At the bar, Georgie Nance was setting them up as fast as the crowd knocked them down. Though his sphinx-like expression would never have let anyone know, George was happy. It was good to see big crowds in the Paradise again, good to see miners, dirty and loud—bringing in as much hope for this town’s future as they were tracking in dust. New silver meant new faces, new families and the promise that Golgotha wouldn’t just dry up and blow away.
A cheer rose up from the miners as Jacob Moore and Oscar Deerfield entered the saloon like conquering kings. The two made their way toward Georgie, moving through a sea of backslaps and handshakes.
“What can I get for the gentlemen of the hour?” George asked.
“We’re here to share our good fortune,” Deerfield said. “A round for the house of your finest, my good fellow!”
A cheer went up from the crowd. Deerfield raised a hand for silence. After a moment, the music stopped and the cacophony descended into a disjointed murmur.
“Gentlemen, we have done fine today! Thanks to you and your adherence to diligence and good old American hard work, the future of the Argent Mining Company has been assured!”
Another roar from the miners. George handed Deerfield his drink and the mine boss raised his glass, once again demanding silence. Painted saloon girls and drunken cowboys now leaned over the railings on the second floor, to hear Deerfield’s oratory.
You have worked hard, risked your necks; now enjoy the fruits of your labor! To the Argent Mine—the future of Golgotha!”
This time the whole bar exploded with whoops, whistles and shouts of joy.
Deerfield glanced up to see a shadow regarding him from behind a blinded glass window on the second floor. The door next to the large window said Office in elegant gold leaf. Deerfield shrugged and touched his glass to Moore’s. The smaller man’s whole face seemed to fall in on itself when he smiled.
“Good sirs, this way, if ya please,” one of the mine managers, a mug in his hand, said. “One side, ya drunken reprobates! One side, make way for the owners!”
Deerfield and Moore made their way to a table cleared by a few of the miners. The music had started up again, as had the overwhelming symphony of hoots, laughter and chatter. Deerfield nodded to the manager and his men, handed the manager a golden eagle and gestured for them to depart. The men, grinning ear to ear, disappeared into the churning crowd.
“Well, Oscar, m’boy, we’re on our way!” Moore said over the din. Deerfield was silent. The well-rehearsed smile was gone and Moore recognized the start of a fret coming on. Jacob Moore greatly admired the personal charisma, ruthless business acumen and general ease with which Deerfield could turn a disaster into a dollar. However, Moore’s lanky partner had a disturbing quality of looking for the cloud in every silver lining. Moore was in the mood to enjoy success. He had never seen it as often as Deerfield had, had never been cheered walking into a saloon before. He wasn’t in the mood to wrestle with Oscar’s black dog.
“Smooth sailing from here on, no doubt, my lad!” Moore said.
“Nothing about this business has been smooth, Jacob,” Deerfield said, sipping his whiskey. “This business with the preacher, or soothsayer or whatever the blazes he is, it’s troubling to say the least. The law is looking at us hard because of Art’s murder—”
He glanced up to the window. The shadow was gone.
“—and I think we’re getting other attention we don’t need.”
Moore shrugged. It annoyed Deerfield. The ambivalent gesture was his rotund partner’s answer to most things he preferred not to deal with at the present time.
“Look,” Moore said. “Everything Ambrose has told us has come true. Even the silver vein—it was exactly where he said it would be! And that man of his, Phillips, he’s the surest dynamite man I’ve ever seen; it’s like the man has frozen Chinamen’s blood in his veins.”
“Still, I don’t like it,” Deerfield said, leaning forward across the table. “I know a blackleg when I see one. This preacher is using us, Jacob. We need to settle our accounts with Ambrose and send him on his way, posthaste.”
“We will, we will; don’t let this spoil our mood. Look around you, Oscar, m’boy! We’re heroes, regular Alexanders to these mudsills. Relax.”
They admired Sherry and her girls as the dancers twirled and capered onstage. The men glanced at each other and broke into wide grins.
“Relax?”
“Relax.”
They raised their whiskey glasses to drain in sublime victory.
Two large hands, the size of skillets, settled on each man’s shoulder, gently. The partners paused and turned to regard the giant who loomed over them. The man was a Negro, at least seven feet tall, all of it coiled muscle and barrel chest. His head was shaved smooth and he wore a small gold hoop in one earlobe. His face was broad and flat, and it was strangely placid for a man radiating such power and mass. His eyes were a warm brown, flecked with green. He wore a well-made, and obviously custom, linen shirt with a vest. The giant smiled.
“Gentlemen,” he rumbled. His voice had an odd accent that Deerfield recalled from numerous trips to New Orleans—a French patois. “Sorry to interrupt your celebration, gentlemen, but Mr. Bick would care for a word with you both.”
“Hands off, boy.” It was the mine manager’s voice. “The masters don’t want to be—”
The hand lifted from Deerfield’s shoulder. There was a sound like a chicken bone splintering, about to snap. Moore and Deerfield spun to regard the serene giant holding their six-foot foreman. A massive hand was wrapped around the manager’s head, the palm covering his face. He dangled at least a foot off the floor, gasping in pain and shock.
“Upstairs,” the giant said to the two businessmen, “please.”
The office was dark. The light in the room came from a large fan-shaped window that took up most of the wall behind the desk. It gave an impressive view of Main Street and the darker streets that lay beyond it; Rose Hill, standing like a sentinel at the edge of Golgotha, was a great shadow and above it was the cold black ocean of the desert night, brilliant stars shining like lonely islands. As barren above as below.
Moore and Deerfield entered the room with the giant a few steps behind. Moore was frightened, Deerfield angry. Jacob glanced around the room. There was a beautiful Chippendale sofa, all mahogany and leather, on the left side of the office. The primary piece on the right side was a large glass display table, like something you might see in a museum. It was filled with various items of historical curiosity, like rough-hewn primitive knives, chunks of silver and a grisly collection of what appeared to be small human skulls. Books were everywhere, shelves full of them covering every nook and cranny of the walls. Behind the desk sat Malachi Bick, like some dark Renaissance prince, clothed in shadow.
“Mr. Deerfield, Mr. Moore, what a pleasure to finally meet in person. Welcome to Golgotha.”
“What’s the meaning of this, Mr. Bick?” Deerfield said, stepping forward and slamming his fist down on the desktop. “Is this how you treat your paying customers! Having your ruffian accost us and force up here? How dare you!”
Bick’s eyes flickered in the dark. He regarded Deerfield for a long moment in silence. Long enough for both Moore and Deerfield to grow still with fear.
“Um, what my partner means, Mr. Bick,” Moore said, stepping forward timidly, “is, why have you asked to meet with us under such dire circumstances?”
Bick leaned forward and turned up the flame on a small lamp at the edge of his desk. The shadows retreated and the saloon owner lost some of his dread demeanor. He smiled at the two men standing before his desk. It was a white, even smile.
“Gentlemen, my apologies, if Caleb gave you the wrong impression. I sent him personally to retrieve you as a sign of my respect and admiration. He is one of my few surviving children and my favorite son.”
“Your son?” Deerfield said. “Boy’s blacker than coal.”
“Leave us, Caleb,” Bick said.
&nbs
p; “Yes, Father.” The giant nodded. “I’ll be close if you need me.” He retreated silently from the office.
Bick leaned back in his chair with a soft creak. A tall grandfather clock marked the seconds with metallic ticks in a corner of the room. Bick looked through slitted eyes at the two men standing before his desk, like errant children before a schoolmaster.
“Gentlemen, I want my mine back,” he said softly. “I want you to give it to me.”
“I’m sure you do, Bick,” Deerfield said. “Unfortunately, that is not going to happen.”
“Yes, it is,” Bick said, steepling his fingers. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
“I’ve heard of you, Malachi,” Deerfield said. “All the way over in Carson City, Virginia City. Your family seems to think they own all of Nevada. Well, you were the one who made the error of giving poor Arthur control of the mine. You made a mistake and we profited from an opportunity. That’s business.”
“Yes,” Bick said. “It was a mistake to sign the property over to Arthur. It was also exceptional serendipity that you and Mr. Moore were able to capitalize on my folly.”
He leaned forward in his chair; his dark eyes caught the light of the lamp like a cat’s. “One could say it was almost preternatural, yes?”
Moore blanched and looked to Deerfield.
Deerfield raised a hand to calm his partner. “Okay, Bick. You’ve lived up to your reputation. You’ve made your intentions clear and you’ve managed to scare Jacob. I, however, am not impressed. You heard those people out there—we’ve given them something you can’t anymore; we’ve given them hope for the future of their home. This town loves us, and you, you are yesterday’s news, Malachi.”
The clock’s ticking stopped. The sounds of the saloon and Main Street seemed to fade. It was as if the air itself was held, frozen. Moore stepped back and tried to interpose Oscar between himself and Bick.
“You’ve given this town death,” Bick said. “Worse than death. You’re not businessmen, you’re not even fools, Oscar. You’re pawns. You have no idea what you have set in motion here.”
“We’re done here,” Deerfield said, turning toward the door. “Come on, Jacob.”
“Louis Gantner,” Bick said.
Deerfield stopped. “What did you say?”
“Louis Gantner. You do remember him, don’t you, Oscar?”
Moore tugged at Deerfield’s sleeve, “Oscar, what is it?”
“You had Mr. Gantner murdered three years ago in Baltimore,” Bick said. “It had to do with the affections of a young lady from a very prominent, very wealthy family. You paid a cutthroat named Diggs to do the deed, because a man of your status and breeding wouldn’t do such a thing. Surely, Oscar, you told your partner about this, didn’t you?”
“How?” Deerfield whispered. Moore let go of Oscar. He backed away, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, by midnight tomorrow, I will have the deed to the mine back, or the authorities in Baltimore will have a letter detailing your plot and naming the names of those involved and where they can be found.”
“I had nothing to do with any murder!” Moore shouted. “I don’t know anything about this, I swear!”
“Of course you don’t,” Bick said. “You, Mr. Moore, do not have the courage to commit murder. No, you will receive a telegram tomorrow from your solicitors in Boston. Your mother is dying, Mr. Moore; she has fallen very ill. Or will, if I don’t have that deed by midnight, tomorrow.”
Moore was sweating, his eyes blinking. Deerfield didn’t look much better.
“These things I have told will come to pass,” Bick said, rising from his chair, the shadows spreading behind him. “As surely as day follows night, as sure as rain will fall this evening—your ruin is at hand, gentlemen. However, if I receive the deed, then no secrets will be revealed, no plagues will befall your loved ones. Instead, you will find a very generous sum in your accounts in Virginia City. Enough money to compensate you for your time and trouble and pay your men handsomely for theirs.”
The clock resumed its steady cadence, the pendulum chasing the endless seconds.
“Now you’re done here,” Bick said. “Caleb will show you out. Your money is no longer good in my establishment. Good evening, gentlemen.”
The giant’s hands were upon their backs again, lifting them, dragging them. There had been no sound of Caleb’s approach, no warning. They clattered down a dark, narrow stairwell, tight with the smoke and noise of the unseen saloon floor. A door crashed open and they were flying, tumbling through the air. The businessmen smashed into the wall of the alleyway, slid and settled into a pile of red dirt, straw and trash. The door slammed shut and they were alone in the cold night air.
“Are you all right?” Deerfield finally said, struggling to stand.
“We, we need to go to the sheriff,” Moore said.
“And tell him what? That he threatened to make your mother, thousands of miles away, ill? That I’m implicated in a murder?”
“Good Lord in Heaven, Oscar! Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Deerfield glared. He reached out a hand and helped his partner up. “No sheriff. We handle Bick ourselves.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No, but Ambrose is. I’ll send him word tonight through one of those ragamuffins he’s been evangelizing. He’ll deal with this.”
The pair stumbled down the alleyway toward the street behind the Paradise Falls.
“Can we trust him? I mean, Oscar, we could just take him up on his offer. Cut our losses and leave with our skin.”
“I’m not going anywhere. No one does that to me, no one! This is our town, our time! No, we’ll let the good reverend and his man deal with Malachi Bick.”
As if the heavens themselves were offended by the utterance of Bick’s name, there came a growl of thunder. A rising wind scattered the trash in the alleyway like frightened birds. Fat, cold raindrops began to fall from a night sky bankrupt of stars.
The storm was more wind than water, but there was enough rain to irritate Otis Haglund as he made a dash from the Black Dog Saloon, at the corner of Duffer and Old Stone, to his single-room shack off of Prosperity Street. Otis was drunk, good and drunk—just the way he had planned it—but now his warm, content, fuzzy inebriation was getting chased away by cold rain and knife-edged winds.
“Damn it all to Hell!” he shouted as he lumbered between the rows of dark homes. He pulled his coat up over his head, but that left his considerable middle exposed to the wind and the spitting rain and that made him curse too.
When he first came to Golgotha he had lived in the back of his butcher shop. However, complaints about his general appearance and cleanliness, and the difficulty of enticing women, even whores, to return with him to the slaughterhouse, had prompted him to build a home among the other working-class citizens of the town.
He reached his house and fumbled to retrieve the door key around his neck. Rain trickled down the back of his neck and he knew the jig was up. He was sober.
It was that haughty bitch Proctor’s fault. If he hadn’t stayed late at the butcher shop to go over the details of what she needed for the church social this Saturday, he would have gotten to the Dog on time and then he would have been home by now and wouldn’t have the Devil pissing all over him, wasting a perfectly good drunk.
The wind grabbed the handle from his hands and the thin wooden door slammed open, spilling what little light the cloudy night provided across his floor and far wall. It illuminated a small, embroidered homily in a wooden frame. His mother had made it for him before she passed, twelve years ago. It was the only piece of Scripture he had in his house.
As he fumbled to find the lantern and the matches on the shelf by the door, he undressed Gillian Proctor in his mind for the thousandth time that day. The widow had a striking figure and Otis knew, knew, if he could only get that witch to let her hair down he could give her what she must want, must need, with Will
Proctor five years in the ground.
Thick, blunt fingers still dark with the blood of Otis’s craft fumbled with the lantern’s shroud. He held a matchstick in his mouth as he struggled. Just this afternoon, while they discussed the cuts and the weight of the meat she needed him to deliver to her by Friday morning, he caught a flash of white stocking above her ankles when she “adjusted” her dress. The little whore was teasing him! When she noticed his attentions, she had the nerve to blush behind her owl-like spectacles and look away. The very thought of it made him hungry for her again, made his anger and need churn.
Otis sniffed the air. He smelled something, something pungent and musky even thorough the cold night air and the rain at his back.
In the darkness, the scent called to him. It spoke to the dark little scuttling corners of his mind, the parts that wanted to hang Gillian Proctor on a meat hook and do what he wanted to her undisturbed. The part of him that lost itself in the flesh of Ch’eng Huang’s whores and the warm spray of slaughtering a cow. That was it! That was what he smelled—it was the perfume of rutting and slaughter. His manhood stirred as he struck the match. The sharp, acrid scent of sulfur seemed completely appropriate as he touched the match to the lantern’s wick. Soft yellow light filled the room and illuminated his ramshackle home.
Holly Pratt, long golden locks falling to her shoulders, sat, long legs crossed, on his cot, smiling with her perfect, white teeth.
“Hello, Otis, I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you. Please shut the door.”
“Mrs. Pratt?” he stammered. It was hard to think straight with the thoughts swirling around his skull and the smell. He stepped inside and closed the door. The scent seemed to surge, like the storm outside. It enveloped him and he found himself breathing it in deeply, eagerly. He felt alive, potent, real. He realized, he knew, the scent was coming from Holly. He placed the lantern on its shelf, near the window.
The Six-Gun Tarot Page 22
