A Time to Slaughter by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

schoolteacher. I never heard the like.” He turned and walked to the steps, then stopped. “You’ll end your days as a plaything for horny men. See, Trixie, some things really never change.”

Chapter Nine
    Near the Santa Fe plaza, Shawn O’Brien checked into a small hotel with the luxury of a kiva fireplace and a thick native rug on the floor. The bed was soft and clean and there was a plentiful supply of logs for the fire. Normally, he would’ve been content, but worry over Julia gnawed at him and gave him no peace.
    His only plan was to visit every saloon and cantina in the city, starting with those owned by Zebulon Moss. It was likely he’d put Julia back to work in one of his own establishments, but he could have stashed her away in some other smaller place until the threat of rescue had passed. The city’s many brothels didn’t enter into Shawn’s thinking. Julia was Moss’s woman and he wouldn’t degrade her in that way.
    Shawn wore a sheepskin coat, shotgun chaps, boots, and a battered Stetson and could pass for an ordinary puncher in town on a tear. Around his waist, belted high in the horseman’s style, his gun belt carried a long-barreled .44-40 Colt. In the right pocket of his coat he dropped a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun, as Luther Ironside had taught him.
    â€œYou go into a shooting scrape with a feller you reckon is faster than you, put your hands in the pockets of your coat and tell him you don’t want to fight,” Ironside had said. “Then when he starts to strut around and sneer at you and brag on himself, whip out the sneaky gun from your pocket and cut loose. Keep shootin’ at his belly until he drops and there ain’t no more brag left in him.”
    Stepping out of his room, Shawn smiled at the memory. Luther had a way with words.
    The desk clerk looked up from a ledger when Shawn stopped in front of him. “Can I help you, sir?”
    Shawn asked for the names of Zebulon Moss’s saloons and the clerk, a rodent-faced man with sly eyes, said, “If you’re looking for wine, women, and song, then the Lucky Lady is the place. If you want peace and quiet, then try the Gentleman’s Club on Lincoln Street. No ladies are allowed, but they serve only the finest liquors and Cuban cigars.”
    After nodding his thanks, Shawn stepped into the muddy street. Despite the funneling snow there was a steady pedestrian traffic and a few freight wagons made their slow, creaking way through the crowd, Mexicans in bright serapes at the reins.
    Lanky cowboys and bearded and booted miners rubbed shoulders with businessmen wearing velvet-collared coats and ogled the languid señoritas gliding past, their beautiful black eyes seductive and knowing. The white Santa Fe belles were just as bold, dressed in the height of fashion, their bustles huge, tiny hats perched on top of swept-up, ringleted hair.
    Above it all was a constant babble of conversation in Spanish, English, and a half dozen other languages. The cold air smelled heavily of peppers and spices for sale in booths lining both sides of the street.
    Shawn stood for a while on the steps outside the Lucky Lady, taking in the sights, aware that he was acting like an openmouthed rube. More than a few kohl-lashed eyes turned in his direction and the bolder belles coyly smiled at him, their teeth white in moist pink mouths.
    Santa Fe had snap aplenty, Shawn decided, but he wasn’t there for pleasure and that weighed on him.
    After one last glance at the bustling street, he turned on his heel and stepped into the saloon.
    The Lucky Lady was a long, fairly narrow building with a full-length mahogany bar behind which hung two French mirrors. A piano and small stage were at the far end, along with the usual assortment of tables and chairs. Unusual for a New Mexico saloon, a whale’s jawbone adorned the wall opposite the bar. A narrow staircase led to the upper floor and the