by Len Levinson
Flannel sheets and wool blankets radiated her body warmth. She cuddled against the pillow and thought of her sister’s marriage. Did all men tire of women after getting what they wanted?
She thought of the ex-cavalry officer, his steely reserve. Wonder where he’s sleeping right now?
Chapter Three
The singer in the black suit bowed, spangles flashing in the lamplight. The band took a break. John Stone’s jaw hung with fatigue as he looked at empty glasses lined up on the bar.
“Hey, bartender!”
Everybody wanted him. What am I doing here? Annie Mae stood at the end of the bar and rapped her knuckles. “Whiskey!”
Stone poured, dashed to the cash box, returned with change. A miner with a beard to his chest stood next to her. “Buy you a drink?”
“Got one,” she replied, and looked the other way.
“Don’t turn yer back on me!” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.
“Take yer hands off’n me!”
He grinned, one tooth missing on top. “What if’n I don’t!”
“You’re hurtin’ me!”
“Don’t git uppity with me, you goddamned whore!”
He smacked her across the face with the back of his hand. She went flying across the floor.
The man with the truncheon maneuvered in front of the miner. “You’d better settle down, mister.”
“Put that thing away,” the miner replied, “or I’ll shove it up yer ass.”
The truncheon swung at the miner’s head, but the miner reached up and grabbed the bouncer’s wrist, then kicked between his legs. The bouncer hunched over and dropped moaning to the floor.
The miner pulled his blade and turned to Annie Mae, who pressed her back against the wall, trying to get away from him. “So you don’t like Jack, eh? When I finish with you, no man’ll ever look at you again!”
Annie Mae opened her mouth and screamed. She looked like a terrified child wearing her mother’s makeup. Jack drew lips over his teeth. She covered her face with her fingers and hollered.
A shadow fell over her. “Leave her alone,” said John Stone.
Jack saw guns in his hands. “You’d better put them peashooters away, ’cause I ain’t afraid of you.”
“One move toward her, you’re a dead man.”
Jack stared down the gun barrels. Then he looked into John Stone’s eyes. Bluffing? Jack pushed the knife into his scabbard. “Maybe some other time.”
Annie Mae sobbed. Stone placed his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the back door.
“Watch out!”
Jack lunged toward Stone, knife in hand. Stone slammed his palm on Jack’s wrist, the blade sliced across Stone’s thigh. Stone took one step to the side and threw a stiff uppercut.
It caught Jack coming in. Stone darted to the side as Jack’s momentum carried him forward. The miner crashed into the wall, stunned for a few moments. When his head cleared, John Stone stood in front of him, left pant leg red with blood.
“You best get out of here while you can still walk,” Stone said.
“And don’t ever come back again!” Everyone turned to Belie McGuinness, standing at the edge of the crowd, wearing a red satin gown.
Jack laughed, brandishing his bloody knife. “You want me to leave, you’ll have to throw me out.”
Stone thought of shooting him. Where were the police? “You don’t get out of here on your own steam, I’ll put you through the window.”
“Like to see you try.”
Jack waved the blade of his knife from side to side and dropped into his knife fighter’s crouch. “I’ll cut you from hell to breakfast.”
The crowd swarmed around. Stone wondered whether to pull his gun. Suddenly Jack thrust his knife toward the front of Stone’s shirt. Stone grabbed Jack’s wrist with his left hand, rammed his forearm against Jack’s elbow. A sickening crack, Jack bellowed in pain. Stone cracked him in the face. The miner sailed through the air, landed on a table, slid to the floor. Stone lifted him by the belt and carried him toward the nearest door. It opened, and two uniformed deputies entered the Grand Palace, flanking a man with a bushy mustache, wearing a badge on the lapel of his suit.
The marshal looked Stone over. “What’s your name?”
They heard Belle’s voice. “He’s one of my bartenders. The miner cut him.”
The marshal looked at Stone’s leg. Stone saw a strange scimitar scar at the corner of his eye.
“Watch yer step,” the marshal said gruffly to Stone in a voice that sounded familiar.
“Drinks on the house!” shouted Belle.
Two deputies picked up the unconscious miner and carried him toward the door. Stone watched the peace officers disappear into the crowd. “What’s the marshal’s name?” he asked Belle.
“Bill Kincaid. C’mon back to my office. I’ll look at that leg.”
He followed her through the crowd. Belle was full-bodied, medium height, an armful for any man. Miners tipped their hats as she passed. The lamp in her office had gone out.
“Got a match?” she asked.
She lifted the chimney, he set the wick aflame, she aware of muscles straining the fabric of his shirt. His profile, against the lamplight, pleased her eye. She replaced the chimney and adjusted the wheel.
“What you say your name was?”
“John Stone.”
“Lie down on the sofa. You’ll have to take your pants off.” She threw a towel. He stepped behind her dressing screen. “Shy?” she asked sarcastically. “I seen little boys before.”
Blood coagulated on the wound. He wrapped the towel around his waist and limped toward the sofa. Belle rolled up the sleeves of her blouse.
“Bartenders usually dive ’neath the bar at the first sign of trouble,” she said. “Why’d you take on Jack?”
“What happened to your bouncer?”
“You want his job? Pays five more dollars a week than you’re gittin’ now.”
“When do I start?”
“Never figgered you fer a bartender.”
She placed the basin beside him and knelt, his leg covered with golden hair. The wound was a three-inch slash with ragged edges. She rinsed the washcloth, wrung it out, patted his wound gently. Long ago she learned to hide feelings behind an impenetrable wall. She covered the bloody line with a bandage. “Don’t know how yer pants’ll fit over this.”
“What you know about Marshal Kincaid?”
“Best marshal money can buy.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Here in Lodestone, we generally don’t ask people where they come from.”
“He arrive alone?”
“What’s Marshal Kincaid to you?”
“Always a good idea to know who the lawman is.”
“He’s got sand. That’s all you’ve got to know. Some lawmen hide when trouble starts, but not Bill Kincaid. He keeps the peace pretty damn good in this town.”
“How about outside town?”
“Roads ain’t safe, if that’s what you mean. Lots of holdups. You ’spect that in gold country. Kincaid can’t be everywheres, but he catches crooks. We had a hangin’ here two weeks ago. You stick around, you’ll prob’ly see the next one.”
~*~
Marshal Kincaid puffed his corncob pipe and looked out the window of his office. Drunks staggered over the sidewalks, a wagonful of miners passed in the street. The stamp mill pounded incessantly in the distance.
He thought about John Stone. Rob a man in the afternoon, come face-to-face with him that night. Marshal Kincaid dug dottle from the bowl of his pipe with a pocketknife, then blew through the stem. A stream of tobacco juice squirted into the air.
He put on his hat and looked in the mirror. His belly hung over his belt, he had jowls. Retire in Mexico in a few more years. Can’t let an odd coincidence spoil everything.
He walked out the door. Across the street, a group of miners entered the Grubstake Saloon. On the corner, a deputy twirled his club bes
ide a streetlamp. “Find Tommy Moran, tell him to meet me behind the Lodestone Savings Bank in a half hour.”
~*~
Stone limped to an empty table in a dark corner, sat on a chair, blew out the candle. The corner plunged into darkness. He had a lot to think about, Belle McGuinness uppermost in his mind. A strange woman, beautiful, hard as nails, but sensitive beneath her carefully manufactured exterior. Probably didn’t even know she was acting most of the time.
A few tables away, a miner jumped into the air and screamed. Then he scooped up a big pile of chips, cackling like a maniac. Men hollered at each other angrily near the bar.
A figure in a white suit sat beside him. “Looks like you got a promotion,” Slipchuck said. “You find out if she had somethin’ fer me?”
“Didn’t think of it, but we’ll set it straight right now.”
Stone walked back to Belle’s office. Slipchuck hitched up his pants, hoping to make a good impression on the boss lady.
“John Stone and a friend of his to see you, Miss Belle. You too busy to see ’em?”
“Send ’em in.”
John Stone entered, accompanied by a filthy little old man. “This is my pardner, Mr. Slipchuck.”
Slipchuck removed his dirty hat and made an elaborate bow.
“I know he doesn’t look like much,” Stone said, “but he saved my life more’n once. Not afraid of anything. You need another bouncer, he’s your man.”
Belle raised the back of her hand to her mouth and laughed. Slipchuck blushed to the roots of his gray hair. He yanked out his trusty Colt and aimed at her. “No woman makes fun of me an’ gits away with it!”
Stone whacked Slipchuck’s gun downward, Slipchuck pulled the trigger, the bullet crashed into the floorboards. A cloud of acrid gunsmoke filled the office.
Slipchuck took a stance like a fighting cock. They were the strangest duo Belle had ever seen. How could they be pardners? John Stone clearly cared for the old man.
“Have a seat,” she said, holding out her box of cheroots.
“Don’t mind if’n I do,” Slipchuck replied.
He selected one and lit it with a match. So did Stone. Their heads disappeared in a vast cloud of blue smoke. Belle leaned toward Slipchuck. “I can tell a gentleman when I see one. Bouncer ain’t no job fer you. How’d you like to work on the second floor with the girls?”
“With the girls?” Slipchuck asked in disbelief.
“Sweep the corridors, keep the stoves goin’. Fix anythin’ that might go wrong.”
John Stone was indignant. “You can’t give my pardner a janitor job. Anybody can see he deserves better than that.”
Slipchuck held up his hand. “Hold on, Johnny. Lemme speak fer meself.” He turned to Belle. “You say I’ll be on the second floor where the gals live.”
“Yer job is take care of ’em,” she replied.
“You got yerself a deal!” Slipchuck slammed the heel of his fist upon her desk.
Belle turned to John Stone. “Stop at my room when you get off work tonight. Somethin’ I want to talk to you about.”
~*~
Marshal Kincaid sat on the ground, puffing his corncob pipe, his back leaned against the rear wall of the bank. A thin sliver of curved moon hung on the horizon. He felt nostalgic for the open range. Long ago he’d been a cowboy.
Footstep in the alley, Kincaid drew his gun and melted into the shadows. The figure of a man emerged from the night. Moonlight silhouetted his profile.
“Kincaid?”
“Over here.”
Tommy Moran walked toward him, head cocked to the side, sturdily built, black hair, black mustache. “What you got fer me, Marshal?”
“His name’s John Stone. He’s at the Grand Palace. Yer goin’ rate is sixty dollars?”
“Half in advance.”
Marshal Kincaid pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket. “How soon can you do it?”
“Right now, if you want.”
~*~
Slipchuck pushed his broom down the main corridor of the second floor. He’d been over the same territory ten times already, but that didn’t stop him. Usually he had to pay, get it over with, get out. Never before had he taken time to observe the activity. A pudgy, dew-eyed whore wearing a thin chemise approached from the far end of the corridor. A man lives long enough, all his dreams come true.
~*~
Tommy Moran entered the Grand Palace, didn’t step out of the backlight. He was ready, the swagger and confidence of a gunfighter as he approached the bar.
“Whiskey.”
The bartender filled a glass. Moran spilled a few drops on his tongue for good luck. He had a description of John Stone. Before shooting his quarry, liked to study him, understand his quirks. Made it more interesting.
A whore with long red hair down her back approached and wrapped one arm around his shoulder. “Wanna come upstairs?”
“I’m lookin’ for John Stone. Know where he is?”
“The corner over there.”
Moran saw only darkness. “I can’t see him.”
She pinched his nose. “But he can see you.”
~*~
Stone noticed Moran and the whore, two faces in a sea of humanity drinking, playing cards, shooting dice, reading newspapers, arguing. A mangy spotted dog strolled toward Stone, bone clamped in his jaws. A miner booted his tail, the dog scurried away.
A miner danced a jig atop a table, while a circle of onlookers clapped. A glass of beer flew through the air. A dude with a black mustache strolled along the aisle. Their eyes met. Tommy Moran made his way back to the bar. “Whiskey.”
A tiny dot of red floated in the shadows, as Stone smoked a cigarette. He was unaware of Moran’s scrutiny, the gunfighter just another customer. Stone was lost in thoughts of bygone days with the golden girl he was supposed to marry.
He remembered the night he proposed. They’d gone for a walk in the woods. He was only fourteen, and she one year younger. Beside a spring, he perched on one knee and asked her to be his wife when they were older. She said yes, and they drank the blood of the forest from the same cup.
The band struck up a jig. Tommy Moran rolled a cigarette, his brow furrowed. Something strangely familiar about John Stone. Had they met before? Maybe he just looked like somebody. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s going to die right now.
~*~
Slipchuck climbed the stairs affixed to the rear of the Grand Palace, a load of firewood in his arms. He opened the door, pulled back a curtain with his leg, lowered the wood to the floor. Bark and a worm remained on his sleeves. He brushed them off and leaned against the wall.
“I’m a-gittin’ too old fer this shit.”
He heard footsteps, snapped to attention. A whore pulled the curtain aside. “Thought you’d be a-hidin’ back here, you old buzzard. Me stove’s nearly out. Fix it while I go downstairs. Room twenty-five.”
He followed her down the hall, watching the sway of her shapely hips beneath her pink silk dress. He came to her room, smelled her perfume. A Negro maid put fresh sheets on the bed.
“Gittin’ cold in here,” she said. “Git the fire goin’, old man.”
“Ain’t that old.”
He opened the door of the potbellied stove, stirred the ashes, threw in a few sticks of wood. The maid departed. Every customer got clean sheets, one of the establishment’s main selling points.
Slipchuck, alone in a whore’s boudoir, didn’t have to hurry for a change. He clasped hands behind his back and looked around philosophically. The headboard of the bed was painted white, brass ornaments on the bedposts. Slipchuck placed his hand on the mattress, calculated the bounce. Not bad at all.
A table covered with cosmetics across the room. He held a bottle of perfume to the lamplight. Paints and rouge. The things they do.
He opened her closet. Two frilly dresses, thick wool coat, blouses and skirts, silk fabric, baubles, glitter, black mesh stockings, and lace underwear. Drive a man crazy.
~
*~
A fight broke out in the middle of the bar. John Stone hoped it’d end by itself. A crowd formed, people shouted, a bottle crashed to the floor.
John Stone drew himself to his full height. No rest for the wicked. He put on his old Confederate cavalry hat and strolled toward the commotion. At its center, two filthy miners held knives in their hands.
Stone stepped between them. “You want to kill each other, do it outside.”
“Out of the way,” said one of them, wearing a new yellow shirt. “If I have to cut you to git to him, don’t make a shit to me.”
Stone snapped both guns on him so fast his hands blurred. “Try it.”
Yellow shirt grimaced. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Men dived behind the bar. Another contingent ran at the door. Some jumped out windows. A few fell behind table barricades. Stone stepped backward and faced both miners. “I said get out.”
“You wouldn’t dare shoot me,” yellow shirt said.
Stone pulled the trigger in his right hand. A shot rang out, yellow shirt felt something tug his hat. He took it off, saw a bullet hole in the crown.
“Next one goes between your eyes.”
The miners looked at each other sheepishly. Eyes peered over the bar and through windows. “You’d better never let me catch you alone in a dark alley,” said the miner to Stone, “’cause I’ll cut yer fuckin’ throat.”
Stone squeezed his trigger, the knife flew out of the miner’s grip. “You ever see me again, you’d better walk the other way.” He turned to yellow shirt. “That goes for you too.”
“How about me?” Tommy Moran stood at the edge of the crowd, twirling his gun around his forefinger. He threw the weapon into the air and caught it behind his back, then spun it a few times and let it fall into the holster. “If they want to fight, let ’em fight.”
“They can fight outside.”
“I say let ’em fight here.”
“You don’t like the way I run this saloon, take it away from me.”
Moran expected to brace Stone, but Stone turned it around. The ex-West Pointer raised his palms above his gun grips. Moran was confused. Stone stepped toward him, Confederate cavalry hat slanted low over his eyes. Moran flashed on Antietam. He stared at Stone in disbelief. It couldn’t be!
