by Tony Masero
‘What I sh-aid.’
Acer tired of the interplay and stepped forward, ready to reach out his massive hands and grasp the two heads together with the intention of cracking their noodles.
‘I thought thass what you sh-aid,’ slurred the first as he lifted his revolver and fired. It was wild shot, ill aimed and let loose from a hand that trembled with inebriation. It would have missed everybody but the unfortunate Acer having stepped into the line of fire received the bullet in his temple. His neatly parted hairpiece was sent flying from his head by the expanding lead, the hairy scrap quickly followed by a surfeit of skull and brains and the big man tumbled instantly to the ground.
‘Oh, dear,’ mumbled the shooter. ‘Wha’ the hell happen there?’
‘You shot him, you damned fool,’ observed the other, who had now managed to free the .44 from his pants and was waving it about dangerously.
‘Who’re you callin’ a fool?’ the first drunk asked, leaning forward and firing again. He had forgotten he was holding the cocked pistol and had lowered it, knocking the hair-triggered weapon against his thigh and shooting himself in the foot.
The old timer chuckled and squinted shortsightedly down the barrel of the gun he held in both shaking hands and sniggered, ‘Why, you are one dumb ass!’
He let loose and from a range of four feet one might expect he could hardly miss, but the other man had just come into recognition of his wound and was hopping from one foot to the other, his nose wrinkling as his dulled mind tried to figure out what was hurting him so.
Suffice to say, the lead winged past his ear and buried itself in a bustling matron who was impatiently forcing her way through the watching crowd with the stem of her umbrella. The slug made short shrift of her, plumping itself in the lady’s ample bottom and causing her to fall squealing to the boards.
This caused uproar amongst the bystanders and soon other pistols were out and gunplay followed. The street swiftly became a scene of loud noise and smoke as weapons were fired indiscriminately. What should cause such a manifestation of panic is hard to say but it is to be anticipated that when so many bear loaded weapons within easy reach, the inevitable will often follow.
Of the two original protagonists in the street there was little to see, as both of them were soon lost behind white clouds of discharge. Alarmed people fled at the mayhem and figures flitted through the dense smoke and blasting muzzle flashes with the intention of escape only to fall themselves under the wayward hail of lead.
Leatherbetter sat shocked and frozen in the seat at the sudden violence whilst Belle gasped and threw her hands over her mouth in dismay as a stray bullet splintered the seat beside her.
She was suddenly lifted from the seat. A strong arm was about her waist and took her up easily.
Her first impression of Kirby Langstrom was at this time. And it was his scent she noticed, a smell of leather and clean warm skin. Not unpleasant and in a way, quite reassuring. She glanced around at her rescuer.
He was a young man, although probably there was a difference of some five or six years between them then. Clean-cut tanned features if a little grim, she noted. With a square jaw that could possibly do with a shave and gray eyes under thick dark eyebrows. He wore a Stetson that had been bent to his own brand of shape with the leather chinstrap fastened up over the crown.
‘I got you,’ he said with a slight smile.
They were up on the rider’s pinto pony and she was held on his lap within the bend of his arm. It was a firm grip, wiry and tight around her as he kicked in his heels and the pony took off. They rode quickly through the clouds of gun smoke and running people, leaving the sounds of battle behind them. The cowboy took a sharp left hand turn that carried them into a side street and there he pulled to a halt.
He let her slide from his grip and settled her gently on the ground.
‘There you are, Missy, a sight safer than you were up on that wagon. You with that travelling grifter?’
She looked up at him and measured him with a steady gaze. ‘I thank you for your concern, Mister….’
‘Name’s Kirby Langstrom,’ he said tipping the brim of his hat. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Belle Slaughter and yes, I’m with Mister Leatherbetter.’
He leaned forward; resting on crossed wrists over the saddle pommel and met her steady gaze with one of his own. She saw he wore work-worn cowboy’s chaps, the wide flapping margins patterned with silver buttons and above them a gray woolen shirt. Around his neck hung a broad bandana and at his waist, a cross-draw hardwood handled six-gun in a waxed holster that appeared to have seen some use.
‘What went on back there?’ she asked.
‘Couple of drunken fools calling each other out. Then in steps the owner of the Reed-Them-and-Weep and gets his head blowed off. Pretty usual affair for a gold mining town.’
A sharp gleam flashed across Belle’s eyes at the information, it was there for a brief moment and then it was gone. ‘Is that a fact,’ was all she said.
‘Got to say, ma’am. You are the dandiest looking gal I’ve ever seen but I guess you get that said a lot.’
Both of them were ignoring the snap and crack of gunfire still going on around the corner and Kirby liked the way she was not fazed by the sounds.
‘Some,’ she agreed, in answer to his observation. ‘But I don’t pay it much heed.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to get on. You’ll be safe, just wait on it a spell and they’ll get tired and let up soon enough.’
‘What do you do here, Mister Langstrom?’
‘Me? Oh, I was just riding herd on a parcel of beeves brought up for the kitchens.’
‘Thank you again,’ she inclined her head and gave him a coquettish nod that rippled her curls.
He smiled once more, a slight smile and a quirked eyebrow that said he read and acknowledged the teasing glance and that it meant little to him.
‘See you around,’ he whirled the pinto and rode off up the road.
Belle stared after him a moment, her mind filing away the information before turning to the street corner where the sounds of firing had now ceased altogether.
Leatherbetter still sat frozen in shock on his wagon seat, his face pale as his mother poked her head from the curtain behind and berated him for not driving off pronto at the start of the gunfight.
‘What were you thinking, boy?’ she cackled accusingly. ‘Could have got us all killed, and where is that girl? Is she alright?’
‘I’m okay, Mrs. Leatherbetter,’ said Belle coming up beside the wagon.
‘Well, praise the Lord for that. Will you look at this mess?’ complained the old woman with a jerk of her chin at the street in front. Wounded townsfolk were hobbling or being helped from the scene, the mists of gun smoke were slowly clearing away but leaving an acrid taint in the air. A few figures lay sprawled on the boardwalk and were obviously not about to walk anywhere. In the street center lay the three antagonists who had started it all. Acer Crest lay tumbled on his side and draped over him was the holed and bloody figure of the old timer and not too many feet away the collapsed body of his opponent. Not a one of them was moving.
Leatherbetter was trying to recover himself and find his words, he swallowed noisily and managed to say ‘I…. I….’ a few times before falling silent again.
‘Here,’ said his mother impatiently handing him a bottle of elixir. ‘Take a slug on this, it might steady your mind.’
Leatherbetter wrinkled his face distastefully, ‘Are you crazy, Ma,’ he managed. ‘I’ll not touch that putrid stuff, damned if I will.’
‘Oh, Mister Leatherbetter,’ Belle sighed sweetly. ‘What a bold man you are sitting up there so bravely throughout that whole awful business.’
‘Damn fool, more like,’ muttered his mother.
‘Why, look,’ said Belle with bright innocence. ‘I declare that poor soul shot down is the owner of this drinking establishment right here. I wonder who shall occupy the premises now
?’
‘Where?’ gulped Leatherbetter. ‘What’d you say?’
‘See there,’ she said pointing. ‘The man who carried me off said it was the owner of the saloon. The fellow with no top to his head.’
Leatherbetter wrinkled his nose at the gory sight but a thoughtful glimmer slid across his eyes at the same time. ‘The owner, huh?’
A knowing look crossed between Belle and Ma Leatherbetter and the old girl cracked a toothless grin as she got the message. ‘Best get yourself to a lawyer, son,’ she advised quickly. ‘There’s opportunity here. Why, I see money to be made in a place of liquor. Might be we could give up our wandering ways and set up right here if you’re slick enough.’
‘Hmm,’ Leatherbetter nodded. ‘I do believe you’re right, Ma. Climb aboard Belle, let’s go find us an advocate right now.’
And in such a manner, Timothy Leatherbetter became the owner of the Reed-Them-and-Weep saloon and entered a new phase in his career as charlatan and huckster.
Chapter Three
Tim was a flamboyant character, at least on the outside. His inner world was of a more retrospective nature and in fact quite insecure. But outwardly he was a jovial performer. He had learnt to be such to sell his wares and so he entered into the saloon business with a fair proportion of flair.
He altered the name of the place right away, Reed-Them-and-Weep was re-christened, The-Get-Up-and-Go, as he found the earlier title too depressing. This he had made into a huge board by the town’s new sign writer who was a young man anxious to make a professional name for himself and attract new custom. Therefore the signage was as colorful and rich in content as propriety allowed. The whole piece was then mounted with full pomp over the porch roof of the sidewalk outside the saloon’s regular street door.
Whilst the Irish theme continued with two large shamrocks boldly placed on the borders, there were obvious allusions to things of a more carnal nature displayed in the form of the dancing girls that high-kicked on each side of the new name and showed a fair amount of black stocking as they did so. The lettering was bold and filled with a gold lacquer that glistened at night under the lamps that Tim had set up underneath. Above the title, roustabout cowboys drove herds of cattle in wild abandon through swirling dust. In all it was a striking image and when Tim stood outside at night, a handsome stogie planted firmly in his jaw, he was pleased to see how the locals gathered to gawp at the masterpiece.
Inside the street door was the Cigar Apartment a small foyer room separated from the bar proper by a head-high wooden barrier and swing doors. Tim set it up so that customers could buy cigars and packed tobacco and a pitcher of beer to take out if they so wanted.
He also made a clean sweep of the barroom and the large room was opened out with the bar extended to a thirty-foot length and the old candles-in-bottles on the tables were replaced by a wagon wheel chandelier hoisted by rope to the ceiling. He nearly burnt the place down on the first night when the oil lamps on the wheel were raised up too high and scorched the tongue and groove wooden planking up there.
Tim filled the role well. He strutted at night having invested in a new loud waistcoat and long tailed satinette jacket. He did away with the green scarf on his hat and instead wore a bright green silk handkerchief dangling from his jacket breast pocket, yet he still managed to make good use of the headgear by doffing it extravagantly to each customer who entered.
And they did come, in their droves. The bartender and cellar boy, two men that Tim kept on from their previous employment were worked off their legs by the nightly trade.
Ma Leatherbetter was set to taking care of the saloon girls. A motely crew that Tim also inherited but the old lady was not one to falter at such a daunting prospect and the band of reluctant females were ushered through a regime of bathing and hair care the like of which they had never seen before. It is true that a few left in disgust at such militant treatment, but it was not easy for the single girl in such a rough environment and most stayed.
The three that remained were no beauties and certainly did not echo the promise of the painted sign outside but Ma made up for their poor looks by dressing them in vibrant colored gowns that would have been more fitting in a circus. However it did the trick and turned a group of dowdy looking drabs into at least the semblance of diverting company.
But it was Belle that outshone them all and her area of expertise was the sale of drinks. Grubby miners and store clerks fought over their place at the bar just to catch a glimpse of her. She pumped beer and poured shots with no particular skill but then she did not need any, her mere presence was enough keep the buyers coming. They swooned over her and the roughest of customers melted into tongue-tied stuttering as they placed their order with this gorgeous creature.
Tim had made sure she wore an off-the-shoulder green gown that gave full view of her creamy shoulders and bold cleavage. Her hair was mounted in piled curls and he even bought her an amethyst studded black choker band for her throat. Not real gems of course but fakes that glittered effectively and set off those magical eyes of hers.
But into every bright and enterprising success there is always a shadow that falls.
In this case it was in the form of one Joseph Bellows.
Joe ran The Cakewalk one of the other three drinking houses that had sprung up in Variable Breaks. A large block-like man given to wearing expensive suits in gray with fancy vests that equaled Tim’s in their splendor. A man of few words he was a brooding character, both calculating and grim-faced. Always neatly turned out with pomaded hair and pared nails he wore lavish amounts of lavender water to disguise the presence of the unpleasant body odor his weight produced in the hot and close atmosphere of the saloon. It was an overbearing scent and in his reeking company most would almost rather have preferred the natural aroma of the man than that overlaid with liberal sprinklings of the perfume.
He had come to see The-Get-Up-and-Go as a challenge to his own business and it was true that many regular customers left his less inviting bar for that of Timothy Leatherbetter’s. But by dint of a politically managed inducement Joe had successfully gained the support of the other two saloonkeepers and the three men under his leadership began to foment a plan to do away with the opposition.
As Tim’s trade blossomed it became obvious that he needed to employ a gambler of quality, for any house of entertainment needed the challenge of a known winner across the green baize. It also meant a regular income for the tavern owner, as a cut of the winnings was a normal requisite for occupation of one the saloon’s gambling tables.
It was in this that Joe saw opportunity and he duly sent for one Aloysius Barrett Browning, a known cardsharp who claimed relationship with the famous poetess. The lady in question could not argue the tenuous connection, as the sickly, drug-addicted woman was a great distance away facing her approaching demise in Italy.
Having been primed, Aloysius was sent off one night to do his worst.
At first sight of him, Belle was lost.
He was a handsome man it is true, tall and elegantly dressed with a strong mustache and goatee beard. Chiseled features did well to hide the cunning and amoral character that dwelt below the surface. He carried a silver topped cane and on entering The-Get-Up-and-Go he posed dramatically at the door one hand supporting the cane as he arched an eyebrow speculatively below his flat-brimmed hat and studied the setup.
Tim, as was his way, duly swept off his stovepipe in greeting and with much aplomb the gambler presented his card from a silver case in return.
‘I am, as you see, sir,’ he said to Tim in his cultivated voice. ‘A man who enjoys a turn of the cards. Perhaps you will have heard of me.’
‘Who has not?’ Tim supplied diplomatically, even though he did not know the man from Adam.
‘You have a table free?’
‘Of course,’ said Tim. He was finding it difficult to credit his luck, that at the very moment he wished for a gambling man, one should turn up at his door, and one that was so obviously a cla
ss act. ‘You wish to play?’
‘Naturally. The normal breaks apply, I suppose.’
‘If you mean the cut,’ said Tim, perhaps a little slyly as he recognized the potential. ‘Then a fifty/fifty break, I think. Other than that table stakes are at your command’
Aloysius harrumphed a snort of dismissive laughter. ‘I think not. Eighty/twenty is more to my liking, with drink supplied.’
Tim pondered a moment, ‘Very well,’ he said at last, after considering his need for a card player of quality and they shook on it.
Aloysius looked across his shoulder at this moment and caught sight of Belle amongst the bobbing heads at the bar.
‘Heavens!’ he said. ‘Who is that beauty?’
‘She,’ said Tim, turning to look. ‘Is Belle Slaughter. A wonder, no? Fair Aphrodite could look no better. Indentured to me but I fear not a lady to approach easily.’
‘A challenge then,’ smiled Aloysius knowingly and he raised his hat in Belle’s direction.
She flushed at the greeting. Not a thing that Belle was prone to do but she had lost her heart and her normal protections had fled. She bobbed in curtsy in reply and clumsily knocked against a stack of beer schooners stacked under the bar dropping them to the floor in a shatter of breaking glass.
It was the first time in her life that Belle was at a loss, she found her heart was beating fast and her cheeks were red and hot. There were certain strange stirrings that were going on in her body that at once distressed her and at the same time also excited her. In some embarrassment she busied herself with the broken glass until the cellar boy took over then she hurried from the bar, passing Tim with the excuse of needing some air she rushed outside.
Fanning her overheated face with her hand, Belle stood to one side of the doorway in the shadows of the porch outside and tried to still her pounding heart. It was dark there and the passing people on the boardwalk stared at her lonely figure in consternation.
Belle was confused, her mind racing as she glanced back belligerently at her pedestrian watchers. She felt like screaming but her normal disciplines took over and she controlled herself with difficulty, contenting herself with glaring back with those turbulent eyes spoken of earlier.
