For the Love of a Woman

by Orrin Russell

  It was the back door he arrived at. He knocked and waited, memories resurging of days gone by when he’d let himself in with the key Angelique had given him. After a moment the door swung open and, like deja vu, Else’s figure appeared. She wore a thin nightgown, though it was the middle of the day, and a corset that pushed her breasts up and together under her neck.

  He smiled and removed his hat.

  ‘Balum,’ she said softly, and opened the door wide. He stepped through it and gave her a hug, aware of the feel of her body against his. When he drew back from her she looked quizzically at him and asked, ‘No kisses or squeezes?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m a well-behaved man now.’

  She shook her head with a smirk, disbelieving.

  ‘I’ve come to pay a visit to Angelique. Is she around?’

  ‘She left an hour ago.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. She took his hand and led him through the back hallway, through the curtain and into the main barroom where tables and sofas sat underneath dim lighting. Customers were few in the mid afternoon. The girls lounged on the furniture, gossiped amongst themselves, and smiled at Balum when he took a seat at a table.

  Helene was standing at the bar running a wet rag over the surface. When she saw Balum she waved at him bashfully. A word passed between the two girls in Danish and they left together back through the curtain. Balum fidgeted with his hat at the table. He wished he had a plug of tobacco in his cheek. Before long a thin girl with blond hair asked him if he’d like a drink. He hesitated, nodded his head. She returned a minute later from the bar with a shot of brandy and sat with him.

  ‘I’ve never see you here before,’ she said. Her breath smelled of perfume and cigarettes.

  ‘I’m an old friend of Angelique. I came to say hello.’

  ‘She stepped out a while ago. I think she went to look at a piece of land to the north. She’s been talking about buying a ranch house for some time.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Oh, not for a long time I expect. However fast her horse decides to take her.’

  Balum sipped at the brandy.

  The girl leaned in. She rested a hand on Balum’s thigh and brought her cheek alongside his. ‘I can help you pass the time if you’d like,’ she whispered.

  He felt a stirring within him. Like a bull released into the breeding pen, riled and ornery after the trek back with Nelson. But for as hot as his blood ran, the weight of his heart as it ached for Angelique outdistanced the urges generated by the barely dressed women lounging about. He threw back the last of the brandy and rose from the table.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, and left through the front door while the blond sat alone with the empty glass.

  In the street again he breathed deeply and let his head come back to rest on his shoulders. He couldn’t sit much longer in that room. Temptation was a beast against which he held few weapons.

  Men and women sweeping their porches and unhitching their horses from street posts nodded to him as he made his way back to Nelson. Before he reached him he stepped into a corner shop selling dry goods and feed, and purchased a pouch of chewing tobacco. Under the shade of the boardwalk awning he tucked a plug into his cheek and closed his eyes. The lightness hit him and he took another deep breath, then continued up the street.

  When he turned the corner and came upon the hitching post where he had left Nelson and his roan, he stopped with a jerk, squinted, and spat into the dust.

  Children surrounded the man tied over the horse. They carried all sorts of rotten produce no doubt stolen from a pig pen. In their hands they carried squishy tomatoes, putrid squash, rotten cucumbers, mushy and moldy and all of it stinking. As Balum watched, a boy cocked his arm back and pitched a head of lettuce at Nelson’s skull. It exploded when it landed, the leaves flying in every direction. The adults watching the scene only laughed and egged the children on.

  Balum waded through the youngsters and bent down eye level to Nelson.

  ‘Seems they’ve taken a liking to you,’ he said.

  Nelson shook his head, bits of tomato juice clinging to his ears. ‘If I get the chance I’ll kill you, Balum.’

  ‘I’m sure you would.’

  Balum stood and surveyed the onlookers. He knew he should admonish them, tell them to leave the prisoner be, to behave. But the screams of the dying still rang in his ears from the valley chain, and he told the children instead to enjoy themselves and practice their aim.

  At the Rosemonte Hotel he asked for a paper and pen, and sat at a table in the dining area. The steel nib scratched the stationary in the outlines of his rough penmanship. He wondered at the spelling of the words and struggled to put his thoughts on paper. When he was finished he folded the letter in half, tucked it into an envelope, then returned the pen to the clerk and walked back to Angelique’s place.

  ‘You’re sure Angelique will be back tonight?’ he asked the blond when she answered the door.

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘See that she gets this,’ he handed her the letter. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I promise I will. Don’t you worry. Now are you sure you don’t want to come in for another drink? Or maybe upstairs? I could help you take your mind off things.’ She took a step back so his eyes could slide down her body.

  ‘I don’t doubt that you could,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be going. Make sure Angelique gets that letter.’

  He left with the same rushing sensation as he had before. The smell of the place, the perfume, the oils, the flesh of the women. It filled his head with a blinding fervor that weakened his knees and clouded his vision.

  Outside the mercantile shop he shooed away the children and unlooped the reins from the posts. His boot found the stirrup, he threw a leg over the saddle, then turned and rode with Nelson’s horse trailing the roan, a last few tomatoes flying in wide arcs and landing with splats around them.

  They wove their way through crooked streets and jagged intersections. Carts and wagons and pedestrians converged in an unorganized mess of rising dust and yells and the clink and clatter of metal and the creaks of wood. Balum kept the roan’s nose pointed eastward through it all, until the streets petered out into random paths and the cattle yards surrounding the railway came into view.

  The station was empty, as were the tracks. He left Nelson tied where he was, despite his pleas to be released, and climbed the steps to the newly built platform. He tucked a fresh plug of tobacco into his cheek and set his hands in his pockets along side the Colt Dragoon at his hip. The sun beat down, heating the wood boards beneath him, burning the dust and the grass and everything it touched. After a while he walked to the shade and watched the sun slip through the low hanging clouds and settle on the horizon. He thought of Angelique. Again, as during his vision, the memories of past lovers drifted through his mind. He felt nothing. A wisp of nostalgia maybe, nothing more. His feelings had moved on. Desires, wants, the yearning within him that was the source of striving, the momentum behind his actions, it had all shifted. He wanted what Charles and Will had.

  When the last rays of the sun were cut off by the earth’s edge, Nelson called out from the horse. He begged to be untied. He needed to relieve himself, it hurt to breathe. The words flew past Balum like wind over a stone.

  Darkness crept over them. Still they waited. Crickets began their chirping and the first flickerings of lightning bugs began to turn on and off. Somewhere a bullfrog sang.

  ‘Balum!’ shouted Nelson. ‘What the hell are we doing out here? What are we waiting on?’

  Balum looked into the darkness toward town.

  ‘Whoever you’re waiting on isn’t coming, Balum. When are you gonna figure that out?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Shutting me up won’t change things. Nobody’s coming. It’s getting cold.’

  An hour passed, then another. The constellations worked themselves over the heavens, rising up fro
m where the sun would later emerge and traveling the same path as the world twisted below them.

  He felt a tightness in his throat. A chill came over him and he wrapped his hands over his arms and strained to see through the darkness.

  She did not come.

  Through the night he waited, until the cold prodded him to take to the saddle again. Back to town they rode, Nelson complaining all the while, whimpering nearly. At the livery they stopped. Her horse would either be there or not.

  The liveryman was gone. The swinging door had been locked from the inside. Balum walked the perimeter, looking for a way in. He edged up on his toes to see through the slim windows but could see nothing in the blackness.

  Confusion set over him. Had she understood the letter? Had she read it and crumpled it and tossed it aside? Did she care for him? A mix of emotions careened through his mind which he found himself wholly unable to assess in that brief section of night. His better judgement mixed with the thoughts of a fool, and the discernment between the two refused to reveal itself.

  Down the back alleys he rode, past the lazy dog with the dripping eye. He circled round to the front and tied the two horses loosely to a rail. At the door he paused, then cracked it. Music hit him. Music and lights and the smell of women. He had nearly swung the door wide open to enter when he saw her there beside the bar, speaking to a well-dressed man with a top hat and fine coat. Her hair was thick and smooth and it fell in locks over a body accentuated by a sheer dress hugging the curves as if struggling fruitlessly to restrain the body underneath.

  He pulled the door closed suddenly and spun around. The horses stamped when he ripped their reins from the rail. He swung into the saddle and pulled Nelson’s horse behind.

  ‘Plenty of whorehouses in Denver, Balum, if that’s what you’re after,’ said Nelson behind him. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  3

  Under moonlight, accompanied by the howl of wolves and the yipping of coyotes, the two mens’ horses plodded southward. The shimmer of the crescent light played on the surface of the streams they crossed, breaking in ripples as hooves broke the stillness and splashed forward. A cold wind bit at them. Nelson’s complaining went unanswered. He yelled and barked and cursed his captor until his strength left him and he fell asleep over the rocking of the horse beneath.

  When fatigue outweighed his sorrow, Balum staked the horses out and dumped Nelson out of the saddle and tied him again. They slept without fire on the leeward side of a hill and rose in the morning as the sun was just saluting the earth.

  All day they rode. There was no rush in Balum’s pace; he rode like a somnambulist, resolute in the saddle and deaf to the cries of Frederick Nelson. He could have pushed the pace to arrive after nightfall in Denver, but he saw no reason. He saw little reason for much at all, such was his despondency. The land about him appeared bleak and featureless, the songs of the birds little more than an annoyance similar to the whining of the man behind him. There was no hunger in him. He ate nothing throughout the day and stopped again at night and built a fire only to warm himself. He sipped water from a canteen and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The morning sun woke him. He rose, pissed, rubbed his eyes. Nelson let himself be thrown atop the saddle without a fuss; he knew Denver was close. Balum tucked a plug of tobacco into his cheek, mounted the roan, and the sounds of creaking saddle leather and the snorting of horses resumed.

  They arrived mid-afternoon. The difference in the look and feel of Denver from Cheyenne struck him. Denver had always been bigger, livelier, somehow cleaner looking. Modern-- that was the word that came to him. The city housed all the characters seen throughout the West; the cowpokes and the ranchers, the gamblers, storekeepers, loggers, farmers, bankers and businessmen. There were whores; more than one could count. There were others though, brought in from the East in fancy clothes and fine carriages. They walked the streets with their heads up, backs straight. As though they had come to conquer the land, to have the cities rise up under their thumbs.

  They stared at him as he rode in with his captive tied like a hog, the man’s face red and swollen with blood. He was covered in dust and dirt, soiled, stinking, and too weak to curse. Clear to the Denver jail the townsfolk followed them, where they stood in the street with mouths agape as Balum untied Frederick Nelson and dumped him to the ground. Flies darted at the commotion then settled back to Nelson’s body. The townsfolk murmured and gossiped, their voices rising until from inside the jail office Pete Cafferty came through the door to see what all the fuss was about.

  He nearly spilled his coffee when he saw Balum dragging Frederick Nelson through the dust.

  ‘Balum!’ he shouted, and set down the mug and grabbed Nelson. The two men hauled the convict through the jail door and into the office.

  Inside were two desks. At one sat Ross Buckling, the town sheriff who, though good at his job, did not insert himself in affairs that did not concern him. And this, most certainly, did not concern him.

  From the other rose a young man with a starched collar and a face of shocked concern. His nose was thin and he had a weak jaw, and he wore the badge of U.S. Marshall, just like the one pinned on Pete Cafferty’s breast pocket.

  ‘What’s all this?’ the young man said, coming round the desk with his mouth hanging open and his brow furrowed together.

  ‘Johnny, this here is Balum. The man I told you you’d be seeing sooner or later,’ said Cafferty. ‘Later is what I always figured. And this stinking mess is Frederick Nelson, the other one I told you about. Balum, Johnny Freed. U.S. Marshal, soon to take over the region.’

  Johnny Freed leaned in with his hand outstretched, his eyes still suspicious, as if he hadn’t quite figured out what all was going on yet. Balum took the kid’s cold hand in his, gave it a pump, and dropped it.

  ‘Johnny,’ said Cafferty, ‘why don’t you help Ross get this man into a cell.’

  ‘Why, we can’t just throw him in a cell,’ stuttered Johnny. ‘This man needs medical attention. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘Just get him in a cell,’ said Cafferty. Ross Buckling was already bending down to grab one of Nelson’s arms. ‘Go on, Johnny. Grab that other arm. Get him out of here.’

  The two men each hooked a hand through Nelson’s armpits and carried him, feet dragging, across the office and down the cell corridor to where four rooms each with a set of iron bars across them sat nearly empty.

  Alone in the office with Cafferty, Balum raised his eyebrows.

  Cafferty looked down and shook his head. ‘He came out of West Point. Came from a good family. Some strings were pulled, I don’t know. That’s politics. All I know is I’ve had more on my plate than I’ve had in a long time, and I’m ready to get out. Some fools have robbed the train going into Cheyenne twice now. They’ve missed the cattle payload each time, which is surely what they’re after, but they robbed all the passengers and gave everyone around the area a fright. Anyway, it doesn’t concern me much longer. I’m leaving tomorrow for the Southwest. My relocation has gone through and I’m handing these problems over to Freed.’

  ‘It doesn’t concern me much either,’ said Balum. From his pocket he pulled out the Deputy Marshal badge. He set it in Cafferty’s hand. ‘U.S. Deputy Marshal no more. I’m a free man now.’

  ‘I appreciate you sticking with it as long as you did. Even if it was only a few months. So tell me. What happened out there?’

  ‘It was like you said. Me and Joe found where he’d massacred that last bunch. This time he had a gatling gun in his wagon. He turned the group off track and into a mountain chain headed straight for a box canyon. He cut loose on them with the gun, killed several, injured several more.’

  ‘And the Farro brothers?’

  ‘Dead. I shot Gus myself. Saul was shot, thrown down a cliff. The other two he had with him were killed as well.’

  Cafferty shook his head. ‘Sounds like there was a massacre alright, just not the one he saw coming.’

  ‘Let me get someth
ing for you,’ Balum said, and turned back through the door to the street outside. From the saddlebags he drew out three sheets of paper folded over and covered in a thin film of dust. He swatted them against the roan’s flank, shook them out, then returned to the office.

  Inside, Johnny Freed had returned to the office. He leaned into Cafferty, his face intense and his voice urgent. When Balum’s footsteps sounded on the wood floor he cut his speech off suddenly as though he had been caught at something.

  Balum paid him no mind. He crossed the floor and extended the papers to Cafferty.

  ‘What are these?’ asked the Marshal.

  ‘Signed affidavits,’ said Balum. ‘One from Atkisson, another from Jeb Darrow, and the third from Joe.’

  ‘Smart thinking, Balum. It’s yours that will hold up most in court though.’

  ‘I can give a deposition tomorrow. As for now, I’m tired, hungry, and to tell you the truth, not in a mood for conversation. What I need now is a shot of whiskey, a bath and a bed.’ He glanced at Ross and Johnny. ‘You fellas enjoy the day. I’ll stop in tomorrow. Pete, I’ll be seeing you.’

  He turned and left, and when nearly to the roan he heard Cafferty calling behind him from the boardwalk.

  ‘I leave at first light tomorrow, Balum. I doubt I’ll be seeing you.’

  Balum turned and took a look at the Marshal. ‘Joe told me what your end of the deal was.’

  ‘And I aim to keep it.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘That new Marshal, Johnny,’ said Cafferty. ‘He’s riled up. Seems he got all his ideas of justice out of a book somewhere. Nelson’s in pretty rough shape. Johnny’s going on about due process and I don’t know what else. Don’t let him get to you. He’s from back East. He’s still learning. Keep that in mind when you stop in tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And Balum,’ the Marshal let the shadow of a grin come over his face. ‘Stay out of trouble for me.’