Boom Town (A Searcher Western

by Len Levinson

  ~*~

  Marshal Kincaid entered the train station. Travelers with luggage sat on benches, waiting for the afternoon train to Denver. Nailed to the wall was a print of a locomotive puffing steam. A man with a white mustache sat in a cage, reading a timetable.

  Marshal Kincaid opened the door beside the cage. Bags of mail and crates were stacked on the floor of the back room, a man weighed a parcel on a scale. Against the right wall, an operator slept beside the telegraph key. Marshal Kincaid shook his shoulder.

  “Got a message to send,” Kincaid said, dropping a sheet of paper on the desk. The telegrapher read the scrawled words.

  To: Randy LaFollette, Crown Hotel, Denver Assignment in Lodestone. Standard rate. Begin immediately. Marshal Kincaid

  “Don’t tell anybody about this telegram,” Kincaid said. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  ~*~

  Belle stepped onto the veranda of the Grand Palace, the bright mountain sunlight seared her eyes. She seldom left the building, but today had something to do.

  She was the most notorious, richest woman in town. Her clothing followed the style of New York, she was bedecked with jewels, wore no cosmetics, face pale as fine Italian marble, lips thinner and more subtly curved. She might be a young mother, the wife of a prominent citizen, actress at the Lodestone Opera House, instead of an ex-prostitute.

  Accompanied by Boggs, her bodyguard, no one dared say a word. He wore a derby hat with suit and vest, but needed a shave, his hair unruly, brown eyes suspicious. Belle picked up her dress as she maneuvered over boards thrown on the mud in the street. On the other side, she saw a sign: GUNS.

  Behind the counter, a man with white chin whiskers folded his copy of the Lodestone Gazette. “Howdy, Miss McGuinness,” said Homer Tomlinson nervously, because he’d been one of her customers in the old days. “What can I do fer you?”

  “Like to buy a derringer.”

  “What price range?”

  “Don’t matter.”

  He pulled a tray of derringers out of the display case. The tiny lethal weapons lay on purple velvet. Her eyes fell on a gold-plated Remington over-and-under with mother-of-pearl grips. She picked it up and held it in her dainty hand.

  “Good choice,” he said. “Gives you that extra shot. Comes with a leather pouch on a thong.” He held it up. “Don’t need a pocket or a purse. Just hang it ’round yer neck. Want some ammunition?”

  “One box.”

  He told her the price. She nodded to Boggs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out coins.

  “I’d like to have the barrel engraved,” Belle said.

  “Take care of it for you,” said Tomlinson. He passed her paper and a pen.

  She wrote:

  to Johnny

  with love always

  from Belle

  ~*~

  Rebecca Hawkins knelt before a bare cross in her living room, praying since dawn. She was the daughter of a preacher who’d gone mad and had to be put away, her mother a well-known religious fanatic who convinced her to fight the devil constantly. You shall know him by his fruit.

  She clasped her hands tightly in prayer, her knees hurt, trying to starve the pleasurable memory of her butt resting in John Stone’s arms. A knock on the door. For a moment, Rebecca didn’t know where she was. Her devotions transported her to far-off places. She opened the front door.

  Mrs. Marples pointed her umbrella toward the center of town. “The whore is flaunting herself in broad daylight! Miss Hawkins, we can’t let her get away with it!”

  ~*~

  John Stone saw the sign: ASSAYER’S OFFICE. It hung over a door on the second floor. He climbed the stairs on the outside of the building and looked over the town. Buildings extended into the foothills of nearby mountains denuded of trees for the stamp mill. An eagle flew across the sky. What did it think of the huge metropolis in the mountains? Beside the door was a nameplate:

  Jonas Brodbent Assayer and Engineer

  A short bald man with black sideburns sat at a rolltop desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ m John Stone, reporter for the Lodestone Gazette. Wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  Brodbent smiled, showing monkey teeth. “Always glad to help your fine publication. Don’t believe I’ve seen you before. New in town?”

  “Heard rumors the mines’re tapped out in this area. When’s the last time a good new strike was reported?”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “Name me a mine that struck gold in the last month.”

  “Can’t think of any off the top of my head. They change so often. Buy and sell each other.”

  “Do you remember the name of a person who struck it rich?”

  Brodbent held out his hands. “I don’t keep track of stuff like that. All I do is test samples.”

  “You know what I think? This town’s gone bust, but doesn’t know it yet.”

  Brodbent leaned forward in his chair. “You print that lie, you’re in trouble. That’s friendly advice. I’d take it, I were you.”

  “You’re not me.”

  Stone descended the stairs. A wagon full of crates rolled by, pulled by a team of oxen. The bullwhacker cracked his whip. “Git on, you sons of bitches!”

  Stone’s worst suspicions were confirmed by Brodbent’s reaction to his comments. If an assayer can’t furnish evidence of gold ore, maybe there isn’t any. Next stop City Hall, where records of mines are kept.

  ~*~

  “There it is, ma’am,” said Tomlinson, handing the derringer to Belle.

  She read the engraving. “You did a good job.”

  “I hope the gentleman appreciates the kindness of your gesture.”

  “He don’t, I’ll shoot his ass.”

  He wrapped the derringer in brown paper and handed it to Boggs, who dropped it into his carpetbag. There was a furor behind her in the street.

  “What’s goin’ on out there!” She walked to the window and looked outside. The street was full of women in black dresses, led by Rebecca Hawkins. They formed a barricade between her and the Grand Palace.

  “There she is!” hollered the preacher lady, pointing to the pale face in the window of the store. “The whore of Babylon!”

  Frightened, Belle took a step backward, a scream of victory arose from the throats of the women. But Belle’s moment of shame passed. “They’re a-screwin’ with the wrong woman.” She turned to Tomlinson. “You got a double-barreled shotgun?”

  “Don’t want no trouble!” he protested, holding up his hands.

  “Sell me a shotgun, or my man here’ll beat the livin’ shit out of you!”

  Tomlinson looked at Jamie Boggs, muscles bursting the seams of his suit. In the street, the woman chanted: “Whore—Whore—Whore!”

  Belle banged her fist on the counter. Her rage came on like a hurricane. “Where’s that shotgun! I ain’t got all day!”

  Tomlinson also hated the religious women. He reached toward the wall and took down a double-barreled shotgun. “Already loaded. You’ll blow a hole right through the middle of ’em.”

  Belle wheeled and faced the door. “I’ll lead the way, Jamie. If they try to stop me, pick up the pieces.”

  Jamie motioned frantically, making gurgling sounds.

  “I know you want to go first,” she replied, “but this is my fight. I don’t hide behind men when I’m a-fightin’ women!”

  She yanked open the door angrily and leveled the shotgun at the mob of religious ladies arrayed before her.

  “There she is!” Rebecca yelled. “The Devil’s bride herself! We’ve got her cornered!”

  Every man in the vicinity ran for his life at the sight of a woman with a shotgun. Rebecca and her assembly stood defiantly, fists self-righteously down their sides.

  Belle walked across the planked sidewalk. The women gathered shoulder to shoulder, black skirts hanging in mud. Belle became angrier with every passing second. Straight-laced bitches. A good solid screw’d kill any one of them
. Belle descended the stairs. Her boots sank in the mud to her ankles.

  The women surged forward, led by Rebecca. Belle leveled the shotgun at her. “You try to stop me,” Belle cried, eyes flashing lightning bolts, “I’ll blow you to Hell!”

  Rebecca pointed her long bony finger at her. “Who knows Hell better than the Whore of Babylon! Listen to her—hell spills out her filthy mouth! You heard her with your own ears! She’s the devil’s daughter! Don’t let her get away!”

  “I’m a-crossin’ this road!” Belle retorted. “Anybody tries to stop me, I’ll shoot!” Belle’s face was deadly as she took her first step. At her side, Jamie tried to form words.

  “Go ahead and kill me!” Rebecca screamed. “I’ll fly to heaven on the wings of doves!”

  Rebecca stormed toward Belle, a collision inevitable. Belle raised the barrel of the shotgun and tightened her finger around the trigger. Rebecca’s eyes closed in bliss, a faint smile wreathed her stark features. The bitch thinks she’s going to heaven, Belle thought. She’s crazy! Belle eased off the trigger.

  Mrs. Shaughnessy screeched. “She’s afraid of God’s children! She’s a-runnin’ from us!”

  Belle dug her left foot into the ground behind her, aimed at Rebecca again. “I don’t run from nobody. If you’re crazy enough to come at me, I’m crazy enough to blow yer goddamned fool head off.”

  Rebecca’s eyes blurred. The shotgun in Belle’s hand became the infant Jesus. “Behold the handmaiden of God,” Rebecca whispered.

  “One more step,” Belle warned, “you’re a dead woman.”

  Rebecca couldn’t hear through choirs of angels singing in her head. She reached for the babe, Belle tightened her finger on the trigger.

  Something crashed into her. The shotgun fired like twin cannons. Windows rattled in the Grand Palace. Belle sat in the mud, looking up at Marshal Kincaid.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on!”

  Belle got in the first word. “Them bitches’re tryin’ to keep me out of my establishment!”

  “Whorehouse, you mean!” Rebecca replied, back to her senses. “If there was law in this town, this woman would be hanged!”

  Kincaid turned to her. “Belle’s got a right to walk where she wants. You keep it up, I’ll put you in jail. I’m a-gonna tell you one last time. Clear yer women out of the street, or you’ll be arrested.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Kincaid motioned to his deputies. “She’s under arrest!”

  Two men in blue grabbed her arms, she struggled to break loose. The women swarmed over the deputies. One scratched four sharp fingernails across Kincaid’s face. Another kicked his shins. He fell to the mud. A terrific melee erupted in the middle of the street, stopping traffic.

  Jamie scooped Belle up in his arms and ran toward the front veranda of the Grand Palace. On the second-floor balcony, whores cheered him on. Slipchuck jumped up and down excitedly, waving both fists in the air.

  Two black-garbed women tried to block their path. “Don’t let the whore of Babylon get away!”

  “Keep goin’!” Belle hollered to Jamie. “Don’t stop now!”

  Jamie plowed into them, a woman swung her umbrella at Belle’s head. Belle caught the instrument in her left hand, drove a sharp right jab into the woman’s face. The woman fell back, as her partner tore at Belle’s clothes. Belle gave her a backhand smack in the mouth, sent her reeling. Jamie jumped onto the front veranda of the Grand Palace. A smiling bartender opened the door, Jamie carried his boss into her fortress, dress torn and splattered with mud.

  In the street, women beat deputies with umbrellas. Belle placed her hands on her hips and laughed heartily. Her voice carried out the door.

  The tumult ended as suddenly as it began. Everyone turned to Belle.

  “She who laughs now,” hollered Rebecca, “will cry later! Those who are high will be brought low! Like Sodom and Gomorrah, this building will be destroyed!” She looked around. I’ve got their attention again. O Lord, make them listen to me. She felt dizzy, reached to one of her women for support. “Gentlemen—don’t go near this place! It’s the Devil’s house! That woman may be beautiful in the flesh, but putrid in the spirit! Turn away from sin! Never drink the Devil’s brew! Come with me now, let us pray for the destruction of this evil place!”

  She bowed her head, imagined everyone praying with her. Together, they’d blow down the walls of Jericho.

  “Take more’n a prayer to tear this place down!” Belle replied. “The Grand Palace was built by the smartest carpenters, and we got the oldest whiskey, prettiest girls, best musicians, and most fun west of the Mississippi! Plenty of room fer ev’rybody! Drinks on the house!”

  A roar arose from the crowd stampeding like cattle toward the doors. Rebecca opened her eyes. Men elbowed each other in their haste to get inside the hellhole. The preacher lady rose to her feet. Another unanswered prayer. When will You show Yourself to me?

  Chapter Six

  Jonas Brodbent entered Madden’s office. “The new reporter for the Lodestone Gazette just said the gold’s petered out, and he’s going to write about it! You’d better talk with Faraday right away!”

  “Who’s the new reporter?”

  “John Stone.”

  Madden stared into space. “What’s he look like?”

  “Dangerous. On his way to City Hall to check records.”

  “He won’t find anything there.”

  “Maybe it’s time to salt another mine.”

  “Been thinking about that myself. You know somebody who’ll take care of it?”

  “Got just the man. You’d better have a talk with Faraday in the meantime.”

  “Tell him I want to speak with him, and don’t worry about the story. It won’t be written.”

  ~*~

  City Hall, a two-story wooden building in the center of Lodestone, sat opposite a park with benches and a flagpole flying Old Glory. In the land registration office, an elderly man with thick eyeglasses sat behind a desk and scratched a pen on paper. A map of the territory hung on the wall. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just hit town,” replied Stone. “Wonder if you could show me where gold’s been discovered lately. Want to get close to the mother lode as I can.”

  The old man shrugged. “I knew where the mother lode was, I’d be digging with the rest of them.”

  “Thought I read in the Lodestone Gazette about a gold strike a few days ago.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. You want to know about gold, go to the stamp mill. That’s where they extract the stuff. The foreman should be able to tell you where the best samples’re comin’ from, but there’s no guarantee you’ll find gold there. Might be a million dollars underneath your chair, nothing beneath mine. Used to be a prospector myself, lost my shirt. But don’t let me discourage you. Millionaires were made in this territory.”

  “Name one.”

  “Jacob Sloat. Lives on the top floor of the Sheffield. Joe Grigsby’s up there too. So’s Jeff Depew. They’re the first to strike it rich in Lodestone.”

  “No strikes since then?”

  “A man could make his boodle and leave without saying anything. You want to find out about gold, ask at the stamp mill. That’s where it all ends up sooner or later.”

  ~*~

  Jonas Brodbent saw John Stone walk out the front door of City Hall. The assayer ducked into an alley, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He circled, entered the rear door of City Hall, climbed stairs to the second floor, and found the old man bent over his desk in the land registration office.

  “You talk to John Stone?” Brodbent asked.

  “You look like you’re gonna have a conniption fit, Jonas. What the hell’s wrong?”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Go to the stamp mill.”

  Brodbent blew out the corner of his mouth. “Don’t ever tell anybody about the stamp mill. John Stone’s a newspaper reporter, trouble’s his middle name. Anybody asks you again, th
e hills’re full of gold.”

  “That were so, the whole world’d be here.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  ~*~

  Rebecca sat on a stiff-backed unpadded wooden chair, the Bible balanced on her bony knees. I held the crowd in the palm of my hand, but the Devil’s daughter bested me.

  The preacher lady dropped to her knees. Why did you let it happen, God? What do you want of me? She hadn’t eaten all day, she was woozy, thirsty, but refused to surrender. God snowed displeasure because she lusted for a man. We’re made perfect through suffering.

  She folded the Bible under her arm, headed for her bedroom. Curtains covered the windows, she undressed in the darkness. A thick leather belt studded with nails jutted into the flesh around her waist. She unfastened the buckle, a few rows of nails pulled away from her body, revealing scabs and festering pustules. Sucking in her stomach, she tightened the belt two notches, nearly fainting from constrictive pressure.

  Barely able to breathe, she dropped her black dress over her head and buttoned the bodice. Pain washed up and down her body. She fell to her knees and whispered: “Thank you for the gift of your suffering, O Lord.”

  ~*~

  Patricia sat in her living room, crocheting a cat onto a pillowcase. Should I go back to Maine? They’ll say I couldn’t keep my husband. Look how fat she got.

  Tempted toward the kitchen, she could choose between chicken, cake, leftover mashed potatoes, ham. Her mouth watered. She forced herself to remain seated, hefty legs visible in the folds of her skirt. The struggle was constant. Sometimes she won, sometimes she lost. To hell with it. Maybe some people need more food than others.

  Gail and Patricia entered the hall corridor at the same moment. “I just had the most wonderful walk!” Gail declared. “What an interesting town! I even saw a riot in front of the Grand Palace, that place you told me not to go!”

  “A riot? Was anybody hurt?”

  “A miracle somebody wasn’t killed.” Gail walked into the living room, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “That woman Belle McGuinness was in the middle of it! I thought she was going to shoot a strange religious woman in a black dress, all she needed was a broomstick!”