The Talisman - Crisscross

Quinn sat astride his buckskin, watching the wagons and buggies roll into the clearing. Several cowboys rode in from the direction of Pierre's. Obviously the bath shack had been busy all afternoon.

  He didn't have much interest in Spiritualism but he knew Zelda did, and she was why he put in an appearance. He had to know what cowpoke had drawn her away from him. If it wasn't the poor sap he'd fought last night, who was it?

  He studied every couple, ignoring those who arrived alone or with families. Folks sat on logs surrounding a fire pit. No doubt the spiritualist would orchestrate some showy way of starting the fire. The logs were set as if to form the framework of a short teepee with only three legs and no kindling in the middle. This should be a good show.

  Quinn dismounted and leaned against a tree where he could see each and every face. Zelda wasn't in the group. He searched again, this time missing no one. He thought he caught a glimpse of her in a buggy. He stood straight. There, but who was she with? He moved casually, not wanting to draw attention.

  "Brothers and Sisters," The spiritualist began in a booming voice, drawing everyone's attention. "Brother, take a seat."

  The group grew quiet and Quinn paused to turn to face the spiritualist, pretending to search the crowd for someone.

  "Brothers and Sisters, today is a day of greatness. Today we are no longer alone. Today…" Quinn tuned the rambling words out, focusing on his mark. The setting sun cast long shadows through the trees that sheltered the clearing, making it impossible to tell if it was indeed Zelda in the buggy. He approached, getting close enough to recognize her robust laughter, in the subdued tones.

  He made a wide berth of the buggy, intending to approach them from behind Zelda. Just as he stepped forward to confront Zelda and her companion, a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

  "Just wantun' ya to know. I think it's mighty neighborly of ya. Some of the boys don't agree, but give 'em time. Yes sir, right neighborly."

  Quinn tucked his surprise under his seasoned poker face. No one, not even Leavitt could know his tells. Quinn's tales were the least of his problems at the moment. What on earth was Wes talking about? He had to play along to find out.

  "Warn't nothin'," Quinn drawled.

  "Sure it was. You don't see any other cowpoke ridin' miles out of his way, unless there's somethin' in it for him." Wes winked and slapped him on the shoulder. "Well, you connivin' scoundrel. Them ladies are payin' you or you're taking a cut in what they're makin'. I sure as Hades hope you ain't buildin' that house of yorn for them gals. I'd hate to lose more of my boys to another establishment. At least at Pierre's I know I'll find 'em all corralled in one spot, whether it's poker, whiskey or whores that they’re spendin' their pay on."

  Ladies. That could only be in reference to Zelda and-- Trish. The scared rabbit he had helped kill a man. That's why he couldn't make out the cowboy with Zelda. It wasn't a cowboy with her at all, it was Trish. Had Old Curly just intended to get his free poke in before turning her over to Zelda? Had he, Quinn Jackson, been played?

  "Well, Wes," Quinn drawled. "Ladies such as them only come out to be seen. How 'bout visitin' with them now instead of hangin' back an' waitin' in line later at Pierre's?"

  Quinn led the way, sauntering over to the buggy where the two women sat, enthralled by the spiritualist's latest parry.

  "Ladies."

  "Shush, Quinn." Zelda swatted at him with her fan. "We gotta see how he gets outta this one."

  "The spirit is telling me that you have more interests than your business." A gasp went up from the assembly in front of Zelda's buggy. Quinn couldn't tell who it had emanated from.

  "Moore sure does," Zelda snickered.

  "Wait… business-related, it seems." The spiritualist dallied with the company. "Mr. Moore, the spirit is telling me that you should expand your business."

  Several clapped, apparently supporters of Moore's saloon.

  "Smooth," Zelda cackled in a most unladylike fashion. "There are children present or I could have told the whole crowd just how he wants to expand his business."

  While Zelda and Trish hung on the spiritualists every word, Quinn appraised Trish. She wore a grayish blue skirt and a simple striped blouse. She wore her hair atop her head in a typical Zelda hairstyle, most of it piled in dozens of little curls secured by tiny ribbons. Intentionally stray tendrils of deep auburn danced on her shoulders as Trish turned her head.

  His throat went dry. Manipulated or played didn't matter. He'd been on her side before the murder. His knife had delivered the fatal blow. He'd warned her of the need to keep silent. He had no doubts she had done so. If she had played him, she'd not relied on finding his tells; she'd won the hand by outsmarting and outplaying him. He had to admire her for her game. She sat beside Zelda, outshining the seasoned whore in every way, from the reds in her hair, to the delicate painting of her face, to the way the clothes he had bought for Zelda fit over Trish's every delicate curve. His imagination danced with the possibility of seeing those curves. He yanked his thoughts back to the reason he stood on the ground instead of seated between Zelda and Trish.

  "Ladies." This time Zelda gave him her attention. Trish kept an eye on the spiritualist.

  "We're not rehashing this afternoon," Zelda's tone was cool.

  "Not at all, ma'am." He refused to give her the satisfaction of rubbing salt on his ego. He had laid his cards on the table long ago but Zelda had finally played the winning hand, and he had lost. Wes was a good friend, but it riled him that he, Quinn Jackson, should be party to showing any of his regular cowhands a feminine good time. The hands regularly clapped him on the back with appreciation for bringing the ladies in, but he knew they gaffed behind his back, especially after the last barroom brawl. "This here is Wes Leavitt. He's wantin' to be assured that ya ladies will be takin' good care of his boys."

  "I always do." Zelda answered. Trish still watched the spiritualist. Zelda elbowed her, getting her attention.

  Quinn felt the need to appear larger than life at the moment and puffed out his chest. "Wes Leavitt, Trish --"

  "Trish Larsen. It is nice to meet you Mister Leavitt, is it?" Had she manufactured her lie about her amnesia or a new last name? Trish smiled at Wes, taking Quinn's breath away. Her white teeth seemed to sparkle in the fading light as did her pale blue eyes. She extended her gloved hand to Wes.

  Wes took her hand, seeming not to know what to do with it. At last, he gave it a gentle squeeze. Quinn watched, his eyes darting from Trish's pleasant expression to Wes' smitten one and back again. A spark of jealousy niggled at him.

  Quinn forced himself to remember his manners. "And you know Zelda."

  The introductions complete, Quinn didn't pay attention to Wes and Zelda's friendly exchange. Instead he watched Trish, entranced by her devilish innocent delight. Trish watched the spiritualist. He walked around the back of the buggy to stand next to her. From his position at her knees, he could almost feel her enthusiasm for the fanatic.

  "Yer real interested in this?" he said, trying to hide his disgust of the whole show.

  "Interested? No. Fascinated? Yes." Trish answered without taking her eyes off the spiritualist. "I wonder how he does it. I mean, I've seen most of the parlor tricks, but there are a few that would be impossible to reenact out in the open like this. I guess it could be just dumb luck, or maybe --"

  Quinn kept her in his sights and glanced quickly at the man holding most of the group's attention.

  "I sense that there are doubters here." The spiritualist voice carried over the gathering.

  "Wouldn't it be awesome if he'd light the fire from way over there?" Trish sounded much too excited for her own good.

  The spiritualist pointed their direction then stopped, closing his eyes and pulling his hand, two fingers at his temple as if receiving some spiritual message.

  "I've got to get him to do it." Trish sounded desperate. His familiar battle raised its factions, weighing a woman's frivolous wants and needs, something he found so difficult to turn hi
s back to, against his better judgment. Quinn couldn't let her make a fool of herself, playing into the fraud's hand. His sense of chivalry emerged victorious. Was Trish and what she wanted his weakness? In less time than it required for him to take a breath, he surrendered. In that same breath he felt able to conquer any foe, including this charlatan. This was a conflict free of violence that he knew how to win. Quinn faced the spiritualist squarely and folded his arms while plastering a snide expression of open disbelief on his face. He waited for the spiritualist to come out of his fraudulent trance and point their direction again.

  "There is no way," Quinn shouted across the clearing. "No way ya can make me believe all this nonsense."

  "Ah ha." The charlatan rose to the bait. "The spirits have moved him to confess his unbelief."

  Quinn meandered around the group and toward the spiritualist. "Yer spirits got nothun' to do with it. Yer deceiv'n and parlor tricks ain't swindlin' me out of my week's pay."

  "But sir, I knew your doubt before you spoke of it."

  "I bet there's at least one doubter in every crowd, ain't there, holy man? All ya gotta do is bluff that yer gonna call 'em out and at least one 'll break. Just like a calf from the herd." Quinn stood near the front row of onlookers, casual and sure. "Yer spirits tell ya my Christian name?"

  A few in the group murmured, one even using his name and asking what he was up to.

  The charlatan looked over the crowd as if measuring their collective belief. "Quinn."

  Quinn huffed, smothering his laughter. "Quinn's the name people use in these parts. We all heard somebody mutter it just now. Care to check with your spirits again?"

  "If Quinn isn't your given name but it is the name everyone here knows you by, the spirits would use the name as well. Besides, it is easy to deny when no one here knew you as a babe."

  "Yer spirits are failin' ya. They'd know thar's one here that was present when I was born." Quinn loved to watch the charlatan squirm, his façade of spiritualism cracking. "Whadda ya say? Wanna try again?"

  The spiritualist refused to back down. "Who is this that was present when you were born? Your old mamma?"

  "Mister, you'd be wise to speak kindly of my dearly departed mother." Albert stood while Lucinda dragged at his hand. "Our daddy insisted we always speak of a woman, any woman with respect. These people here know the two of us are brothers."

  Quinn repositioned his feet shoulder width apart, his arms folded loosely across his chest.

  The spiritualist bowed his head as if in deep spiritual thought. At last, when the group grew restless he raised his head. "The spirits have left. They see no need to give you further signs."

  "Signs!" Quinn bellowed. "Signs would be the trick of startin' that there fire from way over here. Didn't ask for that sign, but then I was by here this afternoon when ya was practicin' that trick. Marley, flick that cigarette ya got in the fires direction. Now watch close, folks. Watch how the flame licks around the edges in a circle before the flames catch those logs."

  Marley flicked his cigarette and the ring of fire licked the edges of the fire circle before the flames engulfed the logs with a crack of gunfire.

  "Fraud!"

  "Imposter!"

  "Charlatan!"

  Quinn backed away from the fracas. He'd run enough men out of town. He'd let those who had temporarily believed run this party.

 

  Chapter 15