Silence the Dead

by David Crossman

  “What if he comes for me?” Darcia asked sleepily.

  “He’ll have more to worry about than you if he does,” Molly replied. Then her heart went to her throat when the front door open with its characteristic squeal. Relief swept through her when she heard Casilda’s voice calling softly upstairs.

  Molly left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She stepped out on the landing and descended the stairs. “Shh. She’s asleep . . . or soon will be.”

  Casilda and Margaret stepped aside and followed her into the living room.

  “Cassy tells me this isn’t the first time,” said Margaret, without preamble.

  “No. She’s been here twice before.”

  “And she’ll keep coming ‘til she can’t crawl anymore.” Margaret sat heavily in the rocking chair.

  “One thing she’s right about,” said Molly, “liquor doesn’t help Archie’s disposition.”

  Casilda resumed her seat and her embroidery. Margaret helped herself to a cup of tea and stared at the fire. “Darcia’s not alone in her complaint.”

  “No,” said Molly sadly. “I know.”

  “And, just between us, the girls in the house on the corner are givin’ their customers more than a good time.”

  Molly was not naïve, but she blanched at this news, nevertheless. “And those men are bringing it home to their wives.”

  Margaret nodded. “There’s a group of women at the Pentecostal church who’ve been meeting about what to do.”

  “Have they come up with any ideas?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Probably just talk.”

  “Probably. That helps, though.”

  Molly disagreed. “It doesn’t help Darcy, or those other women you mentioned. And as for disease, talk is a poor prophylactic.”

  A few minutes silence filtered from the rafters, carved into neat slices by the ticking of the grandmother clock and peppered with the clinking of various utensils. But wheels were turning, and wheels within wheels, and the mechanisms were deafening. Molly spoke first. “I want to get the women together.”

  “Which women?”

  “All of ‘em. You, me, Casilda, the women you were talking about who’ve been . . . ”

  “And the women at the church.”

  “All the churches,” Molly corrected, her blood rising. “We need to do something.”

  “I suppose we could schedule a meeting.”

  “When?”

  “How about now.” said Molly. It wasn’t a question. She slapped her hand on the table. Within seconds she was cranking the handle nearly off the phone on the wall. Within an hour – with the help of Nell Romero, the switchboard operator – most of the concerned ladies in town were convened at the Pentecostal Church.

  It quickly became apparent to Molly and Margaret that they had a brace of tigers by the tail. As soon as the echo of Darcia’s story died on their lips (they had been careful to omit her name from the telling, but everyone knew who it was), another woman spoke up with a similar tale, and another of child abuse, and another of her husband losing all his pay to whores and gambling, until they were all talking and listening at once. At last, like Furies armed for Judgment, they had whipped themselves into a frenzy the likes of which Chama had never known. Its focus had shifted from Foster’s and the bootleg alcohol sold there, to the notorious rooming house next to the Chama Mercantile, a block to the south.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” Molly shouted. Nobody noticed. She stood up and banged the seat of her folding wooden chair back and forth a few times, creating a percussion that slammed through the crowd like gunfire. “Ladies!” she repeated, as a tense silence descended. “All this talk is fine, for a start. But what are we going to do?”

  She had expected a long, drawn-out debate, and her intention was to guide it to some positive action. A petition. Perhaps a few anonymous calls to the Federals down in Santa Fe relative to the location of certain stills. She never imagined her expectations would be blown to pieces with a single sentence.

  “I say we burn the place down,” Kitty Cutler yelled from the back of the room.

  The remark, tossed like burning tinder into the incendiary atmosphere, ignited a deafening chorus of cheers that swept Molly and Margaret’s best of intentions before it. “No!”

  “Yes!” said someone else, and the affirmation was taken up by thirty other throats compressed by passion.

  “But, we can’t take the law into our own hands!” Margaret protested.

  Kitty had formed her argument. “Why can’t we? We’re the ones being abused. We’re the ones losin’ our husbands to whores. Our children are the ones losing their fathers and havin’ the food taken from their mouths! We’re the ones who’ll lose our homes when the banks foreclose. And who’re we going to get justice from? The law? Hell, they’re in the bootleg business. Even the pro-hi’s for all we know! And the bunch of ‘em are like as not into whoring as well!”

  “But you could go to jail! What about your children then?” said Molly desperately. “What’s going to happen to them if you’re in prison? What’s going to happen to your homes?”

  The wet blanket had the desired effect. Passions immediately cooled.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Francis Smith, whose husband had once had a respectable job in the bank, but was now the town drunk and laughing stock whose only work, in those rare, foggy windows of sobriety, was running bootleg whiskey over to Pagosa Springs for T. D. Burns and Mike Kelly. “We draw lots.”

  “Really, Francis. I don’t think . . . ”

  “Let her speak!” said Kitty. “Go on, Fran. What do you have in mind?”

  “This is what I propose . . . ”

  A mist had risen from the river, drifted up across the rail yard, and was wandering Terrace Avenue in search of drunkards to confound. But, as the carousing hours hadn’t yet reached the point where conviviality surrenders to hostility, none of the drunkards had yet spilled into the street to settle their differences. The pool halls and hotels with their gambling rooms were full, oozing greasy light, smoke, and the soggy din of debauchery from open windows and doors.

  Four female-shaped shadows, each dressed in black and carrying a shuttered lantern, moved silently through the blackness of 5th Street, toward the rooming house on the corner. There, with military precision, the women broke open the basement window, unshuttered their lanterns, and tossed them in. Somewhere inside a telephone rang, the call, as planned, to alert the people inside so no one would be hurt.

  Throughout the procedure, none of the women said a word – also part of the plan – so none of them would know who the others were who had drawn the four short straws.

  Inside, the cry went up immediately. “Fire!”

  Given Chama’s incendiary history, nobody waited to see if they’d heard correctly.

  The conflagration was not long in coming and, when it did, was substantially more than the avenging angels had bargained for. One of the lanterns had shattered under a barrel of whiskey.

  The firestarters were absorbed by the shadows, in which they separated toward their own homes, their hearts heaving against the backs of their teeth, even as the “ladies of easy virtue” and their clientele stumbled into the street, preserving slim modesty with bedclothes, curtains, towels, bedpans, hats, or whatever else came to hand.

  Several patrons were still attempting to negotiate the stairs when the still blew, launching them through the door with their asses on fire like bottle rockets.

  The fire, whether or not sanctioned by heaven, was soon hell on earth. The white-hot flames – immolated spirits that had inhabited the liquor – clawed their way through the smoke, created their own weather system as the heat of burning wood met the cool evening air. The wind was so intense, bystanders had to hold their hats. As if animated by the anger that had given them birth, tongues of fire burst first from windows, then walls, then the roof, and began licking at the long white clapboards of the Chama Mercantile next door.

 
; As would-be firefighters – upstanding citizens shaken from their sleep by the general hue and cry, and denizens in varying stages of sobriety – assembled to save the building, the town’s lack of firefighting equipment, despite past conflagrations, was borne painfully home. A frantic search turned up a hand cart, a hose, and a fire extinguisher. The measures this equipment afforded were applied to the inferno with predictable results.

  Within the hour, the roof of the Chama Mercantile, the largest building in town, collapsed in clouds of cinder-ridden black smoke. Next, victim to sheer heat, the McFadden building spontaneously combusted.

  Sober townsfolk, who had struggled to save whatever they could from the stores and houses, piling it in relative safety on the far side of the street, now stood exhausted, their faces smutted with soot and sweat, stunned to absolute silence as the fire consumed the entire block. Some buildings, Water’s Pool Hall, Broad’s Dance Hall, Foster’s boarding house, they weren’t that sad to see go. Others, the Mercantile, McFadden’s, H.L. Hall General Store, the warehouses, and four fine homes, represented the nucleus of their aspirations, their hope for the future.

  Some wondered if the flames would jump the street and burn the round house, as they had in the fire of ’99.

  The less sober, those still-inebriated former patrons of the bars, pool halls, gambling dens, and bawdy house, confronted with the sheer magnitude of their impotence, hatched an impromptu celebration: the Children of Israel at the foot of Sinai.

  Mike Kelly, ever resourceful in the cultivation of a good time, put a ten gallon keg of whiskey on his old round-top truck, drove it to the middle of the street, and invited those nearby to toast the town as it burned. No cups or glasses. Fifty cents a swallow.

  Thomas Conllan and his eldest son, Sabado, had returned on the last train from Durango. The rambulette buck they’d bought, and upon which they pinned their hopes for a reinvigorated herd next year, was tethered in his own little patch down at the sheep pen near the railroad track.

  It was Thomas’s custom, on such occasions, to stay the night with Sab and his wife, Beth, at their home on Maple Avenue, rather than take the long ride back to T.A. This night, having taken a late meal and put the kids to bed, they were playing checkers in the parlor when a frantic rapping at the door startled them from their seats.

  Sabado flew to the door and was confronted by one of the Parmenter boys, his eyes as wide as Christmas morning, and his words tumbling over each other even before the door was open. “The town’s on fire!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, though the recipient of this news flash was no more than two feet away. Before Sabado could frame a question, the boy was gone, on his way to the next house.

  Down the street toward town, Sabado could see that other homeowners had been similarly roused and were running toward the glow that was now evident in the east.

  “Dad,” he said, returning to the parlor.

  Thomas already had his coat on. “I heard.”

  “Why don’t you stay here,” said Sabado, holding up his hand. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “You sayin’ I’m too old to be any help?” said Thomas, with a little flint behind his familiar grin.

  “No, Dad! No,” Sabado stammered. “It’s just . . . you know. You’ve done your part all these years. You don’t owe this town nothin’.”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything. It’s time us younger folks took over. Could be risky.”

  “I’m sixty-three, Sab, not quite ready for the high pasture just yet. Besides, I’ve fought three fires in this town already. I guess I can toss a bucket of water as well as the next fellow.”

  Sabado didn’t think it wise to point out that, since the old man only had one arm, that probably wasn’t true. “Just another night in Chama, huh?”

  “Just another night in Chama,” Thomas laughed, slapping his son on the shoulder.

  Rounding the corner by the Star Theater, they were hit in the face by a wall of heat so intense it blistered paint on buildings across the street. Instinctively their arms flew up in front of their faces.

  “The whole town’s gonna go!” Sabado yelled over the crook in his arm.

  The townsfolk were roughly divided into two factions – those who watched in horror from the hillside sloping down to the depot, and those who had congregated around Mike Kelly’s wagon; and it was quickly evident all had either lost heart or were simply too overwhelmed or exhausted to continue the fight. The water wagon sat abandoned in the middle of Terrace Avenue.

  The fire had burned from south to northeast, with the Chama Mercantile, because of it vast size, being the last to go. Its northern façade was minutes away from collapsing onto 4th Street, likely sending a curtain of flame into the residences that began on the next block.

  Surveying the situation, Thomas was taken back to the first fire he’d fought, the forest fire along the Colorado border that had claimed thousands of acres of virgin timber. He also remembered how it had been finally been extinguished. He ran to Mike Kelly’s wagon, Sabado on his heels.

  “Is that full?” he demanded, pointing at the keg.

  “Didn’t know you was one for the drink, Thomas me boy,” said Kelly, mimicking Thomas’s thick Irish brogue. “But on a fine night like this, front row by the fireside, I s’pose you make an exception. Belly on up. There’s plenty. Right, boys!”

  The ‘boys’ cheered.

  “Then we’ll be needin’ this,” said Thomas, beginning to push the wagon toward 4th Street. “Grab on, Sab!”

  “Here! What do you think you’re doin’?” Mike said, putting himself in front of Sabado as he lifted the shafts.

  “It’s the only way to stop the fire. We’ve got to create a break! Go on, Sabado.”

  Sabado began to pull as his father pushed. Kelly, who, even drunk, knew better than to challenge Sabado one-on-one, called for reinforcements from the encircling crowd – mostly railroad men. No recruits were forthcoming. They all knew Sabado’s reputation. His brute strength and catlike quickness were legendary up and down the valley. With a shaft in either hand, he cocked his head slightly and locked Kelly with a warning look. “You’d best move aside, Mike, ‘less you’re gonna grab holt and give us a hand.”

  It didn’t take long for Kelly to decide. He laid his hands on the shaft nearest him. “I’ve got this one, Sab. You get the other.” Sabado complied without question. “Come on, boys. Don’t just stand there, give us a push!”

  Once again, a cheer went up and everyone fell-to until there was nowhere left to lay hands. As the wagon barreled down the street, Thomas broke off and turned to the citizens trainside. “Look, we need to start a bucket brigade. Up from the river.”

  For a moment everyone just stood and stared at him, not comprehending what he intended to do with the whiskey wagon.

  “Everyone! Come on! There are buckets down in the coal shed.”

  John Moore, who stood nearest Thomas, finally spoke. “The river’s three hundred yards away!”

  Thomas quickly looked up and down the line of people. “There are more than a hundred of you here. That means each person’s got to cover three feet. Now, do you want to save what’s left of the town or not?”

  Moore’s wife, a Denver woman, laid her arm on his shoulder. “We’ve got to try, Johnny.”

  Nothing more was said. One by one the crowd assented with a nod and, one-by-one, began to form a line to the river. A group of boys ran off to fetch buckets.

  “Fill up the tank on the water wagon!” Thomas cried over his shoulder as he ran back toward the noisy cluster of men pushing Kelly’s buckboard. “Then take it to the end of the block and soak the walls of the Andrew’s house. If we can save that, we might be able to save the rest!”

  The Chama News

  Friday, July 11th, 1925

  Grand Men of the Rio Grande Save Chama!

  by

  E. E. Wright

  ‘Our city was recently visited by a fire, which burned a block of business buildings, a room
ing house, and some other structures. We were lucky that the wind was not blowing, for the whole town was in danger of burning. The loss is estimated at $200,000, and only partly covered by insurance. The Rio Grande men are to be commended for their quick-thinking that resulted in creation of a fire break which, say witnesses, saved the town.

  ‘Witness Robert Alire is quoted as saying: “It was one _ell of an explosion! Blew the whole wall of the Mercantile to smithereens so there wasn’t nothing left for the fire to burn! Went out like somebody stomped on it.”

  ‘Witnesses were not able to identify what substance was used to cause the explosion.

  ‘Notice must also be made of the indefatigable and forward-thinking citizens who formed a bucket brigade all the way from the river and were able to saturate the exterior walls of Manby and Carlita Andrew’s house at the corner of 4th and Terrace. This reporter can testify first-hand that when the hose from the pump wagon was turned on the house, the walls steamed like mother’s teapot, and you could hear the paint contract fifty feet away.

  ‘The cause of the fire is unknown, but some women in town have suggested it was due to alcohol. This reporter thinks that unlikely, since Prohibition is in effect, a worthy law which locals are scrupulous to observe.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Lehigh Canal

  Near Mauch Chunk, Pennsylvania

  Thursday, October 20th, 1879

  “Them boots’ve yers worn through yet?” Sadie asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Damn.”

  “Mind your tongue.”

  “How far is west, anyways? We been walkin’ since ‘alfway to Creation.”

  She had a point. America was proving to be a very big country, and the soles of his boots had evidently been made with a long trek in mind. Not that they were getting much wear on the soft brown grass along the towpath.

  Unlike the canals he’d seen in Ireland, many of which were entirely man-made and arrow-straight, this canal – which the locals called the Lehigh – had been laid along the course of a river, and meandered maddeningly. Though boatmen they encountered assured them the canal “tends westerly,” Thomas reserved doubt as, hour-after-hour, for the last two days, the sun had remained obstinately to their left. By his reckoning, they’d put nearly fifty mostly north-bound miles between themselves and Phillipsburg. The decision to follow the canal – rather than the faster gravel road or train their pursuers might have expected them to take – had, at least as regards being captured, been a good one. But Thomas hadn’t the confidence yet to accost the bargemen for a lift, either as paying passengers or workers. If they were recognized by some passer-by, they would be trapped.