Chapter 3
Early the next morning, Neville dispatched a stable hand on a swift horse and had him ride all the way to Courage, to buy a bouquet of hothouse flowers there, as all the flowers in the ranch hothouse had already been harvested. He meant to present them to Mina once she came down for breakfast. She was taking her good old time today and he couldn't blame her. He'd not been nice to her last night. Drunk and high on some dope the doctor had prescribed, Neville hardly remembered what he had done, but it hadn't been nice. He knew that much.
His ranch hand brought him a bouquet of tiger lilies and Neville was pleased with them. He even handed the boy a nickel for a tip. Right now the lilies sat in a vase on his desk, waiting for their big moment.
They still sat there when a group of Jesse Bartleby's men arrived out in the yard. Pierre Beauregard, Jesse's second-in-command, was leading them. They dismounted and Pierre and his gang of five came up on the veranda, where they slapped themselves with their hats to get the dust out of their clothes.
In the shadows at the far end of the veranda sat two black-dressed men, members of the Black Thirteen. The metal of the guns in their holsters shimmered. They watched Jesse's men with eagle eyes, but didn't move.
Goons, Pierre thought when he noticed them.
Mr. Henderson, Neville Morlock's bespectacled secretary came out to meet them. "Please state your business, gentlemen," Mr. Henderson said.
Pierre looked at the slight man. "Year's waning. Mr. Bartleby thinks about moving on. So, we've come to talk about our wages," he said.
"Money." Mr. Henderson glanced at the open door. He rubbed his hands. "You know, that's business that the boss tends to himself."
"I know," Pierre said.
"I'm afraid he's not ready to meet you." Mr. Henderson rubbed his bony hands some more. His eyes darted nervously from one man to the next. They were all at least a head taller than he was.
"We don't have anything else going on today," Pierre said. "We'll just wait until he's ready." He sat down on the stairs of the veranda. His men followed suit.
"But you can't…" Mr. Henderson said.
"Get them in here!" a booming voice said from deep within the house.
Mr. Henderson grinned in a sour way. "You heard him. I guess he's ready. Come in, gentlemen, come in. But first leave your guns with those gentlemen over there." He pointed at the gunslingers on the far end.
One of them rose and walked towards Pierre and his group, ready to receive their weapons.
The cowboy and his gang got up. He frowned when the gunman stood in front of him, holding out his hand.
"I assure you that Mr. Morlock is also unarmed," Henderson said to break up the uneasy moment.
"Very well," Pierre said. When his men saw how he handed over his Colt, they did, too.
Henderson led the way and they followed him into the mansion. Their mouths fell open as they walked through the big hall. None of them had ever been here, had ever seen the big crystal chandeliers, the staircase with its banister made of polished mahogany or the exquisite furniture that adorned the room. Not to mention the cream-colored figurines cut from elephants' tusks.
Three more members of the Black Thirteen were lounging around on a settee. Neither talking nor reading nor playing cards, they just sat in silence. If it wouldn't have been for their moving eyes, one could have mistaken them for wax figures from Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors in London. How could they do that, just sit there, doing nothing? Pierre had never quite figured the Black Thirteen out.
Mr. Henderson led them into a large gilded room, in which Neville Morlock sat on a big chair like on a throne. Pierre almost had to laugh when he saw him, but thought the better of it.
The spoiled rancher wore nothing but a purple silk robe over his underwear. His eyes closed, he sat with outstretched arms and legs as four ladies were busy with him, manicuring his fingernails and tending to the nails on his feet. A fifth maid stood behind his back and massaged his gray scalp.
This was completely foreign to Pierre. He had never seen anything like it. This was a man who was wallowing in luxury.
"What do you men want?" Neville said.
"Howdy sir," Pierre said and tipped his hat. "We need provisions as our little ones are starting to go without. So, Mr. Bartleby felt that now was a good time to talk to you about our wages. September is waning and we expect to travel to a warmer clime before winter comes. Mr. Bartleby says he is easy to please. You know what we did for you. Please give us whatever you feel is just."
Neville's eyes popped open. He looked at his secretary. "Do we have a contract with those people?" He knew the answer full well.
Sour-faced Mr. Henderson studied his fingernails and shook his head. "Afraid not."
"Do we pay people that we don't have a contract with?" Neville asked.
Mr. Henderson shook his head. "No." He avoided looking at the cowboys, who stood around Mr. Morlock's gilded chair.
"But sir..." Pierre said and pulled up his brows. "Mr. Bartleby has been very good to you. He's practically been like the hand of God over your flocks. Kept the wolves and the bears at bay and never took as much as a calf or a sheep from any of your herds without paying for it. Not even that crazy billy goat that attacked him a while back. You know that."
"We don't have a contract," the rancher said.
Pierre nodded. "We know that, sir. Mr. Bartleby just figured that you'd appreciate what he has done for you in the course of this year. And may I remind you that he saved you and your wife and your ranch from those raiding Comanche?"
At the mention of his wife, Neville's face grew red specks again. "Bah, humbug!" he yelled and sat up. "Don't tell me no fairytales! Mr. Bartleby is an outlaw himself! He was probably in cahoots with those Comanche."
"Mr. Bartleby is no outlaw," Pierre Beauregard said. "He's always been an upstanding citizen and..."
"Then why isn't she gainfully employed at some place he calls home? Isn't he from the South? Instead he is roaming the countryside, mooching off of honorable businesspeople like yours truly! You can tell Mr. Bartleby that I do not intend to pay him a dime!"
"Why not?" Mr. Henderson said. The little man withered when he realized what he had just said. He'd spoken up for the 'enemy.'
"Because Jesse Bartleby is a jerk!" Neville Morlock screamed. "Want proof?" His eyes were glassy and wide like those of a madman. His gaze darted from one person in the room to the next.
"Want to know why?" He pulled out Jesse's handkerchief. Holding it up, he shouted, "He made my wife carry this around with her! Jesse Bartleby has forced himself on my wife! She told me all about it last night!"
He glowered at Pierre and his men. "I think it's best for you men to disappear before I get my dogs out and have them go after you."
Five goons from the Black Thirteen appeared in the door and looked in. Alert, they looked like bloodhounds smelling game.
Pierre pushed his hat back on his head, much like Jesse did when he was thinking. "This is Jesse's handkerchief all right, but I have no idea how you got it." The cowboy looked at his men. "But we all here know that Mr. Bartleby is an all-round honorable man. He would never touch another man's woman."
"Lies! Lies, nothing but lies! She told me all about it!" The rancher's eyes shot lightnings. Nervous energy made his fat to wobble.
The ladies tending to him had all stepped back. They stared at nothing in particular and did their best to seem invisible.
"Get out of my house, you and your pack!"
Neville got up and grabbed the vase on the desk. When Pierre didn't move fast enough, he flung it at the cowboy and his men, who deftly maneuvered to avoid the missile.
The maids flinched as the vase splintered on the hard floor and send shards flying. Mina's beautiful tiger lilies lay scattered in a soggy mess.
Pierre inhaled and stood erect. He righted his hat and said, "Very well. We'll go and tell Mr. Bartleby what you think. But we doubt that he'll be amused."
"You threatening me?"
Neville growled, madder than ever. "You threatening me, boy?" He almost choked on the words.
Pierre lifted his hands in a conciliatory way. "I don't mean no offense, sir."
"They never do!" Neville shouted. Looking at the men from the Black Thirteen, he snarled, "Get them!"
The goons had only been waiting for the word. Now that Morlock had said it, they spilled in, grabbed Pierre and his men and dragged them out of the room.
"Go and tell Bartleby to get lost! And to keep this dirty hands off my wife!" Neville Morlock yelled after them.
Henderson followed them out.
"Tell him to split! If he ever darkens the door to my house, I'll see to it that he gets shot. Tell him to crawl back into the hole in Texas that he came out of, that rat! That filthy outlaw!"
Surrounded by hard-looking gunmen, Pierre and his gang crossed through the big hall and walked out the door into the sunshine.
"We want our guns back," Pierre said.
But instead of handing him his six-shooter, somebody pushed the Pierre from behind – and before he knew it, he lay in the dust by the bottom of the stairs with gravel in his mouth. His men were pushed around, too, and a fistfight ensued. But Pierre and the cowboys were outnumbered two to one.
The goons had just gone away when Henderson came out. He stared at Jesse Bartleby's dirty and battered men. "Good Lord, what happened to you?"
"Don't ask," Pierre Beauregard said, feeling his bruised lip.
"I'll talk to him again," Henderson said. "To Morlock."
"About what?" Pierre said.
"About your wages, of course."
"Don't bother," Pierre said. "Mr. Bartleby believes that a man is as good as his word. If Morlock says no, he means no. Mr. Bartleby will accept that."
Henderson frowned at Pierre. "He'll walk away without collecting wages?"
"That I don't know," Pierre said. "We'll find out in a bit."
Henderson watched the cowboys as they rode away. For some reason Pierre's last remark did nothing to put him at ease. After all, Jesse Bartleby had been a war hero once. The slight man turned and looked into the house with a sigh. Jesse and his men were an ideal addition to the crew working on the ranch. Everybody could see that. Life could be so pleasant, if only Neville weren't such a fool.
And Mina had something going with Jesse? She'd even admitted it? The accountant scratched his head.
Unbelievable.
But then again, Mr. Henderson didn't know women. He wasn't married.
Still.
Mina Morlock was a lady. As unhappy as she was being married to Neville, Henderson just couldn't imagine that she'd be messing with another man. That was contrary to anything he knew about her.
And Jesse Bartleby?
Jesse was actually a pretty cool cat in the accountant's estimation. He was so popular with his men, they'd follow him to hell and back. Wherever he appeared, the air seemed to take on a lighter quality and everybody broke out the smiles. Not to mention his ability to sing rain clouds away. Jesse just had it.
To work for somebody like him…
But alas, Henderson wasn't cut out for cowboy work. He was an accountant. At least he was a good one. Even if he worked for Neville Morlock, that fool. Many times he thought of quitting, but didn't.
"Henderson! Get back here! On the double!"
The accountant sighed and went back into the house, his head hanging low.