Boom Town (A Searcher Western

by Len Levinson

  Gail’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious!”

  “It’s what people say.” He glanced meaningfully at his wife. “But you know how harmful gossip can be.”

  Gail felt a twinge in her breast. John Stone and Belle McGuinness?

  ~*~

  John Stone lay in the bathtub, eyes closed, cigarette dangling from his lips. Hot soapy water washed filth and scabs away from his battered body. He puffed his cigarette. The new maid filled his glass with freshly made lemonade, then retired silently.

  Stone looked out the window at the clear blue sky. Belle appeared in the doorway. The setting sun made a halo around her head, she wore a frilly black gown. One hand carried a cigarette, the other a whiskey glass.

  “Look who’s home,” she said in her offhand sarcastic tone. “How’s the saloon?”

  “Fine last time I looked.”

  “There’s somethin’ I want you to do.” She pulled a string, her gown fell away from her body. “Make room.”

  She crawled into the tub with him, her body smooth and slippery. Mad lust overwhelmed him. He squeezed her tightly, pressed his lips against hers. Waves of suds rolled back and forth endlessly.

  ~*~

  Kincaid walked into his house. His wife bent over the stove in the kitchen.

  “Look what the cat drug in,” she said.

  He sat at the table. “What’s fer supper?”

  “Beef stew and biscuits.”

  One of his favorites. He refilled his corncob pipe. “Get me a glass of whiskey.”

  She opened the cupboard and pulled down a quart of Rocky Mountain Fine Blended. “Somethin’ botherin’ you?” she asked. “You can’t hide yer moods from me, y’know. Found another woman?”

  “Can’t even handle you, never mind another woman.”

  She placed the bottle and glass in front of him. He poured three fingers of whiskey.

  “Too bad Belle McGuinness didn’t shoot the preacher lady today,” said Dolly. “Who’s she to tell other folks how to live?”

  Kincaid’s mind was elsewhere. If John Stone went to Niggertown to talk with Maxine Goines, he was on Kincaid’s trail. Where the hell’s Randy LaFollette?

  ~*~

  Stone shaved before the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, barefoot. Belle sat on the sofa, sipped her glass of whiskey.

  “You ever been to San Francisco, Belle?”

  “I been everywhere. You know that, Johnny.”

  “What can you tell me about the place?”

  “Half the people’re thieves and murderers. You can git killed any time of the day or night, even in yer own hotel room. You won’t like it. The wide-open spaces for a man like you.”

  “You read me like a book, Belle.”

  “I know men. Met a million of ’em.”

  “Tell me more about San Francisco.”

  “To hell with San Francisco. Start yer ranch, if that’s what you wanna do. We could be partners, fifty-fifty. I’ll take care of the business end, you handle cattle operations.”

  Silence fell over the room. If I say yes, I’d get everything I want, except Marie. “Can’t do it, Belle. You know I’m engaged. But I appreciate the offer. Maybe someday, who knows, might take you up on it.”

  “Offer might not be good then.” She sipped whiskey, tried not to be hurt. He put on his new cowboy outfit. “Where’s the suit I asked you to git?”

  “Can’t wear it. Felt like a goddamned idiot, or the kind of man who’d embezzle public funds.”

  “When I tell you to do something, I ’spect it to git done.”

  “The saloon downstairs is running like a clock. That’s the main thing.”

  “I’ll decide what’s the main thing. My manager wears a goddamned suit. This ain’t no bust-out whoop and holler.”

  “Don’t wear suits. Sorry.”

  Blood rose to her face. She didn’t come this far to let some dumb cowboy tell her how to run her business. “That’s the way you feel about it, you’re fired!”

  She saw the hurt on his face. He gathered his things silently. “I’ll give you the money for the suit soon as I get paid.”

  “Don’t want yer goddamned money. Where’s the suit now? Maybe Luciano can cut it down for Jamie.”

  “I gave it to a bum in an alley.”

  The humor of the situation struck her. She imagined a drunkard staggering around in an expensive suit too big for him. What the hell do I care about a suit? Johnny looks like a little boy what just got spanked. “Didn’t mean it, cowboy. You know how I git sometimes. Come over here and give momma a kiss.” He didn’t move. She arose from the sofa. “I said I’m sorry. Can’t you forgive Belle when she’s bad?”

  They kissed. He thought of Marie. What’m I doing?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Got to get moving. Been invited to supper with the Madden family.”

  “I thought you were havin’ supper with me.”

  “You never said anything about it before.”

  “How’d you wrangle the invite?”

  “Gail Petigru sent it to me out of the blue. I met her on the train yesterday. She’s Mrs. Madden’s sister from Bangor, Maine.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Maybe eighteen.”

  Belle’s temper flowed warm. “Say hello to Bart Madden for me. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what you think. We used to screw, to say it in plain English.” She smiled grimly at the jealousy and pain that distorted his face.

  ~*~

  The train snaked its way around an immense mountain, stars twinkled in the sky. Randy LaFollette sat alone in the dining car, chewing a chicken sandwich, concentration increased, muscles tensed, eyes sharpened. He sped toward the killing ground, anticipated the instant he’d pull the trigger, a fiery flash, like the penultimate moment of love.

  He wondered who his victim would be this time. Usually somebody’s hired gun, or a love rival, business partner gone sour, somebody’s husband, somebody’s brother, LaFollette saw them all fall before his smoking gun.

  Probably sitting down to supper right now. Hope he enjoys it. Tomorrow morning I’ll catch the first train back to Denver.

  ~*~

  John Stone stepped onto the porch of the Madden home, new pants tucked into boots cavalry style, two Colts tied to his legs. His knuckles rapped against the door, opened by a Negro maid. She knows everything that goes on in this home, and so does everyone in the Negro district.

  “You must be Mr. Stone,” the maid said, accepting his old Confederate hat.

  Gail entered the vestibule and looked like she’d bitten a lemon. She introduced him to her sister. Bart stood beside the bar nonchalantly, measuring Stone. A gunfighter if ever I saw one. They shook hands firmly. Stone sat on a chair. The maid brought a glass of wine imported from the Loire Valley. Bart’s smile a little too polished, Stone took an instant dislike to him. Bart thought Stone a drifter, liar, and seducer of unsuspecting women.

  “Saw you coming up the walk,” Bart said. “That a rebel hat you wore? Trying to prove something?”

  “When it wears out, I’ll throw it away.”

  “You believe in slavery?”

  “I believe this town’s gone bust, but doesn’t know it. If I owned the biggest bank, I’d unload all assets immediately for whatever I could get.”

  “What makes you think this town’s gone bust?”

  “There’s no gold.”

  “Just because you haven’t found any, doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

  “Nobody else found any either for a long time.”

  “Tell that to the prospectors who’ve taken millions from these mountains.”

  “What prospectors?”

  Patricia interrupted: “I hate business talk. Leave it at the office, would you, Bart?” She averted her glance to her dinner guest. “I understand you work for Belle McGuinness. Is she as wicked as everyone says?”

 
; Stone saw her in the bathtub, splashing soapsuds onto the floor. “In what way?”

  “It’s a house of prostitution, isn’t it?”

  He stuttered. Bart enjoyed his discomfort, while Gail felt sorry for him. He must hate me for inviting him here.

  “Yes, there’s prostitution,” Stone admitted.

  “It doesn’t bother you to work in such a place?”

  “Got to earn a living somehow.”

  “One would think a gentleman would get an honest job.”

  Gail rose to her feet. “I think it’s disgusting what you’re doing! Blaming him for what Belle McGuinness does!”

  Silence in the living room, Bart coughed into his hand. John Stone gulped wine.

  “We’re being rude,” Patricia said. “I’m sorry.”

  “All families have disagreements,” Stone replied, rising from his chair. “Perhaps I’d better let you carry this one on without me. The best of luck to all of you in the coming crash of this town.”

  He was on his way to the vestibule before anyone could say anything. Gail placed her hand on his arm. “Please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t know my brother-in-law and you are … sleeping with Belle McGuinness.”

  “I’m not angry at you.”

  “I believed you when you said you were searching for the woman you love.”

  “I am.”

  “How can you sleep with Belle McGuinness?”

  “I don’t know.” He appeared embarrassed.

  “I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything. I thought you were one kind of person, and you’re not.”

  Stone held her shoulders in his hands. “If I were you, I’d go back to Bangor. The lid’s about to blow off this town, and I’m not kidding.”

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. When she opened her eyes, he was on his way back to the center of town.

  ~*~

  “Sit down,” Belle ordered Jamie Boggs. “Something I want you to do.”

  He dropped to the sofa beside her, read her lips as she spoke.

  “Get a jug of coal oil and some rags. Bring them here, and don’t let anybody see what you’ve got. We’re a-gonna set a little fire.”

  He shook his head vigorously, made inarticulate sounds of protest.

  “We won’t get caught,” she said. “That bitch’ll never point her finger at me again!”

  She pushed him out the door, then poured another glass of whiskey. Her mood grew darker with every passing moment.

  ~*~

  John Stone entered the opulent lobby of the Sheffield Hotel. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies milled about, fire crackled in the stone hearth. A candlelit dining room on the right, he veered toward the stairs. Polished wood and brass elegance were everywhere. A muscular gentleman in a suit stepped before him.

  “May I ask where you’re goin’ sir?”

  “Mr. Moffitt’s party.”

  “Your name?”

  “John Stone.”

  Heads spun around. Belle McGuinness’s man. The clerk checked a list of names. “Suite two-eighteen, sir.”

  Stone climbed the stairs. A Negro gentleman in a white jacket opened the door. He entered a fashionably appointed suite full of people in formal evening clothes. In the corner, a man sat on a stool and played Mozart on his violin.

  Stone was the only one dressed like a cowboy, armed with two Colts, a knife sticking out of each boot.

  “What’s that?” asked one of the ladies.

  Moffitt stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Glad to see you, Johnny. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “Let me introduce you to some people.” Moffitt dragged him by the arm into the room. “This is the fellow I’ve been telling you about, John Stone.”

  They stared at Stone as if he were from Mars. “Is he the one who shoots people?” asked Mrs. Winthrop, early forties, wearing a topaz heart pinned to the front of her chiffon gown.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  She unpinned it from her bosom. “It’s yours.”

  The bauble fell into his hand. “You’re very generous, madam.”

  “Everything I do,” she replied, “I do for a reason.” She had faint streaks of gray in her hair, fine features, foxy eyes.

  “Could you tell me where you got it?”

  “Jewelry store down the street.”

  Everyone stared at the strange man in their midst. His eyes found a table groaning beneath platters of steaks, vegetables, poultry prepared several ways, three types of bread, pot of rare beluga caviar. He hadn’t seen such a feast since they burned old Dixie down.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The ladies and gentlemen from the East watched as he made his way toward the table. “Cuts quite a figure, doesn’t he?” asked Mrs. Winthrop.

  “Just another tall tale looking for a free meal,” her husband replied.

  Stone lay a massive turkey leg on his plate, followed with a slice of prime ribs, a length of Italian sausage, a baked potato drenched with cow butter.

  “He’s certainly hungry,” said Mrs. Winthrop.

  Another gentleman added: “I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”

  “I would,” whispered Mrs. Winthrop.

  “What was that?” her husband asked.

  “Only clearing my throat, dear.”

  Stone carried food to an empty round table covered with a white tablecloth. A waiter poured a goblet of champagne. He lay the napkin on his lap, picked up his fork, gazed at the food. What should I try first?

  He plunged the fork into sautéed mushrooms. The nearly forgotten taste carried him back to his father’s dining-room table, the last place he’d eaten mushrooms. Marie sat to his right, her hand innocently on his lap, always touching.

  A tidal wave of immeasurable soul-sickness rolled over him. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. You’ll never get away from me. If you’re dead, I’ll dig up your grave and pull it in over me. I’ll find you no matter what it costs or how long it takes. You’ll never escape me.

  He looked up from his mushrooms. Mrs. Winthrop sat opposite him. “Who are you?” she asked. “I don’t mean your name. I remember what it is. You’re John Stone. But who are you?”

  He dug into the food, a big swashbuckling ex-Army officer in civilian clothes, wearing heavy guns, ignoring her question.

  “Who was Tod Buckalew?” she asked.

  Stone shrugged, kept eating.

  “Why’d you kill him?”

  He bit into the turkey leg. Her eyes roved over his shoulders and chest. He ate as if starved, golden hair gleaming in the light of lamps.

  Her voice dropped an octave, she leaned an elbow on the table. “You’re an extraordinary man, you know that?”

  “In what way?” he asked, because he considered himself a failure.

  She opened her mouth, no words came. What is it? she asked herself. She’d met big men before, men with good manners, and men much more handsome than John Stone. What does he have? She couldn’t pinpoint it, but it had something to do with the ease with which he moved, a certain insouciant self-assurance, steady as the North Star, a bit of the lost little boy. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

  Moffitt blew a cloud of tobacco out the side of his mouth. “Understand what?”

  “We were talking about Tod Buckalew,” she replied.

  “What about him?”

  “I asked Mr. Stone why he killed him.”

  Both of them looked at John Stone, expecting an answer. He swallowed and said, “Self-defense.”

  Moffitt wanted to press the issue, but something said don’t do it. “How do you like Lodestone?”

  “Not much.”

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  “They cleaned me out in the robbery. Had to find a job.”

  Mrs. Winthrop turned to Moffitt. “Why can’t he travel with us? There are spare b
erths.”

  Rich men don’t give things away, but Moffitt found two reasons in Stone’s favor: His Colts slung low and tied down. “If you’d like to continue as our guard, I’ll pay your salary all the way to San Francisco.”

  “Can’t leave my pard.”

  Moffitt recalled the disreputable old bum who traveled with Stone, wondered whether to call off the deal. Stone perceived Moffitt’s resistance. “If you’re interested in authentic western characters, you can’t get much more authentic than Slipchuck,” he said, huckstering his old saddle buddy. “He’s been everywhere, done everything, a walking history book of the frontier. Don’t sell him short by the way he looks. Put him in a clean suit of clothes, he’d be your dear old grandfather.”

  Moffitt pondered the proposition. If the train broke down, or a bridge washed out, they might have to fight Shoshonis. “It’s a deal.”

  ~*~

  Several blocks away, Jonas Brodbent knelt in front of his safe, twirling the dial. On the other side of his desk sat Amos Twimby, a gnome with scruffy reddish-brown hair. Brodbent pulled a burlap bag out of his safe and placed it on his desk. “Take a look.”

  Twimby reached inside the bag and pulled out a rock laced with yellow lines. “The real stuff.”

  Brodbent leaned toward him. “You get caught, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”

  “Ain’t never snitched on nobody a-fore.”

  “The Western Sovereign Mine at Sagamore Lake. Just drop it in the bottom and get the hell out of there. Make sure you don’t wake anybody up.”

  “I know how to do it,” Twimby said with a conspiratorial wink. “This ain’t me first time, remember?”

  ~*~

  Stone looked up the stairs where three millionaires lived. Ten more dollars if I write a good story. Need every penny when I get to San Francisco. He climbed the stairs. A guard sat with a double-barreled shotgun cradled on his lap.

  “I’m from the Lodestone Gazette, like to talk with the gentlemen up here.”

  The guard raised the shotgun and beckoned down the stairs. “Get going.”

  Stone kicked the shotgun out of his hands, the triggers tripped by mistake. Both barrels exploded, the corridor filled with smoke, hundreds of tiny pellets sprayed the ceiling. The guard fell to the carpet, rolled over, came up gun in hand.