The Range Wolf Read Free

saloon girls and didn’t know whether she worked for the hotel or for herself. But I had heard stories about big winners in card games. The upstairs rooms, the ladies in waiting, the drinks called Mickey Finns, and waking up with a turbulent head and empty pockets. Francine DuBois, if that was her name, was attractive, but not that attractive.
    â€œI said, would you like me . . .”
    â€œLook, Miss DuBois, please don’t take offense, but . . .”
    â€œOh, oh, I think I know what’s coming . . . and what’s not.”
    â€œI’m sorry . . .”
    â€œSo am I. The night is young and I have to move on, but I took a fancy to you, I really did, so listen to me. Thanks for the drink, and I’m sorry we met like this. You take care of that poke you won . . . and so long, pilgrim.”
    As she moved away I almost had second thoughts . . . almost.
    Instead, I finished my bourbon, lit a cigar, and walked outside to cool off and breathe a little fresh air while I smoked.
    Not far from the entrance I heard voices. First a female voice.
    â€œIt must be here . . . I felt the chain break and . . .”
    Then a man’s voice, a distinguished voice.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Flaxen, I’ll buy you another one. I don’t propose to hunker here all night.”
    â€œOh, hello,” she said as she looked up at me.
    Even in the dark I could discern a lady of quality—her mien, her dress, her voice, and especially her face, a face of natural beauty and aristocracy.
    â€œGood evening,” I replied.
    â€œWe have lost Louie,” she shrugged. “He’s an elephant, not a real elephant of course. An ivory charm, with a diamond for an eye.”
    She held up a broken chain.
    â€œYou see,” she continued, “the chain broke and Louie’s lost. He’s always been such good luck.”
    I dropped my cigar, stooped, and squinted.
    â€œShouldn’t be that difficult to find an elephant,” I remarked.
    â€œFind him, my friend”—the man with the distinguished voice ran his hand along the boardwalk—“and name your reward.”
    â€œOne million dollars!” I said as, smiling, I held up Louie.
    â€œThe banking business is good”—he smiled back and rose—“but not that good.”
    He was tall and somewhat frail, gray haired, and obviously a gentleman of quality, but I was studying the young lady.
    â€œThen I’ll settle for an introduction,” I said. “I’m Christopher Guthrie.”
    The man held out his hand.
    â€œReginald Brewster. My daughter, Flaxen.”
    We shook hands, then I extended the charm to Flaxen. In the exchange our fingers touched for a moment.
    â€œAnd this,” I smiled, “of course, is Louie.”
    â€œYes,” she nodded and laughed.
    â€œWell,” I responded, “now that we’ve all been properly introduced . . .”
    Suddenly, two burly specimens appeared.
    â€œNot quite all,” one of the men barked. “Sergeant Baker and Officer O’Bannion, Baton Rouge Police.” Sergeant Baker produced a badge.
    â€œMy congratulations,” I said. “And what can we do for you?”
    â€œNothing,” Sergeant Baker bellowed, “but we’re going do to something for you.”
    â€œWhat, may I ask?” I inquired.
    Both men moved quickly and efficiently. Officer O’Bannion grabbed Reginald Brewster and pinned back both arms. Sergeant Baker reached into Mr. Brewster’s coat pocket.
    â€œGet your wallet back,” he said.
    And he did indeed bring forth my wallet and handed it to me.
    â€œMr. Brewster?!” I blurted and glanced at his daughter.
    â€œ Booster is more like it,” the sergeant said, “and they’re about the best team in the business. We’ve had our eye on ’em for some time, and if you’ll testify, this time they’ll both go to jail.”
    â€œPlease . . . please, Mr.