by Robert Knott
“There,” Johnny said. “I think that is the one.”
“You think?” I said.
“This is the place,” he said.
Like most of the north end places, it was dimly lit. The sound of piano music came from within. But it was nearly drowned out by the noise coming from the rowdy card house across the way.
“You are sure?” Virgil said.
“Sí,” he said. “This is it.”
“You see Victor or Ventura’s horse?” I said.
He swiveled around in his saddle, checking out the horses on the dark street. Then I rode in a circle, pulling Johnny on Jasper so he could get a real good gander at all the animals hitched on both sides of the street.
He shook his head.
“No, señor,” he said. “Victor and Ventura both have big brother horses, gray gelds. I do not see their horses here. I am sorry.”
I nudged up next to Virgil.
“What do you figure?” I said.
Virgil shook his head.
“Mentiroso,” Skeeter said under his breath.
“Fuck you,” Johnny said. “You are the liar. Estoy contando la verdad, hijo de puta.”
“Maricón,” Skeeter said. “Maricón.”
“Maybe I can find the gal Ventura is sweet on in there,” I said. “Maybe she knows a thing or two. Have some kind of idea where he might be?”
“Maybe,” Virgil said.
I handed Virgil Jasper’s lead rope.
“But what about me?” Johnny said. “It is not my fault they are not here.”
Virgil did not respond.
“Skeeter,” I said. “Let’s you and me step inside there and visit with the girls.”
I slid off my horse and pulled the eight-gauge from its scabbard. And Skeeter jumped off his pinto.
When we entered the place it was dark and it had the smell of roses working hard to cover up some kind of unpleasant stench. An out-of-tune crank piano wedged in the corner was playing “Camptown Races.” A short gal with a round figure and painted face came right up to us. She was damn near close to busting out of her tight dress.
“You are lucky, fellas. Two-for-one special tonight,” she said. “That’s the two of you, and smidgen me.”
Skeeter narrowed his eyes at me and shook his head a little.
“Or,” she said, “you can choose one of the other lovely ladies here, if you prefer. Have a look. Take your pick. But with them it’s only one of you. With me, you both get to ride for one price.”
There were three other whores sitting at a table in the corner, playing cards. They all smiled in our direction. Each of them turned in their chairs and flayed their legs seductively toward us, showing us their goods.
“Appreciative but not interested,” I said. “Right now, I just have a few questions for you.”
“Okay, handsome . . . let me see if I can answer. But I have to warn you, some answers might require a small fee.”
I slid open my lapel.
“Or not,” she said, focused on my badge.
“We are trying to find Ventura and Victor Bartholomew,” I said.
Her eyes did a quick dart up. Skeeter caught her look, too.
He cut his eyes to me, then looked up the stairs.
“Who?” she said. “Victor and Ven . . . Ventura, who?”
I pulled back both hammers on my eight-gauge. And nodded to Skeeter.
Skeeter pulled his Colt.
“What?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Hush,” I said.
Then I took a few steps and looked up the stairs.
35
Is he here?” I said. “Up there?”
Her eyes moved back and forth.
“Is he?” I said.
“I have no idea who you are talking about,” she said.
I put my finger to my lips and pointed to a chair.
“Sit right there. One word other than answers to my questions and I will lock you up.”
She nodded, then took a seat as she stared at me.
“How many rooms up there?” I said.
“Three,” she said.
“Are both brothers here?”
She said nothing.
“Are they?”
“No,” she said. “Not both.”
“Which one? And do not lie to me.”
“Ventura. Just Ventura is here.”
“Which room?”
She pointed.
“The room facing the street.”
“How many windows to that room?”
“Just the one facing the street.”
“And doors?”
“Just the one into the room. At the end of the hall.”
“Closets?”
“No, no closets.”
“Any other men up there in the other rooms?”
“No. No other men.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I’m not. Just Ventura. He is in the front room with Karla?”
The piano stopped playing and everyone was staring at me.
“One of you start that piano up again,” I said.
One of the gals got up and walked to the piano and gave it a crank. And it started up again.
“Good. Now sit, and all of you stay seated and do not talk. Okay?”
They all nodded. I turned to Skeeter and pointed to the door.
“Gonna let Virgil know,” I said.
Skeeter nodded.
I opened the front door and eased out to the porch. I motioned to Virgil to move up some. He nudged his horse and moved closer to the porch.
“What do you got?” he said.
“Ventura is here,” I said, pointing up. “In the room facing the street here.”
Virgil looked up.
“Be damned,” he said.
“See what I say,” Johnny hissed.
“Shut up,” Virgil said.
“I’m just going to go up and ask him if he’d like to talk,” I said. “I will let him know we got him covered up, down, and around. And see what he does.”
Virgil nodded.
“Don’t imagine he’ll want to visit none,” Virgil said.
“I’ll be ready if he don’t,” I said. “This window up above here is one of his two ways out. If he feels like trying to leave without talking first.”
Virgil looked at me and nodded.
“I’ll move out of view a ways,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“You good?” Virgil said.
“I am.”
“Watch out,” Virgil said.
“Will,” I said.
I stepped inside and moved next to Skeeter standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“You stay down here,” I said. “If for some reason I don’t come down the stairs here and a tall hombre does, you shoot him, okay?”
“I can go up, too,” Skeeter said.
I shook my head.
“No. Stay here. Make sure none of these ladies get to talking and such.”
“We ain’t saying nothing,” the chubby gal said. “Right, girls?”
They all nodded.
“Stay here,” I said to Skeeter.
He nodded and I walked up the stairs. When I got toward the top, I moved very slowly. Doing my best not to make noise. I could see through the balusters. There was a short hall that led to a single door to the room facing the street. I stood still, then took one step at a time. All the time I kept my eye on the door.
When I was on the landing, I moved slowly to the door and stood off to one side. I knocked.
“Ventura,” I said. “It’s Marshal Hitch. We got you surrounded. Got plenty of lawmen out here. We would just like to ask you some questions. Come on out. Let’s have a fr
iendly talk. As of now, we have no reason to arrest you, unless you do something to give us a reason.”
“No,” a woman from behind the door screamed. “Ventura, no!”
Then the door exploded with shots fired from within, six shots in all, as Ventura unloaded his six-shooter. Then, I heard some commotion, and then a shot from outside, and the woman in the room let out a blood-curdling scream.
“Ventura! No!” she cried. “Oh my God . . . No.”
I stepped back and kicked the door open.
Ventura had obviously made a move through the window and got shot by Virgil. He was shirtless and bloody, with a wound to his shoulder. He shoved a round into his pistol.
“Drop it,” I said.
He pointed the pistol at me, but I pulled both triggers, and the blast of the barrels and the double-ought buck blew Ventura out the window.
The half-naked woman, Karla, ran out of the room, holding her ears and screaming as she exited. I moved to the window and looked out below.
Ventura, crumpled, was dead in the street.
Virgil looked up to me.
I leaned out and said, “I asked him if we could have a friendly talk.”
36
The kid waited outside. It seemed like forever. He paced back and forth under the tall clock tower. Then he saw her. The men followed her out of the building. He was amazed at how tall she was and how beautiful.
The wind came through and lifted some trash that swirled down the boardwalk.
The beautiful woman with the men crossed the street, and the kid followed them. He knew from the tintype that she was his mother—it had to be her. But he had no idea who the men were. Like the old man had told him, they were dandies wearing derbies.
She had on a long, tight-fitting silk dress with a matching hat. She was making the men laugh as they walked. The kid wished he were not wearing his Mexican clothes. For the first time ever, he felt like he was in the wrong clothes. He wanted her to be impressed with him. But it had been so long and he was anxious for the reunion. He had no time to change.
They stopped at a busy street, waiting for buggies to pass. He was getting close to her now. He hurried up behind them. His heart was beating hard in his chest. And when he was close, he stopped and took a deep breath.
“Helen,” he said.
She remained looking straight ahead.
“Helen,” he said again.
She turned to him. The men wearing the derby hats also turned to the kid.
“It’s me,” the kid said. “Your boy.”
She laughed and shook her head, then turned away from him.
“Mother?” he said.
She turned to him and shook her head.
“What did you say?”
“Mother.”
She laughed, and the men laughed with her.
“I’m sorry, young man, but I’m not your mother.”
“Hold on,” the kid said as he held up his finger.
“Go away, kid,” one of the men said.
“Please just wait, let me show you something.”
“Go on, now, boy, do as I say,” the man said.
The kid had the tintype with him. He opened the envelope and pulled it out to show her.
“Please, here, look at this. You will see.”
“Go on, boy,” another one of the derby men said.
“Please. You have to see this.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“I’m sorry, but I must be moving on.”
She turned and stepped into the street, not seeing the massive horse and buggy barreling toward her.
“Look out!” the kid said.
Then he sat up.
Somewhere a rooster crowed. The kid was unsure where he was. Then he felt the naked body of the teamster’s wife next to him. He lifted his head and looked around. His mouth was dry and he could feel the effects of the tequila he’d drunk.
It was still dark out. There were a few candles burning that offered some dim light. He turned to her. Her large, dark eyes were closed and she was sound asleep. Her wide, fat lips were open, and he thought about how she smothered him with kisses that covered his mouth. He marveled at her muscles and the size and strength of her. He thought if she were without woman parts she could easily be a man, a pretty, muscular man.
He thought about what had happened through the evening. For a period of time, he wondered if he were not some kind of sacrifice. It went through his mind that the teamster might come in and grab him and nail him to a cross or something. Or set him afire and burn him up like he had done to the old man. But here it was, it was close to sunrise, and he’d made it through the night without horrific incident.
He lifted up in bed and put his feet to the floor. He sat there, trying to feel stable enough to stand. Then she moved behind him. He felt her hand on the back of his neck. She slid her large hand around his neck. Her long fingers spread across his neck and chin, and she pulled him to face her.
“What did you see?”
“What?” he said.
“In your dreams?” she said.
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“Remember,” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Sleep is more telling than waking hours,” she said.
He looked at her, thinking, trying to remember his dream.
“I was waiting. I waited for her.”
“And?”
“I . . . I saw her.”
“Where?”
“On the street.”
He thought, trying to remember.
“I remember a big clock.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was turning away from me,” he said.
“What time?”
“What?”
“What was the time on the clock?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t remember.”
“What else?”
“She was in danger,” he said.
“What did you do?”
“I tried to help her.”
“What else?” she said.
He shook his head, squinting, trying to remember.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
She pulled him in and kissed him. Again, her wide mouth took in his mouth fully.
Then she pulled his head back to see his eyes. He was close to her, face-to-face, and her eyes were as dark and deep and as big as anything he could imagine.
She seemed like an animal, a fierce bloodthirsty creature ready to devour him. But instead she smiled and retreated into the pillow, with a lusty expression. A soft take-me look. And that is what the kid did.
* * *
• • •
Later, the kid followed the teamster in the corral as he gathered mules for a trip.
“You’ll be my swamper,” the teamster said.
“What’s a swamper?”
“My helper. Helping me move a heavy load down the road.”
“What are you hauling?” the kid said.
“Picking up sticks of bell and spigot iron pipe at a factory on the river and taking it to Appaloosa. You will be with me. You will get to see Appaloosa.”
“Yeah. Well, I figured on moving on, just going there on my own. You know. Settling in.”
The teamster glanced over to his wife, who was standing behind the kid.
The kid turned. He had not seen her. He did not know she was there. Her long, dark hair was down and blowing in the wind. She was wearing a thin white cotton dress, an interesting vision, the kid thought, the white of her dress next to the dark of her skin. And it, too, was blowing. Again, she reminded the kid of something wild.
“You can help me,” she said. “I can help you.”
“Help
me?” the kid said.
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“Your future.”
The kid grinned.
“I don’t think anyone has ever helped me do anything.”
“You will see.”
The kid looked to the teamster as he led the mules toward a long flatbed next to the barn.
37
After Ventura got himself shot dead, Virgil unlocked Johnny and sent him away. Virgil let Johnny know that if we saw him again in Appaloosa, we’d lock him up for good.
The following morning, Virgil and I were sitting on the front porch drinking coffee when we got word from Doc Burris’s assistant. He let us know Doc was up through the night, treating a family with a handful of sick children, and that he would not be able to follow up on the examination of James McCormick’s body until later in the day.
The news of Ventura Bartholomew’s death had yet to be reported.
But the morning news of James McCormick’s death was all over town. By way of Duncan Mayfield’s article that came out in the Appaloosa Star. He was able to get enough information about what happened from neighbors to cobble together an account. The article included a description of Bernice screaming at a Mexican deputy to get help. But the story did not allude to the notion that there was foul play involved or that James was murdered. Duncan knew better than to report something like that. He was warned. And he knew he would have to deal with the wrath of Virgil Cole if he reported any unsubstantiated account of James’s death.
Virgil and I sat in Daniel McCormick’s office. With us was Daniel; his wife, Irene; and James McCormick’s widow, Bernice. She was not happy about the account of her actions in the paper. But for a woman who the night before had lost her husband, Bernice seemed well put together. She appeared fresh and clean, as if she had recently bathed. She wore a form-fitting rose-colored dress with a high collar that accentuated her long neck. Her brown hair was neatly fixed atop her head. She sat upright on the edge of her seat with her chin up and her shoulders back.
After a few words of condolence, the door opened. Lawrence, Daniel’s office manager, entered, pushing a rolling cart with a coffeepot and cups. Without a word, he poured us each a cup of coffee. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.
