Fed up with watching him make a fool of himself, I stalked out of the saloon with Caesar at my heels. Behind me, the lady laughed and some of the ruffians at the card table joined in, but I paid them no heed. Let Calvin do what he pleased. I wanted no more of him.
Halfway back to the Strater, I saw something that changed my mind fast. A man lurched out of a saloon just ahead, followed by two others. Flattening myself against the side of a building, I watched Roscoe, Baldy, and Shovel Face stagger past. The three of them were heading in the direction of the Silver Queen.
There was nothing to do but cut down an alley and hope I got there first. No matter how vexed I was, I didn't want anything bad to happen to Calvin.
16
ONE THING YOU SHOULD NEVER DO IS TAKE a shortcut in a strange town. The alley I ran down had a fence across the end. Even if I could have climbed over it, Caesar couldn't have followed me. We turned and ran back to the street, but we'd lost precious time. Before we even got in sight of the Silver Queen, we heard gunshots.
Inside the saloon, chairs and bottles were flying through the air, accompanied by fisticuffs and blasphemy vile enough to curdle milk. The smoke was so thick I couldn't see Calvin anywhere, but that didn't stop Caesar and me from going in to rescue him. Like Calvin, I don't have the sense I was born with. It must have leaked out my ears when I was no more than a baby.
From somewhere in the fire and brimstone, I heard a voice holler, "Come out and face me like a man, you lily-livered, no good, worthless son of..."
I won't tell you what else he said, but when the smoke cleared I saw Roscoe standing in the middle of the room, a gun in his hand. Backing him up were Shovel Face and Baldy.
'You won't cheat me again, Featherbone," Roscoe bellowed, waving his gun. "Nor nobody else neither."
Calvin was standing by the card table, his chair on the floor behind him, his face as white as his shirt front. The dealer was on his feet, gun drawn and smoking. I reckon he'd already taken a shot at Roscoe. As for the pretty lady, all I saw of her was a bit of frilly red lace sticking out from behind an overturned table. I guess she wasn't crazy enough about Calvin to risk getting killed.
While I stood there taking in the scene, Caesar let out a fierce snarl and hurled himself at Roscoe. Before the scoundrel knew what was happening, Caesar was standing over him, slavering like a wolf ready to rip his throat out.
Sizing up the situation, I ran to Calvin's side and pointed at Roscoe, who was rolling around on the floor with Caesar as if they were wrestling. "Don't believe a word that lying scalawag says," I sobbed. "Mr. Suggs tried to bamboozle us out of our inheritance back in Kansas. Why, he stole our mama's farm and broke her heart. He might as well have shot her dead like he's aiming to do to Calvin now."
My tears swayed the crowd to Calvin's side. Every man and woman turned on Roscoe and his boys with shouts and curses and cries of "Shame!" In a trice, that gang of no-goods were scampering toward the door.
Shaking off my dog, Roscoe paused just long enough to yell, "I won't forget this, Featherbone! Sooner or later, I'll get you and that little varmint alone somewheres and then we'll see, oh yes, we will!"
With that, the doors swung shut and Roscoe was gone. Satisfied, Caesar trotted back to me, panting a little, and dropped the seat of Roscoe's trousers at my feet. Folks laughed and cheered. The piano player suggested hanging the rag over the bar as a souvenir of the night's merriment, and the bartender obliged.
In a few minutes things were back to normal. I guess the customers were used to brawls and destruction.
But I wasn't. And neither was Caesar. We found us a nice quiet corner out of everybody's way and waited for Calvin to finish playing. The pretty lady hung over him, trying to peek at his cards, but he kept them close to his chest. Every now and then she flashed a smile at me as if to apologize for the harsh words she'd spoken earlier, but I was too weary to return the courtesy.
I watched Calvin lose hand after hand till it seemed I'd saved his life only to see him gamble away our fortune. Just as I was about to fling myself at him and beg him to quit, he started winning. If he was cheating, I couldn't tell, nor could anybody else. Except for the dealer, the folks gathered around the table seemed happy to see Calvin's luck change. Especially the pretty lady, who hopped all over him like a flea, kissing him and stroking his hair and whispering in his ear.
When the last man quit, Calvin raked in his winnings and turned to me, his face flushed and his eyes fever-bright. "Are you happy, little brother?"
I got to my feet, too tired to do anything but nod. "Can we go back to the hotel now?"
"The night is still young, my handsome darling," said the pretty lady, caressing Calvin's face as if she were blind and couldn't see what he looked like without touching him.
"Alas," Calvin murmured, "I promised dear Mama to take good care of my little brother. I fear I've neglected my duty and kept him up long past his bedtime. Good night to you all."
Tipping his hat, the Gentleman Outlaw took my hand as if I were a helpless child and moved toward the door, with Caesar trotting along beside us.
The pretty lady came along with us, clinging to Calvin's arm and promising him all sorts of things. Behind her, the dealer watched, one hand resting lightly on his revolver and the other smoothing his mustache, looking for all the world like a villain right out of a Western story.
When Calvin continued to decline as courteously as a knight from olden days, the pretty lady finally lost her temper and called my companion a stupid boy, a fool, and other things too nasty to repeat.
"I know you was cheating," she screeched. "Next time I'll catch you at it. Then Jack McGraw will shoot you dead! He don't like cheats at his table!"
So saying, she took off down the dark street, pausing every now and then to shout a few more unladylike things at us. I swear I was tempted to sic Caesar on her. He'd have gladly ripped her frills to shreds.
"Step lively, Eli," Calvin hissed, yanking me along by one arm. "It appears we've made yet another enemy."
Calvin, Caesar, and I ran to the hotel, slipped in the side entrance, and raced up the steps to our room. After we shut and locked the door, Calvin went to the window and peered down into the street.
"Is McGraw coming?" I whispered, too afraid to go see for myself.
Calvin shook his head and pulled the drapes shut. Lighting the lamp, he busied himself counting his winnings. It looked like a goodly amount.
"Now we have two evil men to worry about," I said. "Roscoe Suggs and Jack McGraw. It seems to me we'd better move on to Tinville while we're still alive."
Calvin stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling. "The Silver Queen isn't the only saloon in Durango," he said.
"Jack McGraw was watching you real close," I said. "Like that lady, I wager he knew you were cheating. He's bound to tell others."
Calvin surprised me by agreeing. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "From what I hear, Silverton has a goodly number of saloons and gambling halls."
"Why can't we go straight on to Tinville?"
"Oh, Lord," Calvin sighed. "I wish I'd never heard the name of that town. You've worn it out saying it so often."
"But—"
"No 'buts,' Eli." Turning his back, Calvin blew out the lamp and prepared for bed.
Without saying another word, I undressed too and slid under my soft blanket. I was too worn down to argue. Wouldn't do any good anyway. It was clear Calvin had made up his mind. The most I could hope for was to be run out of Silverton as fast as we'd been run out of Durango.
17
THE NEXT MORNING WE ATE A GOOD BREAKfast at the Strater, paid our bill, and headed down Main Street to the depot. Everything looked clean and shiny in the sunlight, including the train itself. Pure white steam billowed from its smokestack, rising up like a cloud against the blue sky. Steam hissed out from under the locomotive too. It was huffing and puffing, just raring to go.
The dark green cars were already filling with passengers. Famili
es and fancy ladies, a man of the cloth, several gamblers, assorted miners. It seemed like half of Durango was heading north to Silverton. Those that were staying crowded the platform, waving and shouting to the ones who were going.
"First class again," Calvin said, guiding me to a Pullman car. "It's a three-hour journey, so we might as well avoid the hoi polloi and travel in luxury. We can afford it."
With Caesar lying quietly at our feet, Calvin and I sat back in our plush seats and watched Durango slip away into the past, already no more than a vivid dream.
The tracks ran along beside the Animas River, short for el Rio de las Animas Perdidas, according to Calvin. The name rolled off his tongue like poetry, but when he told me its meaning, I shivered. The river of lost souls—that's what those pretty Spanish words signified. I wondered how it got such a grim name. And hoped it didn't bode ill for us.
After a while, the train began climbing, twisting and turning, following the very edge of a steep cliff. The river dropped farther and farther below us. Soon I had to lean out the window to see the water churning over boulders at the bottom of a chasm. Lost souls ... the name made more sense when I looked down at the river from this height.
Beyond the Animas, the mountains rose up, high and stern and pointed, bearded with pines. Big white clouds hung motionless above the peaks. The sky was the bluest I'd ever seen. Except for the everlasting cinders and smoke from the locomotive, the air was fresh and pure. It was a fine ride, made even better by a plush dining car and a delicious meal of pheasant, elk, and buffalo.
In Silverton, we took a room at the Grand Hotel, on Greene Street, an establishment nearly as fine as the Strater. The food in the dining room was good and plentiful, and I soon got into the habit of eating steak tender enough to cut with my fork. Even developed a taste for oysters, which Calvin said would put hair on my chest—highly unlikely, I thought.
As Calvin had predicted, saloons and gambling halls were plentiful in Silverton. The first thing we did when we entered one was take note of the dealer. If he seemed the equal of Jack McGraw, we tried another place. No sense taking chances when you don't need to.
To insure our good luck, Calvin devised new methods of cheating. Besides his quick fingers and polite ways, he kept an ace up his sleeve and marked his cards. He also bought himself a pretty glass ring that looked like a diamond but was even better because he could turn it to reflect other players' cards. Of course, he wasn't above using me to send him silent signals. Not too many men paid heed to a pitiful orphan hanging around the table. Night after night, our winnings grew.
***
One evening while we were enjoying dinner in the hotel dining room, Calvin surprised me by bringing up the subject of his father. He hadn't said much about Mr. Featherbone, Senior, since I'd questioned his honesty in card-playing way back in Pueblo.
"I imagine Father spent a lot of time in this town," he said, looking around as if he expected to see old Featherbone's ghost lingering in a corner. "What I wouldn't give to have known him better, to have traveled with him, to have been his partner."
Calvin's fists tightened and a little muscle in his cheek twitched. "Thanks to Sheriff Yates, I have been denied that opportunity."
I leaned across the table and asked a question I'd been puzzling over for a long time. "How do you know Sheriff Yates killed your father, Calvin? Who told you?"
Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, Calvin pulled out a tattered envelope. Opening it carefully, he removed a letter which had been unfolded and refolded so many times it was torn along the creases. "Read this, Eli."
I spread the fragile paper on the table. "My dere Miz Fetherbone," I read,
With grate sorroe I take pen in hand to tell you of yore husbands crool and untimly deth. On February 10th 1887 he was shot in the back in cold blud by the sherif of Tinville on account of him calling the sherif a cheet wich is the truth. Alfred Yates is the sherif's name. He took all the munny yore pore unforchinat husband had. This is all I have to say, x-cept the sherif is a wicked man that shood be kilt for his trechery.
Yore husbands frend
Before I raised my eyes, I took a deep breath. Until now, I hadn't known Sheriff Yates's Christian name was Alfred. By a strange coincidence, my father's Christian name was also Alfred. Much as I feared to admit it, it was beginning to look like Calvin and I were searching for the same man after all.
When I could trust myself to speak, I asked Calvin who sent the letter. "There's no signature."
"What does it matter who sent it? The truth is my father is dead and I, his only living kin, swore a vow on my mother's grave to avenge his murder."
Calvin's face was pale, and his voice shook. For the first time I felt I was seeing his true self, a boy not much older than me who had made a solemn promise. One he could not break, even if he wanted to, without dishonoring himself.
You're scared, aren't you?" I whispered, just blurting the words out without thinking. "That's why you're hanging round here instead of going on to Tinville."
Calvin snatched the letter back and refolded it carefully, scowling at me all the while. "Of course I'm not scared," he said fiercely. "I know how to handle a gun."
'You don't even have a gun," I said. "Why, I bet you never shot one in your whole entire life."
Calvin got up so quick his chair fell over. The noise won us the attention of everyone in the dining room, including a waiter who almost dropped a tray full of steaming dinners.
"If you were a man instead of a puny little Nancy-boy," Calvin snarled, "I'd beat you senseless for insulting me."
Ignoring the stares and whispers, Calvin whirled around and headed for the exit.
I sat at the table for a moment, knowing I'd pushed Calvin too far this time. I was usually better at guessing his moods and accommodating myself to them.
"Shall I put the dinner on your hotel bill, son?" the waiter asked, hovering over me.
'Yes," I said, getting to my feet. "Room 112."
Without looking at anyone, I slunk out of the dining room and went in search of Calvin.
I caught up with him and Caesar a block or two down the street. "I'm sorry, Calvin," I hollered at his back. "I didn't mean to insult you, I just said what I was thinking."
But Calvin wouldn't look at me. Nor would he speak. He went on walking, faster and faster, his coattails flying out with every step.
"Where are you going?" I shouted.
Without answering, Calvin crossed the road, strode into a gun store, and marched up to the counter. "I want the best pistol you have, and hang the cost," he said to the startled clerk, who'd been dozing over a Deadwood Dick story.
The clerk spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor, totally missing the spittoon, and leaned over the gun case. "That would be this here Colt forty-five," he said. "The Peacemaker, they call it."
"May I see it?"
When the clerk opened the case, I sidled up to Calvin and stood beside him so I could see the guns too. They reminded me of snakes—beautiful but deadly.
The clerk handed Calvin the Colt as if it were a sacred object. "Pure ivory handles," he murmured, "and a special embossed holster made from the finest leather."
Calvin weighed the pistol, sighted, squeezed the trigger, spun the chamber. Either I was wrong about him never having had a gun, or he knew how to look good with one in his hand.
"I can let her go for a hundred dollars," said the clerk.
Calvin frowned. "I told you I don't care about the price. If this is the best you have, then it's the one I want."
Without hesitating, Calvin pulled out his money pouch and laid ten gold eagles on the counter.
"I'll have to charge another two or three dollars for ammunition," the clerk apologized.
Calvin buckled the holster and handed the clerk four silver dollars. In exchange, he received enough bullets to shoot every soul in Silverton at least once.
Outside the store, the street lay in shadow but the upper stories of buildings ca
ught the sunlight. Windowpanes reflected the red sky as if the whole town were burning. Horses stood at hitching rails, flipping their tails and exchanging whinnies. From Blair Street came the sounds of piano music, laughter, shouts, and a gunshot or two. The saloons were filling. It was time to pick one for our act.
"How do I look, Eli?" Calvin asked coldly. "Am I professional enough for you now?"
He looked like a boy playing a part in a play, I thought, but there wasn't any sense getting him riled up with the truth again.
"I just hope you know how to use that gun," I said. "Now that you're armed, you're a fair target for anybody who cares to shoot you."
Without speaking, Calvin smoothed his curls and swung off toward Blair Street. I trotted along beside him, and Caesar followed close behind. Another long night of gambling lay ahead. Drunken louts bumping me, perfumed ladies hanging on Calvin, loud music, cigar smoke, a sarsaparilla or two.
I wondered what Mama would say if she looked down from heaven and saw me, her only child and daughter, wearing boys' clothes and knowing more about the inside of a saloon than a church or a schoolhouse. She wouldn't be pleased, that was for certain.
As for myself, I wasn't too pleased either. Once I'd enjoyed accompanying Calvin in his playacting, but now I was just plain weary of it. All I wanted to do was get to Tinville and keep Calvin from killing Papa. Or Papa from killing him.
18
AS THINGS TURNED OUT, I WASN'T DESTINED to play my part in the orphan act much longer. A couple of nights later, Caesar and I were sitting on the sidewalk outside the Olympic Saloon. Calvin was inside playing the fool at the faro table. All those unwashed clothes and bodies had given me a headache. I was glad to have a few moments to be still and admire the stars shining high in the night sky, untouched by the ugliness down below them.
Just as I was waxing poetical, a ruckus erupted behind me. Calvin came running out the saloon door, followed by a stream of curses and gunfire. I knew better than to waste time asking questions. Caesar and I did what we'd learned. We raced after Calvin, ducking down alleys, hiding in shadows, doing our best to lose the angry crowd chasing us. Bullets whizzed past my head, buzzing like angry hornets, but thank the Lord nobody was sober enough to shoot straight.
The Gentleman Outlaw and Me--Eli Page 9
