage swelling above her low-cut green satin bodice. The audience loved it. They loved it even more when the lithe, lusty dancer shook her bare shoulders about, causing her breasts to dance and jiggle and threaten to spill completely out of her dress.
    There were riotous hoots and whistles, and eager hands grabbed at her. Smiling provocatively, the Queen of the Silver Dollar adroitly sidestepped outstretched hands, tantalizing her eager admirers with what they were welcome to look at but could not touch. As she played to the excited men, the redhead pointedly glanced over their heads to the back of the shadowy saloon where a dark, unsmiling man sat alone at a tiny table.
    Virgil Black raised his half-full glass of whiskey in silent salute and acknowledgment. The Queen of the Silver Dollar raised her hand to her scarlet lips, kissed her fingertips, and threw him a kiss. Then she spun about, showing her back to her panting audience. All came roaring to their feet when she reached down, grabbed the hem of her green satin skirt, and saucily tossed it up over her shoulders, allowing them a fleeting glance of her soft, rounded derriere covered only by skimpy satin tights with lace ruffles on the shiny seat.
    It brought down the house.
    Every man in the saloon was on his feet screaming for more.
    Except Virgil Black.
    Unmoving, he continued to sit at the table