by Len Levinson
“You going to fight?” Stone asked.
Moran tried to smile. But he’d met John Stone before. Moran cleared his throat. “They say only a fool mixes in other people’s fights.”
He turned away. Stone wondered why he backed off so suddenly. Customers gawked over the bar.
“Moran was skeered of him,” somebody said.
Moran heard the remark, his blood ran hot. But he couldn’t shoot John Stone.
“Thought Moran was tough,” another man sneered.
Moran never backed down in his life. But he was bewildered, frightened, shaken to the marrow of his bones. He burst out the door and walked swiftly away, seeking a dark quiet spot where he could be alone and think it through.
~*~
Stone returned to his favorite table. The saloon refilled with customers. Little black balls spun around roulette highways. Gamblers and miners threw their money down. A whore shrieked with delight as a drunken miner hugged her tightly.
One moment he wanted to kill me, the next moment looked like the saloon fell on him. Why’d he back down?
Belle lay naked in her bathtub, steam curling from the surface of the sudsy water. Flames roared in the fireplace, a cheroot stuck beneath her teeth, she leaned backward and closed her eyes.
Heat permeated her flesh and bones. She sighed contentedly, and thought of John Stone. More muscles than he knew what to do with. But Bart Madden had money and power. A woman can get anything she wants, if she’s smart.
Time, her worst enemy, skin not firm as five years ago, breasts didn’t stand up quite as proudly. But she knew old whores who earned more than younger ones. All in the technique.
If you can’t get a man one way, try another. John Stone would be a special treat after too many nights with the Bart Maddens of the world.
Beneath her harsh exterior, Belle McGuinness needed a man. But not everyone would do. John Stone was her type. They’d have a good time, and when it was over, go their separate ways. No point getting crazy over a man. None of them’re worth it.
~*~
Tommy Moran bit his knuckles so hard they bled. He sat on his bed in the hotel room, remembering Antietam. He served in the Third Provisional Brigade under General George Crook, and was hit by a squadron of Confederate cavalry during the second day of fighting.
A Confederate officer’s horse was shot out from underneath him only yards away, the officer thrown clear. The rebel commander drew his sword, shouted to his men, and charged on foot.
Moran knelt in a trench, aimed his rifle at the officer, and pulled the trigger. The cartridge didn’t fire, and the Confederate officer continued his forward movement. Moran jumped to his feet, bayonet affixed to the end of his rifle. He took the stance for close combat.
The Confederate officer didn’t stop. Moran thrust his rifle and bayonet toward him. The officer brought his saber down swiftly, whacking the rifle and bayonet out of the way. On the backswing, the officer crashed his sword into Moran’s ribs.
Moran was hurled to the ground. He rolled onto his back and looked up through a sea of pain at the Confederate officer raising his sword for the coup de grace.
The Confederate officer gazed down, then muttered something Moran couldn’t understand. The officer stepped over Moran’s prostrate body and walked away. Moran passed out afterward, woke up three days later at a field hospital, surrounded by dead and dying.
But he survived. He lifted his shirt and looked at the scar across his lumpy ribs. Back at the saloon, when he took a close-up look at John Stone, he saw the Confederate officer who’d spared his life at Antietam so many years ago.
That’s why he backed off. Couldn’t kill the man who gave his life back. He didn’t know what to do. Wherever he went, he might run into somebody who saw him turn yellow in Lodestone. Could haunt me for the rest of my life.
He was a gun for hire, but lived by a code. You don’t shoot somebody who saved your life. He took thirty dollars out of his pocket, felt like Judas Iscariot. The coins burned his hand, he wanted to fling them away. Give the money back and get out of town. Make a new start someplace else. Killing people didn’t make sense anymore. Whatever gave him the idea in the first place?
~*~
A portly man wearing a top hat and plaid vest approached John Stone’s table. “I’m Edgar Faraday, publisher of the Lodestone Gazette. May I join you?” He sat, crossed his chubby legs, pulled a notepad from an inner pocket of his frock coat. “Thought I’d get the story from the horse’s mouth, as it were. Your name’s John Stone? Could you describe to me, in your own words, what happened tonight?”
“Don’t have time.”
“I was referring specifically to the incident with Tommy Moran. I understand you backed him down.”
“You want the story, ask him.”
Faraday wore thick round spectacles perched on his minuscule nose, his teeth stained with the tobacco he constantly chewed. The odor of alcoholic beverages emanated from his being. He cocked an eye and examined Stone carefully.
“You sound like an educated man. Where’d you go to school?”
“Long time ago.”
“On the dodge?”
“Not yet.”
“Not very friendly. Would you rather I put on the front page that the man who shot Tod Buckalew is in town?”
“Who told you that?”
“Hard to remember. Happened so long ago.” Faraday winked.
“Every gun-crazy kid in town’ll try to shoot me.”
“Ever done newspaper work? I’ll pay you ten dollars a week more than you’re getting here.”
“I’m getting sixty dollars a month,” Stone lied.
“Seventy,” said Faraday.
Wheels spun in Stone’s mind. He wouldn’t have to fight the Grand Palace Saloon every night. In a month, San Francisco. His best offer so far. “I’ll need an advance, so I can get a hotel room.”
Faraday tossed him a ten dollar gold coin. Stone lit the lamp and held the coin to the light. Faraday spit a brown stream of tobacco juice at the nearest cuspidor, missed by three inches. “You can start by writing the story of what happened here, and don’t spare the details. I want to see every drop of blood. Glad to have you aboard. Put ’er there.” They shook hands. “You go to West Point?”
Stone was surprised by his sudden question. Faraday chuckled. “A newspaperman develops a sharp eye after many years observing humanity. I can see your Confederate officer’s campaign hat, and your confidence borders on arrogance. You’re a West Pointer down on your luck, am I right?”
“A newspaperman sees everything.” Stone removed the picture of Marie from his shirt pocket. “Ever run into this woman?”
Faraday adjusted his eyeglasses and held the picture up to the light. “Wish I met her. What’s she to you?”
“I’m on my way to meet her in San Francisco. Guess she didn’t stop off in Lodestone.”
“Would’ve noticed if she had. Pretty gal.”
A commotion broke out at the doors, the saloon invaded by women in high-necked black dresses, carrying signs:
REPENT DRUNKARDS COME TO THE LORD
One was lifted by her cohorts onto a table. She raised her black-gloved fist in the air and shouted: “Children are starving tonight, because of drink! Women weep in hovels, because of drink! The Lord God calls on all drunkards to repent! Even the vilest of you can be forgiven if you repent! The kingdom of God is within you, saith the Lord God! Throw away that accursed whiskey and follow me! Dedicate yourself to the will of the Lord!”
A roar of approval arose from the throats of stern-faced women, armed with signs, WHISKEY IS THE DEVIL’S BREW.
They accosted miners, whores, and cardsharps. A tubby little old lady waddled toward Stone, her face pinched by years of bitterness and anger. “Drunkard!” she hollered at Stone. “You’ll meet your death at the bar!”
Stone remembered something an old cowboy told him once. If you git into an argument with a woman, grab yer hat and run.
&n
bsp; Stone plunged into the crowd. Another woman loomed up in front of him. “Repent!” She kicked him in the shins.
Edgar Faraday ran for cover. “I want the full story on my desk by nine in the morning, and don’t leave out the details!”
A biddy hit Stone across the spine with a chair. “Deserter of babes! Violator of young maidens!”
Stone crawled on all fours toward the back door. A woman with a face like a prune dumped a pitcher of beer over his head. He jumped to his feet, joining a crowd of men fleeing in panic. The woman standing on the table waved her arms hysterically and shrieked: “You’ll burn in hell forever, dirty rum-soaked pigs! The Devil’s got his hold on you, but Baby Jesus holds out His merciful hand! Accept His wonderful invitation! If you follow Jesus, He’ll never let you down!”
A drunkard lying in a pool of vomit on the floor hollered in sobbing pain: “He let me down a hundred times! There ain’t no Jesus! We’re all alone here!”
She pointed her long finger at him. “Look at you up to your ears in filth! That’s what happens to the man who trades his faith in the Lord for a bottle of cheap rotgut whiskey!”
A deep barreling woman’s voice replied from the top of the stairs: “It’s the best whiskey in the Rockies!” Belle stood resolutely in a white-and-red-striped satin dress, rifle in her hands.
The preacher woman glowered at her. “There she is, the whore of Babylon herself! The Devil’s seed! She’s made widows and orphans! Sucked the blood of this community Yet the Lord will forgive even this woman if she falls down and repents! Though her sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow!”
Belle pointed her rifle at the lady preacher. “You take their money and give ’em a two-bit sermon! I give ’em the best pour in town, the best steaks in the Rockies, and if Jesus came to Lodestone tomorrow, first spot he’d visit would be the Grand Palace!”
The lady preacher trembled with barely concealed rage. “Blasphemy! You’ll boil in everlasting hell! Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain! She’s the Devil’s bride, ladies and gentlemen! You know her past! She fornicated for pennies beside the railroad tracks when this town was founded! Filth and corruption are in her soul! Turn away from her, my friends! The Lord God calls to you from His holy tabernacle!”
Belle looked magnificent at the top of the stairs, her fabulous full figure illuminated by light from the nearby chandelier. The preacher lady, slender, no trace of cosmetics, not more than forty, her eyes ablaze with the deep conviction that God spoke to her.
“How can she sleep at night? Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got to run her out of town! Send her forth into the wilderness! Let her lay with animals and snakes!”
“D’rather lay with animals and snakes than with you! I’m a-gittin’ sick of this goddamn circus! This is private property! Where’s my bouncer?”
Her eyes roved the crowd, and fell on John Stone. “Throw her the hell out of here!”
Belle spun around and walked away. Stone hadn’t time to tell her he was the new reporter for the Lodestone Gazette. They’d laugh if he ran from a woman. And such an unreasonable holier-than-thou crow she was too. She reminded Stone of a schoolmarm he had.
“Who is she?” Stone asked the miner standing beside him.
“Reverend Rebecca Hawkins, First Christian Assembly.”
He walked toward her, and caught her eye. She pointed at him as he approached. “Do you see this man!” she screeched. “He’s the Roman soldier who nailed Christ to the cross. You pay him, he’ll use the strength God gave him against the people of God! He just does his duty like a soldier! He even wears an old soldier’s hat! But we’re not afraid of him, because we’re the Christian soldiers of the Lord God Almighty!”
A solid phalanx of upright religious women formed before Rebecca Hawkins, arms crossed over their breasts. Stone stopped. How could he get through?
They advanced toward him. He couldn’t fight an army of women! Run while you’ve got the chance. The women stepped closer, eyes narrowed with hate.
Something growled at his feet. He looked down and saw the mangy spotted hound who’d gnawed a bone earlier. The mutt glowered at the women, their turn to stop. The dog trudged forward, snarling deep in his throat. Long teeth flashed in the light of lanterns. The women made way for him, Stone followed toward the table where Reverend Hawkins stood, expression of fear growing on her face.
Stone grabbed her thin waist, she tried to kick him, he turned her on her side and carried her like a log toward the nearest door.
“You’ll roast in the ovens of Hell! They’ll boil you in oil till the end of time! Imps will pull off your nose and ears! You’ll be an abomination in the eyes of the Lord!”
A grateful miner opened the door. Stone carried her onto the front veranda of the Grand Palace and set her down. A few women made aggressive motions toward Stone, but the dog snarled. The preacher lady quivered with rage. “He’s the Devil’s spawn!” she cried, pointing at Stone. “One day the Devil will claim him!”
~*~
Marshal Kincaid felt an elbow in his ribs. “Somebody’s at the door,” his wife mumbled, half asleep. “Dig the dirt out’n yer ears, maybe you’d hear somethin’.”
He opened his eyes. The sound of tapping came to his ears. “Whozzat?”
“One way to find out,” his wife replied. “Get up off’n yer ass and go downstairs.”
He rolled out of bed in his long Johns, pulled on his pants, stepped into high-topped boots. Then he strapped on his six-gun. His wife returned to slumber, her rump like a mountain in the middle of the bed.
He descended the stairs. The door knocked again. He reached the main floor and paused, gun in hand. Tommy Moran stood before him, an agitated expression in his eyes.
“Brought your money back.” Moran held the coins in his palm. “Couldn’t do it.”
“Why in hell not?”
“We met before,” Moran said mysteriously.
“You and Stone?”
“Can’t shoot him. Get somebody else.”
Kincaid accepted the coins. “You’ll never work for me again.”
“My gun ain’t for hire no more, so we’re even. I’ll be a-leavin’ town tonight. Nice to know you.”
Moran walked away. Kincaid dropped the coins into his pocket, closed the door. He climbed the stairs, thinking of what Moran said. The gunfighter looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Kincaid entered the bedroom. His wife rolled over and said, “Who was it?”
“Mistake.”
She patted the mattress beside her. “Come to bed.”
He reached for his gunbelt buckle, his hands froze. If Moran went round the bend, no telling what he might say. The whole house of cards could come tumbling down. Marshal Kincaid reached into the closet for a shirt. Some jobs a man has to do himself.
~*~
The dog followed Stone into the kitchen. A Negro with a mustache fried steaks and potatoes at the big stove. Stone reached into a tubful of meat and pulled out the biggest porterhouse he could find. He dropped it onto a plate. “This is for you,” he said to the dog. He filled a bowl with water and set it beside the plate.
The saloon was half-full, the night winding down. A drunkard lay underneath a table. Another slept against a wall. Stone knew all about it, spent many nights in saloons.
He didn’t feel better sober, but at least his head was clear. He didn’t have to worry about walking into walls, or shooting himself by mistake. Sobriety provided a sense of security. He could handle anything.
Belle told him to stop by. He climbed the stairs. On the second floor, a lone figure kneeled before a door, peering through the keyhole. Slipchuck glanced guiltily at Stone, then pretended to be searching for something on the floor.
“Lost me hankie,” Slipchuck said.
“Somebody catches you looking through keyholes, liable to put a bullet through your head.”
Slipchuck held his finger in front of his lips and whispered, “What you doin’ up here? Lookin’ fer poont
ang?”
“Got to see the boss lady.”
Slipchuck’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “How come?”
“Business, I guess.”
“All the wimmin’s after you, Johnny boy. Wish I could be in yer boots.”
Stone climbed to the third floor. Fatigue took the spring from his knees. He hoped the boss lady wouldn’t keep him up too long. Not in the mood for a woman giving orders.
He came to the third floor, door straight ahead, brass rapper. He slammed it three times. Silence. Maybe gone to sleep. The door opened on a gorgeous Negro maid.
“Mr. Stone?” she asked. “Miss McGuinness is waiting for you in the parlor. Would you follow me, please?”
She led him through an anteroom and corridor, walls covered with gaudy oil paintings of landscapes, seascapes, nymphs, nude men and women frolicking in gardens. They came to an immense room with three sofas arranged around a fireplace filled with roaring logs. Belle sprawled on a sofa, wearing a black gown with low décolletage, cheroot in one hand, champagne glass in the other.
“Look who’s here,” she said in her husky voice. “Sit down and have some bubbly.”
Above the fireplace hung an oil painting of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree. Lamps and candelabra burned on the mantel, four rifles mounted on a rack near the window, the head of a buffalo stared across the room at a painting of Napoleon leading the charge at Austerlitz.
Heat blasted from the fireplace. Stone loosed the bandanna around his neck. She lay resplendent beside him, silk gown revealing every curve of her body, including nipples and naval. She was practically naked. His right hand trembled.
An intoxicating perfume arose from her body. “I said, have some bubbly.” She pointed to the bottle in the bucket.
“Don’t drink,” he replied.
“Little bubbly won’t hurt you.”
She raised herself to a sitting position, leaned toward him, poured champagne into his glass. He could see all the way to the deepest secrets of her bosom. Her perfume was devastating. She handed him the effervescent liquid. “Here’s to the new manager of the Grand Palace Saloon. Pays a hundred dollars a month.”
