Page 8 of Sweet Savage Love

8

T he excuse that Frenchy had suggested served Ginny well enough after she had returned to the dining room downstairs, with her shawl and Sonya’s over her arm.

“Ginny! Why, what took you so long? I was beginning to feel quite worried about you!”

And certainly, Sonya’s face wore a white, distraught look that was unfamiliar, and caused Ginny a pang of guilt.

She bent over Sonya’s chair as she handed her the shawl and whispered that she had run too fast up the stairs and had begun to feel quite dizzy…

“And then, of all things, I discovered that the rosette here, on my shoulder, was quite loose. So I stayed to sew it back on. I’m sorry, I really am!”

Sonya gave her a smile that seemed only a little forced, and squeezed her arm as if to make up for it.

“You don’t need to apologize, my love! And the gentlemen have been so wrapped up in their conversation I’m sure you were hardly missed!”

Ginny heard her father chuckle as she slipped demurely back into her seat beside Carl Hoskins.

“Women and their dilly-dallying! Primping before a mirror, weren’t you daughter? Here, try some of the famous Texas coffee and tell me what you think of it.”

Even though the meal had long since been cleared away, the men lingered over their cigars and coffee, and the women, obviously used to being left out of their husbands’ discussions, talked softly among themselves. Ginny longed for the civilized customs of Europe and the east coast of America where the women would withdraw discreetly to leave the men to their boring talk.

Carl Hoskins was paying much more attention to her now, and his obvious admiration was like balm to her wounded sensibilities. What charming manners he had—he was a gentleman. How different he was from Steve Morgan! She found herself wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by Carl Hoskins. His kisses would be gentle and undemanding, she was sure of that. He would treat her with respect. And he did not look like a pirate, or a bandit! His blond hair contrasted well with his tanned face, and was carefully trimmed, as were his discreet sideburns. Steve Morgan’s sideburns had swooped down the sides of his face, almost to the jawline, and his thick black hair had, she recalled with distaste, been allowed to grow too long, so that it curled at the nape of his neck. Yes, all he needed was a mustache or a beard and gold hoops in his ears and he’d make a villainous pirate.

I hate him, she thought. I despise and detest him! And I hope that I never have to set eyes on him again.

There were no sounds of revelry in the next room that night, although Ginny was careful to lock both her door and her window. All the same, she could not help wondering if Frenchy had stayed, and if he had been as eager to tear her clothes from her body as he had seemed to be earlier. A shudder went through her body when she thought of it. Last night it had been the woman who had sung so badly, and whose embraces he had wanted to avoid. Tonight—but no, she told herself firmly. A rake—a libertine like that—he is not worth thinking about. It is over, and I need never see him again.

It was only when she was lying in bed, trying to compose herself for sleep, that the horrible thought struck her that her father had actually spoken of hiring this same Steve Morgan as scout for their wagon train. Hadn’t he explained earlier that he needed a man who knew how to use his guns?

It would be the duty of their scout to guide them through wild and rough country that was infested with savage Indians, and to see to their defense in case of attack. But how could anyone trust such an unscrupulous man?

“The Western gunfighter is a strange breed,” William Brandon had said. “He’s a professional killer, and he works for pay, but he is at least loyal to the man who pays him. It’s a matter of pride, and of reputation. And very few outlaws will mess with one of these professional gunmen, because they are afraid of them. They’re ruthless—and yet, you would be safest with such a man to guard you.”

But if the man were Steve Morgan, would she be safe? For the second night in succession, sleep was long in coming.

Ginny would perhaps have slept earlier, and more soundly, if she’d known that Steve Morgan was not in his room next to hers.

He had spent quite a pleasant hour with Frenchy, who was young enough and attractive enough to please his somewhat fastidious tastes, and indeed, she had proved so adept, once they were in bed, that he’d quite looked forward to having her spend the whole night with him.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bishop had different ideas, and when Paco Davis had knocked at the door to tell Steve regretfully that he’d been invited to join in a late poker game, Steve had consoled Frenchy with thirty dollars and a promise to visit her room later, if the game did not go on until morning.

Bishop had engaged a private gaming room at the Cattleman’s Rest, and when Steve arrived there by way of the back staircase the room was already stuffy and filled with cigar smoke. Empty glasses and bottles stood on the table, and as usual, Bishop, who played poker with ruthless concentration and a great deal of luck, had been winning.

“Got in a game with some drummers from back east,”

Paco said laconically. “They just left, or I’d have come looking for you earlier. But you would not have liked that very much, hey, amigo? ”

Steve returned Paco’s white grin.

“No—you’re right. I sure wouldn’t have appreciated being disturbed much earlier!”

Bishop had been playing solitaire while he waited for Steve. Now he looked up expressionlessly, gesturing at the table before him.

“Cut for the deal. This is supposed to be a serious poker game, remember?”

“It’s going to be serious for sure, if you keep winning all my money,” Paco grumbled as he dropped into a chair.

Steve lit a cigar and sat opposite Bishop, waiting for the man to speak. The cards were dealt, and he studied his hand silently. It had to be urgent, or Bishop wouldn’t have sent for him in the middle of the night. Perhaps Bishop had learned something new since this evening—he’d been expecting a man from up north somewhere; one of their couriers who spent his time travelling, and collecting information at various points. It was like doing a puzzle—everybody in the service had some of the different pieces, but it was up to the men like Bishop to put them all together and make them fit into some recognizable pattern.

“I talked to Yancey tonight—” Bishop said suddenly, glancing up from his cards. “He’s already on his way to Sante Fe. But he had the information I needed. Brandon’s got the money—in gold bullion.”

Paco whistled softly.

“Gold? But why gold? It’s heavy—clumsy to carry around in that much bulk too, and pretty damned dangerous as well, I’d say.”

“He’ll have thought of a clever way to send it wherever it’s supposed to go. Don’t underestimate the man. He’s not only intelligent, he’s dangerous as well, and he’s got a lot of people working with him we don’t even know about yet.” Bishop’s voice was sharp.

“Like that Eastern syndicate he’s formed?” Paco’s voice showed unwilling admiration. “Some of the richest men in the country, and they’re still greedy for more—more land, more power.”

“Texas, Arizona, New Mexico—not to mention all the territory just the other side of the border. A monumental land grab, with most of the dirty work being done by someone else.” Steve shot a look at Bishop, and saw him frown.

“Senator Brandon is a man of ambition,” Bishop said dryly. “And he’s certainly picked the worst time for us. The only real law in Texas is a handful of Rangers, and the territories of Arizona and New Mexico are even worse off. Also, you know as well as I do that the Indians have practically had things their own way during the war; and to cap it all off, with the French fighting the Juaristas in Mexico—”

“It’s a great big powder keg!” Paco finished grimly.

“And we’re supposed to stop it from blowing up?” Steve lifted an eyebrow at Bishop, wondering what the older man had in mind. Bishop always had a plan of some kind, and fortunately, they usually worked.

“Gentlemen, we’ve talked about this already. And luckily for us, at least we have some inkling of what’s afoot. Let’s take the facts we know, shall we?” His eyes went from Steve to Paco, his voice was colorless. “For instance, we know that on this side of the border, the Indians are being provided with arms and ammunition, and certain chiefs are talking of forming treaties between all the tribes. We know that the Texans are unhappy, to put it mildly, with their reconstruction government, and their discontent is being fomented by the corrupt, power-crazy carpetbaggers who have been sent out here to run things. The individuals themselves are unimportant—they’ll be easily gotten rid of when the time comes. It’ll be the job of my men in Washington to find out who picked them.

“South of the border now—you two know better than I do how things are going. We’ve been giving Juarez what help we could during the war, and the French realize by now that their position in Mexico is a trifle shaky, to say the least.”

“Bazaine’s been paying his armies out of his own pocket,” Steve said sharply. “But it hasn’t been enough—so he’s given them license to loot and kill. And Maximilian pretends to know nothing about it—”

“That gold Brandon is carrying is supposed to pay the French army,” Bishop interrupted. He added softly, “But I don’t think they’ll see much of it. You see, Brandon has a contact—a friend you might call him—in the French army. A Colonel Devereaux.” He sat back in his chair, the cards held loosely before him. “Devereaux got married recently—a rich hacendado’s daughter. He doesn’t want to leave Mexico. He’s made friends with several of the richest landowners, and my information says he’s got his own ideas about that money.”

Paco Davis swore softly in Spanish.

“So—he helps Brandon build his empire, in return for a share of it.”

“We think so.” Bishop’s voice was cool, emotionless.

“What’s our part in all of this?”

A thin smile touched Bishop’s lips. His eyes met Steve’s briefly.

“You’ll steal that gold. We’ve promised Juarez more help, more money. He gets the gold, and when he’s back in power, we’ll have a good friend in El Presidente.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Steve poured himself a drink out of one of the half-empty bottles on the table. He had been drowsy and irritable when Paco had routed him out of bed and Frenchy’s arms, but now the old, keyed up feeling of excitement and anticipation sharpened his mind and swept him with exhilaration. He grinned at Bishop, who had been watching him silently.

“Where’s the gold? Here in San Antone?”

“That’s what I was coming to.” Bishop’s voice sounded dry and pedantic. “Senator Brandon is not going to accompany his wife and daughter to California. Not immediately, that is. He has to return to Washington very soon. He has the gold now, but naturally he will not carry it back there with him.”

“The wagon train…that’s it! Why, the cunning, hungry bastard!” Paco’s voice was soft, his eyes narrow. “He’s going to use his wife and daughter to make it all look above board and natural, isn’t he?”

“Sure—he sends his womenfolk to California with a wagon train and some cattle. And that gives him a perfectly reasonable excuse for hiring as many men to send along as he has.”

“You’re right—” Bishop nodded at Steve. “It’s not only a good political move, but a clever one. Somewhere along the way one of the wagons gets—lost, shall we say? It’s my guess this is meant to happen somewhere in New Mexico or Arizona. No one is any the wiser, but Devereaux will have the first shipment of gold and Brandon will be safe in Washington where no one can pin anything on him. I suspect he knows we keep tabs on him, but he doesn’t know we’ve learned about his rich friends and his syndicate. In fact, if you do succeed in stealing the gold, I doubt if Brandon will dare make a fuss about it—no one is supposed to know…”

“A man who’d use his own family, set them up as decoys, that is the worst kind,” Paco said unctuously.

Steve shrugged carelessly. “Hell, the women are probably in it themselves! What woman can resist the thought of being a princess?” He looked at Bishop. “I take it we wait till we’re close to the border before we snatch the gold?”

With the back of a fork, Bishop began to trace lines on the green baize that covered the card table, while Steve and Paco leaned forward intently.

As he drew his invisible maps, Bishop talked, giving them all the information he had—details and instructions to be memorized.

As usual, he forgot nothing, even his normal, cursory reminder to the men that once they had started on the job, they would be on their own.

“Needless to say,” he mentioned dryly, “the United States Government has no knowledge and can take no responsibility for this—ah—operation.”

Steve remembered the first time he had met Bishop and the warning he had been given and chuckled. Bishop was not amused.

“If anything goes wrong, and you are fortunate enough to be taken to jail, we’ll arrange an escape, if it’s possible. But chances are that if Brandon’s men capture either of you, you won’t be allowed to live that long. You realize that, I’m sure.” His formal warning given, his manner became more relaxed. He took a sip of his warm bourbon and refilled his glass.

“Gentlemen, let’s play cards. As you know, I’m leaving on the stage tomorrow, but we still have time for another hour’s play.”

“You mean you still have time to clean us out completely,” Paco grumbled, beginning to study his hand. “I’ll have to keep some of that gold for myself if my luck stays as bad as it has.”

They knew Bishop well enough to needle him now and then.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t play poker with anyone who doesn’t know you, Jim,” Steve advised, keeping his face straight. “They might threaten to shoot you for cheating.”

“Never cheated in my life,” Bishop said blandly, “but I’ve always been lucky!”

Had Jim Bishop been asked seriously what his secret was he would have replied that he was a student, not only of cards, which he could memorize at a glance, but of human nature. And it was really the latter which was the clue to the kind of game a man would play.

These two men sitting across from him were his best, and he had more or less trained them personally. They were, too, men that he trusted completely; and were intelligent and resourceful enough to use their own initiative if something went wrong with his carefully thought-out plans. He hoped they’d both come back in one piece—he couldn’t really afford to lose them.

Outwardly concentrating on his cards and their play, his eyes hooded, Bishop went through the initial part of his current operation, as he chose to call it, in his mind.

There was no doubt that Brandon was in a hurry to get his wagon train started for California, and it seemed more than likely now that Steve Morgan and Paco Davis would be hired as his scouts. Bishop had arranged for their being here very carefully, just as he had seen to it that there were no other men who’d meet with Brandon’s exacting specifications in San Antonio at this crucial time. The man Brandon had expected to hire had suddenly been offered a far more lucrative job taking a wagon train to Sante Fe, and had already left, and Marshal Trevor, who happened to be a friend of Bishop’s had already suggested to Brandon that he might hire Steve Morgan. When Brandon arranged for a meeting, Steve would inform him that he always worked with Paco Davis. And the groundwork would be laid.

If nothing went wrong, Brandon’s wagon train should be ready to leave within the next two or three days.

Bishop, his hand called, put down three aces and raked in the pot. Nothing would go wrong! He remembered that Morgan had warned him Sonya Brandon might not be too happy if he was hired—that unfortunate business in New Orleans! But Mrs. Brandon was hardly likely to confess an old affair to her husband—and Morgan had a way with women. A man of few scruples where his country’s security was concerned, Bishop kept his face impassive while he allowed himself to wonder if Steve’s past association with Sonya Brandon might not be of some use, after all. She was a beautiful woman, but weak. No—he did not think she’d say anything to her husband!

Looking up to meet Steve Morgan’s eyes, Bishop said suddenly, “I think you might just have a—hum—very pleasant journey after all.” Steve would know what he meant!