Chapter 6

Negotiations

Jarvis Raymond gestured Langford Poole to a chair opposite his own at the table in the far corner of the Bucket of Blood saloon and signaled the barkeep to bring two glasses of beer. Poole nodded a “thanks” and sat down. He rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, gazing inquiringly at Raymond.

“So, what is it you want to talk to me about, Mister?”

“Mr. Poole, my name is Jarvis Raymond. I’m the editor of the New York Times—I’m sure you have heard of the Times?”

Poole just waved his hand impatiently.

“I’m looking for interesting people who are willing to tell me their story. You, Mr. Poole, seem to be a very interesting person, and I’d like to hear your story.”

“What story?”

“Well, who you are, and why you’re here, to begin with. Mr. Cartwright mentioned you were a stranger to Virginia City?”

Poole eyed him suspiciously. “What are you on about?”

Jarvis Raymond lay back casually in his chair and, chewing the inside of his cheek, considered the other man for a moment. Eventually he came to a decision.

“I want to be honest with you, Mr. Poole. I heard your name before. Whenever I asked someone for information about Adam Cartwright, your name was mentioned.”

Poole didn’t seem too happy about the turn of their conversation. “What exactly did you hear?”

Raymond smiled amiably and replied rather cheerfully, “He outdrew you.”

Poole just stared at him, dumbfounded.

Raymond didn’t change his expression. “It is true, isn’t it?”

“He caught me…unaware.”

“It wasn’t a fair duel?”

“It was…but I didn’t expect a blasted farmer being so quick. I got…sloppy.”

“I understand,” Raymond stretched out. “And am I assuming right that you are here to, er, right your mistake?”

“I told him he’d be sorry he didn’t kill me when he had the chance.” Poole curled his lips in a cruel smile. “And I’m gonna make sure he will be sorry.”

“So, you’re going to call Cartwright out?”

“You can be dead sure that I will.”

Raymond stroked his chin, watching Poole. He thought hard. This was even better than he had expected. He only had to make sure he’d stayed out of the crossfire and he would come out as the big winner. His prize would not only be a grand series of stories but, with a little luck, also the fair Countess of Barnstoke and her circulation-enhancing writing. He decisively clapped his hands to his knees and leaned forward.

“I have an offer for you, Poole.” Raymond copied Poole’s posture. He looked at his counterpart like a snake hypnotising a rabbit. His smile was the smug and content grin of a man who knew he had an offer to make that no one in his right mind would reject.

The rabbit pricked its ears. “Okay. Spit it out!”

Raymond’s smile widened. Poole wasn’t a man of many words, or one that would beat around the bush for long. Obviously he liked to get into the heart of matters immediately. That was fine with Raymond.

“Do you want to be famous, Mr. Poole? Do you want to become a legend?”

Poole squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

“Your name and face could be on the front page of the New York Times, Mr. Poole. Do you understand what this means? Everyone at the east coast will know you, men will shudder in fright at your name, women will seek your company, children will play your famous fight over and over again; you will be a hero!” Raymond’s arms were outstretched in an inviting gesture that seemed to offer the whole world. “You could be the epitome of a gunslinger, Mr. Poole; you could go down in history!”

“What’s the price for that, Mr. Raymond?”

Raymond waved his hands dismissively. “There isn’t a price. Take this as a gift, Mr. Poole.”

“Only death comes as a gift, Raymond. What do I have to do, and what’s in it for you?”

“All you have to do is to do what you planned to do. You just have to let me observe it and write about it. I’m going to make you the hero of my stories once I got back to New York. That’s what’s in for me: a brilliant story from the West.”

“You think what I’m gonna do is a brilliant story?”

Raymond smiled broadly and clapped his hands. “Well, there’s everything in it: a strapping hero, guns, a fight for honour and love, a beautiful woman—”

“What love and what woman?”

“Miss Heatherstone, of course. Don’t tell me you’re not attracted to her?”

Poole shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “She’s mighty tall.”

“Not taller than you, Mr. Poole. And aside from that—”

“She’s got freckles.”

“Yes, during summer. They’ll fade in autumn, I’m sure. And aside from that—”

“I don’t like the way she glares. And I don’t like the way she tries to be boss.”

“Mr. Poole, once you won the heart of that fair lady she won’t glare at you or use that tone of voice. She can be very sweet, in fact.” Raymond started to feel like a cattle trader. “And she’s not easy to scare; that’ll come in very handy with your line of business.”

Poole seemed to consider this.

“And did you notice her eyes? The way she smiles? Her slim waist?” Well, it was cattle trading. And he didn’t have a prize cow to trade with. But then again, Poole wasn’t a cattle baron, and so maybe he would be satisfied with something less than stellar.

Poole’s jaws worked. He seemed to consider his options. “Well, she’s not too bad, I guess.”

“And from the way she looked at you, Mr. Poole, I believe she thinks you’re quite dashing too.” It was really surprising how easily lies could be delivered once you started it in earnest, Raymond thought. And Poole was only too ready to give his words more credit than they deserved. Simpleton.

Raymond smirked. “Of course, there’s Cartwright. He seems to think Miss Heatherstone belongs to him. But that will be taken care of with your…other dealings, I suppose.”

Poole leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He screwed up his mouth in a cruel grimace and said very slowly, and very pronouncedly, “Yeah, I reckon that will be taken care of.”

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What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything
and the value of nothing. ~ Oscar Wilde