by Len Levinson
“Just the man I’m lookin’ fer,” Kincaid said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Tommy Moran.”
“I been here in this room all night,” Stone replied.
“That’s right,” Belle added. “We was in that bed, and I wouldn’t let him get away.”
Kincaid’s brow furrowed. Belle ordinarily wasn’t so brazen about her affairs. “What time you two go to bed?”
“Two in the mornin’. Stayed there until a half hour ago, ain’t that right, honey?”
“Sure is,” Stone replied.
“That all, Marshal?” Belle asked. “Let me introduce you to my new manager.”
Kincaid smiled thinly at Stone. “Comin’ up fast in this town, ain’t you?”
“Only stayin’ a month, Marshal. Got business in San Francisco.”
“Yer boss might have somethin’ to say about that. She is yer boss, ain’t she? She says jump, and you do it like a trained dog, am I right?”
Stone stood erectly in front of the dresser, shoulders squared. “That badge doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me.”
“Want me to take it off?”
“Up to you.”
“Watch yer step. You might get hit by a stray bullet someday, like Tommy Moran.”
“Where were you last night when Tommy Moran was shot?”
“I ask the questions, not you.”
“I’m the new city reporter for the Lodestone Gazette. Where were you when Tommy Moran got bushwhacked?”
“Kiss my ass.” Kincaid walked out the door. Belle waited until his footsteps could no longer be heard. “Why’d you rile him?” she asked Stone. “I tried to smooth everythin’ over, but you made it worse. Kincaid is dangerous. They say he used to be a gunfighter.”
“Who said that?”
“Feller passed through town once, said he knew him when.”
“Bet the feller didn’t hang around long.”
“Matter of fact he didn’t. But don’t mess with Kincaid. It ain’t healthy.”
“You stood up to him pretty well.”
“Nobody pushes Belle McGuinness around.”
“They don’t push around John Stone either.”
Her features softened. “That’s why we’re together. We’re the same kind of people.” She embraced him. “Oh, Johnny, I’m so glad I found you!”
~*~
The maid, Maxine Goines, escorted Marshal Kincaid to the door. She reached for the knob, he placed his hand on her wrist. “Somethin’ I want you to do fer me,” he said in a low voice.
Maxine was afraid of him. “What you want, Marshal? I’m awful busy right now.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar gold eagle. “I wanna know what Belle and her new beau talk about. You’ll get one of these every week, but you ever lie to me, I’ll kill you.”
“I don’t want no trouble, Mr. Marshal. Don’t gimme no money. I don’t hear nothin’ and I don’t know nothin’. I’m just the maid.”
He took her hand and forced the coin into it. “You’d better start findin’ out things, you want to go on livin’.”
~*~
Semi-clad whores left their doors open and hollered to each other across the hallways as they bathed. Slipchuck followed his broom from room to room.
“Hey there—you got a match?” a blonde asked.
“Why shore.” Slipchuck scratched a match on the seat of his pants. The whore held her cigarette in dainty fingers and puffed blue smoke.
“Do folks what work here git a special rate?” he asked.
“Special rate fer what?” she replied, glancing askance at him.
“You know what.” He winked. “A little lovin’.”
“You git yer pay, come see Sally. I’ll take good care of you.”
Slipchuck returned to the corridor and resumed sweeping. Kincaid strode toward him, puffing his corncob pipe. “Mornin’, Marshal. Gittin’ a li’l poontang are ye?”
“Not today,” Kincaid replied, descending the next flight of stairs.
A young whore wrapped in a towel approached from the far end of the corridor. She had long slim legs, the kind a man liked wrapped around his neck. Thank God she can’t see what I’m thinkin’.
She slapped him on the ass as she passed by. “Put yer eyes back in yer head, you old fart. Ain’t you never see’d girls a-fore?”
~*~
Stone crossed the floor of the Grand Palace Saloon. One roulette wheel, one chuck-a-luck, a few card games, not much doing. Drunks left over from last night snoring on tables while newcomers drank their first whiskey of the day. Stone checked liquor stocks, carried a few crates and kegs in from the still.
On his last trip, something at a corner table caught his eye. A young miner pulled out his gun. Stone set down the keg of beer, yanked his Colts. The miner turned the barrel around and pointed it to his head.
Stone ran toward him, dived, grabbed his wrist. The miner didn’t put up a struggle. He bowed his head and wept. Stone sat opposite him and examined his face, mid-twenties, short black beard, sorrow and fatigue in his eyes. “Want to talk about it?” Stone asked soothingly.
The miner shrugged. “Nothin’ to talk about. Went bust, what else?”
“You’re young, you can start out all over again. I happen to have a bartendering position open right here. When can you start?”
“It ain’t just me. I lost my paw’s money in the mine, an’ my girlfriend’s paw put in a bundle too. We’re all ruined. There ain’t no gold in that ground. Maybe was once, but not now.”
“I read about a strike in the Lodestone Gazette”
“All that rag prints is lies. I don’t know what I’m going to do. You should’ve let me kill myself while I was in the mood.”
“Won’t solve anything. I think you should accept my job offer. You’ve still got plenty of time to make something of yourself.”
“We all think we’ll hit the mother lode if we dig down through the next ledge. But all we ever do is dig, and throw money into that goddamn stinking hole in the ground.”
~*~
A Franciscan monk in a brown gown carried a big burlap bag marked BEANS to a wagon. A gentleman dressed like a Boston lawyer strolled along the sidewalk as if on Beacon Hill. A horse urinated into the gutter. Gail wrinkled her nose at the strong odor. The stamp mill slammed ore into powder on a hill in the distance.
The sidewalk was crowded, men armed to the teeth, but no one bothered her. They had the same swagger as lumberjacks in Maine. Men who weren’t afraid to fight. A whole town full of them. A few other women could be seen, modestly dressed. At the corner: GRAND PALACE.
She gazed at the imposing structure, biggest she’d seen in town so far. The second floor had a balcony, a few prostitutes sunning themselves. Gail wondered what their lives were like. They didn’t appear unhappy. Gail shuddered at the thought of giving herself to a man she didn’t love.
Music radiated through the walls and windows of the building. She heard a man shout for joy. A den of iniquity, no doubt about it. Maybe I can get a closer look. She wondered how to cross the muddy street. The other women lifted their skirts and plowed through.
She paused at the edge of the sidewalk and looked ahead apprehensively. A horse’s leg went in the muck halfway to his knee. I’ll never make it.
“Hello there, little lady. Wanna git across the street?”
She shielded her face with her hand and looked at a tall bearded miner wearing a floppy brimmed hat with a high round crown. “Mud’s too deep,” she said. “Think I’d better try at the corner.”
“Hell, I’ll take you acrost!”
Before she could open her mouth, he swept her off her feet. The only place to put her arms were around his neck. He plodded resolutely into the middle of the street. Gail felt violated in some way. She didn’t even know him! A gigantic ox turd lay half submerged in the muck. If she insisted he let her down, she’d sink up to her neck.
They reached the far side of the street. He set her dow
n. “You ever need somebody to carry you agin’, jest holler for Kevin McGeachy, hear?”
He tipped his hat and walked away.
She turned to the Grand Palace. The music was a reel. Men laughed heartily within the planked walls. The windows were covered with drapes. What goes on there?
Frightened and curious, Gail wanted to peep through the window, but a drunken miner might shoot her. She tried to imagine what it looked like, based on illustrations of western saloons she’d seen in magazines.
One of the Grand Palace doors opened. John Stone headed toward her, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes. She waved to him. “I was wondering what happened to you. Where’d you sleep last night?”
Stone pointed his thumb backward to the Grand Palace. He spent the night in a whorehouse? She didn’t know what to say.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked.
“Just taking a walk. How about you?”
“Got a job at the Grand Palace. Managing the saloon.”
“That was fast.”
“Sometimes it happens that way. Also working for the local newspaper. If you ever see a shooting, let me know. The editor is big on shootings.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a busy night.”
“Hope things settle down today. A man can only handle so much change.”
She glanced behind him at the Grand Palace. “What’s it like in there?”
“Big barn.”
“Gambling?”
“That’s the main reason for the place. Want to take a quick look?”
He caught her hand and led her toward the door. She dug in her heels, but he was too strong. A miner with a walrus mustache and buck teeth held the door, she swept into the murky depths of the Grand Palace Saloon.
First thing she saw was a chuck-a-luck wheel spinning and clacking. Miners watched the wheel avidly, chips piled high on the table. Other miners stood at long bars on three walls of the establishment. More miners gambled at tables, air stank of whiskey and tobacco smoke, floor filthy. A whore sat on a miner’s lap, his hand somewhere up her dress.
“Think I’ve had enough.”
“You just got here. The whole second floor’s a whorehouse.”
“Not today.” She headed toward the door.
“More people at night,” he said apologetically, “they have a stage show.”
Outside, she took a deep draught of fresh air. “Unhealthiest place I’ve ever been in.”
“Nothing else to do in a town like this except go to the saloon.” He saw the clock beside the Lodestone Savings Bank. “Got an appointment. Nice seeing you again.”
He strolled away, a frown on his face. Marie was in San Francisco, Belle in the Grand Palace, now he felt strong romantic feelings for Gail Petigru. A man’s an alley cat unless he controls his appetites.
Stone had a headache due to insufficient sleep and the champagne he’d drunk the previous night. He tried not to think about Marie, but she shimmered before him on the sidewalk, looking at him reproachfully. “I couldn’t help it,” he muttered. “I never claimed to be a saint.”
Angry at himself and the world, he made his way to the offices of the Lodestone Gazette. Impossible for a man to lead a decent life. Too many temptations. Haven’t seen Marie for seven years. What do you expect of me?
Your loyalty forever, Marie replied.
He remembered what Kevin McGeachy told him. All women nag. Even when they’re five hundred miles away. He wished he could escape Marie, but yearned for her. She could nag all she wanted, if they were together. His mind full of Marie, he’d forgotten the woman he’d just slept with.
~*~
Belle soaked in the bathtub, humming a tune. She felt lighthearted and young, bubbles bursting in the water around her. He had everything she wanted.
Won’t be easy to keep him, he’s younger than me, can’t tie a man like that down. But he feels something. A man can’t fake what he did. In all her days, never ran into anybody like him. She raised the mirror and looked at four red marks on her shoulder, left by his teeth. Was he like this with all women?
It began slow, but he stoked her fires until she was insane. The water was getting cool. “Maxine?” The only time I really need her is when I take a bath. Where the hell is she?
Belle climbed out of the bathtub, put on her robe. Dripping water to the floor, she made her way to the kitchen. No hot water on the stove, fire in the box dying down. “Maxine!” Belle worried that something had happened to her. She wandered through the top floor of the Grand Palace, calling her name.
Maxine had disappeared.
~*~
Bart Madden sat in his office, stock certificates piled around him, in the safe, in drawers. Most of what he owned was mining stock and real estate. This region needs another major strike. Then I’ll sell everything and get the hell out of here.
His clerk opened the door. “Marshal Kincaid to see you, sir.”
Madden wondered if it was time to give the marshal another payoff. The marshal’s wide shoulders filled the doorway, hadn’t bothered to take his hat off, a bad sign. The door closed behind him. Marshal Kincaid sauntered toward the desk and grinned. “Drifter name of John Stone spent the night with Belle McGuinness, accordin’ to testimony she just gave me.”
A needle of jealousy pierced Madden’s heart. He tried to find his voice, but Kincaid spoke first.
“I seen Stone with my own eyes in her bedroom. They was both half-undressed. Looked like they’d been a-goin’ at it all night. Never seen Belle a-lookin’ so satisfied.”
Madden kept himself under control with great difficulty. “I’m sure you didn’t come here just to retell cheap gossip, Marshal. What’s on your mind?”
Kincaid sat on the edge of the desk. “I know everything that goes on in this town. Belle was your woman, ain’t that right?”
“What’s it to you?”
“How’d you like to get rid of John Stone?”
“What do you mean, get rid of him?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Kill the son of a bitch. What say we hire somebody to shoot him down?”
Madden leaned back and folded his hands on his belly. “Got anybody in mind?”
“There’s a few good fellers in town, but John Stone is a fast hand. Heard he shot Tod Buckalew, one of the best in Kansas. We can’t send a local boy agin’ somebody like that. I heard Randy LaFollette’s in Denver. We could hire him for five hundred dollars.”
“Do we need the best? Can’t you find a few local guns to bushwhack him for less than that?”
“If he shot Tod Buckalew, he’s better’n anybody in this town. Don’t it bother you that he stole yer woman right out from underneath yer nose?”
Madden narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want him dead, Marshal? What’s he done to you?”
“None of yer goddamned business.”
“Must be quite interesting, I’d wager.”
“Don’t put yer nose where it don’t belong, Mr. Banker Man. Do we hire Randy LaFollette, or don’t we?”
“Can’t you get him cheaper?”
“You don’t bargain with The Undertaker. Pay his price or let John Stone keep a-screwin’ Belle McGuinness.”
Madden’s head felt as if somebody pounded it with a hammer. “I’ll go half with you,” he replied in a strangled voice. “Send Randy LaFollette a telegram.”
~*~
John Stone saw the sign: LODESTONE GAZETTE. It was mounted atop a boxy one-story building next to a forge, the blacksmith’s hammer beating contrapuntally to the pounding of the stamp mill. A group of men on horseback road by, splattering the cuffs of Stone’s pants with mud. Stone thought the big town disgusting, couldn’t wait to leave.
He crossed the street carefully, nearly losing his right boot in the muck. A rat scurried across the alley between the Gazette building and the shack on the other side, which sported a sign: GOLDEN NUGGET SALOON.
Stone opened the door of the Lodestone Gazette. Edgar Faraday sat at the
front desk, writing furiously on a notepad. In back, a man wearing a green visor worked a big four-legged press, smell of ink in the air. “Where’s your story, young man? Should’ve been on my desk two hours ago. Where the hell you been?”
Stone pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Got a new job.”
“Thought we had a deal?”
“Belle McGuinness offered me a hundred dollars a month to manage the Grand Palace.”
Faraday arose from his chair. “Journalism is a noble profession,” he said dramatically. “A newspaper is the conscience of a community. Would you rather sell whiskey and beer to drunken miners, or transform the course of history?”
“I’m trying to get to San Francisco as soon as possible. But a saloon might be the ideal spot for a newspaper reporter. Maybe I could handle both jobs. By the way, I was with Tommy Moran when he was shot last night. He said he was hired to gun me down.”
“Why should anybody want you killed?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Sit at the desk over there and write the story.”
“Got to get back to the Grand Palace. Been years since I wrote anything.”
“Just give me the facts. I’ll rewrite it. Circulation always goes up after a good shooting.”
“Is it true the mines’re tapped out?”
“Who told you that?”
“Somebody in the saloon.”
“Lots of rumors in a boom town. We only print the truth.”
“Might be something to follow up.”
Faraday looked exasperated. “I told you before, we don’t want depressing news. Folks are interested in dramatic incidents, like people getting shot and such.”
“If you found out the gold is gone, sell a lot of newspapers.”
“Sure, for a few weeks. Then there won’t be any town left. Getting too old for poverty, my boy. Give the people what they want. That’s what I say.”
“You think they don’t want to know the mines’re tapped out?”
“How do you know they’re tapped out? Might be ten tons of solid gold beneath this very building. Sit down and write your story.” Faraday flipped a ten-dollar coin at Stone. “Here’s another advance on your salary. We got a newspaper to publish.”
