Piccadilly Doubles 2

by Lou Cameron

  I knew where the printing plant was; after that it was easy to find the slaughterhouse. This was one of the Gentile sections of the city, a pretty rough one by the looks of it, and it wasn’t until I turned into Jordan Street that I realized that most of the houses on it were bordellos. Whores leaning out of windows called to me as I went by; the things they said were unprintable then and they are unprintable now.

  Number twenty-two was about one hundred yards from the Jordan River, the brackish stream which meandered through the city. The house was bigger than the others, a three story affair painted pink, an extraordinary color for a house other than a bordello. No whores leaned from its windows; in that, it was conservative. There was a spring bell that tinkled when I pulled it.

  Avery large man who might have been a former pugilist opened the door and stared at me. He had scarred eyebrows, a broken nose, a mumbling manner of speech. “You have the wrong house,” he informed me in what I took to be a Scandinavian accent. “Plenty of girls up and down the street. You go there.”

  All I can say for this pimp roughneck is that he wasn’t wearing a candy-striped shirt with rosette armbands, the uniform of his calling; in all other respects he was a dangerous brute.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Porter Rockwell,” I ventured politely but firmly. “I was told he might be here. William Forbes is my name. I’m a friend of Mr. Rockwell’s.”

  I might as well have been talking Persian, so little effect my words had on this Neanderthal. His mindless eyes glared at me and he repeated his original statement:

  “You have the wrong house. Plenty of girls up and down the street. You go there.”

  They must have taught him to say that after much effort, like a parrot; it was surprising that he could utter so many words at one time.

  I stood my ground. “Mr. Rockwell wants to see me,” I pressed on. “It’s important that I see him immediately.”

  Faced with another simian glare, I thought of trying pidgin, but he was already closing the door, saying, “You go ‘way now.”

  Like a persistent book subscription salesman I put my foot in the door to prevent it from closing. The ape slammed the door on my foot and I yelled. The door closed and I beat on it in a rage; pain and anger gave me courage. It opened again and suddenly I was lifted and thrown into the street, then he came down the steps to give me a further lesson in whorehouse etiquette. He lifted me from the ground and punched me in the belly. The wind went out of me and I lay gasping. He was coming at me again when I drew the pocket pistol and thumbed back the hammer and warned him to keep away. That was a mistake: I should have shot him. Agile for his great size, he kicked the pistol from my hand and it went flying; the hammer tripped and the gun went off. The brute grinned at me and kicked the pistol to the far side of the street. “I told you to go ‘way” he said. “Now you stay and I beat you good.”

  Down the street, the whores were screaming with excitement; theirs is dull work, after all. I think I could have run. At least, it was a possibility. But suddenly it was too late.

  “You don’t pull no gun on me,” the brute growled. “Now you get it good.”

  I’m no hero and I yelled for help. “Port! Port Rockwell! I’m getting killed out here!” This wasn’t true: the killing hadn’t begun yet.

  Another blow sent me rolling in the dust and he was lifting me again when a blow on the back of his head dropped him on top of me. Using all my strength, I got out from under his two hundred and fifty pounds, and there was Rockwell with the cut-down Colt in his hand. He was drunk but smiling..

  “You keep bad company William,” he said.

  While he was saying this the brute got up on his hind legs and roared in anger. Apparently, the blow hadn’t done much damage. His eyes fairly bulged with hate and he pointed to the big revolver in Rockwell’s fist.

  “You’re no big man without that gun,” he roared. “Take away your gun, you’re no man. An old drunk is what you are.”

  I expected him to die on the spot. Instead, Rockwell smiled and tossed the Colt to me. “You think so, you dumb son of a bitch? You see a gun in my hand?”

  “Your skinny friend have the gun,” the brute sneered. “He will shoot me if I beat you.”

  “I’ll shoot you,” I warned him. “Let’s get out of here, Port. Old Dan wants you at the armory. It’s important.”

  “Dan can wait a few minutes more,” Rockwell said calmly. “Now listen, William, no shooting. I don’t need any help to down this bonehead tramp.”

  With that the fight was on. Rockwell was in his shirtsleeves, the shirt open nearly to his waist. The brute came in swinging but Rockwell backed away from him until he was able to get rid of the shirt. Confident that the fight would end as soon as it started, the ex-pugilist didn’t bother to strip. Some of the whores had come out to watch the fight, but there was no more screaming. That was to come when the fight warmed up.

  The brute was about ten years younger than Rockwell. I would say he was fifty pounds heavier. He dodged in, still fast on his feet after years of soft whorehouse living. But a trained boxer is just that: the reflexes were still there. His left hand streaked out and rocked Rockwell’s head with a solid punch. It brought blood to Rockwell’s mouth; all he did was grin. Then he began to fight. He had no style, none at all; his defense was laughable. The brute rained blows on him and he took them. Mostly his defense, for want of a better word, consisted of trying to protect his face. The rest of him, belly and chest, seemed to be made of cast iron, and for his part he kept punching at his opponent’s wide middle, always trying to land his blows in the same place.

  They circled in the sunlight, giving and taking blows, and as the fight went on the boxer’s skill began to be less important than Rockwell’s stamina. The brute was better in the way he put his punches together. Sometimes he hooked with a left and followed with a right. But the left always came first. He tried to reverse the combination and had some success for a while, but I could see that he was tiring, whereas Rockwell seemed to have a limitless reserve of energy. Both men were bleeding from the mouth, but Rockwell’s breathing was coming easier than the brutes. Their feet scuffled in the dust. Rockwell overreached himself and a right knocked him to his knees. A left knocked him down. He sprang to his feet, not at all daunted, and if he had been less agile the uppercut that swung at his chin might have finished the fight. But it missed and for an instant the brute’s belly was unprotected. That belly was banded with muscle, but there was fat on it. He grunted when Rockwell’s fist hit him there. The first belly blow didn’t seem to have much effect; the second one did and Rockwell hit him again.

  The brute’s left shot out and he dropped his right to protect his belly. Rockwell took the long left-handed punch and got in another solid blow to his opponent’s belly. The brute grunted and drove him back with a flurry of blows. Rockwell retreated and led him on. Then he counterattacked, but he was driven back and nearly knocked down.

  Up again in a flash, he punched the pimp in the belly. He was taking heavy punishment. His right eye was closing fast and the brute was going after the other, jabbing with the joint of the second finger stuck out. If he got at the other eye he would have the fight, no matter how game Rockwell was. I was ready to shoot the thug in the thigh at that point, and to blazes with Rockwell’s instructions. But I held myself in check.

  For all his ring craft the brute was losing strength; his anger had subsided and he was starting to be afraid. He faltered for a moment and it cost him a broken nose. There was a snapping sound and his face was covered with blood. Both hands came up to protect his nose from another blow and that earned him two ferocious punches in the belly. Blood dripped from his chin. He spat blood and attacked again, this time in wild desperation. Rockwell hit at his belly and his right hand came down to block it. Another punch flattened his broken nose against his face; there seemed to be no bone in it now.

  Rockwell’s punches were thrown shorter than the brutes, and they had more power behind them. He began
to hit harder, boring in relentlessly, absolutely without mercy. The brute’s right was his good hand, but it wasn’t working as well as it had been. They closed again, exchanging body blows, and when Rockwell pulled back his chest was slick with blood.

  Back and forth they moved, sucking in air, and when they joined battle again it was close to the finish. Yet the brute kept coming. Rockwell stopped him and drove him back, always going for the belly and I knew all hope was gone for the other man. His face was a mask of blood and his eyes were beginning to die. He lifted his fists in feeble defense and Rockwell knocked them aside without effort.

  Rockwell hit him twice in the belly twice in the face. He started to fall but Rockwell wouldn’t let him fall. He planted his feet firmly and swung his right fist like a club. It came up with such force that the other man was all but lifted off his feet. The back of his head hit the ground and he lay absolutely still.

  Swaying on his feet, Rockwell began to roar out his favorite song:

  “Get the drop on Porter Rockwell

  Or he’ll get the drop on you.”

  I picked up his shirt and handed it to him. “That was some fight, wasn’t it, William?” he bellowed. He didn’t look much like a champion, but he was. He started to pull on his shirt and I was forced to restrain him. Well, anyway, I suggested that he wash the blood off himself before he did. There was a water barrel at the corner of the house and he dipped his head in it while I watched, still appalled by what I had witnessed. Still dipping his head like a pelican, he came up for air long enough to say, “I’d be obliged if you went inside and got me a bottle. I’ll probably start hurting in a little bit.”

  “Sure, Port,” I said. I had saved his life, now he had saved mine.

  A fat woman opened the door when I knocked. Why are all madams fat? She looked flustered. “This is a terrible business,” she said in a shrill voice. “Is Port hurt bad?”

  “He wants a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “Go get it, please.”

  I brought the whiskey back to Rockwell and he drank deeply after he rinsed his mouth and spat. “How is the dumb bastard I just beat?” he asked. “I didn’t kill him, did I?”

  “He’s still breathing,” I said, holding the bottle while he struggled into his shirt. His face was lumpy but not too bad; nothing much could be done about the half-closed eye.

  Swigging from the bottle, Rockwell went over to the fallen man and poured a trickle into his gaping mouth. The brute coughed, opened his eyes and groaned. “My pistol,” Rockwell said to me like a surgeon demanding some tool. I gave it to him and he cocked it and pressed it against the brute’s forehead, causing the man’s eyes to roll back in his head. I think he heard St. Peter calling.

  “Port!” I protested.

  Rockwell waved me to be quiet with his free hand, the big Colt remained where it was. “My friend,” Rockwell said. “You knocked a friend of mine all over the street, a man little more than half your weight. By rights I ought to kill you for that, but my friend is a merciful man, which I am not, so I’ll spare your life this time. This time means this one time. You’ve had your beating and you still have your life. For the next five minutes you have it. Now take yourself away from here and far away from Utah. I’ll kill you on sight if I see you again.”

  ‘Port, listen to me.” It was the fat madam coming down the steps and waving her bejeweled hands. Rockwell stood up, the brute remained where he was, eyes still rolling. “Port,” the madam said in mild protest. “Lars is a good houseman, the best I ever had. You know what kind of people come to my house. They like it quiet so Lars keeps everybody else out. He didn’t know this man was your friend. Let him stay.”

  “He knows it now,” Rockwell said, the Colt firm in his hand. “I say he goes.” He pointed the pistol. “Walk fast if you can’t run. I said five minutes. Now you got less than four.”

  The madam got mad; she knew Rockwell wasn’t likely to shoot her. “You don’t own this house, Port. Who are you to run off my people?”

  Rockwell grinned at me. “I’m Porter Rockwell the Mormon triggerite. That good enough for you, Lottie?”

  “Mr. Fleming will hear about this. Don’t think he won’t.”

  Furious now, Rockwell turned the Colt on her. “Don’t be throwing names about in the public street,” he warned. “Go back to your ladies and don’t get in my way. I have half a mind to run you off, too. Go on with your back-talk and I’ll do just that. That’s a promise, old girl.”

  The door slammed. Rockwell fired a shot in the air and the brute took off at a staggering run. A second shot make him run faster and the whores yelled and catcalled as he made his ungainly way down Jordan Street, and it seemed to me that he was far from popular in that section of town.

  Rockwell pocketed his pistol after replacing the spent cartridges. “Yes, William, I know. I’m wanted at the armory. Big doings, I take it. You want to ask me if Fleming owns this pink sporting house. The answer is yes. Fleming and a couple of other fat guts. Shake a leg now or we’ll be late.”

  “We’re late now,” I said, smiling at the crazy man.

  Rockwell smiled back as best he could; his face looked like a boiled and battered ham. “We’ll be later if you don’t walk faster.”

  The whores drifted back into their respective houses and when the sidewalk was clear I saw Cynthia Mason and the faithful Fitz turning the corner. Rockwell spotted them too.

  “That’s a tricky woman, that Canadian,” he remarked. “Just by looking at her I can tell she’s tricky.”

  “Women reporters are brassier than men,” I replied. “She must have followed me from the hotel. Doesn’t make much difference. What you’ve been doing is no secret. I saw that wooden Indian you murdered.”

  Rockwell took a generous drink of whiskey. “Don’t rub it in, my friend. I felt bad so I got drunk and wild. I do that now and again. It’s a way of getting through life.”

  ~*~

  The Salt Lake City armory was a massive stone building in the center of the city and it wasn’t simply an armory—it was a fortress. Years later, it was to be demolished as real estate became ever more valuable; in 1862, it squatted like a lion where office buildings stand today. Windowless except for rifle slits, it had great iron doors many inches thick. The doors were open now and sentries stood ready to challenge anyone seeking entry. We were challenged and passed through. I could only guess what the sentinels thought of Rockwell’s battered face; perhaps it came as no surprise.

  Rockwell knew where he was going and led the way into an immense chamber where hundreds of men stood listening to General Wells. The only light came from the slits in the stone; Old Dan’s words echoed as if shouted in a mammoth cave or a cathedral. At the end of the chamber there was a platform with a long table at the front of it. Rockwell led me there, nodding to men who greeted him by name. Behind the table sat Hickman and the other militia commanders. So did Cynthia Mason, though without Fitz, who was standing to one side of the platform. Rockwell sat down and so did I. General Wells paused to look at Rockwell before he continued.

  “You men are to act as scouts and nothing more,” he shouted. He had to shout. “You are not to engage the Americans under any circumstances. That is an order from Brigham himself. You are all seasoned men or you would not be here. You all know how to obey orders—see that you do. We are not at war yet; therefore, your job is to scout the Americans, not to fight them. Reports from Nevada show that Connor is advancing at a faster rate of march than we had supposed. It isn’t likely that he will split his force, but if he does it is vital that we know about it. We must not be caught on two or more sides. Above all, observe the movement of his artillery. Do not be distracted by sudden movements of his cavalry force, which is relatively small. Thus far he has done no harm to our settlements in California or Nevada short of warning the inhabitants of what will happen if they rise up against him.”

  Old Dan paused to clear his throat. “It would appear that they have heeded his warning.”

  A
n angry murmur swept through the assembled irregulars and Old Dan had to pound his fist on the table to bring silence. “Call no man a coward until you yourself have faced one thousand well-armed soldiers supported by artillery. You’ll get a bellyful of fighting if this war comes. Our settlements to the west are small and scattered. Our people there are showing good sense. To continue with the business at hand: your mission is to scout and you will be divided in two, one half of your number to be led by Port Rockwell, the other by Bill Hickman. You will move out in two hours. That is all.”

  Hickman spoke briefly before he led his one hundred and fifty men from the armory. Then it was Rockwell’s turn to speak and he was much less formal than Old Dan had been.

  “Old Dan said it fancy, now I’ll say it plain,” he roared. “You’re itching to shoot Connor’s scalawags and so am I. But we can’t do it because Brigham says it isn’t time yet. That means don’t do it. Any man that shoots an American will get shot by me. Now see to your horses and your weapons. Anybody got anything to say?”

  “Sure, Port,” a Mormon youth shouted from the back of the hall. “What happened to your face?”

  Rockwell roared back, “I know your voice, young man, so don’t you try to duck down. If you have to know, I met a grizzly bear on a mountain trail and he wouldn’t make way. So I had to fight him.”

  “Did you win, Port?”

  “What do you think?” Rockwell roared.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We rode west, one hundred and fifty strong, give or take a few, and Cynthia Mason and Fitz were with us. I didn’t like having them along, but there was nothing to be done about it. Rockwell made no objection when Cynthia Mason told him she had chosen to accompany his party rather than Hickman’s, and perhaps that pleased him. He didn’t even ask her if she could stand the pace, the rigors of camp life, the chance that she might come under fire from Connor’s soldiers. As it turned out, she could handle a horse quite well, and so could Fitz.