Rubbing my face, feeling blood, starting to worry, I glimpsed Hardin through the thick smoke that filled the small café. He leaped through the open door and disappeared outside.
“Hands up!” he yelled.
“Don’t shoot,” came a high-pitched reply out on the boardwalk.
A horse whinnied. Another squealed. Hoofs pounded the street, and I removed my hand from my cheek and gagged in disbelief at what I had mistaken for small leaden pellets. They were teeth! Bloody bits of teeth.
I came to my feet, dropped the shards, wiped the blood on my relatively new trousers, and found the man who had worn the derby hat. He had fallen across the doorway, his legs and feet inside, the rest of his body—including what was left of his face—on the boardwalk.
Pain started to sit up, staring at his bloody arm. The gent in the fancy vest spun around and headed for the kitchen, probably to find the rear exit. Somehow I summoned up enough courage to go out the front door, tiptoeing around the fellow Hardin had shot in the face.
Outside, the man Hardin had confronted on the boardwalk still held his hands high. The badge pinned on his vest told me that he was a deputy, and his face turned paler with each second at the dying man in front of him.
Another lawman ran from the Pearl Saloon, yelling: “What happened?”
Then he saw what had happened. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” After crossing himself, he looked inside the restaurant, then at the deputy. “Gainey,” he said. “Gainey!” Louder now. “Damn it, Gainey, put down your damned hands and tell me what the hell happened.”
“I didn’t see it. Just…a man.”
The new lawman looked at me. “Did you see what happened?” he asked.
My head shook. I stammered. “Teeth … hit my … face.” Weakly, I pointed at the man, who had stopped breathing, but whose eyes remained trained—on me. “His teeth.”
“Jesus. Jesus.” The lawman stepped over the corpse and went inside the café. People piled out of other storefronts, and the new deputy stepped back out, draping the dead man with a checkered tablecloth.
“Gainey,” he said. “Find Doctor Boudinot. Find him now. And get Jim here. Pronto.”
The deputy called Gainey—his name, I later learned, was really Gainsford—walked away in a daze, and the other lawman disappeared inside the café. “Nobody leave,” I heard him say. “Till I learn what happened.”
With everyone looking either at the dead man or peering inside the café, I moved to the hitching rail, found my horse, and climbed into the saddle. No one noticed me. The lawman remained inside the café. People on foot and horseback hurried down the street, but no one attempted to stop me.
To avoid attention, I rode out at a walk. Past the lumberyard. Over to the bridge. And back to camp, where I vomited.
Chapter Seventeen
Hardin showed up four days later, and we didn’t leave camp for two days. Although we had plenty of coffee, typically we rode over to another outfit for supper.
“Prices ain’t goin’ up,” one trail boss told us.
“Yankees,” the cook grumbled.
“Heard there was a shooting in some café about a week ago,” Hardin said.
“Hell,” the cook said, “there was a killing yesterday.”
“That happened out of town,” the boss said. “I think what Little Arkansas means is that other shootin’. In that eatin’ house. Where Ol’ Pain caught a slug in the arm durin’ the fracas. But Pain’ll be fine. The Yank who started it, he’s in Hell, with no teeth to eat what the devil serves for supper.”
Hardin and the trail boss grinned.
“Funny thing is, they don’t rightly know who done that killin’. Pain told the marshal he’d never seen the hombre before. Thought he wore Yankee britches, though. Must’ve been why he rode out north. Not south.”
I guess every Texas cowboy in Abilene had heard about the shooting, and two-thirds of those knew, or guessed, that Hardin was behind it all. But they’d never let Wild Bill Hickok, or any Kansan, know what they knew. It was policy. That’s all.
The next morning, a rider eased a mule toward our camp. Hardin spotted him first, and Hardin was the first to disappear while I waited for the coffee to boil. After the rider called out a greeting, I waved him in. He didn’t look like a Kansas law dog. As he drew nearer, I realized he had only one arm. That’s when I rose, trembling, recognizing Pain.
“Howdy,” Pain said. “Coffee smells good.”
There was a calico bandanna wrapped around his one arm. That’s what Hardin’s bad aim had done. I could see dried blood on the makeshift bandage.
“I must’ve shot your nose,” Hardin called out as he climbed out of the brambles, “if you think Abilene’s coffee smells good.”
Pain ground-reined his mule and eased over to the fire.
“You’ll have to share a cup,” I told him. “We only have two.”
“He can use mine,” Hardin said, and held out his hand. They shook. “I owe him that much.”
“Nah,” Pain said. “I owe you. Saved my hide.”
Hardin gestured at the bandage. “Well, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Pain took the cup I had poured. “Hell, Wes,” he said, “I’m used to it. My name’s Pain.”
We laughed, but it felt and sounded awkward. Pain and Hardin squatted, while I filled my cup with coffee. I took a sip, and then Hardin grabbed my cup without asking.
“Figured you’d lit a shuck for Texas,” Pain said, after drinking about two-thirds of my brew.
“Considered it,” Hardin said. “But Texas isn’t the most welcoming place of late. For me.”
“Well.” I had never known a man to suck down burning hot coffee as fast as he did. Pain handed me the cup.
“More?” I asked.
“Nah. You need to fortify yourself.”
Hardin lowered his cup. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” Pain said. He shook his head. “Don’t be tetchy, Wes. The boy needs coffee. I come to tell you nobody knows it was you who done that shooting.”
Hardin motioned down the North Fork of the Cottonwood. “That’s what Rufus Bates told me. You’re a fair man, Pain. You ever need anything, just ask me.”
Pain nodded. “I told the law that I’d never met the gent who rid the world of a bully. Someone said … ‘It was that murderin’ dog Hardin from Texas.’ I said … ‘Hell if it was, Hardin wouldn’t have shot me unless he meant to.’” Chuckling, Pain began rolling a smoke. One good arm, with a bullet hole in the upper part, and he rolled a cigarette as quickly and smoothly as anyone I’d ever seen. “You know what?” He licked the paper and stuck the smoke in his mouth. “That convinced them it wasn’t you. Even before I suggested it was a Yankee.”
“Would a Yankee defend a Texan in an Abilene café?” I asked as Hardin picked up a twig to light Pain’s smoke.
Pain said: “Hell, Kansans are damned fools. Believe anything.”
I refilled Hardin’s cup, poured some for me, and went about my morning chores while Pain and Hardin talked. Finally, Hardin suggested that Pain ride into town with him. To celebrate. So Hardin could make up for that gunshot wound.
“Nah.” Pain pointed at his mule. “Time to mosey back south. I’m broke. And that’s my motto … stay in a cow town till I’m out of money, then drift back home to do it all again the next season.” He nodded at me, clapped his one hand on Hardin’s shoulder, thanked him again, and walked toward his mule.
Hardin followed him, fishing out a handful of script, and placed it in Pain’s vest pocket. “You be safe.”
“You, too,” Pain said. “Both of you. Get back to Texas as quick as you can.”
“Money’s good here.”
“Wild Bill’s here,” Pain reminded Hardin as he swung into his saddle.
When he was gone, Hardin said: “W
e’ve rested up long enough. Tonight, me and you are going back to town. Let you do some counting for me.”
I tensed, remembering Hickok’s warning. And Pain’s.
But Hardin grinned like the most devilish of a preacher’s kid. “You been a good pard, Noah. A man to ride the river with, certain sure. So tonight, it’s my treat. Whiskey. I’ll even get us a room in a hotel so we can sleep on a downy bed or at least a straw mattress. And, boy, it’s high time you had got a poke.”
I was sixteen years old, and Hardin spoke the language of my tribe.
* * * * *
Hardin took no chances. We waited till full dark before we rode into town, and he registered us at the American Hotel, using false names, before we rode to the Bull’s Head.
No, no, that’s not quite right. The Bull’s Head came later. My mind fogs over, even though I had told myself I wouldn’t get roostered this night. In fact, I started out nursing whiskeys and beers, pretending to keep up with Hardin, who could hold his liquor if not his temper. Anyway, we went to Mr. A. “The Wonder Engine” V.’s bowling alley, and somehow two women joined us, and neither was the cute girl named Janice who worked there. Hardin’s girl had red hair, and she was right plump. The dark-haired one with me was mostly skin and bones but with large breasts that pressed tight against her calico dress. She smelled slightly of lilacs but mostly of cigarette smoke and forty-rod.
Outside, a couple of black cowboys started clawing a banjo and sawing a fiddle, so Hardin danced with the redhead, and I took the brunette. I’d never had so much fun. Hardin tossed a dollar into one of the Negro’s hats, and we left, laughing, with my girl hugging me tightly and saying what a good dancer I was.
We ate at this dingy place, where Gip Clements joined us. I didn’t know Gip Clements, and wondered if he were related to Jim Clements, but I never thought to ask him because the brunette kept whispering in my ear. Anyway, I figured that Gip and Hardin were old friends. That’s when I got to see where I stood with John Wesley Hardin.
When Gip put his arm around my girl’s shoulder and said, “Come here, baby,” Hardin rose from his stool and pushed Gip against the counter.
“Hands off,” he said. “That’s Counting Boy’s gal.”
“Counting Boy.” The redhead turned to me. “What a cute name. How high can you count?”
I blushed, wishing Hardin had called me by my other moniker, the Abilene Kid.
“Let’s find out.” Hardin tossed coins on his plate, grabbed his bottle, grabbed the redhead, and jerked her toward the door. Gip, my brunette, and I chased after them. We weaved through men, dogs, and horses, as we made our way to the Bull’s Head.
“Wait a minute, honey,” my girl called out. “We can’t go in there.”
“Why not?” Hardin asked.
Gip, still tagging along with us, said: “Law don’t allow it.”
“Horse shit,” Hardin said.
“It’s true,” the redhead said. She sighed. “All the tavern owners had conniption fits. Said girls like us was bad for their business. Well, they’re men and we ain’t, so …” She shrugged.
My girl rolled another smoke.
“Well, let’s see if they’re man enough to stop me.” Hardin pulled the redhead into the saloon. Gip Clements stepped back. The brunette grabbed my arm and giggled. “This ought to be real fun to see, sugar.”
Inside, Hardin kicked at an empty chair and asked the two cowboys at that table if they’d mind getting out of his sight. They did, and Hardin pulled out a chair for the redhead. “Ain’t he real gentlemanly?” the brunette whispered to me. Taking the hint, I helped her into the chair Hardin had kicked.
“My name’s Lavender,” she whispered.
“I’m Noah,” I told her.
“Like the Ten Commandments?”
“Yeah.” I dared not correct her for fear she might turn her attention and breasts to Gip Clements.
“We’re gonna break one tonight, Noah. Maybe more’n one.” She winked.
My heart pounded like a herd of stampeding horses.
“Get us some drinks, Gip,” Hardin said, and Gip left in a hurry.
Hardin smiled as a man in fancy duds came over.
“Wes.” The dapper man stopped, pulling open his coat to show he was not armed.
“Ben.” Hardin did not open his coat.
“You’re welcome to drink, play cards, roll dice.” He glanced at me. “With your lucky charm or without. Your credit’s good. But…” He glanced at the women. “We do have rules.”
This Ben was short, sporting a mustache, and he spoke with the trace of an English accent.
“These ladies are with us.” Nodding at our companions, Hardin said: “Ladies, this is Ben Thompson. He’s one mean hombre.” Hardin looked around. “Where’s your pard?”
“Phil’s busy.”
“We’re busy, too, Ben. So if you don’t mind.”
Thompson grinned. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, gave it to Hardin, and sat in the chair beside him. “Have you seen Hickok?” he asked.
Hardin fired up his cigar. “He hasn’t seen me, either.”
“A damnyankee if ever there was one.” Thompson shook his head. “Been hounding Phil and me to change that sign outside.”
“I like the sign,” Hardin said. “It reminds me of … me.” He reached over and groped one of the redhead’s breasts.
Thompson pretended to ignore that. “Picks on us Johnny Rebs. Hates all of us Texans.”
Hardin looked away from his girl. “Ben,” he said, “you sure don’t talk like most Texans I know. You gotta be born in Texas to be Texan. England ain’t part of Texas … yet.”
Again, Thompson heard only what he wanted to hear. “He’s been saying he wants to kill you, Little Arkansas. You better watch your back, friend. If I were you, I’d kill Hickok. Sooner the better.”
By then, Gip Clements returned with our drinks, standing there, holding a tray, waiting for Thompson to leave so he could sit in his chair and give us our drinks.
Hardin leaned forward and whispered: “Hickok’s played square by me. If Wild Bill needs killing, why don’t you kill him yourself?”
Ben Thompson heard that. He rose, frowning hard, and started to walk away.
Hardin stopped him. “Didn’t they teach you to tip your hats to ladies in England?”
Thompson pretended he did not hear that, either.
Chapter Eighteen
How things happened exactly after that, I’m not certain. How things played out in my mind went something like this.
“Do you wanna take a hack?” Lavender asks as we watch Hardin and his “sweetie” ride off into the darkness. Gip Clements rides with them. The redhead said she knows just the friend for Gip.
I stutter, stammer, and try to think of something to say. Over the evening, I’ve had maybe one full beer and two shots of rye. I don’t know how Lavender keeps standing, but I sure like it that she is.
“I don’t reckon you can afford it … me,” she says.
That flusters me. “Well …” I start, but she presses herself against me, pulls me tight, reaches up, grabs the back of my head, and brings me closer. Her eyes glitter. She’s utterly beautiful.
“It’s all right, sugar,” she whispers. “It’ll be romantic, you know, us walkin’.”
She kisses me, gently at first, then harder, and once she pulls away, I’m practically flying down the boardwalks till there are no more boardwalks. She’s laughing, smoking a cigarette—I don’t recall her stopping to roll one—and we’re arm in arm, leaving Abilene proper and making a beeline to the Addition.
The streets are dark, but you can hear everything, including that earsplitting sound of tenpin alleys and gambling halls. The Devil’s Addition sure looks a lot different at this time of night. I’ve never been into this section of it. Suddenly, I hardly hear a t
hing. Rushing blood sounds like thunder in my head.
Lavender turns down an alley between grog shops, and we almost knock over a drunk who’s weaving back to the main street—if you can call it that.
“Hey, Willie!” she calls out, as she lets go of me and walks toward a shadow of a man standing by a flimsy building. The shadow smokes a cigar. After a few steps, Lavender turns, rushes back to me, kisses me on the lips, saying: “Don’t go nowhere, Talkin’ Boy.” She giggles. “That’s a cute name. I’ll be back directly.”
She heads back toward Willie.
I say: “It’s Counting Boy. Not Talking Boy. And I’m the Abilene Kid now. Just call me Abilene.” Lavender can’t hear me, though, and I can see Willie hand her a bottle and something else. He calls her Grace, which confuses me because her name’s Lavender. He says something that sounds nasty, and she turns back and calls him a bastard from hell, says she knows what she’s doing and doesn’t need any guff. He spits. She spits back.
I’m raised Texan. You don’t treat a lady that way, so I reach for the gun I don’t have. But that’s fine with me, because I figure I can stomp this Willie into the stink of this alley. I’m about to, when Lavender grabs my arm with her free hand, grins, and says: “Let’s go, Moses.”
Even in the dark she must be able to see my face, somehow, for she releases my arm, twists my cheek, and laughs. “Don’t worry ’bout Willie. I can take care of him. But not the way I can take care of you, Moses.”
“Noah,” I tell her.
“Noah. Talkin’ Boy. That’s right. Let me take you to heaven.”
We leave Willie and his jug of whiskey, and I can make out the privies and shacks along the alleyway. It sounds like there are pigs grunting and squealing in one of them.
Lavender pounds the door as she passes that place, but she doesn’t stop as she yells: “Havin’ a good time, Lacy?”
The pig noises stop long enough for a muffled voice to yell through the thin picket walls. I’ve never heard a woman say what that Lacy told Lavender to do, and only heard two boys ever use that word—and one of those was on a dare.
The Fall of Abilene Page 11
