by Len Levinson
What kind of women go to saloons? What kind of man permits his woman to do such things?
“Somebody is coming, Don Emilio!”
Don Emilio saw a rider heading toward them at a full gallop. A small man crouched low in the saddle, bearded face nearly resting on his horse’s mane, crazy old Slipchuck.
The vaqueros and cowboys gathered around. They knew trouble came on hard-ridden horses. Slipchuck pulled back his reins, and his horse dug in his hooves. The horse’s floppy lips frothed, and the animal shuddered as Slipchuck jumped down from the saddle.
Slipchuck took off his hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Need some he’p in town!” he said. “Might be gunplay.”
~*~
John Stone and Cassandra lay in the afterglow of love, arms around each other, cheeks touching.
“You and I want the same things,” Stone whispered. “Marriage, a home, beautiful strong children who’ll build on what we leave behind. Maybe there’s somebody better than me, but you might die before you find him.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
Cassandra felt torn between the John Stone who was a drunkard, and the one in bed. She whispered into his throat, sending thrills up his spine: “I don’t want to marry a man who loves drink more than me. If you could stop drinking, I’d marry you.”
“You can’t expect a man to suddenly stop drinking. I’ve just hit town after two months on the trail. A man needs a drink. You don’t want a dried-up old teetotaler, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind you having one or two drinks every now and then. Maybe even three or four, but that’s enough. You drink until you can’t move.”
“Let’s cut a deal,” Stone said. “Three or four drinks every now and then, but no more. How about it?”
They heard footsteps on the stairs. Cassandra moved away from Stone and pulled the covers to her chin. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Stone said.
Rooney entered the room, attired in suit and tie, carrying a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. “I hope you’ve found the accommodations to your liking?”
Cassandra turned red with embarrassment, while Stone was relaxed and jovial. Rooney filled a glass with whiskey, passed it to Stone.
“Just finished transacting business with Mr. Bennington,” Rooney said, “but can’t pay him off. No money and no telegraph. The mayor’s holding a meeting to decide what to do. Sundust’s cut off from the rest of the world, and not a damn thing we can do about it.”
~*~
The buzzard rode great thermal updrafts high in the sky, his gigantic wings outstretched, head jerking about as he examined the land for food.
Some days he soared vast distances without finding anything. Other days there’d be dead creatures everywhere, and he gorged his belly. One eye looked down at the earth, the other searched for comrades diving toward the ground, the signal they’d found something. He searched every inch of prairie methodically, his sharp eyes told him the difference between rock, shadow, dead creature.
He saw movement far on the horizon, dropped lower, stuck his red head and gold beak forward for a better look. It was a horse, and near it a body. The buzzard’s mouth watered as he dived. He inclined his left wing and made a long swooping circle through the sky. His eyes were fixed on the form on the ground, watching for movement.
Frank Quarternight lay with his head beneath the blanket. It was warm, he slept fitfully. There was a strange sour sensation in his body, as if his blood turned to acid. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether he was awake or asleep, as he dreamed of the girl dancing weirdly around him, waving her arms and making odd gestures with her hands.
She danced closer, dropped to her knees, bent low, kissed his face. He opened his eyes, saw blond hair and a skull grinning at him. With a blood-curdling shriek he hurled the blanket off him and fired.
The shot reverberated across the plains, and his horse looked at him curiously. The girl vanished into thin air, another bad dream. With a growl, he pushed his gun back into its holster. The tepid water in his canteen tasted of alkaline. He looked toward the sky, saw a buzzard flying away.
He covered his head with the blanket. It smelled old and woolly, but he couldn’t sleep with the sun in his eyes. He felt a dull, thudding ache in the middle of his brain. There was a time when he could fall asleep anywhere, but it wasn’t so easy anymore.
His chest rose and fell evenly, and the girl crept from behind a bush. She stood before him and removed her bloodied dress, stockings, shoes. Naked, she shook her hips lewdly, resuming her strange serpentine dance, breast covered with fresh wet blood.
Chapter Seven
It was late afternoon in Sundust. Mayor McGillicuddy stood on the veranda of the Drovers Cottage. “We’ve had enough!” he shouted, waving his fist in the air. “It’s time to take action!”
A roar went up from the crowd of merchants, ranchers, cowboys, and farmers assembled in the street.
“They can’t do this to us!” the mayor hollered. “We’re sovereign citizens and demand the same rights as other citizens! As George Washington, the father of this great nation, once said—”
“Arrest ’em!” somebody shouted.
“That’s right!” another man yelled. “Throw ’em in the hoosegow!”
Mayor McGillicuddy held up his hand. “You can’t arrest somebody without a writ of habeas corpus!”
“Shove it up yer ass!”
Men in the crowd grumbled and brandished guns as they moved down the street toward the bank. The mayor ran in front of them. They pushed him out of the way. He nearly fell to the ground, his hat fell off. “We’re law-abiding citizens!” he sputtered into his mustache. “We can’t take the law into our own hands!”
They came to the bank. Two cowboys went inside while the crowd seethed in the street.
“String the son of a bitch up!”
The assembly grew. Somebody fired a shot. The door to the bank opened, and its president, Marcus Strickland, appeared.
Everybody booed as he hooked his thumbs into his red suspenders and puffed out his chest. He was portly, in his sixties, with a gold chain hanging over his purple brocade vest.
“What seems to be the problem here!”
“We want our money!”
“Don’t have any at the present time!” Strickland replied. “Another shipment arrives tomorrow on the train, please let’s be patient!”
Somebody fired a shot, and the bank window cracked like a spider’s web. Strickland ran into the bank and slammed the door. The crowd surged forward, but Mayor McGillicuddy stood in front of them.
“Citizens—you don’t know what you’re doing!”
They rushed the door, aimed their guns at the lock.
“Hold it right there!” yelled Sheriff Wheatlock. “Next man touches that building, he’s a dead son of a bitch!”
A double-barreled shotgun was pointed at them. The crowd pulled back. Sheriff Wheatlock stood beside Mayor McGillicuddy. “We live by the law in this town!” the sheriff bellowed. “Any man wants to rob this bank has to git by me!”
No one moved. A double-barreled shotgun was too powerful an argument to ignore.
“Crowd’s too big!” the sheriff said. “Break it up!”
“What ’bout our money?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout money. We got an ordinance against crowds in Sundust, so git yer damned asses movin’ on out of here!”
Men grumbled angrily while Sheriff Wheatlock stood firmly at the door. You can bust up a saloon or shoot a man in the street, but don’t ever mess with the bank.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame sat at his desk, still working on his Sunday sermon. The finale was the most important part, because immediately thereafter the ushers passed die collection baskets around.
The best kind of sermon made them feel guilty, and at the end you offered salvation. They could buy their way into heaven, and he’d build a great temple on the plains, draw pilgrims from all over the world.<
br />
Little Emma curtsied jerkily. “The man from the bank here to see you.”
The most crucial part of the sermon was being interrupted. Could he ever capture this special moment again? Marcus Strickland walked into the office, hat in hand, and beside him was Sheriff Wheatlock. Reverend Blasingame spun around in his chair and said angrily, “I thought I told you two never to come here!”
“Emergency,” Strickland said. “The people are ready to tear the town apart. I think we’re headed for big trouble. Why did you close the bank?”
“I have my reasons. Keep it closed.” Reverend Real Estate looked at Sheriff Wheatlock. “I sent for the boys. They’ll keep law and order. This’ll only last another day. Then the whole incident will be forgotten.”
“You weren’t there,” Strickland said. “They weren’t trying to break down your door.”
“Shut up.” Reverend Blasingame looked at the sheriff. “Don’t be afraid to shoot. Sometimes people need an example.”
“They was talkin’ about appointin’ a new sheriff.”
“Don’t give up that badge to any mob. You’ll be the laughingstock of Kansas if you do.”
“What if they ask the Army for help?”
“Don’t worry about the Army. Tomorrow the bank’ll be open, and this’ ll be memory.”
Strickland said, “Why can’t we open the bank now? We can avoid this trouble.”
“I’m sure there are a million other jobs you can get.”
Strickland noted the irony. It was difficult to find good jobs in banking if you’d been arrested for embezzlement in Vermont.
Strickland and Wheatlock left the office. Reverend Blasingame returned to his sermon, but his mood had soured. He wasn’t ready to give up Cassandra Whiteside. Her herd represented a great deal of money. He could enlarge the church, hire more gunfighters. Building an empire was a step-by-step process, and he was still on the rudimentary levels. It wasn’t every day that a rich, beautiful, defenseless widow came along.
He was an old man, getting weaker every day, feeling deep cravings for young women. Absentmindedly he pulled the cord above his head. The face of a proud woman in subjugation, medicine for his soul.
Little Emma stood in the doorway.
“Do we have cake?”
“Don’t eat more cake, sir. Remember what happened this morning.”
“How dare you say such a thing to me! Bring me a piece of cake and another pot of coffee, you little imp!”
She fled the room, and he lowered his hand, returned to his sermon. The boys were expected any moment, and his plan would move to fruition. Eve would be brought down, and all the angels in heaven would rejoice.
~*~
“Send a delegation to the governor!”
The crowd was gathered in the First Baptist Church of Sundust, a small ramshackle structure not far from the stockyards. The walls were in need of paint, half the pews were broken. Reverend Donald Tipps sat beside the altar, sad eyes, black suit threadbare at the knees and elbows, ex-Army chaplain for the Union during the Rebellion.
Voices in the crowd shouted back and forth. Everyone had a different opinion. “I say we remove the sheriff from office!”
Koussivitsky entered the church, wearing a cowboy outfit. He spotted Stone standing against the back wall.
“What is going on here?” Koussivitsky asked. “Bank is closed? I have no money anyway. What the hell do I care? Who is going to buy me a drink?”
On the podium, the mayor spoke of civic responsibility. Koussivitsky wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something distasteful. “These people, I know what they are like. They would shiver in boots if anybody said boo to them. They are not fighters. If I had one squad of Cossacks, I could destroy this town and five more like it.” A wistful look came to his eyes.
“I say send a delegation to the governor, request him to investigate the goings-on in this town!”
Koussivitsky cast a jaundiced eye upon the fanner who made that statement. “They are not going to do anything,” he said derisively. He made a fist, and it was big as a cabbage. “The only thing people respect is this!”
Stone turned to Cassandra. “By the way, I’ve hired this gentleman.”
Koussivitsky wore the biggest hat she’d ever seen, and his bulging muscles strained the seams of his clothing. Strapped to his leg was a Remington, and it looked like the same model Truscott used to carry. If only Truscott were here.
“There may be shooting,” she said to him.
He shrugged his enormous shoulders. “What is a little shooting?”
“The new man gets the worst jobs. I’m telling you now so I won’t hear any bellyaching later.”
Koussivitsky placed both hands on his stomach. “My belly never ache, unless I eat too much piroshki.”
They walked toward the Majestic Hotel. The atmosphere of the town had undergone a change. Most non-saloon establishments had closed. The train wasn’t chugging at the station. The town was dying.
“Maybe we should leave for Abilene,” Cassandra said.
“Can’t go now,” Stone replied. “Half the men from the herd are on their way here.”
What would Truscott do? She tried to conjure him up in her mind. He’d go to great lengths to help an old friend, which is what Rooney was to John Stone.
They passed through an alley and disappeared from view. A few moments later twenty riders appeared on Main Street, headed by Runge. They stopped in front of the Blue Devil Saloon and hitched their horses to the rails.
Mr. Peabody watched from the jewelry store across the street, wondering whether to close for the rest of the day. Trouble was brewing, and he didn’t want any part of it.
The door to the shop opened, and a fashionably dressed woman entered. Mr. Peabody had never seen her before. She placed a broken bracelet on the counter. “Can you fix this?”
He picked it up, and it was gold studded with emeralds and rubies. “How long will you be in town?”
“Till the train comes tomorrow. May I see that picture over there, please?”
She pointed to the bent silver daguerreotype of Marie, and he handed it to her.
“Who left this?” she asked.
“Cowboy.”
She handed the picture back. “He has my sympathy.”
“You know her?”
“Sorry to say I do.”
“The cowboy was looking for her. Do you know where she is?”
“Fort Hays.”
Mr. Peabody wrote the information on a sheet of paper. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“My husband is Major Salter, and we’re staying at the Majestic Hotel. We’ve heard you’re expecting a minor war today. What do you think?”
“Could heat up,” Mr. Peabody admitted. “Might be a good idea for you and the major to stay in your room, till the train comes.”
~*~
Reverend Blasingame entered his church, carrying his black leather Bible under his arm. Scattered in pews before him were men and women praying. He walked to a toothless old man, who looked up with pleading eyes. “My gran’daughter died this mornin’, Reverend. Had the croup, and she was only nine month old. Why did God take her away?”
“Perhaps the answer can be found in Job Fourteen: One: ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not’ .”
Reverend Blasingame moved toward a bony woman wearing a homespun dress, sobbing into her hands. “My husband’s took to drink. We don’t never see him no more. Farm’s fallin’ apart.”
He handed her a twenty-dollar gold piece. “Remember Luke Twelve: Fifteen: ‘A man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.’ And Luke Twelve: Thirty-One: ‘But rather seek ye the kingdom of God; and all these things shall be added unto you.’ Also Proverbs Eight: Nineteen: ‘My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver.’ “
He mo
ved to a young woman sitting in another pew. “The peace of God be with you.” he said.
Her face was distraught. “We’re decent God-fearin’ people, we work hard all day, but things git worser and worser. Why is it good people suffer, while the bad git rich?”
“The Bible answers all our questions, sister. There’s Ecclesiastes Nine: Eleven: ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong …’ ”
Reverend Blasingame squinted into a dark corner. It was Runge beckoning to him. The pastor walked toward him. “I told you never to come here! Go to the rectory, you idiot!”
Runge was crestfallen. Hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt, he moved toward the front door of the church.
Reverend Blasingame cursed inwardly. They were all so stupid. He came to his parlor, where Little Emma dusted furniture.
“Have you made pie today?” he asked.
“In the oven, sir.”
“Bring me a slice as soon as it’s out, with a dollop of whipped cream on top.”
He entered his office, and Runge was already there, seated glumly on a chair in front of the desk. Reverend Blasingame placed his hand on Runge’s shoulder. “I’m not angry at you, my boy. Just remember you mustn’t ever speak with me in public again, clear?”
“Things is heatin’ up out there, whether you know it or not. There’s an armed crowd in front of the Majestic Hotel, and I think we’ll have to shoot a few of ’em.”
“I’ll leave that to your discretion, but first I want you to gun down two men: John Stone and Lewton Rooney. I don’t know where they are—you’ll have to ask Collingswood. Then run the other cowboys from the Triangle Spur out of town, but don’t harm the woman, and don’t let her get away.”
“There’s an Army man in town. Might stick his big nose in.”
“Shoot him too, he gets in your way.”
~*~
Cowboys and Mexican vaqueros rode down the main street of Sundust, grimy and ragged, wearing extra belts of ammunition crisscrossed over their chests, wilder than coyotes. Alderman Shaeffer watched them from behind a window in the Majestic Hotel. In another corner of the lobby, Mayor McGillicuddy conferred with civic leaders. They still hadn’t settled on a plan of action.
