It had been years since Miss Clara had allowed a man a hump. In her bedchamber days, she had known every sort. The rough-hewn oafs and the sophisticated gents, the weepers and the grunters and the perverts. It was evident to Clara early on that drunken men are careless men. The drunks often misplaced their money clips, their sterling cigar boxes. Through her years at the bedsides of these customers, Miss Clara had acquired a vast collection of pocket items—many of surprising value. These days, she allowed her girls to do the same. The key to going undetected, she counselled them, was to resist taking too much too often.
In the prostitution racket, it was in wagging tongues where the real profits lay. Between the booze and the randiness, men will reveal gobs of information to an inquisitive whore. Clara could and did learn of more names, land sales, vendettas and business transactions during five-minute romps than ever she would have on the streets in a month’s eavesdropping. A rancher or miner will remember his gun belt after a poke, but he won’t recall the details of his blathering. If he does, it matters not. The talk cannot be taken back. Pinching information was the way to advancement, a younger Clara had discovered. And in the event that she couldn’t make use of what she had gleaned, there was Mr. Lundy.
The relationship had proven mutually beneficial. Mr. Lundy sought to operate a lucrative boarding house and Miss Clara wished to transition from working on her knees to bookkeeping and ordering. In short order, a promotion was offered her.
She took to the clerical work readily. Between Mr. Lundy’s contacts and her ear to the walls, Miss Clara found she could acquire nearly anything from back east. Decorative utensils, playing dice, fresh cayenne, premium bourbon…there was always a supplier to be found and a deal to be made. Delegating tasks was another skill which came naturally to Clara. Lundy had never used the word manager—not that she could recall—but for whatever reasons, the role of manager of The Western Belle had quietly become hers. Lundy seemed to appreciate her taking the reins regarding payroll, décor and security. Whenever Clara took up a new responsibility, it was one less thing for the big man to fret over.
The framed daguerreotypes that filled the spaces between mounted antlers had been Clara’s idea. The impressive portrait of dancing girls kicking their legs in unison, as well. That had been left behind by a businessman passing through. Too large to lug across the country, he had complained that he had little need of the portrait. Plus, there was a broad crack in the image, marring the faces of two of the dancers. Clara immediately pounced on the opportunity.
Cataloguing the whiskey had likewise been Clara’s doing. Emmett was a trustworthy sort, but trust goes only so far. Imposing the rule that employees refrain from indulging until midday was another rule instated by Miss Clara (albeit a rule in progress). It had been Clara’s suggestion, too, to bring on the orphan child after her mother fell sick with the cholera.
“I never knowed you to be soft on others,” Lundy had argued.
“I ain’t soft. But this’n here’s young and strong. She’s got ten years o’ chorin’ inside her. More, maybe. I’ll work her steady. It’ll be a bargain for you to pay her keep.”
Lundy acquiesced. Clara made good on her promise.
Mary-Lou was shoving a broad-shouldered trapper out her door. Clara watched from the balustrade. The hefty trapper couldn’t have been in there more than ten minutes.
“That’s right,” Mary-Lou encouraged him, “one foot in front o’ the othern. Watch them steps as you go…”
The smell of sex came off the inebriated trapper. Or, perhaps, off Mary-Lou, who removed coins from a tiny pocket sewn into her bustier. She gave the coins over to Clara.
“Susanna is givin’ a hand job to that little freak with the buffalo hide chaps. You know the one I mean? From a couple weeks back? Maisie’s got Cryin’ Henry in her room. We might need you to toss a couple of these randy boys for us ‘fore the evenin’s done, Miss Clara.”
Mary-Lou saw the woman’s hands go up in protest.
“Don’t you give me that look, old girl. We’ll find you one that’s had his bath; how ‘bout that? A proper gentleman with a big ol’ koo-basa for ya. Come on now: us girls can’t satisfy the whole crowd.”
Clara was immune to the banter. She had heard it plenty enough. She told Mary-Lou to check her look in a mirror and to wipe the dye from her teeth. She adjusted the girl’s sleeve straps.
“I’ll decide who’s hoistin’ their ankles in the air. Hurry on now and situate yerself. Yer breath smells like a skunk’s fart. Go on ‘n gargle some o’ Susanna’s fancy extract. Get on.”
Mary-Lou hastened away. Clara rejoined the uproarious gathering.
The Methodist had disappeared for the better part of the day. After Lundy had stolen his thunder, he’d scurried off to do whatever it was God’s ministers did to occupy their time. Meditate on his Sunday sermon, perhaps. The town parish was a modest building with stained glass windows which depicted Christ’s life in basic geometric shapes. A typical congregation consisted of a half dozen families, plus old Widow Packet and Enoch Harris. The cripple often wandered in late, hoping for a dram of wine.
Clara saw that the preacher had returned. He sat at the corner table, beneath the bison head. His calling disallowed him from wearing any ornament. His cotton coat was long and black, the simple white collar beneath. The preacher’s skinny arms were shooting out like pistons, and he was doing considerable jawing to a table of miners. It appeared that the young miners were buying the rounds. Perhaps they had found some good colour out there in the hills.
Miss Clara cleared plates and gathered empty steins. The Methodist’s words were imbued with panic and doom.
“…he plumb refused to surrender his weapons and horses. What he did, if you follow, was to flat out reject an offer which was made in good faith. A guv’ment offer…a legal contract, you understand? Not only did the chief reject the law, he rejected any opportunity to bring his flock out of heathenism and into the fold of the heavenly Father. Do you see? So long as these Lakota remain heathen scavengers and stone bearers, me and y’all live under a cloud of threat. But I for one will not be made to cower……”
Talk of injuns dominated many-a-table. Miss Clara noted how it was with men: the more that they feared a thing, the greater effort they spent convincing one another how unafraid they were. You would think every last one of them had been present at Appomattox.
“They been partnered with the Cheyenne, outta the south for years now. Ain’t no secret…”
“Christ, let’s not fergit the all-out war they done launched on the railroads. That there hostility oughter be enough to land the bunch o’ them behind bars…”
The sodbusters and hunters spoke of the rainfall. They were contented by the heavy dose coming down, as they reminisced on previous dry spells. How, last year, the roots would not hold. The windswept land had cracked and disintegrated on contact. A rancher with mis-set eyes lamented what a struggle it had been to feed his oxen and ponies.
“Let the skies break apart ‘n pour down like the flood…”
Miss Clara caught Rollins gulping a pint of ale while simultaneously playing with his right hand. She would need to monitor his intake the rest of the evening. Scanning the room, she saw no sign of the shitting mutt. If she could get hold of that little monster, she’d put a quick end to its mischief.
Balancing bowls and plates, Clara felt a tug on the ruffles of her gown.
“Hey, wench. This here meat was tougher ‘n a boiled crow. Bring me back the coin I paid.”
Miss Clara saw that the dissatisfied diner had licked his bowl clean. Her eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice.
“Listen to me, you limp sack o’ cornmeal. You don’t get recompensed after eatin’ up the goods. And if you lay yer filthy paws on me agin, I will carve you into hog feed and there won’t be no corpse to mourn over. Now, fuck off or collect yerself mighty quick.”
The diner was momentarily discombobulated. The shock of a female speaking to him in such direct fashion left him slack-jawed. Clara was headed for the kitchen before the ornery cuss was able to formulate a rebuttal.
Lundy beamed to see how the elements had brought in a crowd. Through the winter season, business had tapered off to a point of distress. Construction of the rear chambers had ground to a halt. Clara and Emmett scarcely had need to prepare a full pot of soup. Tonight was shaping up to be a triumph.
A friendly game of poker had sprung up in a corner, attracting a bemused few. Rollins was in fine form, and there were moments when the crowd clapped along with the dulcet numbers. The girls had reported no undue roughhousing from their johns. Lundy was grateful for that. The town had no trained lawmen, and incidents such like the thwarted colt theft were decided by the leading businessmen in an unofficial manner. Drinks and hot plates were flowing. Who knows, thought the owner, gazing on the raucous room. He might obtain those batwing doors before the summer was out.
It was getting on toward midnight when a latecomer trudged in, looking haggard and peevish. Since it was Lundy’s custom to linger near the entrance, he was among the first to catch sight of the man, and he was able to sift portions of the man’s garbled remarks.
“…lunatic tenderfoot…can’t squeeze a sober word out ‘em…had a mind to quit the sorry idjit ‘n be done with him…”
The latecomer was positively drenched from the night. His teeth clattered as he told his tale, shaking his head at whatever or whomever it was he had found out in the cold and left out in the cold. One or two patrons chanced to look through the doors of the hotel. They were curious as to what sort of fool had been delivered. The rainstorm was not of the lightning kind, so the onlookers saw only a dark mound of humanity draped overtop the saddle of a pathetic, short-legged mule.
The less inebriated of the swarm led the hero to the heat of the fire. Fresh drinks were ordered, and bodies shifted back to their tables. The hapless tenderfoot was forgotten atop his mule, as though being dragged into town and placed among civilization had been rescue enough. Lundy strode to the doors. Neither mule nor man stirred, though the night was noisy and disagreeable.
“Enis, Jeb!” said Lundy sharply. “Haul that fool ‘n his ride to the stable. Throw saddle blankets over ‘em.”
The two bucks Lundy had singled out scowled like children bidden by the schoolmaster to clean chalk from tablets.
“Aw, why you go ‘n lean on us, Mr. Lundy? I just got over the whoop. My lungs is—”
“Stop yer gripin’. Emmett’ll fill yer mugs on the house.”
Enis and Jeb sprung from their seats and grinned conspiratorially. They donned their gloves and bounded out into the weather. Lundy closed the doors behind them, warding off the moisture and the chill.
* * *
“Up with the game birds again, I see.”
Miss Clara had her skirt hoisted as she searched for solid ground. It had been a good soaking, and the streets had become a temporary swamp. Lundy watched his unofficial manager leap over puddles, getting herself nearer the duckboard walkway. It was the closest thing to sport as Lundy had seen all morning.
“I hope this wetness gives us reprieve from the vermin a day or two. Emmett has been battlin’ the rats of late. What’s that you got in yer hand?”
She arrived on the planks without disaster and paused to bash the heels of her boots against the wall of Jeffrey Jacobs’s exterior. Jeffrey was a cobbler who had branched into upholstery. A man could do worse than to call on Jeffrey to repair a saddle or a worn headstall.
Miss Clara held her knife high as she neared The Belle. The tip of the blade was red. Lundy inserted a fingernail between his teeth.
“Anything I need to notify the undertaker about?”
“Needed a quick parley with the Chinaman is all. May have forced him to eat one o’ his hens sooner ‘n he planned to.”
Clara swiped the blade on the muddied edge of her boot, then pinched the steel to clean it. Reaching into her wig, she produced a tightly folded paper.
“I also liberated a quantity of talc when he wadn’t lookin’. Susanna has need of the stuff from time to time.”
She reached for the door but Lundy motioned for her to wait.
“They’re fixin’ to give the horse thief his fate ‘bout now. You might wish to—”
He looked to the prisoner’s pole. She did likewise. Mendelson and Harris were walking with purpose toward the thief. The cobbler emerged from his door, plugging one nostril while spraying snot out the other. Lundy bit the end off a fresh cigar and nodded to Clara. Lighting the smoke, he headed toward the scene of action.
The prisoner sat as he had through the darkened deluge of night: knees bunched, head bowed. He was shivering, his mop of blonde hair damp and clinging to his face. Surely, he heard the advancing businessmen, but he did not react. The committee of self-proclaimed judges offered one another no greetings. To a man, they stared down at the thief. Contempt was in their eyes and vengeance in their hearts.
When John Ray Dillishaw, known to locals as Dilly, arrived, the men were ready. (The Chinaman, by most standards, was deemed more of a casual entrepreneur than a business owner proper, given his dubious line of products and the fact that no one outside of Mr. Lundy had ever breathed a word to the Asian).
Phineas Cosgrove kicked the thief with the point of his boot.
“You. Wake yerself. Git that womanly hair parted from yer face.”
Cosgrove delivered a follow up kick then spat on the thief’s bare feet. He took sore offense to having nearly lost a strong, healthy colt. Not to be outdone, Dilly sunk his heel into the thief’s ribcage, like he was kicking a tabby cat. It had been Dilly’s smithing instruments which were found in the horse thief’s saddlebag—that being Dilly’s own saddlebag. Dilly was the largest man in the company and possessed the legs of an elephant. His blow sent the thief into a fetal position, where he writhed and moaned.
Lundy had not seen the prisoner up close until this moment. The thief was younger than he had expected—certainly under twenty years. There was a delicacy about his cheekbones and his mouth. The man-boy’s teeth were white, and he had no visible scars. His pale blue eyes were neither obsequious nor repentant. If Lundy had to guess, the prisoner’s desire in the moment was to be given a heavy blanket. Perhaps a warm bowl of baked beans.
Not surprisingly, the horse thief was coated in a layer of viscous mud.
Mendelson crouched to pinch the youth’s chin. “Should be ashamed o’ yerself. Aimin’ to steal another man’s property like that. Y’ain’t no better then a red Comanche ‘n yer neck oughta stretch fer it.”
The word oughta seemed to register with the prisoner. Lundy saw his eyes dart up, then down again to his lap.
Enoch Harris stepped forward then. Smoothing the creases of a written document, he tried to adopt an official tone. “You damn rights his neck oughta stetch. And so’s you know, that was the request we done made—the rightful request, to my mind, you pernicious mongrel.”
Harris paused, as if to allow the thief opportunity to rebut. The blonde man-boy remained mute.
“This here telegram arrived this morn. It come from the only judge we could locate, ‘n it is weighted with the authority of the state. I would read the ordinance through, from tits to twat, if’n I believed you could make meanin’ of it but the fact is I don’t. To trim it down fer ya, it declares that you are to be saved from lynchin’ and, instead, y’are to receive ten lashings by the bull whip, then to be turned outa town and never to return.” Harris lowered the telegram and adjusted his private parts, an action which drew no looks from the group. “I’d say yer the luckiest sombitch I will come across today.”
Cosgrove and Mendelson spoke out against the edict. Harris put up his palms, insisting that he was equally opposed but that the law was firm. The debate which had occurred thirty minutes prior, inside the cramped telegraph office, played out on the street, with each party reiterating points he’d already argued. The thief, sitting unresponsive in the muck, relaxed his shoulders and tossed back his hair.
It was Lundy who cut off the bickering.
“We can’t always have our druthers. Best get it over ‘n done before the stage arrives. Easiest way to be rid o’ this weasel is to get him on that coach. Harris?”
A ten-foot bullwhip was given over to Harris. Cosgrove, seeing that he was not to be allowed to do the whipping himself, let loose a final barrage of complaint and criticism against the thief and against Harris and, curiously, against the thief’s mother, who had little to nothing to do with the day’s proceedings. He kicked the thief viciously and stomped apart from his peers, leaving the man-boy a crumpled heap with damaged ribs. The blacksmith, Dilly, crouched to loose the prisoner from the rope and he walked him to the nearest hitching post. Dilly tightly secured the prisoner’s wrists and ripped off his mud-caked shirt. The man-boy was as pale as a clam. Women and men had appeared at doorways and windows to watch what events would transpire next.
Harris wasted little time. Making no speech of admonition or public address, he drew back the whip handle and thrust forward. Smack. The sound of the strap contacting flesh pierced the silence of the street. Instantly, blood oozed from the long cut made across the thief’s back. The muscles of the man-boy’s torso contracted. Like a wild stallion, he tried to pull free of his bindings. A gasp was heard from a woman. The businessmen remained close by, plain faced and attentive.
Smack. Harris snapped the whip. Lundy, glancing in the direction of The Belle, saw that Clara was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Lundy opened the stable door and entered the dim space. Stable was overshooting the mark somewhat: the modest structure consisted of three walls and a roof that was in severe decay. Lundy could fit four animals in the structure if he needed to. When The Belle was booked full, he was forced to send renters to the livery stables at the other side of town. The odours of horse and manure and hay hung on the air.
The mule lay as though dead. Shafts of straw were lodged in its untended mane and its eyes were shut tight. The beast’s ridiculous ears did not react when Lundy approached.
At first, the rider was nowhere to be seen. Lundy had the fleeting thought that the tenderfoot from the previous night had up and made tracks, leaving his half-dead mule behind for the taking. Then, he heard congested snoring from a stall.
The tenderfoot was a pitiable sight, twisted and vulnerable on the stable bed. A limp swatch of material was all the man had for a hat; his trousers looked to be secured by a knotted string. He was a runt of a man.
“Criminy.”
Lundy covered his nose and mouth with a neckerchief as he toed the horse blanket off the stranger. The man’s hair and beard were black as coal. His teeth appeared to have sprouted in no discernable pattern, and Lundy wondered how it could be that a man with such a mouth could chew his food. The slumberer’s shoulders sloped to a sharp angle and the skin of his upper cheeks was pockmarked. Evidence of an infection showed under the sleeve of the man’s shirt.
The stench was revolting. Another assignment for Enis or Jeb, Lundy decided. Sucking a lungful of air, he knelt to pad the stranger’s pockets. If the tenderfoot was to be bathed and given a room at The Belle, his infection doctored, he needed to settle debts. Lundy removed what silver he found and lunged for the stable doors. In the open air, he doubled over and let his lungs drain.
* * *
Maisie sat with her head on clasped arms while the cripple nicked soft boiled eggs and game pie from her plate. Emmett’s coffee was stale but there was milk from the goat this morning. Maisie preferred her coffee with a spoonful of milk.
“Uh,” she moaned. “My insides is churnin’.”
The cripple continued to eat as Maisie prayed for the throbbing in her head to subside. The evening had been profitable for her, and she could afford to treat the hungry cripple. When Nell appeared, toting a bucket of soapy water nearly has heavy as her own self, no words were spoken. On hands and knees, the orphan girl commenced to scrubbing the blood and liquor and tobacco out of the floorboards.
“Rollins was sick in the night ‘n left his mess on the hall floor. I ain’t seein’ to that and she best not ask me to.” The girl’s arms were thin as sticks. She put her full weight on the hand brush; the shape of her shoulder blades showed through her flimsy gown. “I couldn’t hardly sleep what with the commotion in six. Drunken fools. A mirror was broke: I know that. Them idjits was bouncin’ off the walls.”
The girl chattered on as if Maisie and the cripple were taken by what she had to say.
“Y’all heard they set that no account thief free? Ol’ Phineas, he won’t take kindly to that. No how. I heard tell he lays blame on Mr. Harris fer bowing down to a incapable judge. Ol’ Phineas, he says most o’ them judges don’t know their noses from his arses. Most of ‘em can’t hardly read. He has got a relation over in the Dakota who told him…”
The cripple picked a fragment of bone from his teeth and slurped his coffee. Miss Clara emerged, carrying a sheaf of papers and shaking her head at Maisie’s sorry condition. The madam went behind the bar, where she set out the papers side by side.
“Quit yer jabberin’, child. Yer the last person in the county who’d know anything about anything. Once you clean the floor ‘n empty them buckets, I want you to check on that tenderfoot in number four ‘n see if he’s been washed. Fool could be dead and stiff in there for what we know. You can get back to runnin’ for guv’ner on yer own time.”
Nell stuck out her tongue and dunked her brush into the water. The room was an icebox, and she decided she would build a fire as soon as Clara and Emmett were out of sight. Miss Clara could be huffy when firewood ran low. The unspoken rule was that the main hearth was to be lit for paying customers only, but Nell had had enough of living her days with blue lips and toes gone numb.
Often, the orphan girl wished she had the talent for piano. In the early hours of the day, when Rollins slept, she stole moments of tickling the keys, attempting to make sounds that might pass for music. Rollins made it look easy, drawing rich songs out of the instrument. Nell admired how the entertainer’s left hand jumped from chord to chord. She loved the fullness of the sounds and how a song could establish mood for a roomful of listeners. How simple life would be, she imagined, to play gay melodies for gay crowds instead of tossing putrid tobacco spittle into alleyways or cleaning shit from the privy pine boards. Sadly, the noises which Nell created whenever she pressed on the keys were clunky and devoid of rhythm. She could not make the notes come together in harmony as Rollins did and was, therefore, destined to spend her days with a mop or brush in hand.
Miss Clara, scooping up her documents, repeatedly pounded an elbow into a wall until a loud click was heard from the bones of her joint. This was a normal occurrence to Nell and the whores. Over the years, they had noticed how Miss Clara’s body was riddled with injuries and ailments. Her ankles and wrists were ravaged by the arthritis; her neck muscles gave her pains which caused her to hold her head slightly tilted. One rollicking evening years ago, according to Mary-Lou, Miss Clara took a sharp punch from a john whose wick wouldn’t rise to the occasion and who was demanding a refund. Though her nose was broken, Clara dropped the john with a punch to his jaw and a foot to his questionable manhood.
Once Clara got her elbow back into line, she rounded the bar and spoke tersely.
“Mind what I said, child. And it will be your bare ass over my lap if I catch you sneakin’ off to the Chinaman’s like you done.” She passed by Maisie’s table, heading for the stairs. “And you. Git yer head right and find some linens to hang. You ain’t the queen o’ England just ‘cause you had a busy bed last night. Git a glass o’ water in ya.”
On swollen ankles, she made for her room.
The fire was not necessary. The day warmed and the sun transformed the land into soft cakes with intersecting runnels. The small puddles began to evaporate. Great flocks of Canada geese soared overhead, and patches of green could be seen where, the week before, there had been ash and dun. Under the bright sky, Enoch Harris and Warren Mendelson received more customers than usual and the talk was of clemency for the horse thief.
Emmett, the bartender and cook, opened the rear doors of The Belle to invite the temperate air. Opening doors was not a habit Lundy or Miss Clara generally approved of: it was a temptation for rats and mice to scurry into the building, lured by the scents of meat and bread and fried egg. Emmett tried to keep a watchful eye for unwelcome guests.
At their customary table, the preacher and the cripple spoke of the public lashings which had been doled out. The straight-backed minister and the crooked cripple were in full agreement that the thief had gotten off easy, though the sight of the man’s open wounds did prompt the Methodist to state that it would be a goodly stretch of time before that particular criminal put his hands on another man’s colt.
Speculations were cast about the treacherous Sioux roaming the territory. How many they were in number, and in what condition. How desperate they might become if unable to scout the buffalo. What course they would take. The Methodist insisted the Sioux would hold fast to the Missouri, in need of the water. He worried for the vulnerable homesteaders across the country, breaking land. The cripple, listening and waiting as he always did, wondered if it was too early an hour for his garrulous companion to order spirits for the table.
When the spindly girl appeared, she wore a mischievous grin and a ragged bonnet. She twirled a damp square of cloth as she approached Miss Clara at the bar.
“He’s fixin’ to get hisself dressed, I think. The one in number four. But I ain’t sure he’s in his right mind. When I looked in on ‘em, he was a-jabberin’ on about how sorry he was ‘n beggin’ the Lord’s forgiveness.”
Clara dipped a chunk of bread into a bowl and tore off a mouthful with her teeth.
“Sorry ‘bout what?”
“Don’t know fer certain. He’s talkin’ to a granpappy that ain’t there and a feller called Looshen. He referenced a Cree squaw he knowed, beggin’ fer her to knit him a pair o’ moccasins. When I left the room, he was goin’ on about makin’ repairs to his wagon. Accordin’ to Enis and Jeb, the feller never had no wagon with ‘em. I never knowed a bigger idjit, far as I can recollect. It were a comical thing to see. Comical but sad. Sad as a dry river, that’n is.”
Madam Clara took the information in stride. Running a boarding house was a variable calling that brought one into contact with all kinds. The sick and the strong. The trustworthy and the devious. Clara had met railroad barons and travelling salesmen. She had played hostess to a circus trapeze artist who could place both of his ankles behind his head and a French-speaking Creole lady with false lashes. She once entertained an Eskimo who’d arrived in the dead of winter, clad in strange furs and eyeglasses made of bone with slits carved through them.
Four corpses had been carried out of The Belle in its brief existence. The first was a Welshman who claimed to work as a cartographer and who’d once accompanied the renowned Kit Carson to the waters of the Pacific. The cartographer went to bed and never woke. Two blackjack players were caught in the act of concealing cards and were shot down in view of witnesses—not on the same night. Lundy was concerned the town would develop a reputation for lawlessness and attract characters of low standing, but the violence passed. The fourth death was that of an animal trainer from a travelling menagerie. The trainer claimed he could teach a buzzard to land on a running tiger, and an elephant to sit like a person and fan itself with its trunk. The man had choked on a hawk bone with Susanna sitting across his lap. The sight of the dying man leaking foam out his mouth and groping desperately for assistance gave poor Susanna the night terrors for a week straight.
Clara was about to inquire whether the fevered man in room number four was fit to eat when she heard coughing from the summit of the stairs.
“Tell the idiot he’s settled for two days. That includes grub. I’ll instruct Emmett to bring out a bowl, then I’m bound for the butcher’s.” To Maisie, she added, “Them otherns best be up before I return. They’s chores to get through before the whorin’ commences.”
Maisie continued to look green behind the gills. The thought of the day’s work made her nauseous. Miss Clara made for the kitchen. The orphan girl, alongside the Methodist and the cripple, observed the tenderfoot, feigning a casual interest. What sort of numskull crosses the range on a half-dead mule in the middle of a rainstorm alone? wondered Nell. A numskull with a heap o’ problems, I’d wager.
The tenderfoot was gnomish. Barely five feet tall in boots of such severe decay that they invited mice to enter. His hair was raven black and slick. He had a nasty complexion, as though someone had gouged craters into the skin of his cheeks while he wasn’t looking. The man’s teeth were twisted, and the most noticeable aspect of his appearance was the absence of his shoulders. It was as if the outlandish character’s neck swooped immediately into his arms without pausing where the shoulders ought to have been.
Bashfully, the idiot hesitated at the edge of the saloon.
“Git yerself a stool,” Nell told him. “Emmett’s spoonin’ out a bowl o’ soup this very second.”
By inches, the pockmarked idiot got himself into a chair at a table next to the preacher and the cripple. The Methodist, losing the casual air, studied the newcomer. He was a lamentable sight with eyes that seemed unable to take in their surroundings. The preacher leaned sideways.
“Beg pardon. You were the lad caught out on the range last night, no? I feared it was the second coming of the Great Flood, I did.”
The attempt to engage the newcomer was ineffective. The Methodist turned to his friend then to Maisie. Maisie pointed an index finger at the man’s forearm.
“Yer bandage. It’s fallin’ away there. Was it Enis ‘n Jeb who done that awful job?”
Pulling close to the taciturn fellow, Maisie commenced to undressing the wound. The tenderfoot did not react. He breathed through his mouth and had a vacant look. Maisie thought if she were to stick a needle into the man or steal his pistol, he wouldn’t notice. Life and the elements had left the fellow in a wretched state. Fortunately, Maisie had no needle, and the injured idiot carried no gun.
“This here burn has got infected,” Maisie pronounced astutely. “You wait here ‘n git some soup in ye. I’m a-goin’ to fetch a salve that’ll give it some relief. Won’t be but a minute.”
Gently, she patted the man’s back. No sooner had the prostitute gone when Nell arrived with a bowl of steaming bean soup and a hunk of heavy bread. She stood, watching to see if the curious newcomer would eat.
The spoon trembled in his hand. Steam coming off the soup made his features hazy; still, the girl could see that he was as ugly as she had initially thought when she’d glimpsed him in his room. He occupied barely half the seat of his chair and sat so low to the table that he had the overall appearance of a child. A dazed, helpless stray of a child. How he managed to keep himself alive to whatever age he was, Nell couldn’t have guessed. She watched the man slurp the unctuous soup.
“Do you mind,” the preacher tried anew, “did you happen to come upon any signs of the Lakota before the storm set in? Anything to indicate their direction of movement?”
The Methodist had a hopeful look, as if confirmation of Sitting Bull’s whereabouts would somehow quell his fears. The man swallowed his food and turned to reply.
“There was a family o’ four,” he said. “They’d et their dog.”
He set his spoon on the table, his words despondent. Nell thought, perhaps, that the preacher might rejoice to know how dire the injuns’ situation was, but he said no more. Maisie returned from Mary-Lou’s chamber, with Mary-Lou at her heels.
“This’n?” Mary-Lou whispered.
Maisie nodded.
“Ah, good. You’re eatin’. Don’t let me interrupt now.”
She unscrewed the lid of a flat tin and swiped a dollop of amber paste from it with a stick of kindling. Taking Ott’s infected arm, she applied the salve to the reddened area. Ott, unused to the attention of a woman, smiled his thanks. Maisie rewrapped the tattered cloth bandage and took on a sympathetic tone.
“We gon’ take good care o’ you here. What they call you, honey?””
“Ott.”
“Ott. That’s a fine, strong name, that’n. Well, Ott, you remember I am only a whistle away. We guarantee a lively time ev’ry evenin’ here at The Belle.”
Dragging her finger suggestively along Ott’s hip, Maisie pressed her palm on his upper thigh. She noted how the queer-looking fellow’s eyes bulged before she glided away with Mary-Lou.
“You needn’t waste yer time on that’n,” said Mary-Lou. “Lundy already done stripped his pockets fer payment. Dumb fucker don’t even seem to know it. I never saw a more defenseless greenhorn in all my days, I swear.”
Ott dipped his head over his meal. The soup was welcome to his body. He wasn’t certain how many hours it had been since he’d eaten. Conversation with a living, breathing woman gave him solace, too. Still, the vision of Granpappy in his grave seared his thoughts. The task of toting the good old man to the river and discovering the consecrated site had been Ott’s purpose for so many days that he hadn’t considered what he would do once the task was done. He slurped a half spoonful and clutched the block of bread.
The Methodist continued to study the oddball. Judging by his frame, he did not seem a logger or railroad hand. Perhaps he had a relative who owned a claim in the Hills. Maybe he had received a letter summoning him to assist with the picking and panning and he’d been detained by weather. Could be he was a homesteader. The arduous winter had bled him of supplies, and he had abandoned his quarter. He wouldn’t be the first or the last to be defeated by the cold.
The preacher remarked, “If you pardon, might I ask if you be a Christian man?”
Ott had crumbs in his beard. He chewed as he spoke. “Yes sir. My pappy—my granpappy, that is—he read me chapters o’ the gospels regular. I remember the Gospel ‘cordin’ to Luke.”
“I see. I am pleased to hear it.”
Shuffling his chair nearer, the Methodist signalled Nell to bring shots. Emmett was nowhere about. The cripple, lifting his nose, hoped that he too was included in the silent order.
“What is it that brings you—”
“Sir Lucien,” Ott blurted. “Have ye seen where they put up Sir Lucien? His feet is hurtin’ him somthin’ cruel.”
“Uh…”
“My mule. I shoulda oughtta looked in on him afore now.”
The preacher deferred to the child.
“Yer mule. Yes. Mr. Lundy has it tucked away in back. Don’t you fret now. He’s fed ‘n took care of.”
Ott let out air. Details of the night’s sojourn were shadowy in his memory. Jumbled. He had given over his fate to the ornery animal, and it was clear they’d come out on the other side of trouble.
The cripple rose from his place and hopped to the seat beside Ott, his spine noticeably spiraled. It was more activity than the cripple usually exerted of a morning. He and the Methodist downed their shots and smacked their lips. Ott made no move to touch his measure. The threesome made an uncommon party, though the orphan girl seemed not to notice.
The preacher was intrigued by the diminutive stranger. Here was a distraction from the threat of Chief Sitting Bull’s mercenaries. Distraction from his yet unwritten sermon for Sunday’s congregation. Calling for refills, the Methodist asked Ott to relate his story. If the man was inclined to speak, the preacher was prepared to listen.
Again, there was intrusion.
Miss Clara, entering by way of the kitchen, carried a sack of leg hocks in one hand and a dead pooch in the other. The dog’s neck appeared to be broken. It was clear to the preacher that Clara was in a sullen temperament.
“Looka here what I discovered gnawin’ on a rat under the shelvin’. Poking its nose where it oughtn’t be.” She addressed the orphan girl. “You roust that piano man outta bed and tell ‘em Miss Clara is a woman who means what she says.”
The cripple was intrigued by the sight of the dangling dog. The preacher’s expression was of equal parts horror and disgust. Between them, the tenderfoot sat infirm and gloomy. Gripping his spoon, he was on the verge of weeping. He barely noticed the incensed manager of The Western Belle, who stomped past the men like they were invisible, plopping the deceased atop the beaten piano.