by Len Levinson
The waiter walked away, and the restaurant fell silent except for forks and knives scraping against china. Craig and Cynthia looked into each other’s eyes as the full weight of their predicament sank into them. Hank Dawson owned the town, and they wouldn’t be able to buy anything. They might as well be in the middle of the desert.
They arose from the table and walked out of the restaurant, passing people whose homes they’d visited, and who’d visited their home, but who ignored them. Craig lit a cigar with shaky hands, and Cynthia needed a strong cup of coffee.
“Think the hotel’ll take us?” she asked.
“They’d better.”
They walked side by side toward the New Dumont Hotel, crossing the street, pausing in the middle for a bull whacker with a wagon load of huge crates, then proceeding to the other side.
Craig thought he was having a nightmare, and would awaken soon in his bedroom, with the morning breeze filtering through the drapes, and the fragrance of bacon and eggs frying in the kitchen downstairs. He was hungry, thirsty, and afraid of being killed. His saddlebag was full of money, but he couldn’t buy a meal in a restaurant.
They came to the front of the hotel, a two-story building in the middle of a block, with a veranda in front, and a few ladies sat at tables, sipping tea. Cynthia knew all of them, but they pretended she wasn’t there, chattering like parrots as she and Craig crossed to the door.
They entered the lobby, and a few tough-looking cowboys sat on chairs, smoking cigarettes. Craig had seen them at the Circle Bar D Ranch and knew they worked for Hank Dawson.
“It’s the dude,” one of them said derisively, and the other laughed.
Craig walked to the front desk, where the clerk was reading a newspaper, and Cynthia followed, feeling as if her legs were ready to give out.
“A room for the night,” Craig said to the clerk.
“All filled up,” the clerk replied, not looking up from his newspaper.
“You’re a liar,” Craig replied. “This hotel has never been filled up in its history.”
“I told you the way it is, mister. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
Craig leaned over the counter. “Let me tell you something. This may be Dumont County, but it’s still the United States of America, and there are laws here. This is a public hotel and you’re required to rent rooms to the public. I’d like to speak with the manager, if you don’t mind,”
“He’s not in.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Craig moved toward the opening that led behind the counter when he heard a voice to his rear.
“That’ll be far enough, Mr. Delane.”
Delane turned around and saw the three cowboys standing and aiming their guns at him.
“He givin’ you any trouble?” the cowboy asked the room clerk.
“Just get him out of here.”
The cowboys walked toward Craig and Cynthia, their guns pointed at them, and Cynthia was surprised to realize she wasn’t afraid.
“Get going,” said one of the cowboys.
Craig and Cynthia walked to the door, stepping onto the veranda. The ladies sipping tea continued to ignore them. Cynthia and Craig stared at the sun baking the dirt and muck that comprised the street.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Craig said, puffing his cigar nervously. “We’ll have to sleep on the prairie close to town and live off the land until the next stagecoach leaves. There’s game out there, and who knows what else we might find.”
“You’ve never shot game in your life, and what about rattlesnakes and scorpions?”
“I don’t see where we have any choice.” Then his eyes fell on the BANK OF DUMONT on the other side of the street, and he thought of Eugene Tregaskis, the president, with whom he’d transacted so much business in the past.
“Come with me,” he said to Cynthia, taking her hand.
He led her across the street and onto the sidewalk, passing the barbershop and a lawyer’s office, and then entered the bank. Two people stood in line in front of the teller, and Mr. Tregaskis was behind the cage with another customer.
“Eugene,” Craig said, “could I have a word with you?”
“If you have any business to transact,” Eugene Tregaskis said coolly, “take it up with the teller.”
Tregaskis led his customer to his private office and closed the door. It was the first time the banking system ever failed Craig, but he brought himself under control, turned, and walked out the door.
Cynthia joined him on the sidewalk, and a couple whom they knew walked by and paid no attention to them. Cynthia sat heavily on the bench outside the bank and wondered if they were going to starve to death in Dumont.
Craig sat beside her, puffing the butt of his cigar and trying to think. He realized now that he’d had no concept of how much power Hank Dawson had. He’d always believed there was a solution for every problem, but there appeared to be no solution to this one. Where would they sleep, what would they eat, and who would let them drink from their well?
“What about Reverend Skeaping?” Cynthia asked. “He’s another of Dawson’s toadies, but he’s an ordained minister, and I don’t think he’d refuse us sanctuary until the stagecoach comes. We’ve always contributed generously to his church.”
They arose and walked down the street toward the white church steeple in the distance, as a crowd erupted out the door of the saloon halfway down the block.
“My God!” said Cynthia.
It was Everett Lorch and Bernice with several other cowboys who’d worked at the HC Ranch, and they all looked drunk. Bernice was dressed like a lady, in a high-necked white dress, but her hair was mussed and her eyes half closed.
“It’s Mrs. Rich Bitch and her sissy husband!” Bernice cackled.
“We’d better cross the street,” Craig said.
They walked to the end of the hitching rail and stepped onto the street, noticing with dismay that Lorch, Bernice, and the cowboys were doing the same.
“Maybe we can go another way,” Craig said.
“I’m not running from my maid,” Cynthia replied, raising her chin a fraction of an inch and walking imperiously toward the other side of the street.
Craig caught up with her and side by side they tromped through the muck as the coalition formed in front of them. One of the cowboys laughed, and Bernice sneered.
“Mrs. Rich Bitch don’t look so rich today,” she said.
Cynthia kept walking, and Bernice got in front of her, spreading her legs and placing her hands on her hips.
“Mrs. Rich Bitch can’t take a shit unless somebody holds the pot for her.”
Bernice blocked Cynthia’s way, but Cynthia wasn’t about to stop or walk around her; she set her jaw and kept going. Bernice balled up her fists, and an expression of contempt came over her face. She thought Cynthia would retreat or swerve out of the way, but Cynthia kept coming, determination in her eyes, and Bernice had been drinking with Lorch since leaving the HC Ranch. Bernice didn’t budge, and Cynthia walked right into her.
Bernice mice shrieked angrily, clawed at Cynthia’s face, and Cynthia punched Bernice in the nose. Blood trickled out, Bernice licked it off her upper lip and grabbed two handfuls of Cynthia’s hair, pulling down with all her might, and Cynthia saw the ground coming up fast toward her face. At the last moment she dived toward Bernice’s legs, tackled her, and brought her down.
They rolled around in the middle of the street, scratching, biting, trying to gouge out each other’s eyes, but Cynthia was twenty-five and sober, whereas Bernice was forty and half drunk. Cynthia was no weakling, not puny, and she was mad.
Cynthia saw an opening, hauled off, and slammed Bernice in the nose. This time the bone and cartilage cracked, and Bernice hollered in pain. Cynthia rolled Bernice onto her back and socked her again, as Bernice tried to scratch Cynthia’s face with her fingernails.
“We’d better stop it,” Lorch said.
Cowboys surrounded the two women an
d pulled them away from each other, holding their arms. Bernice’s face was bloody and hair awry, while Cynthia was scratched and dirty, with a torn shirt. Cynthia struggled to break loose from the cowboys who held her arms, while Bernice kicked at Cynthia long distance, showing her muddied petticoats.
Lorch laughed, his thumbs in his gun belt. “Ladies sure do put on a show once they git started.” He stepped in front of Craig. “How’re you doin’ today, Boss Man? You ain’t so high and mighty anymore. Where you think you’re goin’?”
“Out of my way,” Craig mumbled.
Lorch was blocking his path, and Craig knew he’d have to collide with him, as Cynthia had done with Bernice. Craig couldn’t turn the other way after what Cynthia had done. He’d have to fight Lorch, a rough cowboy who’d been brawling in saloons since he could belly up to the bar.
Lorch raised his fists, and Craig bent himself into a fighter’s crouch. Lorch uncorked a sharp uppercut to the point of Craig’s chin, straightening Craig up, and then Lorch hit him with a left hook to the body and a straight right to the head, sending Craig reeling to the ground.
Craig’s mouth was filled with blood and he thought he had a broken rib. The street spun around him, and everybody laughed.
“You used to talk to me like I was shit,” Lorch said, standing with his legs spread in the middle of the street, “and now you’re the one lyin’ in the shit.”
Craig looked down at his hands and saw they were indeed resting on a fresh pile of horse manure. The stench rose to his nostrils and cleared his head. He arose from the ground, wiped his hands on his pants, and spit a piece of dirt out of his mouth.
Lorch poised his hand above his gun. “I see you’re armed today, Mr. Delane. You know how to use that thing in yore holster?”
Craig flashed on the gunfight he’d seen on this very street a few days ago, and wasn’t going to be the one lying at the curb when the stagecoach came by.
“I don’t know how to use it as well as you,” Craig said to Lorch, “so I’m not going to duel with you. However, I want you to understand this: if my skill were equal to yours, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
Lorch laughed. “Mr. Fancy Pants and Mrs. Rich Bitch. Wonder if Mr. Fancy Pants knows what Mrs. Rich Bitch was doin’ in John Stone’s room while Mr. Fancy Pants was in town?”
Craig glanced at Cynthia and felt a terrible stab of pain.
“It’s not true, Craig,” she said.
Lorch, Bernice, and the cowboys roared with laughter. Craig took Cynthia’s hand, and together they walked through the crowd. When cowboys wouldn’t move out of their way, they swerved to avoid them. One cowboy held out his foot, tripping Craig, and Craig let go of Cynthia’s hand as he fell to the ground. The cowboys laughed louder, and one of them kicked Craig in the rear end. That was the last straw for Craig, and he jumped to his feet, reaching for his gun.
“No!” screamed Cynthia.
A shot was fired, and the gun flew out of Craig’s hand. A red ribbon rolled down Craig’s palm, and Craig saw Lorch standing with his gun in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“It’s real easy to die,” Lorch said.
Craig’s hand was a world of pain, and blood dripped to the ground. Cynthia tore the bottom off her shirt and wrapped it around the wound, as Craig stared white-faced at her.
“You bunch of cowards!” she said through clenched teeth. “You push around a man who doesn’t know anything about guns, and who isn’t as strong as you, but you haven’t done so well when you’re more evenly matched!”
She took Craig’s hand, and he walked woodenly, the pain radiating up his arm. Cowboys stepped out of their way as Cynthia and Craig moved toward the white steeple jutting above the roofs of Dumont.
Stone finished reading the last newspaper and lay it on the table in front of him. Incredible events were taking place all over the world, and he was confined to a small dank place underneath the ground like a mole. He looked at the walls, and they seemed closer than before. He was a man of action, accustomed to riding long distances, and felt penned in. His lungs craved fresh air, instead of the musty atmosphere in the basement. He wanted to stretch out his legs and run, or go to a saloon where they had dancing girls. He could think of a million things to do, but couldn’t do anything in the cellar.
Frustrated and claustrophobic, a mad thought entered his mind. Maybe he should take the shotgun and fight his way out of Dumont, jump on the first horse he saw, and ride away. He wanted a fighting chance, instead of a slow, lingering death from bad air and inadequate exercise in the cellar.
He stood, picked up the shotgun, and cracked it open. Dawson’s men probably were lulled into stupefaction by the lack of activity, and might not even realize anything until he was riding out of town. They’d chase him and the outcome would depend on who had the best horse.
Then the rational part of his mind took hold. It’d be better to break out at night, when lack of visibility would favor him. One of the Chinese could leave a horse outside. Stone would be riding hard across open range before Dawson’s men knew what happened.
He placed the shotgun on the table and sat on his chair, rolling a cigarette. He’d talk over the escape plan with Jimmy Wing next time he came down the stairs.
He looked at the four walls in the tiny cellar. I’ve got to get out of here.
Cynthia and Craig approached the rectory in back of the church, and it was white like the church, with curtains drawn back from the windows.
“Skeaping is as corrupt as the rest of them,” Craig said bitterly. “I don’t think we can expect much from him.”
“He’s a man of God—he’ll have to help us,” Cynthia replied, raising her hand and knocking on the door. There was no answer, and she knocked again. “Maybe he’s not in.”
Craig was angry and kicked the door hard. “Maybe he’s hiding underneath one of his pews!”
A few moments later the door opened, and Mrs. Bunberry, the gray-haired housekeeper, appeared.
“We’d like to see Reverend Skeaping,” Cynthia said.
“I’m sorry, but he’s not in.”
Craig waved his bandaged hand in the air erratically. “I know he’s in there!” he shouted. “You can’t fool me!” He pushed Mrs. Bunberry out of the way and invaded the house. “Skeaping—where the hell are you?”
There was no answer, and Cynthia realized that Craig had become deranged. This definitely wasn’t the man she’d married, who observed even the tiniest points of decorum at all times, but it sounded as though he was knocking things over in Reverend Skeaping’s dining room.
Cynthia climbed the stairs and entered the room, seeing her husband standing near the fireplace, wielding the poker like a saber. “Skeaping—you hypocrite!” Craig hollered. “Come out of your rat hole!”
Reverend Skeaping, minus frock coat and tie, appeared in the doorway behind the stove. “Figured you’d be here before long,” he said wearily. “Mrs. Bunberry, would you please bring the lemonade.”
“Lemonade, hell!” Craig said. “We’re damn near starved to death!” He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a handful of coins, throwing them onto the table. “If you need a contribution to this miserable excuse for a church that you’ve got, take it!”
“Dear me,” Reverend Skeaping said. “This is so awkward.” He turned to Mrs. Bunberry. “Please prepare food for our guests, after you fetch the lemonade.” Then he sat at the table and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Don’t worry,” he said to Craig and Cynthia, “I don’t believe they’ll harm you here. Have a seat.”
Craig and Cynthia sat at the table, and Reverend Skeaping frowned. “Your problem, Mr. Delane, is you’ve made the mistake of thinking we’re more or less like New Yorkers. You’ve never realized we have our own codes and traditions, and our own ways of doing things.”
“Like lynching, shooting, and stealing!” Craig replied. “I can understand the others, because they’re ordinary people trying to get by, but you’re supposed to be the con
science of this town, and you’re the worst bootlicker of all!”
Reverend Skeaping shrugged. “It’s true that I defer to Dawson, but so did you. Believe it or not, most of the people in this town need what little of God’s spirit that I’m able to give them. You won’t find many men willing to take this pulpit, and the town could end up with a preacher far more corrupt than I.”
Mrs. Bunberry appeared, placing a large pitcher of lemonade on the table, with three tall glasses.
“Would you please bring my pipe,” Reverend Skeaping said to Mrs. Bunberry.
She retreated from the room, and Reverend Skeaping watched Cynthia and Craig slurp lemonade thirstily. He was amazed at how disheveled they were, like a couple of derelicts instead of the fashionable and intelligent easterners with whom he’d enjoyed so many interesting conversations.
“What happened to your hand?” Reverend Skeaping asked.
“Lorch, my former foreman, shot a bullet through it.”
“Lorch is a gunfighter. You’re lucky you’re still alive.”
Mrs. Bunberry returned to the table, carrying a corncob pipe and a pigskin tobacco pouch.
“Would you please call Dr. Merriwether, Mrs. Bunberry.”
She headed for the door, and Reverend Skeaping tamped tobacco into the black bowl of his corncob. Cynthia and Craig were on their second glasses of lemonade, drinking like fiends.
“Let me explain something to the both of you,” Reverend Skeaping said. “Dawson does whatever he pleases here, and he takes an extremely harsh view of events. You don’t step on such a man’s toes, and you definitely don’t help his enemies. John Stone is a drifter, and should’ve drifted right on through, but instead he put his nose where it didn’t belong, and that’s spelled trouble for him and everybody else ever since.”
Cynthia asked, “Do you know where he is now?”
“They say he’s hiding in Chinatown. I would say his future doesn’t appear promising at this point.”
“Do you have anything to eat?” Craig asked plaintively.
“We have biscuits you can chomp on until Mrs. Bunberry does her cooking.”
