There was also a good deal of pride in having one’s box bring a high price. Fuentes whispered, “The biggest bids will be for the major’s daughter or China Benn, although there’s a plump blonde over by the door who’ll do pretty well … And some of the older women have the best dinners.” The room was crowded. The desks and chairs had been taken out and stored in the barn for the evening, and the benches pulled back along the walls. A number of the men usually spent most of the evening outside, just talking. There were a good many youngsters of all ages running around underfoot, probably having more fun than any of us.
The girls seated themselves on the benches, some of them surrounded by friends.
Barby Ann came in, looking frail, pale and lovely. She looked quickly around.
For Roger Balch, no doubt.
A small, pretty girl came in, a girl with large dark eyes wearing a somewhat faded but painfully neat gingham dress. She was, I realized after a second look, really not that pretty. Some might have thought she was quite plain, yet there was something about her, some inner spark of strength that appealed. “Who is that?” I asked Fuentes.
He shrugged. “I never saw her before. Seems to be alone.” Looking around, my eyes met those of Ann Timberly. Deliberately, she turned her back on me. I chuckled, feeling suddenly better. Everybody here knew everybody else, apparently. At least, most of them knew each other. Only a few knew me.
Balch came in suddenly, with Saddler and his wife beside him, and a slender, wolfish man whom I knew instantly. Why had not the name struck me when it was first mentioned by Fuentes?
Ingerman … one of Balch’s men, and a gunman. Did he know me? I doubted it, although I had seen him in Pioche and again in Silver City. Ingerman was no working cowhand. He could do the work, and would, but only when he was drawing fighting wages. Balch and Saddler evidently meant business. It needed only a few minutes of standing around and watching to see that the belles of the evening were Ann Timberly and China Benn, and if there was to be high bidding for boxes they would be the chief rivals. As for me, I was out for fun, as well as to show Ann Timberly that there were other girls about. Fuentes had drifted off with some Mexican girls he knew, and Ben Roper was having a drink with some friends. So I was alone, just standing there, looking the crowd over, and I could see some of them looking me over, too. After all, I was a stranger. The black suit I wore was tailored, and I was somewhat better turned out than most of the men around me. I’d had a liking, picked up from my father and carried on by brother Barnabas, for the better things of life, and so I indulged myself whenever my finances would allow. Though the mere fact of being a stranger at such a time was enough to attract attention.
The music began, and for the first two dances I merely watched. Both China Benn and Ann Timberly danced beautifully, but when on the third dance I decided to take part, I asked Barby Ann. She danced well enough, but her attention was elsewhere. She kept turning her head and looking about, and obviously she was alert for the coming of Roger Balch.
He came in suddenly, flanked by two men whom I judged from descriptions to be Tory Benton and Knuckle Vansen, two of Balch and Saddler’s fighting men. They came in, led by Balch, who was a well-built man of not over five feet five, which was only an inch or so below the average. He also wore a dark suit, a gray shirt, black tie and he wore black gloves, which he did not remove. He also wore two guns, which though done occasionally, was far from customary. It was something I’d never seen at a dance.
He stopped, feet wide apart, his fists resting on his hips.
“That is Roger Balch?” I asked.
“Yes.” I could sense that she wanted the dance to be over. It was not nattering, but I minded not at all, and knew how she felt. “Why two guns?” I asked mildly.
She stiffened defensively. “He always wears them. He has enemies.” “He does? I hope those aren’t for your father. He does not even carry a gun anymore, and he doesn’t hire gunfighters.”
She looked up at me suddenly. “What about you? I have heard you are a gunfighter?”
Now where had she heard that? “I’ve never hired out as a fighting man,” I replied.
Something else had her attention. She looked up at me again. “What did you mean when you said my father did not wear a gun anymore? You spoke as if you had known him before.”
“I merely assumed that before he lost his eyesight he had carried one. Most men do.”
Fortunately, the music ended before she could ask any more questions, and I left her at the edge of the floor, near where her father sat. I was turning away when I was stopped. It was Roger Balch.
“You the man riding the MT horse?”
“I am.”
“You want to come to work for Balch and Saddler?”
“I am working for Stirrup-Iron.”
“I know that. I asked if you wanted to work for us. We pay fighting wages.” “Sorry. I like it where I am.” I smiled. “And I am not a fighter. Just a cowhand.”
Before he could say more, I strolled away from him and suddenly found myself face to face with Ann Timberly. She was all prepared for me to ask her to dance, and was ready to say no. It showed in every line of her. I looked at her, smiled, but I walked by her to China Benn.
“Miss Benn? I am Milo Talon. May I have this dance?” She was a striking girl, vibrant and beautiful. Her eyes met mine and she was set to refuse. Then suddenly her manner changed. “Of course.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you mind, Kurt?”
I got only a glance at the startled eyes of the big man, and then the music was playing. And China Benn could dance. She could really dance, and the musicians knew it. Suddenly the tempo changed to a Spanish dance, but I’d spent some time below the border in Sonora and Chihuahua, and liked dancing Spanish style. In a moment we had the floor to ourselves … and she was good. I caught one flashing glimpse of Ann Timberly, her lips tightly pressed with what I hoped was anger or irritation. When the dance ended, there was a round of applause and China looked up at me. “You dance beautifully, Mr. Talon. I did not think anyone here but Tony Fuentes could dance Mexican style so well.” “I used to ride down Sonora way.”
“Well,” she said, “evidently you did more than ride. Let’s do it again later, shall we?”
Leaving her, I glanced across the room and met the eyes of the girl in the faded gingham dress. Turning in midstride, I walked over to her. “Would you dance? I am Milo Talon.”
“I know who you are,” she said quietly, rising with just a touch of awkwardness.
“Thank you for asking me. I was afraid no one would.”
“You’re a stranger?”
“I live here, but I’ve never come to a dance before, and I can’t stay much longer.”
“No? That’s too bad.”
“I … I have to get back. I am not supposed to be away.”
“Where do you live?”
She ignored the question. “I just had to come! I wanted to see people, to hear the music!”
“Then I am glad you came.”
She danced stiffly, holding herself with care, each step a little too careful. I did not think she had danced very much. “Did you come with your father?” She looked at me quickly, as if to wonder if there might be some knowledge in the question. “No … I came alone.”
Every other girl here had come with someone, if not a man friend, then with her family or other girls, and there were no houses close by. “You’d better find somebody to take you home,” I suggested. “It’s very dark out there tonight.” She smiled. “I ride every night … alone. I like the night. It is friendly to those who understand it.”
I was surprised, and looked at her again. “You knew my name,” I said then. “Not many here know it.”
“I know more about you than any of them,” she said quietly, “and if they knew who you really were they’d be astonished, all of them.” Suddenly, her manner changed. “Sometimes they seem so stupid to me! They are so pompous! So impressed with themselves! The major! He’s really a nice man, I think, if he would drop that foolish title! He doesn’t need it. Nor does she.” “Ann?”