by Len Levinson
“Miss Rebecca Hawkins, our local lunatic. In any other city in America, they’d have her in an asylum, but in Lodestone, she walks around like everybody else, ranting and raving. Why was Belle McGuinness going to shoot her?”
“Missed the first part. I think you’re wrong about Belle McGuinness, Patricia. Never saw a woman like her. She was ready to take on the crowd. She would’ve killed, do you understand? She’s a wonderful human being!”
Patricia collapsed onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. Gail sat beside her sister and placed her arm around Patricia’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Even my kid sister’s on the enemy’s side. Patricia wiped her nose with a hankie.
“Momma used to say sometimes it’s better if you tell someone,” Gail reminded her.
“Bart’s having a love affair with Belle McGuinness.”
Gail stared wide-eyed at the far wall. She’d heard about things like this happening in the best of families, but not hers. “I’m sorry.”
Patricia dabbed her eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t blame Belle McGuinness. Maybe it’s my fault, because I’ve become such a fat pig.”
“It’s not your fault. How long has Bart been seeing her?”
“Just found out recently. He buys her gifts.”
“Get a divorce. You’re still beautiful, Patricia. You could get married again. Lose a few pounds ...”
~*~
Edgar Faraday hustled down the sidewalk, carrying his briefcase, stovepipe hat askew on his head. His breath came in short gasps and his chest felt tight, the usual symptoms accompanying the possible loss of advertising revenue.
Madden’s bank advertised heavily in the Lodestone Gazette, and every time Madden formed a new company, its existence was announced with an ad. Faraday was anxious to clear up the mess, go on to the more rewarding task of publishing his crusading newspaper.
He arrived at the Lodestone Savings Bank. Madden sat behind his desk, puffing a cigar as he shuffled papers. “Have a seat.”
Faraday dropped to a chair. Madden looked at him. “Fire John Stone.”
“But he’s the best reporter I’ve had in years.”
Madden cringed beneath the compliment for his archrival.
“He asks too many questions, makes unfounded allegations, such as this region’s tapped out.”
Faraday turned on his old newspaperman’s charm. “I decide what goes into the paper, Mr. Madden. You can be sure I’d never print any unfounded allegations. Besides, he has a second job. Manager of the Grand Palace Saloon. I fire him, he’ll spend more time with Belle. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Does everybody know? Madden thought. “Changed my mind. Give Stone more assignments, keep him busy. But if one disparaging remark about the economic prospects of this region ever appears in your newspaper, you’ll end up on your obituary page.”
“Lodestone is the fastest growing community in the Rockies,” Faraday replied. “Chances are we’ll be here after Denver’s gone and forgotten. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper to get out.”
~*~
Belle McGuinness paced her living room, scowling. She wore a black gown embossed with gold lion heads, hair piled high upon her head. Every time she passed the bottle of whiskey, she paused for a drink.
She thought of Rebecca Hawkins humiliating her in front of the whole town. The dirty-faced daughter of a whore cringed, afraid to go out and play because the other kids made fun of her.
She’d been terrified in front of the Grand Palace. Crazy woman, dried-up old witch, can’t take a walk without her jumping all over me. Belle stamped her foot on the floor. I know what she needs.
Her hand trembled as she raised the glass to her bright red lips. Half in the bag, not even noon yet, because of that damned harpy. Belle dreaded seeing her again. Afraid I’ll kill the bitch.
The triggers of the shotgun a tiny fraction from fire, I’d be the first woman in Lodestone to hang. It’s frightening to lose control. If I see that woman again, God help both of us.
She carried the bottle and glass to the sofa and sat heavily on the cushions. I can’t hide in this goddamn building for the rest of my life, because of that prune. Can’t put up with it any longer.
She closed her eyes. The soft cushions swallowed her beautiful round behind. I’ve come too far to let anybody get in my way. She remembered the sad-faced little girl in a ragged dress, surrounded by taunting children throwing stones. A sob escaped from her throat. “She’ll never do it to me again.”
~*~
Patricia poured tea from a white glazed pot. On the other side of the low round table, Gail bit into an oatmeal cookie. “I forgot to tell you! I ran into that fellow John Stone, the former Confederate officer.”
“The good-looking one?”
“In the space of one day, he’s become manager of the Grand Palace Saloon! Can you imagine? He gave me a tour of the place.”
Patricia stopped stirring her tea. “You went inside the Grand Palace?”
“He said it was safe, because killings usually happen only at night. You’ve heard the expression den of iniquity? That’s exactly what it was. Filthy, dark, smelly, full of the dregs of humanity, but I felt safe with John Stone. I sort of invited him to dinner tonight. Would you rather he didn’t come? I guess I have no right to invite people into your home.”
“If you want him to come, it’s all right with me.”
“I’ll go to the Grand Palace and leave a message.”
“Don’t ever chase a man. They won’t respect you.”
“John Stone’s not like that.”
“I think you’ve got a crush on him.”
“Don’t be silly. I hardly know the man. We’re just friends, that’s all.”
“There’s a messenger service we use. I’ll show you how it works.”
Patricia wrote the invitation, folded it, and put it into an envelope addressed to JOHN STONE. Gail followed Patricia to the back porch, a bell mounted on a wall. Patricia rang the clapper.
“Poor Negro children live in shacks on the other side of town,” Patricia explained. “They run my errands.”
Gail looked at hazy peaks on the horizon. “We think our Maine mountains are big, but they’re foothills here. The West is an incredible immensity.”
“See any injuns yet?”
“Sort of ratty, I thought.”
“Kill you in a minute, and you won’t even know what happened.”
“Can’t be worse than those robbers on the train. John Stone was the only man who stood up for me.”
“He’s brave or crazy. Sure you know which?”
“He’s a real southern gentleman.”
A small figure rounded the corner of a building straight ahead, running at top speed toward Gail and Patricia. He wore ragged clothes and patched boots, nappy black hair clipped short, face smudged with dirt,’ he came to a stop in front of the porch. “Ma’am?”
Patricia handed him the envelope. “Give this to John Stone at the Grand Palace.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Real tall. He’s the new manager.”
“I’ll find ’im, ma’am. You can count on me.”
Patricia handed him a coin. “When you come back with his answer, I’ll give you something to eat, all right?”
He ran away on skinny legs. The sisters returned to the living room. “I hope John Stone is free,” said Gail.
“A bachelor will always accept a dinner invitation, because he knows he’ll have a decent meal that night.”
~*~
A gentleman in a dark suit crossed the lobby of the Crown Hotel in Denver. “Anything for me?” he asked the desk clerk.
“This just came in, Mr. LaFollette.”
Randy LaFollette tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his frock-coat jacket. He had a slim nose, black hair parted on the side, a mustache, one gold front tooth.
His room was silent and dark, cigar smoke and ladies’ perfume permeated everyt
hing. He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, illuminating a black-tressed woman lying naked atop the-bed. “You order breakfast?” she asked.
“I’d never let you go hungry, Amanda dear.”
She rolled out of bed. He read the telegram, his face expressionless. Assignment in Lodestone.
“Going away again?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Not too far this time. Be home in a few days.” His face constructed of finely chiseled bones, his every movement bespoke elegance. She loved him, but he was a gunfighter. One day he’d come home in a box.
~*~
John Stone approached the big barn-like stamp mill. A face appeared in a window, sank out of sight. Rotted stumps everywhere, huge forests decimated to keep the mill running, terrific din, air full of acrid smoke. The secret to Lodestone was inside that building. He opened the door.
Six thick steel posts pounded up and down. A system of pulley and leather belts ran along the ceiling. In the middle of the floor, two rows of amalgamating pans with revolving mullers swished water mixed with pulverized ore. Workers pushed wheelbarrows, greased machinery, weighed minerals, wrote on notepads.
Something prompted Stone to look up. A sledgehammer fell toward him! He dived out of the way, the sledgehammer slammed into the floor where he’d stood. Another two seconds, he would have worn it for a hat.
A worker sat high in the rafters. “Sorry!”
Stone picked himself off the floor and dusted his clothes. A heavyset man with short red beard walked toward him.
“What can I do fer you?”
“Just wondering what quality of ore is coming through here.”
“Highest grade.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“He’p yerself.”
The foreman strolled away, but Stone didn’t know what to look for. The air had a bitter chemical odor. Workers shook a fine shower of quicksilver into the amalgamating pans. Others added coarse salt and sulphate of copper. The steel stamps shook the building incessantly.
Stone asked a workman in a dirty apron: “How much gold you getting out of this ore.”
“Talk to the boss.” The man applied a wrench to a pipe joint beneath the pans. A thick jet of steam spewed at Stone, he dodged a moment before being scalded.
“Where’s the boss?”
“Second floor.”
Stone climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, turned the knob. Locked. He descended to the ground level, a group of workers formed below, carrying axes, hammers, a variety of tools.
A man nearly big as he, in a dirty leather apron and no shirt, massive hairy arms folded over his chest, stood at the bottom. Stone reached the last step.
“Get out of here,” said leather apron.
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
Leather apron swung his fist at Stone’s head. Stone ducked, then hooked a solid right to leather apron’s jaw. Staggered, eyes rolling around in his head, the bulky man wondered what world he was in. Stone pushed him out of the way and headed for the door.
Rushing footsteps behind him, he spun around and pulled both Colts. They stopped in their tracks.
Stone backed to the door. Outside, a little Negro boy ran toward him. “You John Stone?”
The reporter read his dinner invitation, a faint smile formed. A genuine home-cooked meal after months of saloon and campfire cuisine. “Tell Miss Petigru I’ll be happy to attend.”
The boy ran down the hill. A shot rang out, ground exploded in front of Stone. He threw himself down, rolled over, came up with both Colts smoking, shattering windows in the stamp mill. Then he ran zigzag down the hill, dived behind an outcropping of rock, disappeared.
~*~
Men’s and ladies’ clothing hung in racks lining the walls of the haberdashery store. A stout man with a short black beard advanced toward John Stone. “Can I help you, signor?”
“Want to buy a suit.”
The salesman appraised him like a jeweler with a gem. “You have money?”
“Put it on Belle McGuinness’s account.”
“My name is Luciano. This way, if you please.”
Stone followed him to a full-length mirror. Luciano measured him with a tape. Stone looked at his reflection. What would I think if I saw that coming at me? He stood straighter, sucked in his stomach. Just another cowboy. “I have a dinner engagement at seven.”
“Your suit will be ready at six, signor.”
The little Negro boy pounded on the back door of the Madden home. The maid opened up. “What you want, boy?”
“I got a message frum—”
Gail slipped into the passageway. “I’ll take care of this.” She looked eagerly at the boy. “Did you find Mr. Stone?”
“Said he’d ’cept yer invitation. Can I eat now?”
They led him to the kitchen. The boy stared at piles of food. Gail made a thick roast beef sandwich and set it on the table. “You’ll have to wash your hands first.”
Dirt caked on his wrists and the back of his neck, his clothes practically nonexistent, the pathetic little waif washed his hands quickly in the basin on the counter, then semidried himself with a towel.
“Now?”
Patricia nodded. He pounced on the sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth. Patricia brought him a large glass of milk. Gail found ham left over from last night. Dolly placed a plate of apples and pears on the table. The cook brought bread and butter.
The boy chomped his way through everything in sight, his zeal and concentration wondrous to behold. Warm maternal feelings arose in the hearts of the women. They waited patiently until he finished. He drained the last drop of milk from the glass, leaned back in the chair, burped, and said, “A man needs ter fill his belly onc’t in a while.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Ain’t got none.”
“Where do you live?”
The boy shrugged.
“You don’t have a roof over your head at night?”
The boy didn’t like questions, but the nice ladies always asked. They didn’t know how much it hurt to answer. “Guess I’ll be movin’ on,” he said, raising himself laboriously from the chair. His belly stood out like the sixth month of pregnancy.
“What’s your name?” asked Patricia, following him to the door.
“Tyrone.”
“You don’t have a family?”
He ran to the door, pulled it open, fled. Patricia stood on the porch and held her palms near her mouth. “You get hungry, you come back here, understand?”
~*~
Belle sat before stacks of paper in her office, a glass of whiskey in her hand. “Where the hell’ve you been?” she said to John Stone. “Pull up a chair.”
He sat beside her. She continues at this pace, she’ll be out like a light by sundown.
“You got three things to do in that saloon.” She slurred her words. “The first is make sure the bars’re well stocked at all times. The second is make sure you got enough bartenders for every shift. The third is take care of any trouble that comes up. Want a drink?”
He shook his head.
“You’re in charge of hirin’ and firin’ everybody on the first floor, and that includes the still. You been back there yet?”
“Don’t even know where it is.”
“You’re an ex-Army officer. Thought it’d be the first place you’d go.” She laughed at her joke, took another sip of whiskey.
Bad to drink early in the day, but Stone wouldn’t preach to anybody. He awakened in too many shit piles.
“Din’t I tell you to buy a suit?”
“I saw Luciano. The suit’ll be ready tonight.”
She smiled faintly. I shouldn’t be mean to him. She touched the tip of her tongue to his ear. “I’m sorry if I’m a bad girl, but everything’s a-goin’ agin’ me right now.”
“I thought business was good.”
“It ain’t the business.”
“Heard about you and the preacher woman. She’s just anothe
r crackpot.”
Belle opened a drawer and pulled out the gold-plated derringer. “Brought you a present.”
The deadly little weapon fell into his palm. He read the inscription.
“Wear it around yer neck. Might come in handy someday. Somethin’ to remember me by.”
“I’d remember you without any present.”
Something weakened inside her. “Let’s go upstairs and get some grub.”
Jamie Boggs ate his dinner in the kitchen, while Belle’s cook sifted flour for a cake. Jamie’s life was eternal silence, if not peace.
He worried about Belle, remembered the tension in her body as he carried her through the crowd. The religious woman hurt her deeply. She was extremely sensitive beneath her brazen exterior.
Formerly employed by the railroad, he happened to be in the cribs one night when a miner tried to kill Belle. He jumped in and pounded the miner into unconsciousness. She offered him a job. He’d been working for her ever since.
He worshiped her, loved to gaze at her face, felt privileged to serve her, would do anything for her, felt wonderful when she smiled and terrible when she was mad.
He wondered about John Stone. Was he using Belle? Stone spent the night with her, and Jamie didn’t like to think about it. Stone seemed friendly enough, so did lots of bastards. If he ever hurts her, he’ll die.
~*~
John Stone and Belle dined on roast lamb, potatoes, and string beans. A freshly baked loaf of bread sat on a block of wood, a knife sticking out. Stone cut two thick slices and passed one to Belle.
She watched him eat heartily. Find out what he likes. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, though some said the path was lower. She poured another glass of whiskey.
“Something bothering you?” he asked.
“Shore ain’t been my day. My maid quit this morning. Just disappeared. I got to find another one fast.”
“Maybe she’s sick.”
“Would’ve said somethin’.”
“Must be a reason. Things don’t happen for nothing.”
“I went lookin’ for her this mornin’, she was gone.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She was a-leadin’ Marshal Kincaid to the door.”
Stone’s fork dangled in the air. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Kincaid.”
