For the Love of a Woman

by Orrin Russell

They shook hands, and Balum rode from the jail, Cafferty smiling to himself and watching the man disappear into the Denver chaos.

  The room was nice. More than nice. The Berlamont was arguably one of the finest hotels in Denver, and Balum’s room was one of the finest within that fine hotel. It came with a balcony, the sheets were fresh, a desk and chair sat in a corner, and a vase of flowers decorated the windowsill.

  So this is high living, thought Balum. He kicked his boots off and tossed his hat over the desk. A bath would do him wonders but he had no energy to search it out. Instead he flopped across the bed and closed his eyes.

  Outside, birds sang. He rolled over and held himself still and waited for sleep. Sunlight bathed the room. After a half hour of dullness he rose and closed the window curtains. Back on the mattress he fought to still his mind, to quiet his thoughts and sleep, but it would not come.

  Another hour passed and he rose and shoved his feet into his boots. He grabbed his hat from the desk and left the room, crossed through the lobby and emerged into the street as sundown was just settling over the city.

  The respectable businesses had closed their doors. Saloons and gambling houses began to swell with patrons. Women emerged on brothel balconies and flirted with the men on the streets below. Schoolmarms and storekeepers were replaced by another sort of character altogether; the young, the downtrodden, the reckless. Balum picked his way through them down the boulevards and side streets until he came to a thatched cabin at the end of a meandering street and slapped his palm to the door. A rustling could be heard behind it and in short order it swung open.

  Chester’s face reacted belatedly as the recognition of his visitor became clear. The eyes went from blankness to a glint of rambunctiousness and his teeth showed in a smile.

  ‘Balum! Just what these old eyes needed to see. Get in here,’ he motioned inside.

  ‘You got whiskey in there?’

  ‘So it’s gonna be that kind of a night, eh? No, no whiskey. Sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  ‘To the Baltimore?’

  ‘Anywhere but the Baltimore.’

  ‘Wherever you want, friend.’

  They came out of the back alleys and stopped in a Mexican cantina on the edge of town away from the madness of the saloon district. The vaqueros sitting around short tables in leather chaps and stained sombreros watched the gringos curiously from the dark. The two took seats and watched the barman approach them. He wore a greasy apron and had a thick mustache that drooped over his upper lip.

  ‘Que les doy?’ he asked them.

  ‘Mezcal,’ said Balum.

  ‘Botella entera?’

  ‘Dos vasos nomás.’

  The barman left them and returned a minute later with two glasses of mezcal.

  ‘Glad you speak the lingo, Balum,’ said Chester. ‘I was to come in here myself and they’d throw me out.’

  ‘I doubt it. They’re good people.’

  ‘So when did you get in?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Alright,’ Chester sipped the mezcal and puckered his face. ‘Tell me the story.’

  He told it, everything from the departure from Denver to the arrest of Frederick Nelson. Chester sipped mezcal and listened, saying nothing, only nodding his head as the weight of the events made their mark.

  ‘And now you’re here,’ said Chester when it was finished.

  ‘Now I’m here.’

  ‘What next? You’re done playing Deputy Marshal. You’ve got money. The world is yours.’

  ‘I’ve been giving it some thought. Almost inclined to just saddle up and ride. See where the next bend in the trail takes me.’

  Chester shook his head. ‘Balum, you ain’t no spring buck anymore. You ain’t old like me, but you will be before you know it. Why don’t you take up with Charles over there by Cheyenne? Settle down. Start ranching. Drifting ain’t gonna get you nowhere.’

  Balum looked down and shook his head.

  ‘Go ahead, Balum. Tell me what’s eating you.’

  The mezcal had begun to loosen Balum’s mind. As if grease had been poured into a seized up gear, his thoughts flowed out, slowly at first and accelerating as they came. He gave Chester the story of the mushrooms, his visions, his feelings, and finally of the letter and the long wait for Angelique at the train station in the cool of the evening.

  When it was done, Chester turned to the barman and held up two fingers for two more mezcals.

  ‘That gal’s been on your mind since you first laid eyes on her.’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘You know what’ll cure you? A trip to the Baltimore Club. Those girls can take a man’s mind off of anything that worries him.’

  ‘It’s not what I want anymore, Chester.’

  ‘You want Angelique.’

  ‘I do. But she doesn’t want me. That’s clear enough. I want a woman I can grow old with. Charles is about to have it. Will is getting married. Jumping from woman to woman doesn’t lead a man to satisfaction.’

  ‘You sound like a man wise beyond your years. Finally growing up.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘So that’s it? You’re just gonna ride?’

  ‘I’ve got to get away from here. It’s too close to Angelique. Maybe I’ll see what California is like. That Daniel Randolph claims it’s good.’

  ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go, my friend,’ said Chester. ‘But if that’s the way of it…’

  They finished the mezcals and Balum rose and paid the tab at the bar. They left the cantina and parted ways in the dark and featureless street. Alone again, Balum skirted around the saloon district and reached the Berlamont Hotel by the backstreets. He entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed feeling lost and lonely, searching for hope in the dreams of the unknown. Finally, he undressed and stretched out across the bed.

  His mind was settled. He would give his deposition in the morning and ride out.

  4

  The Berlamont Hotel provided a washroom on the lower level. The grime that filled the washtub when he was finished gave evidence to the belatedness of his bath. He could nearly refill it and go through the motions again, he thought, as he dried himself and looked into the mirror. His beard had grown well past the point of stubble and his hair hung in an overgrown matt of dark waves. A task too large for his blunted razor, he told himself. He’d take a trip to the barber. And why not? He still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of a bank account full of money. He’d leave his present look of an unwashed barbarian in Denver.

  With a bellyful of eggs he made his way to the jail. Ross Buckling sat at his desk with a tattered newspaper several weeks old held out from his face.

  ‘Morning, Balum.’

  ‘Ross,’ Balum nodded. ‘That kid Marshal around?’

  The sheriff laughed. ‘He’s young, ain’t he? Full of gumption. No, he’s up at the courthouse jabbering at the judge. He’s got his knickers all bunched up about Nelson. He was in quite a state the way you brought him in.’

  ‘He was alive. More than can be said about the folks laying dead up on the Oregon Trail.’

  ‘That’s true. Have yourself a seat. He’ll be along.’

  Balum took his hat off and eased himself into the empty chair behind the other desk. No sooner had he sat when the door swung open and Johnny Freed stepped through. The young Marshal straightened up and looked about as if evaluating the office’s state of order, then turned to Balum.

  ‘Mr. Balum. Good morning. I’ll kindly take my desk back.’

  Balum rose and held his hand out palm up to the chair, ceding the spot to the young man.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Balum, and leaned up against the wall with his hands in his trouser pockets as the Marshal took his seat.

  Johnny Freed took down the deposition. He asked a series of questions most of which Balum considered pointless, the words he used chosen from a lawbook and carefully laid out to display his authority on legal knowledge. Ros
s Buckling sat with the newspaper out in front of him, not reading a word of it. When the facts had been laid out and the questions answered, Freed turned the legal paper around on his desk and had Balum put his signature to it.

  ‘Alright,’ Balum tossed the pen back on the desk and stood up. ‘We all through here?’

  ‘No, Mr. Balum, we are not,’ replied the young Marshal. ‘There’s an issue I must speak to you about, and it concerns the treatment of Mr. Nelson.’

  Balum turned back from the door. ‘Treatment?’

  ‘That man was half starved when you brought him in. Did it not occur to you to feed him while you had him tied up all that while?’

  ‘I can’t say as though it did.’

  ‘Neither apparently did it occur to you to allow him to relieve himself properly. He was covered in dried feces and urine. His legs and backside are rashy and infected because of it.’

  ‘Sounds almighty miserable.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Mr. Balum. People have constitutional rights. You’ve violated them. You should take a look at his chest. It’s covered in saddle sores, the skin rubbed raw, blistered and burning. Do you have any idea what that feels like?’

  ‘Any idea what that feels like?’ Balum’s voice came out harsh and ragged, giving the young Marshal a jolt. ‘Take another reading through that deposition I just gave you. Ask yourself what it feels like to be gunned down by a maniac with a gatling gun. Chased across fields in the frozen mountains half naked and worried, members of your family shot and killed, others maimed and wounded, all the while knowing your death is waiting for you up the trail. Ask yourself what that feels like, son, and then tell me about Mr. Nelson’s rights.’

  ‘This is a matter of law, Mr. Balum,’ Freed fumbled the words out.

  ‘Look boy,’ Balum interrupted. ‘Whatever pretty life you lived back East is only a fairytale out here. You’ve had your nose buried in law books, and that’s fine. The law has to run its course. But this is the West. It takes a thicker skin than what you’ve grown to survive out here. Do I give a damn about his hunger and his goddamn saddle sores? I sure as hell don’t. I could have shot him out there in the wilderness but I did my part and I brought him in so you could try him in your court of law. And that’s as far as I’ll go. From here on out you do with him as you please, and if you want to baby him and wipe his ass you go right ahead. He’s in your hands now. I leave today. I’m done with it. But I’ll tell you this, if I find out that man doesn’t die at the end of a rope then I’ll track him down and put a bullet through his skull.’

  Balum’s eyes pierced through the young man across the desk. He flashed a look to Buckling, who had long since dropped the newspaper and sat taking in the scene, then turned back to Johnny Freed.

  ‘You think on that,’ he said, then turned for the door.

  Behind him Freed’s voice whistled out. ‘Hold it, Balum.’

  Balum turned, his hand already at the door.

  ‘You’ll be going nowhere. Nelson’s trial isn’t scheduled for another two weeks and you’re a key witness.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I just gave you the deposition.’

  ‘As you should have. But your physical presence is required in court. I’ll be issuing you a summons, and if you choose to disobey it I’ll have Buckling here round up a posse and drag you in the same way you dragged in Nelson.’

  Balum turned to Buckling.

  The Sheriff raised his hands slightly. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard about it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You’d take me in?’

  Buckling let his shoulders rise up in a show of powerlessness. ‘Freed here is the new Marshal in the territory. If he gives me an order I don’t have much choice but to follow up on it. Sorry, Balum.’

  Balum turned back to the narrow-faced Marshal safe on the other side of the desk. The slender jaw clenched up in a show of resoluteness. Their eyes met and held for a moment longer than was comfortable to any three men in the room, until Balum turned on his heel and opened the door.

  ‘You think on that , Balum,’ came the young Marshal’s voice.

  The words hit Balum’s back, sending hackles up his neck. He felt a fury rise in his throat, and pushed it down. His feet took him out of the jail office and he let the door slam shut behind him.

  The two men plying their trade over matching chairs in the well-mirrored barber shop on Dade Street displayed coiffures cut to exact dimensions and matted down with a layer of pomade thick enough to make them shine nearly as cleanly as the mirrors along the walls. Each sported a part down the side of their crowns straight enough and deep enough that one could roll a quarter eagle down them, should he choose.

  In one of those chairs, under the scissors of one of those barbers, sat Balum. His boots braced against the footrest and his eyes gazed upon the wood-beamed ceiling while the shearing sounds of scissor blades whisked overhead. He allowed the barber to apply a hot towel then cream to his face and, finally, the blade, thin and sharp and rasping in short strokes as the beard was removed and the smooth skin underneath revealed.

  He felt his heart gradually return to calm as the barber worked above him. The gossiping from the men loitering in the shop resembled a ladies social hour. They spoke of commerce, new trades rising up in the area, the cattle business, and the train robberies that had occurred outside of Cheyenne.

  In Denver, where their own railroad was growing, the arrival of the steam engine at the central station saw over a hundred new souls amble down from the train cars each week. It stretched the city’s capacity until it popped and overflowed, and new streets were thrown down and buildings slapped together in a fortnight.

  Everything was growing, thought Balum. And here he was, stagnant like a fish in a drying puddle.

  The barber wiped the last bits of cream from Balum’s face and untied the apron from around his neck. Balum stood and caught himself in the mirror. The image gave him a start. It had been a long time since he’d seen his face. Tanned dark by the sun, it was wide and strong and older now. Older and alone, and trapped in Denver.

  He looked away, annoyed at himself for allowing his mind to ruminate on the darker side of things. He needed distraction. The barber took his money, and his tip, and Balum left the old men in the shop to continue their gossip in the haze of cigar smoke.

  In the street again under the heat of the sun, the urge came upon him to let his worries disappear in the flesh of a woman. The Baltimore Club tempted him, only a few blocks away. A feeling rose up in him, an urge to be sated by a woman, and he fought it, knowing full well where it would lead. The feelings had not yet left him, memories of the visions under the stars, the Shoshone’s face. The awakening, as he had come to think of it.

  It occurred to him he might partake in a game of poker. Anything to distract him. Maybe a glass of whiskey. Yet underneath all those fancies he knew they would not lead to lasting relief. He felt his anger rise again at Johnny Freed. A kid barely old enough to grow whiskers off his upper lip, toying with Balum like a marionette.

  The idea of the Baltimore Club came back again and he shook his head, desperate for relief.

  As if in answer to his perturbation, the world granted him a redirection. On the boardwalk running along the opposite side of the street walked a man with a long thick mane of black hair, his clothing fine and tailored and hinting at an education refined and deepened by culture.

  Mr. Daniel Randolph. Philosopher, theater critic, lover of life, as the man described himself. Balum felt a smile crease his face on remembering his first encounter with the man in a poker room not far from where he stood now.

  ‘Daniel!’ he shouted with his hand raised. Dodging horses and wagons, he crossed the street.

  ‘Back so soon?’ said Randolph with a firm grip on Balum’s hand.

  ‘Seems I can’t stay away from Denver.’

  ‘Plenty of catching up to do, friend.’

  ‘That’ll suit me. I need to take my mind off things.’
/>   ‘The world’s decided to trouble you?’

  ‘It’s thrown me a bronc I’m having trouble breaking.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Right there in the shade of an awning outside a cluttered hardware store, Balum poured out his worries. He summed up the result of the Oregon Expedition, the vision, his awakening, and his current situation with the new Marshal.

  ‘It’s a handful,’ said Randolph when the last of the story had come out.

  ‘That it is.’

  ‘More than anything else you want to find yourself a woman. Someone you love.’

  ‘I do.’

  Randolph eyed him from head to toe. ‘You’ve gotten a good start there with a shave and a haircut. But by God do you look a sight from the neck down. Just look at yourself.’

  Balum dropped his chin and took a look at his outfit. A ragged sight it was. His shirt was stained in sweat, dirty and threadbare. He wore old trousers, worn down from years of hard work. His boots were worn down at the heel and scuffed and dented in the toes. Around his hips was slung a gunbelt with a Colt Dragoon revolver in the holster, the only part of his makeup that appeared to be well cared for.

  ‘When I met you,’ said Randolph, ‘you didn’t have more than a few dollars to your name. But those cattle you boys brought out of Mexico made you rich. You want to take your mind off things? Let’s spend some of that money and get you set up proper.’

  Balum didn’t argue. He followed Randolph’s lead down the boardwalk, past the banking district, around the hotels and general stores and coming finally to a narrow business tucked between two large fabric shops. A sign advertising the services of a tailor was carved in wood and hung from rope over the entryway.

  The man inside worked in a silent fashion, surrounded by reams of fabric and clothing hung in a chaotic yet somehow orderly manner. He measured the arms and neck and chest and inseam, around the waist and ankles, scratching figures into a small notebook at his side all the while. When he had finished he looked over his spectacles and insisted Balum not leave the shop without at least purchasing a readymade shirt and pants in order to lend a halfway respectable appearance during the few days required to tailor his suit. Randolph concurred with the suggestion and when they stepped back out onto the street, Balum’s image, save for his boots, hat, and gunbelt, bore no resemblance to the savage looking beast that had arrived to town the day before.