throws money around like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t mind standing in his path at those times. As my husband used to say, ‘We’re in Leadville to mine the miners.’”
A voice behind her drawled, “The miners ain’t the only ones losing silver here. Seems like the house never loses on those fancy Saturday night poker games you run. So, what is it, Miz Stannert, marked decks?”
Inez pulled a bottle of Red Dog from the backbar and grabbed a heavy-bottomed shot glass before turning to face the ex-marshal. “Sour grapes, Hollis. It’s a private game, and I run it straight. None of the players complain. In fact, the only complaints I hear are from you. Which is fairly strange, since I don’t recall seeing your face across the table. Now, how’s your memory as to who took out the chestnut gelding this morning?” She poured.
Hollis tipped his head back to eye her from under his hat. The smell of the livery—horses, hay, and manure—clung to him along with the tobacco and the sour smell of a man in need of a bath. “You must want that name powerful bad. Wonder why?” He reached for the drink.
She gripped the glass. “Not until I have the name.”
“Lessee.” Hollis scratched his whiskered jawline. “B’lieve the name started with a…E. Yep. Eli.”
She released the glass.
He downed the shot and smacked his lips.
“Last name?”
“I’m havin’ trouble recollecting.”
She held the bottle up between them. At that proximity, the distinctive fragrance of Red Dog—suspiciously reminiscent of turpentine—stung her nose. Inez said, “I’ll pour when you remember.”
“And I’ll remember when you pour.”
Inez stared hard at him. The leathery skin around Hollis’ eyes wrinkled with his malicious smile.
Eli. Elias. Elijah. How many men answering to Eli are listed in the city directory, and how many more are passing through? I’ve no time to sort it out before I return Preston Holt’s coat.
She poured.
Hollis snatched up the glass, then grinned, his teeth yellow as a rat’s. He raised the whiskey in a toast: “To Elijah Carter, the South, and General Lee. The War for Southern Independence ain’t over and never will be.” The second drink went down in a swallow, the glass down on the bar with a bang.
“Elijah Carter? He’s your business partner!” Inez glared at Hollis, angry at being duped. “You expect me to believe that you forgot that he rode off this morning on that horse?”
Hollis turned his back on her and rested his elbows on the counter, surveying the room leisurely. “Memory’s not what it used t’ be, I guess.”
She took a deep breath to curb a nasty rejoinder and asked, “What was Eli doing south of town?”
Hollis spat and looked down at the resultant glob on the varnished wood planks. “You redid the floors.” He glanced up at the stamped tin ceiling, mirror-like in its newness. “The topside too. Heard you’re turning the second story into a first-class gambling hall. Wonder where you got all the money to do this. Got your fingers in the reverend’s collection plate?”
Inez bristled, but before she could speak, his gaze meandered back to her. “Why’re you so interested in Eli and his final hours in Leadville?”
“I’m just curious.”
He snorted. “Last time you got curious, I lost my job.”
She pushed on, ignoring his barbs in her efforts to draw more information from him. “You don’t seem particularly despondent that his horse turned up without him. I thought you two were compañeros . That you go back to the war. And you’re business partners in that livery. And what do you mean, his ‘final hours in Leadville’? Was he leaving for good?”
Hollis scratched his chin. The sandpapery sound of fingernails on whiskers sounded over the clinks of glass on glass, random bits of conversation, the tinkling of Taps playing “Oh, Susanna.” Hollis finally said, “Story’s a long one. It’ll take the rest of the bottle to tell it
A voice behind her drawled, “The miners ain’t the only ones losing silver here. Seems like the house never loses on those fancy Saturday night poker games you run. So, what is it, Miz Stannert, marked decks?”
Inez pulled a bottle of Red Dog from the backbar and grabbed a heavy-bottomed shot glass before turning to face the ex-marshal. “Sour grapes, Hollis. It’s a private game, and I run it straight. None of the players complain. In fact, the only complaints I hear are from you. Which is fairly strange, since I don’t recall seeing your face across the table. Now, how’s your memory as to who took out the chestnut gelding this morning?” She poured.
Hollis tipped his head back to eye her from under his hat. The smell of the livery—horses, hay, and manure—clung to him along with the tobacco and the sour smell of a man in need of a bath. “You must want that name powerful bad. Wonder why?” He reached for the drink.
She gripped the glass. “Not until I have the name.”
“Lessee.” Hollis scratched his whiskered jawline. “B’lieve the name started with a…E. Yep. Eli.”
She released the glass.
He downed the shot and smacked his lips.
“Last name?”
“I’m havin’ trouble recollecting.”
She held the bottle up between them. At that proximity, the distinctive fragrance of Red Dog—suspiciously reminiscent of turpentine—stung her nose. Inez said, “I’ll pour when you remember.”
“And I’ll remember when you pour.”
Inez stared hard at him. The leathery skin around Hollis’ eyes wrinkled with his malicious smile.
Eli. Elias. Elijah. How many men answering to Eli are listed in the city directory, and how many more are passing through? I’ve no time to sort it out before I return Preston Holt’s coat.
She poured.
Hollis snatched up the glass, then grinned, his teeth yellow as a rat’s. He raised the whiskey in a toast: “To Elijah Carter, the South, and General Lee. The War for Southern Independence ain’t over and never will be.” The second drink went down in a swallow, the glass down on the bar with a bang.
“Elijah Carter? He’s your business partner!” Inez glared at Hollis, angry at being duped. “You expect me to believe that you forgot that he rode off this morning on that horse?”
Hollis turned his back on her and rested his elbows on the counter, surveying the room leisurely. “Memory’s not what it used t’ be, I guess.”
She took a deep breath to curb a nasty rejoinder and asked, “What was Eli doing south of town?”
Hollis spat and looked down at the resultant glob on the varnished wood planks. “You redid the floors.” He glanced up at the stamped tin ceiling, mirror-like in its newness. “The topside too. Heard you’re turning the second story into a first-class gambling hall. Wonder where you got all the money to do this. Got your fingers in the reverend’s collection plate?”
Inez bristled, but before she could speak, his gaze meandered back to her. “Why’re you so interested in Eli and his final hours in Leadville?”
“I’m just curious.”
He snorted. “Last time you got curious, I lost my job.”
She pushed on, ignoring his barbs in her efforts to draw more information from him. “You don’t seem particularly despondent that his horse turned up without him. I thought you two were compañeros . That you go back to the war. And you’re business partners in that livery. And what do you mean, his ‘final hours in Leadville’? Was he leaving for good?”
Hollis scratched his chin. The sandpapery sound of fingernails on whiskers sounded over the clinks of glass on glass, random bits of conversation, the tinkling of Taps playing “Oh, Susanna.” Hollis finally said, “Story’s a long one. It’ll take the rest of the bottle to tell it
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