“Gold?” she squealed, clapping her hands in delight. “You mean this is real gold? Why, who woulda thought? And you say it is worth somethin’?” Hope turned trusting eyes on him, and at the same time tried to control the impulse to spit in his stinking, conniving little face. The place where his hand touched her arm felt as though a thousand slimy things were crawling over it. She repressed a shudder, knowing she was too close to her main objective to pull away now.
“Like I said, not much,” he shrugged. “Maybe fifty dollars between the two of them, but that’s stretching it.”
Fifty dollars, my ass! It’s more like three hundred fifty, if it’s worth a cent. And he knows it, too, the bastard.
Wisely, Hope kept the opinion to herself as she forced her expression into the pantomime of a shocked-into-speechlessness female. Her hand fluttered to her throat as she feigned excitement. “Fifty dollars!” she exclaimed. “Why, that’s more’n I was hopin’ for. Tell me sir, if’n you’d be so kind, where ‘bouts can a little ol’ gal like m'self go to turn these perty little things in?”
The man smiled the weasely smile of a person about to make himself a handsome profit for a minimal amount of work. “Please,” he said, cutting her a mock bow, “let me do the honor for you.”
“You? Oh no, I couldn’t pos’bly ask a—ahem—gentleman like yerself to do that. You’ve done so much already, Mr.—er?”
“Tubbs,” he readily supplied with what a completely desperate woman might consider a winning smile. “Tyrone Tubbs, at your service.”
“Mr. Tubbs,” she said, returning his smile. A disgusting little name for a disgusting little man. ”I thank you so much for yer help, and I really would appreciate you turnin’ these little things in fer me. You know, savin’ me all that fuss and all, but—” Hope gave another sigh, and thought that if she kept sighing with such regularity she would certainly faint from hyperventilation.
Tyrone Tubbs licked his lips and scowled as if searching his memory. “Frazier. Is that what you said his name was?”
“Why, yes,” she exclaimed. This time the breathless excitement in her voice was not forced. Nor was the sudden racing of her heart. “Do you know him? I heard a rumor he was headin’ for these parts, but who knows how long ago that was.”
“Quite recently,” Tubbs said, eying the pocket containing the gold. “In fact, he arrived yesterday. As coincidence would have it, your beloved is in one of the upstairs rooms as we speak.”
“Here? Now?” Hope’s mouth went dry and she suddenly wished for another taste of that whiskey. It might be a poor substitute for courage, but she’d take it. Suddenly the prospect of coming face to face with the well-reputed gunman was enough to make her slightly numbed senses whirl. The wild trepidation struck her off guard. Although it lasted only a few brief seconds, the effect was severely unnerving.
> “Is something wrong?” Tibbs asked when he saw her face drain of color, then flood a becoming shade of pink.
“Wrong?” Hope echoed stupidly, then caught herself in check. “Why, no. ‘Course not. I just didn’t expect to be so lucky. You say my Drake is here? Now?”
“That’s a fact. I saw him go up those stairs myself.” His frown deepened as he held up two fingers in the barkeep’s direction. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.”
“It’s just excitement, Mr. Tubbs,” Hope explained hastily, slipping her hand inside her pocket. The gold was still there, the nuggets warm from resting against her hip. Tubbs waited expectantly for Hope to hand over the gold, but, to his surprise, she made no attempt to do so.
Two glasses of whiskey were set on the bar, the surface of which was crusted as if to express indignation at what he was quickly beginning to suspect had been a fruitless venture.
She’d wasted enough time on the ninny as it was, and there was still plenty more to be done before she could call it a night. “Please, sir,” Hope rushed on. “You must let me repay you fer all yer help.” She fixed him with a wide-eyed, innocent stare. “Now ah know a fine gentlemen such as yerself wouldn’t dream a takin’ monetary payment from a poor gal like m'self, so I want you let me know if there’s ever anything ah can do to help you.” She took a sip of the whiskey and asked, “What room did you say he was in?”
He hadn’t, and they both knew it. Still, Tubbs was hardly in a position to back down now, especially with so many witnesses. He eyed the burly barkeep, who had finished swabbing down the bar and was now leaning only a few feet away. The look on the barkeep’s face told Tubbs he’d heard every word that had passed between the woman and himself, and that she was the one who had the big man’s sympathy.
Swallowing hard, Tubbs turned his attention back to the woman. “Up the stairs, second door on your right.” He sent her an evil sneer, the façade of helpfulness peeling away like the outer layer of an onion. “Better knock first, though. He may be—er—busy.”
Hope nodded, then belted the rest of the whiskey down in one long gulp. She exhaled hard as the molten fire seared her throat.
“Thank you, Mr. Tubbs,” she said, her thickened accent stripped to the bones now. “You can’t begin to imagine how much help you’ve been.”
Tubbs didn’t acknowledge her words, having already turned his attention to the card game at a nearby table. Pulling up a seat, he threw a few coins onto the center of the table and motioned for the dealer to count him in.
A smile played on Hope's lips, and as she turned back to the bar, she found it was returned by the enormous barkeep.
“Want another?” he asked, throwing the grimy towel over his shoulder and nodding to her empty glass. When she hesitated, he grinned and let his gaze slip to Tubbs. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it on his bill.”
Hope smiled. “Thanks, but I think this should be sufficient.” She reached over and plucked up the glass of whiskey Tubbs had forgotten. The barkeep chuckled as he turned to a reed-thin barmaid who was setting a tray of empty glasses on the bar.
Looking at the glass, she contemplated the amber-colored liquid. Her head was beginning to feel light, but not unpleasantly so. Her speech had yet to slur and her vision was intact. If anything, the liquor had bolstered her courage for the encounter that was to come. So what would one more drink hurt? It might make facing Drake Frazier that much easier. Or it might get her drunk. It was a chance Hope decided she was willing to take. With a vision of a hardened, arrogant gunslinger floating in her mind, she downed the whiskey. No fire cut down her throat this time. If anything, the drink tasted pretty damn good. If she wasn’t careful, she would acquire a taste for the fiery brew.
Sighing, she set the glass down on the bar, then slipped off the uncomfortable stool. The barkeep grinned in her direction as she wobbled past him, and Hope thought she might have sent him a conspiratorial wink and wave, but she wasn’t sure.
Why did I have that last glass of whiskey? she thought as she concentrated on placing one foot after the next on the narrow steps. Her knees felt like unthickened strawberry jam, and, at the rate the alcohol was seeping into her system, she would be lucky if she made it to the landing at the top of the stairs without tumbling back into the saloon.
Somehow she made it, though she thought the feat was accomplished more by luck than coordination. Now, if she could only remember what room the little weasel had told her Drake Frazier was in. Was it the second door on the right for the first on the left?