Madden hung his hat in the vestibule. He didn’t want to face Patricia and her sister, but a banker ate supper with his family. Patricia wanted a real husband and real marriage, as if such things existed. A grouchy expression on his face, he made his way to the living room. Patricia and Gail sat on chairs facing each other before the fireplace, light aureoling around them. He bent to kiss his wife’s cheek.
“Don’t touch me,” she said icily.
He poured a shot of whiskey. Nonchalant and suave on the outside, steaming internally, he asked: “Well, what have you ladies done today?”
Neither spoke. They’ve formed a cabal against me. “Did you take a walk through town, Gail? See anything interesting?”
“The riot.”
Belle McGuinness was the center of the riot, and everyone knew which errant husband was sleeping with her. My wife hates me, Belle’s giving me the runaround, and people say the gold’s gone. What worse thing could happen to me today?
“By the way,” Patricia said, “we’re having a dinner guest tonight.”
Madden brightened. “Who?”
“Gentleman named John Stone.”
Madden’s glass of whiskey dropped out of his hand and went crashing to the floor. Shards of glass flew in all directions.
“Are you all right, dear?” Patricia asked, a sly smile on her face.
~*~
“My suit ready?”
Luciano rubbed his hands together. “Of course, signor. Right this way, sir.” He led Stone to a row of suits on hangers and pulled one down. “Try it on.”
Stone stepped behind the curtain and donned his new suit. Then he stood before the mirror. A strange dude stared at him in shock. I look like the lawyer who just bribed the judge. I can’t wear this goddamn thing.
“How you like it?” Luciano asked proudly.
“Fits real well,” Stone replied. Can’t hurt the man’s feelings. “While I’m here, want to get a regular pair of pants and a shirt. Could also use a good wool sweater.”
Stone returned to the closet and put on his regular clothes. Luciano laid out the merchandise on the counter. Stone selected black jeans, butternut shirt, red sweater. “Put in on Miss McGuinness’s account.”
He left the haberdashery store and paused at the first alley. Halfway down lay a drunkard with an empty bottle in his right hand. Stone dropped the suit beside him, then returned to the street, entered the Grand Palace Saloon.
A few blocks away Marshal Kincaid slowed as he approached the bootmaker’s shop. In front of it, on the planked sidewalk, sat a Negro with a glass eye. “Shine you up, Marshal?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Kincaid sat on the stool. The bootblack worked both brushes against the leather covering Kincaid’s toes. Kincaid looked to his left and right, then filled his pipe with tobacco.
“You hear anythin’ ’bout the girl?” Kincaid asked in a low tone.
The bootblack didn’t look up at him. “She’s still home, ’fraid to come out. You ain’t gonna hurt her, is you, Marshal?”
“Got better things to do than shoot dumb little pickaninnies.”
“Somethin’ happened today, you oughtta know ’bout. John Stone was in our part of town lookin’ fer Maxine Goines, but din’t find her. Had a little talk with Reverend Reynolds, and left. Ain’t been back since.”
Marshal Kincaid’s teeth grinded the bit of his pipe.
~*~
Madden sat in a corner of the living room, listening to Patricia and Gail talking about Bangor, Maine, ignoring him as if he didn’t exist. Put rat poison in John Stone’s food? Bart played with the idea, but Stone might taste the chemicals and go for his guns. Randy LaFollette was on his way to Lodestone, better let him handle it.
Madden’s mind produced business schemes of every type. His father, a traveling salesman, encouraged him in this vein even when Bart was small. He learned his lessons well, arrived in Lodestone at the crucial moment, built a fortune, now worried about losing everything, including Belle.
“How do you know this John Stone fellow?” he asked Gail. “Where did you meet him?”
“On the train. When the robbers tore my clothes, he came to my aid.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I believe he’s a cowboy.”
“Not much money in that. See gentlemen on your own social level, if you don’t mind a little good-intentioned brotherly advice. What’s he doing in Lodestone?”
“The outlaws took all his money. He found work at the Grand Palace.”
Patricia smiled at her husband. “You know all about the Grand Palace, don’t you, dear?”
“Everybody knows the Grand Palace, dear.”
“I understand they have prostitutes.”
“Most saloons do.”
“You ever met Belle McGuinness?”
“A few times.”
“They say she has many male admirers. You know everything that goes on in this town, Bart. Tell us about her.”
Bart mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “You might be interested to know that our supper guest, John Stone, is living with her.”
Gail’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious!”
“It’s what people say.” He glanced meaningfully at his wife. “But you know how harmful gossip can be.”
Gail felt a twinge in her breast. John Stone and Belle McGuinness?
~*~
John Stone lay in the bathtub, eyes closed, cigarette dangling from his lips. Hot soapy water washed filth and scabs away from his battered body. He puffed his cigarette. The new maid filled his glass with freshly made lemonade, then retired silently.
Stone looked out the window at the clear blue sky. Belle appeared in the doorway. The setting sun made a halo around her head, she wore a frilly black gown. One hand carried a cigarette, the other a whiskey glass.
“Look who’s home,” she said in her offhand sarcastic tone. “How’s the saloon?”
“Fine last time I looked.”
“There’s somethin’ I want you to do.” She pulled a string, her gown fell away from her body. “Make room.”
She crawled into the tub with him, her body smooth and slippery. Mad lust overwhelmed him. He squeezed her tightly, pressed his lips against hers. Waves of suds rolled back and forth endlessly.
~*~
Kincaid walked into his house. His wife bent over the stove in the kitchen.
“Look what the cat drug in,” she said.
He sat at the table. “What’s fer supper?”
“Beef stew and biscuits.”
One of his favorites. He refilled his corncob pipe. “Get me a glass of whiskey.”
She opened the cupboard and pulled down a quart of Rocky Mountain Fine Blended. “Somethin’ botherin’ you?” she asked. “You can’t hide yer moods from me, y’know. Found another woman?”
“Can’t even handle you, never mind another woman.”
She placed the bottle and glass in front of him. He poured three fingers of whiskey.
“Too bad Belle McGuinness didn’t shoot the preacher lady today,” said Dolly. “Who’s she to tell other folks how to live?”
Kincaid’s mind was elsewhere. If John Stone went to Niggertown to talk with Maxine Goines, he was on Kincaid’s trail. Where the hell’s Randy LaFollette?
~*~
Stone shaved before the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, barefoot. Belle sat on the sofa, sipped her glass of whiskey.
“You ever been to San Francisco, Belle?”
“I been everywhere. You know that, Johnny.”
“What can you tell me about the place?”
“Half the people’re thieves and murderers. You can git killed any time of the day or night, even in yer own hotel room. You won’t like it. The wide-open spaces for a man like you.”
“You read me like a book, Belle.”
“I know men. Met a million of ’em.”
“Tell me more about San Francisco.”
“To hell with San Francisco. Start yer ranch, if that’s what you wanna do. We could be partners, fifty-fifty. I’ll take care of the business end, you handle cattle operations.”
Silence fell over the room. If I say yes, I’d get everything I want, except Marie. “Can’t do it, Belle. You know I’m engaged. But I appreciate the offer. Maybe someday, who knows, might take you up on it.”
“Offer might not be good then.” She sipped whiskey, tried not to be hurt. He put on his new cowboy outfit. “Where’s the suit I asked you to git?”
“Can’t wear it. Felt like a goddamned idiot, or the kind of man who’d embezzle public funds.”
“When I tell you to do something, I ’spect it to git done.”
“The saloon downstairs is running like a clock. That’s the main thing.”
“I’ll decide what’s the main thing. My manager wears a goddamned suit. This ain’t no bust-out whoop and holler.”
“Don’t wear suits. Sorry.”
Blood rose to her face. She didn’t come this far to let some dumb cowboy tell her how to run her business. “That’s the way you feel about it, you’re fired!”
She saw the hurt on his face. He gathered his things silently. “I’ll give you the money for the suit soon as I get paid.”
“Don’t want yer goddamned money. Where’s the suit now? Maybe Luciano can cut it down for Jamie.”
“I gave it to a bum in an alley.”
The humor of the situation struck her. She imagined a drunkard staggering around in an expensive suit too big for him. What the hell do I care about a suit? Johnny looks like a little boy what just got spanked. “Didn’t mean it, cowboy. You know how I git sometimes. Come over here and give momma a kiss.” He didn’t move. She arose from the sofa. “I said I’m sorry. Can’t you forgive Belle when she’s bad?”
They kissed. He thought of Marie. What’m I doing?
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Got to get moving. Been invited to supper with the Madden family.”
“I thought you were havin’ supper with me.”
“You never said anything about it before.”
“How’d you wrangle the invite?”
“Gail Petigru sent it to me out of the blue. I met her on the train yesterday. She’s Mrs. Madden’s sister from Bangor, Maine.”
“How old is she?”
“Maybe eighteen.”
Belle’s temper flowed warm. “Say hello to Bart Madden for me. He’s a friend of mine.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what you think. We used to screw, to say it in plain English.” She smiled grimly at the jealousy and pain that distorted his face.
~*~
The train snaked its way around an immense mountain, stars twinkled in the sky. Randy LaFollette sat alone in the dining car, chewing a chicken sandwich, concentration increased, muscles tensed, eyes sharpened. He sped toward the killing ground, anticipated the instant he’d pull the trigger, a fiery flash, like the penultimate moment of love.
He wondered who his victim would be this time. Usually somebody’s hired gun, or a love rival, business partner gone sour, somebody’s husband, somebody’s brother, LaFollette saw them all fall before his smoking gun.
Probably sitting down to supper right now. Hope he enjoys it. Tomorrow morning I’ll catch the first train back to Denver.
~*~
John Stone stepped onto the porch of the Madden home, new pants tucked into boots cavalry style, two Colts tied to his legs. His knuckles rapped against the door, opened by a Negro maid. She knows everything that goes on in this home, and so does everyone in the Negro district.
“You must be Mr. Stone,” the maid said, accepting his old Confederate hat.
Gail entered the vestibule and looked like she’d bitten a lemon. She introduced him to her sister. Bart stood beside the bar nonchalantly, measuring Stone. A gunfighter if ever I saw one. They shook hands firmly. Stone sat on a chair. The maid brought a glass of wine imported from the Loire Valley. Bart’s smile a little too polished, Stone took an instant dislike to him. Bart thought Stone a drifter, liar, and seducer of unsuspecting women.
“Saw you coming up the walk,” Bart said. “That a rebel hat you wore? Trying to prove something?”
“When it wears out, I’ll throw it away.”
“You believe in slavery?”
“I believe this town’s gone bust, but doesn’t know it. If I owned the biggest bank, I’d unload all assets immediately for whatever I could get.”
“What makes you think this town’s gone bust?”
“There’s no gold.”
“Just because you haven’t found any, doesn’t mean it’s gone.”
“Nobody else found any either for a long time.”
“Tell that to the prospectors who’ve taken millions from these mountains.”
“What prospectors?”
Patricia interrupted: “I hate business talk. Leave it at the office, would you, Bart?” She averted her glance to her dinner guest. “I understand you work for Belle McGuinness. Is she as wicked as everyone says?”
Stone saw her in the bathtub, splashing soapsuds onto the floor. “In what way?”
“It’s a house of prostitution, isn’t it?”
He stuttered. Bart enjoyed his discomfort, while Gail felt sorry for him. He must hate me for inviting him here.
“Yes, there’s prostitution,” Stone admitted.
“It doesn’t bother you to work in such a place?”
“Got to earn a living somehow.”
“One would think a gentleman would get an honest job.”
Gail rose to her feet. “I think it’s disgusting what you’re doing! Blaming him for what Belle McGuinness does!”
Silence in the living room, Bart coughed into his hand. John Stone gulped wine.
“We’re being rude,” Patricia said. “I’m sorry.”
“All families have disagreements,” Stone replied, rising from his chair. “Perhaps I’d better let you carry this one on without me. The best of luck to all of you in the coming crash of this town.”
He was on his way to the vestibule before anyone could say anything. Gail placed her hand on his arm. “Please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t know my brother-in-law and you are … sleeping with Belle McGuinness.”
“I’m not angry at you.”
“I believed you when you said you were searching for the woman you love.”
“I am.”
“How can you sleep with Belle McGuinness?”
“I don’t know.” He appeared embarrassed.
“I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything. I thought you were one kind of person, and you’re not.”
Stone held her shoulders in his hands. “If I were you, I’d go back to Bangor. The lid’s about to blow off this town, and I’m not kidding.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. When she opened her eyes, he was on his way back to the center of town.
~*~
“Sit down,” Belle ordered Jamie Boggs. “Something I want you to do.”
He dropped to the sofa beside her, read her lips as she spoke.
“Get a jug of coal oil and some rags. Bring them here, and don’t let anybody see what you’ve got. We’re a-gonna set a little fire.”
He shook his head vigorously, made inarticulate sounds of protest.
“We won’t get caught,” she said. “That bitch’ll never point her finger at me again!”
She pushed him out the door, then poured another glass of whiskey. Her mood grew darker with every passing moment.
~*~
John Stone entered the opulent lobby of the Sheffield Hotel. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies milled about, fire crackled in the stone hearth. A candlelit dining room on the right, he veered toward the stairs. Polished wood and brass elegance were everywhere. A muscular gentleman in a suit stepped before him.
“May I ask where you’re goin’ sir?”
“Mr. Moffitt’s party.”
“Your name?”
“John Stone.”
Heads spun around. Belle McGuinness’s man. The clerk checked a list of names. “Suite two-eighteen, sir.”
Stone climbed the stairs. A Negro gentleman in a white jacket opened the door. He entered a fashionably appointed suite full of people in formal evening clothes. In the corner, a man sat on a stool and played Mozart on his violin.
Stone was the only one dressed like a cowboy, armed with two Colts, a knife sticking out of each boot.
“What’s that?” asked one of the ladies.
Moffitt stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Glad to see you, Johnny. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Let me introduce you to some people.” Moffitt dragged him by the arm into the room. “This is the fellow I’ve been telling you about, John Stone.”
They stared at Stone as if he were from Mars. “Is he the one who shoots people?” asked Mrs. Winthrop, early forties, wearing a topaz heart pinned to the front of her chiffon gown.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s very beautiful.”
She unpinned it from her bosom. “It’s yours.”
The bauble fell into his hand. “You’re very generous, madam.”
“Everything I do,” she replied, “I do for a reason.” She had faint streaks of gray in her hair, fine features, foxy eyes.
“Could you tell me where you got it?”
“Jewelry store down the street.”
Everyone stared at the strange man in their midst. His eyes found a table groaning beneath platters of steaks, vegetables, poultry prepared several ways, three types of bread, pot of rare beluga caviar. He hadn’t seen such a feast since they burned old Dixie down.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The ladies and gentlemen from the East watched as he made his way toward the table. “Cuts quite a figure, doesn’t he?” asked Mrs. Winthrop.
“Just another tall tale looking for a free meal,” her husband replied.
Stone lay a massive turkey leg on his plate, followed with a slice of prime ribs, a length of Italian sausage, a baked potato drenched with cow butter.
“He’s certainly hungry,” said Mrs. Winthrop.
Another gentleman added: “I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”
“I would,” whispered Mrs. Winthrop.
“What was that?” her husband asked.
“Only clearing my throat, dear.”
Stone carried food to an empty round table covered with a white tablecloth. A waiter poured a goblet of champagne. He lay the napkin on his lap, picked up his fork, gazed at the food. What should I try first?
He plunged the fork into sautéed mushrooms. The nearly forgotten taste carried him back to his father’s dining-room table, the last place he’d eaten mushrooms. Marie sat to his right, her hand innocently on his lap, always touching.
A tidal wave of immeasurable soul-sickness rolled over him. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. You’ll never get away from me. If you’re dead, I’ll dig up your grave and pull it in over me. I’ll find you no matter what it costs or how long it takes. You’ll never escape me.
He looked up from his mushrooms. Mrs. Winthrop sat opposite him. “Who are you?” she asked. “I don’t mean your name. I remember what it is. You’re John Stone. But who are you?”
He dug into the food, a big swashbuckling ex-Army officer in civilian clothes, wearing heavy guns, ignoring her question.
“Who was Tod Buckalew?” she asked.
Stone shrugged, kept eating.
“Why’d you kill him?”
He bit into the turkey leg. Her eyes roved over his shoulders and chest. He ate as if starved, golden hair gleaming in the light of lamps.
Her voice dropped an octave, she leaned an elbow on the table. “You’re an extraordinary man, you know that?”
“In what way?” he asked, because he considered himself a failure.
She opened her mouth, no words came. What is it? she asked herself. She’d met big men before, men with good manners, and men much more handsome than John Stone. What does he have? She couldn’t pinpoint it, but it had something to do with the ease with which he moved, a certain insouciant self-assurance, steady as the North Star, a bit of the lost little boy. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
Moffitt blew a cloud of tobacco out the side of his mouth. “Understand what?”
“We were talking about Tod Buckalew,” she replied.
“What about him?”
“I asked Mr. Stone why he killed him.”
Both of them looked at John Stone, expecting an answer. He swallowed and said, “Self-defense.”
Moffitt wanted to press the issue, but something said don’t do it. “How do you like Lodestone?”
“Not much.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“They cleaned me out in the robbery. Had to find a job.”
Mrs. Winthrop turned to Moffitt. “Why can’t he travel with us? There are spare berths.”
Rich men don’t give things away, but Moffitt found two reasons in Stone’s favor: His Colts slung low and tied down. “If you’d like to continue as our guard, I’ll pay your salary all the way to San Francisco.”
“Can’t leave my pard.”
Moffitt recalled the disreputable old bum who traveled with Stone, wondered whether to call off the deal. Stone perceived Moffitt’s resistance. “If you’re interested in authentic western characters, you can’t get much more authentic than Slipchuck,” he said, huckstering his old saddle buddy. “He’s been everywhere, done everything, a walking history book of the frontier. Don’t sell him short by the way he looks. Put him in a clean suit of clothes, he’d be your dear old grandfather.”
Moffitt pondered the proposition. If the train broke down, or a bridge washed out, they might have to fight Shoshonis. “It’s a deal.”
~*~
Several blocks away, Jonas Brodbent knelt in front of his safe, twirling the dial. On the other side of his desk sat Amos Twimby, a gnome with scruffy reddish-brown hair. Brodbent pulled a burlap bag out of his safe and placed it on his desk. “Take a look.”
Twimby reached inside the bag and pulled out a rock laced with yellow lines. “The real stuff.”
Brodbent leaned toward him. “You get caught, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”
“Ain’t never snitched on nobody a-fore.”
“The Western Sovereign Mine at Sagamore Lake. Just drop it in the bottom and get the hell out of there. Make sure you don’t wake anybody up.”
“I know how to do it,” Twimby said with a conspiratorial wink. “This ain’t me first time, remember?”
~*~
Stone looked up the stairs where three millionaires lived. Ten more dollars if I write a good story. Need every penny when I get to San Francisco. He climbed the stairs. A guard sat with a double-barreled shotgun cradled on his lap.
“I’m from the Lodestone Gazette, like to talk with the gentlemen up here.”
The guard raised the shotgun and beckoned down the stairs. “Get going.”
Stone kicked the shotgun out of his hands, the triggers tripped by mistake. Both barrels exploded, the corridor filled with smoke, hundreds of tiny pellets sprayed the ceiling. The guard fell to the carpet, rolled over, came up gun in hand.
Stone fired his Colt, the gun flew out of the guard’s hand, the corridor echoed with the explosion. The guard blinked. He still wasn’t sure what happened. A nearby door opened, revealing a man in long underwear, a shotgun in his hands. “What the hell’s goin’ on out here!”
“I’m from the Lodestone Gazette, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, sir.”
“Don’t talk to newspapers. Down the steps, or I’ll put a hole in you that a wagon could ride through.”
“You know what they say? You’re a crazy skinflint son of a bitch. Here’s your chance to give your side of the story.”
“What do I care what they say? I can buy and sell the whole damned bunch of ’em! Don’t give a damn either way. I ain’t lookin’ fer favors. Once a man gits money, everybody tries to take it from him. Can’t walk the sidewalk without parasites askin’ me fer handouts. Every mother’s son got a charity, investment, sad story. Never leave a man alone. You think it’s easy bein’ rich? Well, it ain’t. You got to invest wisely. One company goes out of business, two more come into being. Jay Gould and his gang in New York buy and sell each other every day. The economy’s a rubber ball. They bounce it up and down whenever it suits them, but they can’t fool me. I’ll outsmart ’em, ’cause I understand their game.”
“What was it like when you struck gold?
“That was Lemuel what found the gold. You’d better ask him. My name’s Jacob Sloat.”
“John Stone.”
“Heard that name before. Ain’t you Belle McGuinness’s new fancy man? Used to be one of her best customers. Really knows how to shake that ass, don’t she?”
Sloat pounded on the nearest door with the butt of his shotgun. A short man with a long beard, wearing a black evening suit, white shirt, and diamond stickpin in his bright red cravat, greeted them.
“Who’s this galoot?” Lemuel asked suspiciously.
Sloat made the introduction. “He wants to know what happened when you hit paydirt?”
“None of his goddamn business.”
Sloat held up his hands to Stone apologetically. “Lemuel ain’t the friendliest person in the world.”
“What the hell I have to be friendly fer?” Lemuel declared. “What anybody do fer me? Worked hard for all I got. You’d think we’re millionaires!”
“You’re not?” Stone asked.
“Never was that much ore. I’ll show you somethin’.”
He led them into his deluxe suite of rooms. On a desk near the fireplace were several stacks of gold coins. “This is all I got left,” he said. “Thirty thousand dollars. We only divided ’bout a hundred thousand twixt us in the beginning, ain’t that right, Jacob?”
“He’s right,” Sloat said, “but I ain’t cryin’ poor mouth. I invested my money wisely. A company in New York’s workin’ on a machine that’ll let you talk to somebody in another town. Company in New Jersey figuring out how to light lamps with wire and air.”
“Bosh,” said Lemuel. “Pie in the sky. The onliest thing that really matters is gold. Love to touch the stuff.” He fingered his coins, lost in thought.
“He sits there all day and half the night,” Sloat said as he led Stone to the door. “Stacks and restacks gold coins. Sometimes he’ll put one in his mouth and suck like candy. Gold can make a man crazy.”
“Where’s the third partner?”
“Really gone bonkers, that one.” He led Stone to the door, turned the knob. The room was dark except for one lone candle still burning in a holder.
Stretched out on the bed was a naked obese man with a long beard. On either side of him, also stupefied, naked women, bottles strewn across the floor, a table of food half-eaten, clothes lying everywhere, stench of whiskey and tobacco.
“That man was skinny as me once,” Sloat said. “A sober, steady, hard-working miner. Soon as he got his hands on money, drinkin’ and whorin’ ever since. He’ll kill himself he keeps on this way, but he can’t stop. Maybe he’ll run out of money first.”
Stone descended the stairs. Had the Grand Monarch been salted? For one hundred thousand dollars, a smart man could make millions.
~*~
Slipchuck pushed his broom down the second-floor corridor, a new red bandanna tied round his neck. Jamie grunted, beckoned with his head.
“What the hell you want?” Slipchuck asked.
Jamie grabbed his shirt and pulled him to the stairs.
Slipchuck climbed to the third floor behind him. Must be a special sweeping job, Slipchuck thought happily. Maybe I can git a peep at the boss lady takin’ her bath.
Slipchuck found himself in the living room of Belle’s apartment. The boss lady sat on the sofa, wearing a low-cut black gown and a pearl necklace, a red rose affixed to her hair. “Have a seat, you old codger. I want to palaver with you.”
Slipchuck dropped to a chair. Belle filled her glass half full of whiskey and handed it to him. The boss lady is a-tryin’ to git into my pants, he thought happily. He winked, like the young stagecoach driver he’d been so long ago.
“You got somethin’ in yer eye?” She threw him a handkerchief.
He touched it to his nose. Her perfume intoxicated him.
“Tell me ’bout John Stone.”
“What yer want to know?”
“He got a girl in every town?”
“Ain’t my place to say.”
“Got his pick, ain’t he?”
“Damned if I know.”
“A man like John Stone needs a woman to take care of him.”
“He’ll git shot a-fore long,” Slipchuck mused. “I can see it a-comin’. Sometimes a man’s got to back down, but not John Stone. Goes plumb loco when somebody starts a-pushin’ on him. Never seen nothin’ like it.”
“You’re his pard. He’d listen to you.” She leaned forward, breasts nearly falling out of her bodice. “How’d you like to sleep with a different whore every night for the rest of your life? You git John Stone to settle down here with me, take yer pick of the girls. He’d never have to worry again, and neither would you, old man.”
They heard noise in the hall. Slipchuck opened the door. Jamie Boggs scuffled with Bart Madden.
“Get your goddamn hands off me!” Madden hollered indignantly. “I’ll sue!”
“What the hell’re you doin’ here?” Belle asked Madden.
The banker straightened the front of his suit. “Had to talk with you, Belle.”
“Must be serious, a-comin’ to the Grand Palace where folks can see you. Ain’t you afraid of yer reputation?”
“That’s what I want to talk with you about.”
“Take a walk,” she said to Slipchuck. “You too,” to Boggs.
Boggs muttered malevolently at Madden. She closed the door behind them. Madden spotted the bottle of whiskey. “Been drinking, Belle?”
She flopped onto the sofa and poured another glass. “So what if I have?”
“I’m going to divorce my wife, marry you just the way you wanted.”
“You’re a week too late. Got another man.”
“John Stone? He’s a saddle tramp.”
“Lodestone’s goin’ bust, accordin’ to him.”
“That stupid hat he wears around. Probably wasn’t even in the war.”
“I seen war wounds before. He got ’em all over his poor body. I think he’s an honest man, unlike some I’ve met.”
Madden’s smile faltered as he thought of them naked in bed together. “He’ll leave you in the lurch, mark my words.”
“Like you’re a-leavin’ yer wife?”
“That’s different!”
“I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you, Bart.”
His face flushed with shame, he made a threatening motion. She pulled up her dress and slipped out her derringer. “I’ll blow yer goddamned head off.”
He stared down the twin barrels. “Look at us, Belle. We’re ready to kill each other. Everything was all right before that damned John Stone came to town. But he won’t be around long.”
“Is he leaving?”
Madden laughed snidely, recalling Randy LaFollette. “In a manner of speaking.”
“What’re you sayin’?”
He let the cat out of the bag, now had to stuff it back. “Drifters don’t stay in one place long. After he moves on, what’ll you do?”
“I saved my money, and not in yer crooked bank either. All a woman needs is a roof over her head. Men’re a headache. If they’re not a-lyin’ to one woman, they’re a-lyin’ to ’nother.”
~*~
Jamie Boggs smoked a cigarette nervously. He’d never seen Belle in such a state. She drank nearly a quart bottle of whiskey that day. Tougher than a man one moment, a child the next. Boggs loved her madly and hopelessly, wanted to take care of her, but he was a deaf mute, object of pity and derision.
He pounded his fist on the table, cursing his infirmity. If only I was like other men. Maybe someday she’ll see me for what I really am. He saw an old Confederate cavalry hat coming up the stairs, gurgled as he rushed out the door, shaking his head no.
“What’s wrong?” Stone asked, reaching for the doorknob.
Jamie made guttural sounds and waved his hands frantically. He pointed to Belle’s door and shook his head. Stone pushed the door open, saw Belle facing Bart Madden in the middle of an argument.
Belle, white as a sheet, unsteady on her feet, spilled whiskey from the glass in her hand. Her fierce expression transformed into a smile.
“You two know each other?”
Madden wore no visible guns, but surely had one stashed somewhere. Stone watched his hands. “I visited Mr. Madden and his lovely wife earlier in the evening.”
Madden choked with jealousy and rage. He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. Stone behaved as if he could do anything. Take him down a peg in front of Belle.
“The gentleman visited my home this evening,” he explained, “to pay court to my young sister-in-law. How many female admirers do you have in this town, Mr. Stone?”
Belle looked accusingly at Stone. He raised his hands in the air. “She invited me to supper and I went. She’s a friend of mine. We got robbed together on the train yesterday.”
“Not the way I heard it,” Madden said. “I have reason to believe you’re attempting to seduce my sister-in-law, who’s practically a child.”
“Your whole life is a deception,” Stone replied. “I know a flimflam man when I see one. Go home to your wife. I want to talk with Belle.”
She looked at the banker. “Get the hell out of here.”
Madden was stunned. “After all that’s happened between us, you’re treating me like your servant!” He poked his thumb into his chest. “This is Bart Madden you’re talking to! I’m not one of your fancy men!”
“I’m not a-gonna tell you again, Bart. Get out, and don’t come back.”
Madden wanted to whip out his derringer and put a hole in Stone’s head, but Stone would shoot him first. “You’ll pay for this,” he mumbled. “You’re forgetting who you’re dealing with.”
Madden stormed past Jamie, who read the threat on his lips.
“Leave us alone,” Belle said to Jamie.
The mute followed Madden out the door. Madden and Jamie glowered at each other in the corridor, then Madden turned and descended the stairs.
Jamie returned to his room, lit a cigarette, puffed nervously. Belle was disintegrating before his eyes, fear and frustration boiled inside him, couldn’t let it out like normal people. He wondered what transpired between John Stone and Belle behind the closed door.
~*~
“You don’t look happy to see me, Johnny.”
“What’s Madden doing here?”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You don’t have anything to be jealous of. The man’s nothing compared to you.”
Her breath heavily scented with whiskey, eyes half-closed, unsteady on her feet, Stone led her to the sofa. “Madden’s a snake in the grass.”
“I don’t trust nobody,” she said thickly. “I don’t even trust you.”
“I never lied to you. I told you I was engaged.”
“That din’t stop you from a-crawlin’ into my bed last night.”
“I couldn’t resist,” he confessed.
She moved toward him, pressed her lips against his temple. “I’ll do anything for you, Johnny.”
He couldn’t push her away. She licked his ear insidiously, tickles ran up his spine, he fell back to the cushions. Her hand groped for his belt buckle.
~*~
The moon rolled over a fluffy blanket of clouds. Amos Twimby climbed down from his horse, pulled the bag of gold ore from the saddle, threw it over his shoulder. Prospectors slept in their raggedy tents fifty yards away. Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of gold ore would cause a sensation, Lodestone the topic of dinner conversation across America tomorrow.
Twimby giggled as he descended the mine. He could steal the ore and disappear, but loved to cheat and snitch, outsmart other people, make him feel he wasn’t the wretched nothing he deep-down believed he was.
He wasn’t strong, handsome, fast with a gun, or particularly likable, but wanted desperately to make his mark on the world. In a few days, Lodestone would overflow with new citizens, he’d gloat over his cleverness behind the scenes.
He scooped up holes in the bottom of the mine, dropped a few chunks of genuine gold ore into each, emptied the bag quickly, then climbed out of the mine and returned to his horse. If only I could see their faces in the morning.
~*~
“Lodestone, one hour!”
Randy LaFollette sat alone at a table, cup of coffee in front of him. A Negro porter dozed behind the bar. The rest of the parlor car was empty, other passengers asleep, the train thundered alongside a vast lake gleaming in the moonlight.
Randy LaFollette pulled down his leather satchel, removed his gunbelt, strapped it on. His choice of weapon was the Smith & Wesson Model Three, most modern up-to-date revolver made. The Board of Ordnance of the U.S. Army said it was “decidedly superior” to every other revolver tested. Not available on the open market yet, LaFollette obtained an early production model for thirty-five dollars. The ability to load and eject cartridges faster than anything else was its main innovative feature. He dropped it into his well-oiled holster.
The Negro porter behind the bar watched through sleepy eyes. “Plannin’ to shoot somebody, boss?”
Randy LaFollette tied the bottom of the holster to his leg, then checked position, balance, feel. He took off his jacket, stood in the middle of the aisle, fast-drew. “That’s pretty quick, boss.”
Randy LaFollette whirled, drew again, spun, ducked, fanned the hammer, danced around the parlor car, killing imaginary adversaries. One moment his hand empty, the next it carried the Smith & Wesson. He pirouetted, drew again, the gun pointed between the Negro porter’s eyes. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said to the porter nearly twice his age. “It’s not loaded.” LaFollette tossed a card on the bar. The porter bent over and read the words: THE UNDERTAKER.
“Can I get you another drink, boss?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Never too much trouble for you, Mr. LaFollette.”
The gunfighter returned to his table. He retrieved a box of cartridges from his valise and loaded the Smith & Wesson. The porter poured a stiff shot of whiskey. Two days from now in Saint Louis, he’d tell his son he waited on the fastest gun alive.
~*~
“Belle, something I’ve got to tell you.”
They lay naked in her bed, entwined in each other’s arms. A candle burned on the dresser, illuminating an oil painting of naked nymphs cavorting in a meadow.
She touched her lips to his throat. “What is it, honey?”
“I told you I wasn’t going to stay in town long, and ...”
She stiffened in his arms. “You’re not leavin’!”
“Noon tomorrow. Got a job with the railroad. Told you I’m headed for San Francisco. Sorry.”
A sob escaped her lips. He hugged her. “Doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Belle. But I belong to somebody else. I don’t know how to explain it any better.” He felt her tears against his cheek.
“Why don’t nothin’ work out for me, Johnny?”
“Doesn’t work out for anybody else either.”
“We got somethin’ special between us, and you know it. Take me with you. I’ll do anything you say.”
“Can’t.”
She opened her mouth to plead, pride stopped her. She pushed him away, rolled over, got out of bed. “You’re a son of a bitch just like the rest of them. You just got a smoother line of shit.”
She pulled on her robe. He crawled out of bed and got dressed, she reached for the whiskey bottle. “Every man I ever wanted, left me,” she muttered. “Every man I didn’t want, can’t get ’em out of my hair.”
He strapped on his heavy Colts, bare-chested in the light of the candle. She watched through heavy-lidded eyes. “Don’t worry about old Belle. I’ll git along.”
He placed his arms around her. “Maybe I’d better find a hotel room for the night.”
“Like hell you will. Git downstairs and make sure my saloon’s all right, if’n you want to git paid a-fore you leave. As for where you’re a-gonna sleep, you can put them muddy boots under Belle McGuinness’s bed any day.”
She tried to tough it out, tears betrayed her. He kissed them from her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
~*~
Gail gazed out her open window at mountaintops bathed in moonlight. The breeze fluttered diaphanous white curtains, carrying the scent of distant pine and fir forests.
She couldn’t put John Stone out of her mind. Everything reminded her of him. He was like Greek sculpture in the Boston Museum. Whenever he moved, she felt strange sensations. Something magnetic in his eyes. I think I’ve fallen in love with him!
She couldn’t understand it. How can I love a man I don’t even know? She wasn’t even sure what love was. Confused, bewildered, frustrated, she fidgeted beneath her blankets.
She imagined him lying naked on top of her. I’m losing my mind. She rolled onto her stomach and thought of him lying beneath her. Tears filled her eyes. I can’t take much more of this.
She got out of bed, put on her robe. What does a woman do if she wants a man? She flirts, but who wants to be a flirt? I hate flirts.
I’ll probably never see him again. Emptiness filled her heart. Knock on her door, she nearly jumped out of her slippers. Patricia said, “I heard you as I passed by. Are you all right?”
“Can’t sleep.”
Patricia entered the bedroom, noticed tears on Gail’s cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ll laugh at me.”
“Promise I won’t.” Patricia raised her right hand.
Gail covered her leaky nose with her hankie. “How can I explain to somebody that I love him without making a fool of myself?”
“John Stone? You poor dear!” Patricia hugged her sister. “Do you think he loves you?”
“He has a fiancée in San Francisco. I don’t know what to do.”
“Let me tell you a story. Once, when I was about your age, I took a walk by myself in Bangor. In the park where the cannon is, I met a lumberjack. At first he frightened me, he was so big and burly, just like John Stone, but then we started talking, he was very gentle. After a half hour, if he’d crooked his finger at me, I’d follow him anywhere. But he didn’t, and I married a man from a good family, with good prospects, and look how I ended up. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I told that lumberjack I loved him. Maybe I’d be in a broken-down little cabin in Penobscot County, washing his filthy lumberjack clothes in a tub, but I’d be a damn sight happier than I am now.”
~*~
The Grand Palace Saloon was jam-packed with wall-to-wall late-night revelers, chuck-a-luck wheels spun, cards flipped over, men hollered greetings to each other from across the massive enclosed space.
On the stage, the band played a reel. Whores and miners crowded the dance floor, hopping like storks. Stone drew himself a mug of beer, sat at a table against the wall, blew out the candle.
He thought of Belle. She played him the way a violinist played her instrument. A ranch in Texas, his highest aspiration, within grasp.
If only I could do it. Impossible. Ten ranches weren’t worth one Marie. When I find her, we’ll build our own ranch.
What if I don’t find her? What’m I throwing away? He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. I’ve been unfaithful to Marie and I’m leaving Belle in the lurch. What kind of man am I? How’ll I ever look Marie in the eye again, even if I do find her?
“Here you are in the dark again.” Edgar Faraday doffed his hat. “Moffitt told me you’re the man who shot Tod Buckalew. You’re a better story than the stories I sent you out on.” He took out his notepad. “How’d you beat Tod Buckalew?”
Stone leaned toward him and looked into his eyes. “There never was any substantial gold in this region. Lodestone was built on one salted mine.”
“Prove it.”
“Marshal Kincaid’s an outlaw.”
“Evidence please?”
“The man who robbed me on the train had an odd-shaped scar near his eye, so does Kincaid.”
“No court of law will convict on a scar. You’re wasting your time. Did you talk with the three birds on top of the Sheffield yet?”
Stone related their tale of wealth and madness. Faraday wrote it swiftly on his notepad. “Now this is something that interests people, the rich man’s unhappy just like the rest of us. It’s horse manure, but sounds good. Maybe I can throw in some cheap philosophy.” Faraday handed Stone payment for the story. “You ever need a job in the future, look me up. You’re a natural-born newspaperman.”