“Well, can you make it walking?” he asked.
“I believe I can.”
Outside he turned in the direction of the Long Branch, and she stayed with him. She was tall enough to take long enough strides to keep up with him while he walked.
“Tell me, M.J.,” he asked, “why would I change my mind now? What’s different from twenty minutes ago?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Your attitude? Maybe you’ve had time to think it over? Maybe I’ll just be more persuasive?”
“And how would you do that?”
“I could throw in some incentive?”
He looked at her, but did not slow his pace.
“What kind of incentive.”
She grabbed his arm to stop him.
“You know, you’re not a very tall man, but you take long strides. Can we stop a minute?”
“Sure.”
They were in front of a cigar store, only one or two storefronts from the Long Branch.
“I’m sorry if my writing about you in today’s edition has caused you any problems,” she said.
“It hasn’t.”
She opened her mouth to continue, then closed it when she realized what he’d said.
“It hasn’t?”
“No,” he said, “but it might, in the future. And it’s not that I’m so well known I don’t want people reading about me. It’s just the opposite.”
“You don’t want to be well known?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t.”
“That makes you a rare man,” she said. “Most men want a reputation.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Why?” she asked curiously. “Are you running from something?”
“I’m not wanted, if that’s what you mean.”
“That,” she said, “or anything else. Is there a wife you left behind who’d like to find you? Someone you owe money to? Or an old enemy?”
“Miss Healy,” he said, deliberately, “this is beginning to sound suspiciously like an interview.”
“It can’t be an interview.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have a pad,” she said. “When I don’t have something to write on, I can’t do an interview. This is just me being nosy.”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t answer nosy questions, either.”
He started to walk again, so quickly that it took her a few strides to catch up.
“Where are we going?”
“We are not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m going to the Long Branch Saloon.”
“Good,” she said. “I could use an afternoon drink.”
“Miss Healy—”
“I’ll buy,” she said. “Not as an incentive, just to be nice. Whataya say?”
They were in front of the Long Branch’s batwing doors, so he stopped and turned to her.
“All right,” he said, finally, “one drink.”
CHAPTER 19
Just inside the batwing doors, Butler and M.J. were stopped by a tall, slender man with a large moustache.
“Now, come on, M.J.,” he said, the two obviously well acquainted, “you know Chalk don’t like you comin’ in here.”
“Chalk’s not here, is he, Bill?” she asked.
“Well, no, he’s away with his cowboy band,” Bill Harris said. “They’re playin’ at the capital.”
“Bill Harris, this is Tyrone Butler,” she said. “I was bringing him here to show him the best place to gamble.”
“Butler?” Harris asked. “The fella who busted young Master Deaver out of the game last night?”
“That’s me,” Butler said, frowning. “But she’s not bringing me in here, Mr. Harris. I was on my way here, anyway.”
The two men shook hands and Harris said, “Oh, I know that, sir. Our M.J., here, is an accomplished little liar when she’s trying to get what she wants. You’re welcome in the Long Branch, Mr. Butler,” Harris went on, then looked at Mary Jane Healy and added, “but you are not, little lady. We’ve told you before, you want to write about what goes on in here, send your brother.”
“If my brother came in here he’d get too involved with the whiskey, the women, and the cards to write anything,” she complained.
“Don’t complain to me about your family, M.J.,” Harris said. “I got my own to worry about. Now shoo.”
“But Butler and I were gonna—”
“Shoo, I said,” Harris repeated. “Whatever you and Mr. Butler were going to do, do it later and somewhere else.”
He took her by the arm and purposefully—not forcefully, walked her outside.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, when he reentered. “Come on in. Let me buy you a drink and show you around.”
Harris walked Butler to the bar—easily as long as the one in the Alhambra, maybe longer—and waved a bartender over.
“Beer,” Butler said.
“How long has she been bothering you?” Harris asked Butler.
“I didn’t even know she was bothering me until I read the newspaper today.”
“Yes, I read that article,” Harris said. “I have to admit it was interesting reading. I also wonder who it was gave her the story? I’m sure she wasn’t in the Alhambra last night.”
“No, I would have noticed her.”
“And she’s right about her brother,” Harris said. “He loses all his focus as soon as he comes into a saloon.”
“Lots of men do.”
Harris laughed. “I’m sure those are the men you like to take money off of in poker.”
Butler turned to face Harris, beer in hand.
“I prefer to take money from men who are alert and know what they’re doing. There’s sport in that.”
“I’m sorry,” Harris said, putting his hands up in front of him, palms out. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’ll have to excuse me, but it’s my partner Chalk who usually, uh, deals with the public.”
“Chalk?”
“Chalky Beeson,” Harris said. “He won’t even tell me how he got that name. He and I have been partners for some time now.”
“And you get along?”
“Famously,” Harris said. “You see, we know each other’s strengths.”
“You’re from the East?” Butler asked.
“New Jersey.” W.H. Harris had come west from Long Branch, New Jersey, so when he and Chalk Beeson became partners in a saloon he called it the Long Branch.
