by Len Levinson
Stone didn’t think Marie could forget him any more than he could forget her.
“My God,” said Rooney, a note of awe in his voice.
Cassandra approached the table, and at first Stone didn’t recognize her. She wore a long flowing brown skirt with a white blouse that buttoned up to her neck, a civilized woman instead of a she-creature of the plains.
“You’re drunk,” she said to Stone.
“Only had a few.”
She sat next to him, a cross expression on her face. “I guess this is the last big toot you were telling me about.”
He was a grown man, and if he wanted to get drunk it was his business. Sullenly he reached for the glass. Cassandra knew he was defying her. One moment he was a wonderful man, the next a nasty child.
“You look marvelous,” Rooney said to her. “What a transformation. If you and Johnny weren’t going to tie the hitch, I’d be tempted to ask for your hand myself.”
Both were glassy-eyed, movements imprecise, tongues thick. Stone stared into his glass. His brain rattled in his head.
Cassandra said to Rooney, “I’ve promised to throw a big party for the men. Do you think I could rent one of these saloons?”
“The Majestic Hotel might let you use the dining room, it’s closed at night. You could hire guitar players and fiddlers. I’ll be the bartender.”
She looked at John Stone slouched in his chair. Sometimes she loved him, sometimes she didn’t. If Truscott had lived, no telling what might’ve happened. Truscott knew what he was about.
Her eyes met John Stone’s, he glanced away. Defiantly he refilled his glass.
“See you boys later,” she said.
She arose from the table. A few cowboys tried to talk with her. She ignored them, pushed open the batwing doors, and was gone.
~*~
Frank Quarternight stood on the veranda of the Majestic Hotel, looked down the street. It was saloon after saloon all the way to the prairie. He heard music, laughter, a hoot. John Stone was out there.
The only thing to do was work his way up one side of the street and down the other. Sooner or later he’d find him. He wore his serape over the hook, and moved toward the first saloon. An attractive blond woman in a brown skirt approached. Short men with potbellies never get women like that, he thought. His eyes undressed her as she drew closer. She didn’t even notice him. He walked past her and entered the Sagebrush Saloon. It was the middle of the evening, and a crowd spread before him. An old man with a white goatee plunked the piano. Quarternight made his way to the bar.
“Triangle Spur in here?” he asked the bartender.
“Can’t keep track of ’em all, mister. What’s yer pleasure?”
Frank Quarternight placed his hook on the bar. “I’m looking for a man name of John Stone. Ever hear of ’im?”
The bartender stared at the hook. “No, sir.”
Quarternight dropped a ten-dollar gold piece on the table. “I need somebody to find ’im for me.”
The bartender’s hand covered the coin. “I know just the man.”
“Whiskey,” Quarternight said.
The bartender poured the drink. Quarternight picked it up and turned around. His hook was clearly visible, and several men knew who he was. His name passed from lips to ears, and the word spread through the saloons. Frank Quarternight was in town, and somebody was going to die.
~*~
Blasingame and Buckalew sat in the darkness. Music from saloons in the distance came to their ears, and occasionally they heard a woman laugh. Blasingame was nervous, hiding like an animal in a town that once had been his. “Damn,” he said.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“Should’ve stood my ground. They wouldn’t dare lock up their old parson. I’ve married a good many of the people in this town, christened their babies. They had faith in me, but I lost faith in myself.”
“What about the schoolmarm?”
“Ah ... I’d ...” Blasingame’s voice trailed off. A murdered schoolmarm in the root cellar can never be explained away.
~*~
Slipchuck arrived in town to buy supplies for the chuck wagon, but the stores were closed. The only thing to do was head for the nearest saloon and cogitate over what to do next.
He stepped on the rail, raised his bony finger in the air. The bartender filled the glass. Whores wall to wall. Slipchuck looked them over with the eyes of a veteran connoisseur. Tomorrow at this time he’d have three months back pay, and the first thing he wanted was a fat whore.
Fattest he could find. His skin was wrinkling and bones getting brittle, but a fat woman would warm his thinning blood and make him feel young again, give him something to think about during cold dark nights on the prairie.
“Hey, mister?”
Slipchuck saw a man about his age with sorrowful eyes and sloping shoulders. He looked like a pile of rags hanging on a nail. “What’s on yer mind?” Slipchuck asked, hand near his gun.
“You know a galoot name of John Stone?”
Slipchuck stared at him. “Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Ledbetter. Old friend of his is a-lookin’ fer him.”
“Rooney?”
“Yeah, believe that was his name, Rooney.”
“I’m his pard,” Slipchuck said proudly, hitching up his belt, “and I’m a-lookin’ fer him too. We’ll find ’im together, after I finish this glass of whiskey.”
~*~
“You’d better let me look at that bandage,” Cassandra told Don Emilio.
He barked orders in Spanish to his vaqueros, and they left the parlor. She gathered the scissors and bandages, while he sat on die sofa, pulling apart Rooney’s robe, showing the bandage on his thigh.
She kneeled between his legs and stripped away the old bandage. The wound was an ugly bloody mouth on a hairy muscular leg. She dipped the washcloth into the basin, wrung it out, touched it to his skin.
Her hair was spun gold, once he’d seen her bathe naked in a Texas stream. He wanted to take her into his arms. “How is your gringo tonight?” he asked, sarcasm and jealousy in his voice. “Drunk yet?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“He knows it hurts you, but does he care? You see how much he loves you?”
She looked at his naked hairy leg, raised her face to see black mustache, white teeth, big brown eyes.
“Señora, you know what we should do right now?”
She felt a strange tingle at the base of her spine. Maintaining her composure, she adjusted the bandage carefully on the wound.
“Señora, we are alone. Think with your heart, instead of your mind.”
“Be still, or it’ll hurt.”
She tied the bandage, felt his animal heat, last night she slept with John Stone, what was happening to her? A woman couldn’t feel this way about two men. She tightened the knot, looked at him thoughtfully.
He wanted to place his arms around her, but couldn’t stand. “Señora, listen carefully. I have owned many ranches, and am skilled with cattle. John Stone, he knows little about cattle. You made him trail boss because he knows how to fight, and I admit he was good when the bullets were flying. I could never take that away from him. Tonight he saved my life, and I would do the same for him. But he does not know cattle, and he does not love you. John Stone is a lost little boy. You can see it on his face. He is not for you.” He placed a hand on his heart. “I will be your slave forever.”
“You want a Mexican señorita, not me. No man’ll ever tell me where I can’t go.”
He looked at her for a few moments, and her skin was gold as her hair in the light of the lantern. He swallowed hard and said, “My men will laugh at me, but you win. If you want to go to any disgusting place, even a stupid and filthy hootchy-kootchy dance, I will not stop you, but I will insist on my right to go with you, as your husband and protector.”
The robe was opened nearly to his waist. If she married a Mexican vaquero, she’d say good-bye forever to the world she’d grown up in
. Her mother would turn over in her grave. But he was a rancher, and an intelligent man. Mexicans are descendants of Spaniards, a great culture. He certainly knows cattle. Even Truscott thought so.
~*~
Slipchuck walked into the Peacock Saloon, stood on his tiptoes, looked around. In a corner, with a bottle in the middle of the table, sat John Stone. “There he is right there,” Slipchuck said to the man who was looking for his pard.
“Which one?”
“The big gent with the Confederate cavalry hat. I’ll interduce you to him.”
Slipchuck threaded his way among tables crowded with cowboys, freighters, whores, gamblers, the lost, the found, men sleeping in their drool. He came to the table and placed his hand on John Stone’s shoulder. “Johnny, this feller here wants to palaver with you.”
John Stone turned around, saw vacant space.
“Where’d he go?” Slipchuck asked. “He was here just a few minutes ago.” He removed his hat and scratched the few remaining hairs on the top of his head.
“What’re you doing here?” Stone asked. “You’re supposed to be with the herd.”
“Ephraim sent me in fer supplies. Where’s Cassandra?” Slipchuck looked at the bottle of whiskey.
“Help yourself.”
There were no extra glasses on the table. Slipchuck walked to the bar and picked a glass from the rows sitting upside down on the wet towel. He heard somebody mention the name “Frank Quarternight” and it rang a bell in his mind, but lots of bells rang in those old caverns, and he couldn’t make sense of half of them.
~*~
Ledbetter was a drunkard, a bum, his rags stank, and he’d been kicked in the head by a horse. His boots were worn to the bare soles of his feet, which was why he walked gingerly into the saloon. The famous gunfighter stood at the bar, his hook shining in the light of lanterns suspended from the ceiling. “Mr. Quarternight,” he said softly. “I found yer man.” Quarternight’s eyes darted to him. “Are you sure?” The messenger of death nodded solemnly.
~*~
The floor shook beneath Stone’s chair, as if a giant were walking toward him. He turned and saw Koussivitsky, attired in his new cowboy clothes.
“I thought you’re supposed to be with the herd,” Stone told him.
“Boss lady let me stay in town, because I have business with the carnival. Tomorrow I work at the pens, but tonight...” He snapped his fingers. “Woman, bring me a glass.” Then he sat next to John Stone and twirled his long mustache. “You look sick, my friend. What is wrong?”
“Women,” said Slipchuck on the other side of the table. “They’ll do it every time.”
“Pah!” said Koussivitsky. “I am here in this strange land because of a woman!”
“I thought,” Stone said, “you were here because you massacred a village.”
“That is true, but a woman was behind it. We were supposed to be married, and then, two weeks before the wedding, she said nyet. She did not give reason, and left for Saint Petersburg next morning. I was so unhappy I wanted to die. Every day I think of shooting myself. She have such big breasts. I pointed the gun to my head many times. And then came the rebellion in Prozhny. I was ordered to put it down, and I was so mad, well … I destroyed entire village because of a woman.”
Quarternight entered the Peacock Saloon. In a comer, behind a table of gamblers, he saw the grinning skull face of the dead girl.
Everyone stared at Quarternight. Chairs scraped against the floor, jackpots were scooped up, men got out of the way. Ledbetter basked in the radiance of the great man. “There he is, the big galoot in the comer to the right, wearin’ the old Confederate Army hat.”
Quarternight dropped coins into his hand. Ledbetter fled like Judas to the dark shadows. Quarternight looked at Stone, and Stone’s back was to the door, the stupid bastard.
It grew silent in the saloon. Stone turned around, saw a man with sloping shoulders and a big belly walking toward him.
“John Stone?” Quarternight asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Frank Quarternight.”
Stone knew the name from somewhere. “What can I do for you?”
There was silence for a few moments. “My brother was Dave Quarternight, and you killed him. On yer feet, you son of a bitch. Yer time has come.”
Stone felt like a ton of iron, so drunk he could barely see. Rooney stepped forward, and Quarternight fast-drew on him. “Hold it right there. Everybody back. This is between John Stone and me.”
Stone dragged himself to his feet, pulled up his pants, tried to focus on the gunfighter in front of him. He always knew it’d happen someday, he’d be too drunk to defend himself.
Rooney raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “This man’s in no condition to fight. Sit down and have a drink on me, my friend. Let’s talk this out like reasonable men.”
“Step back,” Quarternight said, “or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Stone tried to clear his mind. He didn’t want anybody to fight his battles. “I can take care of myself,” he muttered drunkenly. “Rooney—get the hell away from here.”
Rooney moved into the line of fire and went for his gun. Quarternight pulled his trigger, the saloon thundered with the shot. Rooney rocked on his heels, blood spreading over his white shirt. Quarternight turned his gun toward Stone, and Stone realized he was going to die. He recalled the Gypsy’s curse, grit his teeth for the impact of the bullet.
Another shot resounded through the saloon. Quarternight was hit before he could fire at John Stone. The bullet surprised Quarternight, his eyebrows furrowed, he turned toward his assailant, trying to hold his gun level.
An old gray-bearded man drew another bead on him. Slipchuck’s gun spoke again, and Quarternight was thrown against the tables, bleeding through two holes in his torso. It never occurred to him that the decrepit geezer would challenge from his blind side. He took two steps backward, fell to the seat of his pants. The dead girl knelt before him and kissed his lips. He sagged to the floor, darkness fell over him. Frank Quarternight had fought his last duel. It was silent in the saloon. Slipchuck holstered his gun. “Somebody call the doc.”
Stone gazed at Rooney lying on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Rooney’s eyes fluttered. At West Point it was drilled into their heads from the moment they arrived: you’d die for each other, and there was no question about it.
Guilt tore Stone’s heart apart. He got to his feet, stumbled toward the table, reached for the bottle of whiskey, snatched it up, pulled the cork, raised it to his mouth.
His hand shook. If he drank that whiskey, it’d be the end of him. The genie in the bottle sang her siren song. Stone screamed like a wounded animal and threw the bottle against the wall. It shattered, whiskey flew in all directions. He turned toward the back door of the saloon.
“That old fart shot Frank Quarternight!”
Stone opened the back door, nearly fell on his face. The cool night air hit him, and he thought of Rooney dying on the floor. He dropped to his knees. “What have I done!”
In a mad frenzy he pulled out his gun and pointed it at his head. His finger tightened around the trigger, but somehow, of all possible memories to assault his mind, he remembered the parade ground at West Point. He’d marched alongside Ashley Tredegar, Beauregard Talbott, Lewton Rooney, Judson Kilpatrick, John Pelham, Fanny Custer, George Watts, and all the rest of them. He couldn’t betray them. What would Marie think when she found out he blew his brains out behind a saloon?
He looked at the sky, saw Orion the warrior with his belt and sword of stars. A great merciful cloud of blackness swept over Stone. He fell on his face next to the privy, out cold.
~*~
The gold gleamed in the darkness. Blasingame ran his fingers through it, raised his hands in the air, let the coins fall back to the pile. Gold was a magic substance, a mineral alive. No lantern burned, but a light shone from the depths of the gold. It could buy an army of rampaging bastards who’d wipe Sund
ust off the face of the earth.
He heard three short knocks and three long ones, closed the saddlebags, threw them over his shoulder, opened the door a crack. Buckalew stood there, holding the reins of two horses, one of which was his, the other stolen only five minutes ago from the hitching rail in front of the Brazos Saloon.
Blasingame climbed onto the saddle of the stolen horse. He looked back over his shoulder at the ramshackle little cowtown on the edge of nowhere. Tomorrow night you won’t exist.
The ex-pastor of the Mount Zion Church of God followed his son out of town. Blasingame had arrived with nothing but his Bible and faith in his God-given mission, and was leaving with a bag of gold. He’d been unable to find ten good men in Sundust, and God would rain fire on it, sweep the town from the face of the earth.
Something told Reverend Blasingame not to turn around and look at Sundust, otherwise he’d turn into a pillar of salt. It was like a message from God, and frightened him. He didn’t look back once in his saddle for the remainder of the night.
Chapter Ten
Stone awakened in a hotel room. Beside him, Captain Koussivitsky sprawled on his back, his great mouth hanging open. What happened?
He remembered Lew Rooney getting shot, felt a sudden painful wave of remorse. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. Nearby on the floor slept Slipchuck, the man who shot Frank Quarternight.
It was early morning, stores open for business, riders and wagons in the street. Stone’s stomach was in knots, head ballooned with memories of Rooney. He didn’t know if his friend was alive or dead.
He walked toward Rooney’s house. I’ve been weak, let myself go. A man can’t cause other people to get shot. He squared his shoulders and sucked in his stomach. His backbone was straight as the day he’d marched beneath the flags at West Point. From now on he’d be a man, not a drunkard. He’d live by his officers’ code, though he wasn’t an officer anymore.
Thirst sucked his mouth, his confidence was shaken. What difference would one little drink make? But it never ended with just one, he knew that now. Stop altogether or become a drunkard for life.
He came to the house, knocked on the door. It was opened by sleepy-eyed Pedro.
