Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  Outside, McCluskie headed the boy uptown and they walked along at a steady clip for a few paces. After a while the Irishman grunted and shook his head.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, bud. Don’t ever let women get started runnin’ their gums. Once they build up a head of steam, there’s no stoppin’ them. I got us out of there just in time.”

  Kinch gave him a quizzical glance. “I don’t get you. What’s wrong with talkin’?”

  “Talkin’? Hell, there wouldn’t be no talkin’ to it. Just listenin’. They’d sit there and rehash the whole night, and feed it back to you blow by blow. Time they got through you’d come away thinkin’ you’d lived it twice.”

  “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean.”

  They walked along in silence for a few steps, but McCluskie’s curiosity finally got the better of him. Not unlike the temptation to peep through a knothole, there was a question he just couldn’t resist.

  “What’d you think of Sugartit?”

  “She’s nifty, Mike. Cuter’n a button, too.”

  Something in the kid’s voice sounded peculiar. Just a little off key. “Well, I didn’t mean her, exactly. I was talkin’ about what she did for you. How’d you like that?”

  Kinch didn’t say anything for a moment, but an odd look came over his eyes. “It was like a big juicy toothache that don’t hurt no more. All of a sudden whammo! And then it’s fixed.”

  “Yeah?” McCluskie detected something more than mere excitement. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I don’t know. It was like colored lights whirlin’ around inside your head. Y’know, the way a skyrocket does. There’s a big explosion and then for a while you can’t see nothin’ but streaks and colors and bright flashes. Cripes, she was somethin’, Mike.”

  “I’m startin’ to get a hunch you were drunker’n I thought.”

  “No I wasn’t, neither. After the first time I was sober as all get out.”

  “First time!”

  The boy grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. Y‘see, we was gettin’ dressed and then she started rubbin’ around on me and—”

  “I get the picture. What you’re sayin’ is that you liked it more’n you thought.”

  “I liked her. There’s somethin’ about her, Mike. She’s not like the others. Not even a little bit.”

  The Irishman slammed to a halt and faced him. “Say, you’re not gettin’ sweet on that girl, are you?”

  “I might be.” Kinch stuck out his chin and stared right back. “What’s wrong with that?”

  McCluskie had seen lots of men go dippy over whores. In a cowtown there was always a scarcity of women, and sometimes a man settled for what he could get. But the kid deserved better than that. The only thing special about Sugartit was that she had probably laid half the cowhands in Texas. And her hardly older than the kid, for Chrissakes!

  “What’s wrong is that she’s a whore. Has been since Belle stole her away from a dancehall back in Abilene. That was close to three years ago. You got any idea how many men she’s screwed in—”

  “Mike, I ain’t gonna listen to that. Don’t you go badmouthin’ her, y’hear me!”

  The boy was bristled up like a banty rooster and McCluskie had to clamp down hard to keep from laughing. “Don’t get your dander up, bud. I was just tryin’ to show you what’s what.”

  “Well, lay off of her. I told you, she’s not like the others.”

  “Awright, just for the sake of argument, let’s say she’s not. But what do you think she’s doin’ back there right now?”

  “What kind of crack is that?”

  “You think about it for a minute. She’s not workin’ in a sporting house for her health, y’know. There’s cowhands walkin’ in there regular as clockwork, and before the night’s over she’ll have humped her share.”

  Kinch glared at him for a long time, then he shrugged and looked away. “Nobody’s perfect. She was probably starvin’ and plenty hard up when Belle took her in.”

  “That’s right, she was.”

  “Same as me, the night you caught me down at the depot.”

  “Not just exactly. That’s what I’m tryin’ to get through your head. Call her whatever you want: Soiled Dove. Fallen Sparrow. The handle you put on her won’t change nothin’. The plain fact of the matter is, she’s a whore.”

  “Well, holy jumpin’ Jesus, that ain’t no crime, is it? Cripes, if I was a girl and got stuck in a cowtown, I might’ve wound up a whore myself.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is that you shouldn’t get calf eyes over your first piece of tail. There’s lots of women around. Some of ’em better’n Sugartit, maybe. You ought to shop around a little before you let yourself get all bogged down.”

  “I don’t see you makin’ the rounds. Seems to me you stick pretty close to Belle.”

  The kid halfway had a point. McCluskie grunted and turned back uptown. They clomped along without saying much, each lost in his own thoughts. At last, somewhat baffled by the youngster’s doggedness, the Irishman decided to try another tack.

  “Y’know, it’s funny how things work out between a man and a woman. Now you take Belle and me, for instance. Once I get her in bed she’s tame as any tabbycat you ever saw. But the rest of the time she’s got a temper that’d melt lead. Hell, I don’t need to tell you. Not after some of the tantrums you’ve seen her pitch.”

  Kinch gave him a suspicious look. “What’s that got to do with me and Sugartit?”

  “That’s what I was workin’ around to. You see, it’s like this: When a man’s puttin’ the goods to a woman, she’s putty in his hands. There’s not a promise on earth she wouldn’t make while he’s got his shaft ticklin’ her funnybone. But out of bed it’s a different story. Then she knows he’s got his mind on the next time, and that gives her the whiphand. She’ll make him sweat and do all kinds of damnfool things before she lets him climb in the saddle again.”

  “I still don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “You’re not listenin’, bud. What I’m sayin’ is that women calculate things. Plan it all out. A man’s brains are between his legs, and that’s where he does most of his thinkin’. A woman thinks with her head, leastways when you haven’t got her on her back, and she generally winds up gettin’ what she wants.”

  “What you’re sayin’ is that women know how to wind a man around their little finger.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’. Just remember, a man rules in bed, but the rest of the time it’s the woman that calls the tune. They’ll make you dance whatever jig they want just for the honor of pumpin’ on ’em every now and then.”

  “And you think that’s what Sugartit has got planned for me?”

  “She’s female, and I’m just tellin’ you that’s the way they work.”

  Kinch screwed up his face in a stubborn frown. “Mike, that’s the biggest crock I ever heard. Maybe I’m wet behind the ears, but I’m not stupid. Sugartit is different, and nothin’ you say is gonna budge me one iota.”

  It suddenly dawned on McCluskie that he was up against a stone wall. Not only that, but he was trying to play God in the bargain. Here was a kid who’d be lucky if he lived out the winter, and the last thing he needed was a bunch of second-hand advice—especially from somebody who hadn’t made any great shakes of his own life. If the kid wanted a playmate till his string ran out, then by damn that’s what he would have. Sugartit was handy and seemed willing, so it was just a matter of working it out with Belle. The button wouldn’t even have to know.

  McCluskie threw his arm over the boy’s shoulders. “Sport, I learned a long time ago not to argue with a man when he’s got his mind set. Besides, maybe you know something I don’t. Hell, give it a whirl. You and Sugartit might hit it off in style. Just remember what I said, though. Keep your dauber up and she’ll treat you like Jesus H. himself.”

  The kid grinned and started to reply, but all at once his throat constricted and he began coughing. It wasn’t a particularly severe sp
asm but it was the worst of the night. Watching him gasp for air, the Irishman was again reminded of his promise to himself. This kid was going to have whatever he wanted. Served up any way he liked.

  “Goddamn, I knew it!” McCluskie growled. “You sobered up and now you’re back to coughin’. C’mon, bud, what you need is a drink. Let’s find ourselves a waterin’ hole.”

  They crossed the street and entered Gregory’s Saloon. This was a Texan hangout and a place McCluskie normally wouldn’t have frequented, but just then he wasn’t feeling choosy. Whiskey was whiskey, and the kid needed a dose in the worst way.

  The dive was packed shoulder to shoulder with trailhands, and reeked of sweat, cow manure, and stale smoke. McCluskie bulled his way through the crowd and wedged out a place for them at the bar. Some of the men he shoved aside muttered angrily, and a curious buzz swept back over the room as others turned to look at the choking, red-faced kid.

  The bartender sauntered over, absently munching a toothpick. “What’ll you have?”

  “The good stuff,” McCluskie informed him. “With the live snake in it.”

  That didn’t draw any laughs but it produced a bottle. The Irishman poured and got a shot down Kinch without any lost motion. Apparently even snakehead whiskey was not without medicinal qualities. It had no sooner hit bottom than the kid stopped coughing and commenced to look like himself again. McCluskie poured a second round just for good measure.

  “Say, Irish, when’d ya start collectin’ strays?”

  Several of the men close by chuckled, and McCluskie turned to find Bill Bailey standing a few feet behind him. They had crossed paths back in Abilene and shared a mutual dislike for one another. Bailey was a big man, heavier than McCluskie, with a seamed, windburned face the color of plug tobacco. His legs bowed out like a couple of barrel staves, and it was no secret that he had once been a top hand for Shanghai Pierce. According to rumor, he had a checkered past and couldn’t return to Texas—something about a shootout over a card game that had left a reward dodger hanging over his head. But he was a great favorite with the trailhands, and through one device or another, managed to leave them laughing as he separated them from their pay.

  McCluskie gave him a brittle stare. “Bailey, I only allow my friends to call me Irish. That lets you out.”

  “Hell, don’t get your nose out of joint.” Bailey jerked a thumb at Kinch. “I was just curious about your pardner. Looks a mite sickly to be runnin’ with you.”

  “Don’t let his looks fool you.” McCluskie turned his head slightly and winked at the kid. “For a skinny fellow he’s sorta sudden.”

  Bailey cocked one eyebrow and inspected the boy closer. “Yeh, that popgun he’s wearin’ looks real, sure enough. Course, I’ve seen more’n one pilgrim shoot his toes off tryin’ to play badman. What about it, squirt, you lost any toes lately?”

  McCluskie leaned back against the bar and studied the ceiling. The kid glanced at him and got no reaction whatever. Then it came to him, what was happening here, and a smile ticked at the corner of his mouth.

  The Irishman had slyly brought the game full circle.

  Kinch turned his attention back to the Texan. “Mister, that’s a bad habit you’ve got, callin’ people names. Some folks might not take kindly to it.”

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed and he darted a puzzled look at the Irishman. “Listen, sonny, my beef’s with your friend here. Just button your lip and I’ll act like I didn’t hear you.”

  All at once the kid knew what McCluskie had been talking about every day out in the gully: the difference between a tin can and a man. It brought a warm little glow down in the pit of his belly.

  “What’s the matter, lardgut? Lost your nerve?”

  “Boy, I’m warnin’ you, don’t rile me. You’re out of your class.”

  It was just like McCluskie had said! A four-flusher always toots his horn the loudest. He smiled and edged clear of the bar.

  “Try me.”

  Bailey’s hand twitched and streaked toward the butt of his gun. Then he froze dead still. The kid was standing there with a Colt Navy pointed straight at his gut. What the Texan took to be his last thought was one of sheer wonder. He hadn’t even seen the kid move.

  McCluskie waited a couple of seconds, then looked over at the boy. “You figure on shootin’ him?”

  Kinch shook his head. “Nope, He’s not worth it.”

  McCluskie shrugged and headed toward the door. The boy backed away, keeping Bailey covered, and only after he was outside did he holster the Colt. The Irishman was already striding up the street, and as Kinch came alongside he grunted sourly.

  “That was a damnfool play. A gun’s like what you’ve got between your legs. If you’re not going to use it, then keep it in your pants. Saves a whole lot of trouble later on.”

  TEN

  The five men were seated around a table in the Lone Star. They were alone, for sunrise was scarcely an hour past, and none of the saloon help had yet arrived. Spivey and Judge Muse, flanked by Tonk Hazeltine, occupied one side of the table. Seated across from them were McCluskie and Bill Bailey.

  Not unlike dogs warily eying one another, the Texan and McCluskie had their chairs hitched around sideways to the table. They had exchanged curt nods when the meeting began, and afterward seated themselves so they could keep each other in sight. This guarded maneuvering was hardly lost on the others, yet none of them displayed any real surprise. The story of Bailey’s humiliation at the hands of the kid was by now common knowledge. It had created a sensation on both sides of the tracks, and except for the upcoming bond issue, the townspeople had talked of little else for the last week.

  Word had spread that Bailey meant to even the score, and hardly anyone doubted he would try. Unless McCluskie got to him first, which seemed highly likely. Still, betting was about evenly split, and speculation was widespread as to the outcome if it ever came to a showdown.

  When the men first sat down, Spivey had attempted to ease the tension with some idle chitchat. But it quickly became apparent that his efforts were largely wasted. While Muse joined in, the others simply stared back at him like a flock of molting owls. Hazeltine and Bailey shared a bitter dislike for the Irishman, who in turn, looked through them as if they didn’t exist. Spivey finally gave it up as hopeless and at last got down to business.

  “Gents, I called this meetin’ so we could get everything squared away neat and proper. Once the votin’ commences I don’t figure we’re gonna have much chance to get our heads together. Whatever’s got to be ironed out, we’d best get to it now. Later we likely won’t have time.”

  There was a moment of silence while everybody digested that. After a while Hazeltine cleared his throat. “I don’t follow you. What’s left to be done?”

  “Well, Tonk, when we agreed to deputize these boys”—Spivey waved his hand in the general direction of McCluskie and Bailey—“we sort of thought you’d make good use of ‘em. I kept waitin’ but as of last night you hadn’t said yea or nay. Seemed to me we oughta talk about it.”

  “What’s to talk about?” The lawman gave him an indignant frown. “I’m the law here and I’ll see that everything comes off the way it’s s’posed to.”

  Spivey and Muse exchanged glances. Then the judge made a steeple of his fingers and peered through them at Hazeltine. “Deputy, we’re not casting aspersions on you personally. Nothing of the sort. We’re merely asking what your plans are.”

  “Hell, we don’t need no plans. You talk like we was electin’ a new President or somethin’. It’s nothin’ but a measly goddamn bond vote.”

  Spivey swelled up like a bloated toad. “Measly, my dusty rump! Just in case it slipped your mind, what happens today could put the quietus on this whole town. What’s at stake here is Newton itself.”

  “Bob’s right,” the judge agreed hurriedly. “We’re fighting for our lives. Now let me tell you something. Six months ago this town was nothing but a cow pasture. Today we have a bank, hotels, businesses. A
thriving economy. And something more, too. The potential—”

  McCluskie turned a deaf ear to the judge’s harangue. The past month had left him with a sour taste in his mouth for the grubby little game being played out here. Wichita was trying to shaft Newton. The Santa Fe was shafting everybody. And he was caught squarely in the middle.

  All because the head office brass wanted to squeeze a lousy two hundred thousand dollars out of Sedgwick County.

  But then, that’s how the rich got fat and the poor got lean. The big dog kept nibbling away, bit by bit, at the little dog’s bone. Which didn’t concern him one way or the other. Except that the brass acted like they had a case of the trots and couldn’t find the plug.

  They had ordered him to split Newton down the middle and that’s what he’d done. Pony Reid and John Gallagher started talking it up and before long the sporting crowd had swung over to Wichita’s side of the fence. All of which made good sense from their standpoint. Wichita was farther south than any of the cowtowns and was sure to attract a greater number of the Texas herds.

  Then, out of a clear blue, the brass told him to lay off. They had decided, according to their last letter, to let Sedgwick County resolve its own internal affairs. Stripped of all subterfuge, it simply meant they intended to play both ends against the middle. Whoever won—Newton or Wichita—the Santa Fe would still wind up with all the marbles.

  If it wasn’t so infuriating he might have laughed. The fact that they paid him to waste his time and effort only made it more absurd. Like a dog chasing its tail, he had accomplished nothing.

  Judge Muse brought him back to the present with a sharp rap on the table. “We’re fighting for nothing less than our very lives! Everything we possess has been poured into this town. Speaking quite frankly, Deputy, I think that demands some added effort on your part also.”

  Tonk Hazeltine gave him a glum scowl. “I already said my piece. Trouble with you fellers is you’re makin’ a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Like hell we are!” Spivey replied hotly. “This town’ll be swamped with Texans today, and if I know them they won’t miss a chance to hooraw things good and proper. It’s our election, but odds are they’ll use it as an excuse to pull Newton up by the roots.”