goin’ to be spendin’ any of this money anytime soon.”
“Yeah, I guess you are right,” Conklin said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ you, it sure don’t set right in my craw knowin’ how much money we got and all, but not bein’ able to even go into town an’ buy us a decent meal.”
Chapter Seventeen
As Clark, Conklin, and Dodd were discussing their take from the stagecoach, Smoke was in the Gold Strike Saloon, just finishing his supper.
“That was a good meal.” He pushed his empty plate to one side and picked up his cup of coffee.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Allen,” Minnie said. “She works so hard in the kitchen all the time and she never gets any recognition.”
“Mrs. Allen, you say?”
“Yes.”
Smoke set his cup down, then walked to the door that led to the kitchen and pushed it open. It was very hot in the kitchen, the heat coming from the huge cookstove that sat on the side wall. An older woman was bent over at the waist, looking into the oven. Smoke waited until she closed the oven door, then turned around. Her eyes were tired, and there was a patina of sweat on her face.
“Mrs. Allen?”
Mrs. Allen looked up. “Yes, sir?”
“I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed my supper. The biscuits were so light they nearly floated off my plate. The ham was delicious, and the potatoes were just right.”
The cook smiled and, for a moment, the tiredness left her eyes. “Why, I thank you, sir,” she said.
“But if you ever meet my wife, don’t tell her I told you this. I’m afraid she would be very jealous of you.”
Mrs. Allen laughed out loud as she pushed an errant fall of white hair back from her forehead. “I hardly think, sir, that your wife could ever be jealous of me.”
Smoke nodded, then returned to his table.
“That was nice of you to do that,” Minnie said.
“It is easy to be nice to nice people,” Smoke replied. He picked up his cup and saw that it had been refreshed with hot coffee.
“I thought it might get cold while you were talking to Mrs. Allen.”
“Thanks.”
“You spoke to Bobby Lee today, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to be ready.”
“Be ready for what?”
“Just be ready,” Smoke said.
“Tonight?” she asked.
Smoke took a swallow of his coffee and looked at Minnie over the rim. Girls like Minnie referred to their profession as being “on the line.” Minnie had been on the line for two years, but dissipation had not yet set in, and she was still very pretty. She had long blond hair, deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, and unblemished skin. The clothes she wore while working displayed smooth shoulders and the creamy tops of well-formed breasts.
She didn’t look anything at all like most of the soiled doves one found working in saloons and cribs across the West. She looked as if she could have been a next-door neighbor back at Sugarloaf Ranch, someone who would visit with Sally and swap recipes or join other women in a quilting bee. She could be any young rancher’s wife, raising children and helping her husband build a life for their family.
But she wasn’t some young rancher’s wife. Minnie Smith was a whore.
Smoke wanted to ask her how she ever got into the business in the first place, but he thought the question might offend her, so he held his tongue.
“It is tonight, isn’t it?” Minnie asked again after the long silence.
“I can’t tell you that,” Smoke said.
“How are you going to do it?”
“Minnie, don’t ask me any more questions,” Smoke said. “Get too closely involved, even if it is only by prior knowledge, and you can be charged with complicity.”
“All right,” Minnie said with a nod of her head. “I understand.” She put her hand across the table to rest it on Smoke’s hand. “Bobby Lee is lucky to have a friend like you,” she said.
It was much later that same night when Smoke rode his horse down to the far end of Fremont Street. Because of the lateness of the hour, most of the town was asleep, though the sound of the piano could be heard spilling out onto the street from the Gold Strike Saloon. As far as Smoke could tell, he was the only one outside, and almost every building was dark, though from a few houses that sat back off the main street, there could be seen the dim glow of a lantern or candle.
Smoke rode by the gallows, looming large and ominous in the night. The sign containing the doggerel about the hanging, written by some clever, if morose, bard, was still in place. Fortunately, it was unreadable now because of
