Ike Silver had paused at the entrance and looked at the sign on the window:
FIRST BANK OF PRESCOTT
AMOS CANTRELL, PRESIDENT
He sat across the desk in the office of Amos Cantrell, who looked to be in his early fifties, gray-haired, pale and gone to flab, with small eyes the color of currency, a voice smooth and confident.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Silver. I wondered how long it would be.”
“How long what would be, Mister Cantrell?”
“Before you came to see me.”
“You knew that I would?”
“Everyone who settles in Prescott comes to see me . . . sooner or later. And for the same reason. Money.”
“Well, I guess you’re right about that.”
“Of course I am. By the way, you’ve already made quite a reputation for yourself since your arrival. First the Keeler brothers, then the incident at that saloon last night. Of course, I don’t frequent saloons myself, but word does get around, doesn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Yes. Now then, how much?”
“How much what?”
“Money, of course, since that is the purpose of your visit. I understand you paid in full for the Winthrop General Store.”
“And stable.”
“Yes.” Cantrell was about to add an “of course,” but stopped short. “I also understand you intend to go into the freight business.”
“I do, along with my partner, Ben Brown.”
“This Brown is a Negro, is he not?”
“He is.”
“I see.”
“We’re about to make a run to La Paz, pick up inventory for the store and, we hope, supplies for the army.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Coffee, sugar, barley, dried fruits, whatever is available. . . .”
“And to purchase these supplies you need money . . . which you don’t have.”
“I have some money. We could use some more to fill up all the wagons.”
“I see. How much money?”
“Five hundred . . . a thousand dollars.”
“Which is it, Mister Silver? Five hundred or a thousand?”
“Well, Mister Cantrell, that’s up to you. I’ll take all I can get.”
“Of course you will.”
“I do have collateral, you know.”
“Yes, I know. When do you intend to . . . make the run to La Paz?”
“I see. Well, Mister Silver, I appreciate your coming in, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Well, it isn’t my money, you know. It belongs to the depositors of the First Bank of Prescott, and I have to do what I think is best for them.”
“Sure you do. And what do you think is best? Do I get the loan?”
“Well, I’ll have to think it over.”
“How long will that take to think it over?”
“Perhaps not too long.”
“Uh-huh.” Ike got up from the chair.
“I’m not refusing, you understand.”
“I understand. Thank you, Mister Cantrell.”
Ike headed for the door.
“Oh, Mister Silver . . .”
“Yes?”
“Welcome to Prescott.”
As soon as Ike left, the door to an adjacent room, which had been slightly ajar, opened wider and Rupert Lessur stepped into Cantrell’s office.
Cantrell rose from his desk and smiled.
“Well, Rupert, what do you think?”
Lessur lit his cigar. “I think it’ll be a long, long time before Ike Silver gets his loan.”
Amos Cantrell nodded.
“So do I.”
Ike had just crossed the street, still weighing the odds of his getting a loan from the president of the First Bank of Prescott and not considering them very favorable, when he heard his name called out.
“Mister Silver! Mister Silver, hold up there just a minute, will you?”
Ike Silver held up.
Mayor John Davis, cigar in hand, wearing a freshly pressed pinstripe suit, approached accompanied by a brawny raw-boned man who looked like he had never worn a suit.
“Good morning, Mister Silver.”
“Morning, Mister Mayor.”
“I don’t think you ever met Race Beemer. Race here is a cousin of mine.”
Race grunted, then nodded.
“Adistant cousin,” the mayor added. “Race was in the Emporium last night. I don’t go there myself . . .”
“You too, huh?”
“How’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“Understand you put on quite a show.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Some of those damn Rebels just don’t know when to quit.”
“Or how to quit.”
“Yeah, I guess so, but they’ll learn. Well, I’m glad everything turned out all right.”
“So am I.”
“You know, Mister Silver, if those damn Indians quiet down and the truce holds—”
“It’ll hold . . . as far as the Indians are concerned.”
“Yes . . . well, more people will be coming into Prescott and some of us on the City Council have been thinking of appointing a sheriff.”
“Appointing? I thought a sheriff is supposed to be elected.”
“Not necessarily. Not according to our city charter. We can do it either way.”
“That’s interesting.”
“If it comes right down to it . . . well, the way you’ve been handling things since you came to town . . . I was just wondering, mind you—”
“Wondering what, Mister Mayor?”
“If you might be interested in the job.”
“No thanks.”
“Being a sheriff, that’s not against your religion, is it? You being a Jew and all.”
“No, that’s not it.” Ike managed a smile. “I’ve already got a job. The store. The freight line.”
“It’d just be part time—if we asked you, that is.”
“My job’s already full time, but I appreciate you asking about it.”
“Well, it was just a thought. We’ll see what happens.”
“Very good. Say, why don’t you ask Cousin Race? He looks like he’d make a sizeable sheriff.”
“Race don’t have the temperament. He raises hogs. By the way, Colonel Crook just went into your store. I wonder what he’s doing in town.”
“So do I.”
“Just stopped by to get a good cup of coffee.”
“Anytime, Colonel.”
“One thing the army hasn’t mastered, among other things, is how to brew a decent pot of coffee.” Colonel Crook took another large swallow while sitting in his chair across from Ike Silver in a corner of the store. “What’s the secret to it, Ike?”
“A clean pot.”
“How’s that?”
“Keep the pot clean . . . and don’t be stingy with the makings.”
“I’ll pass that along to my orderly. I heard about what happened last night over at the Emporium with that unsurrendered Major Rawlins. You know, we thought that one day he might single-handedly—if you’ll forgive the pun—charge the gates of Fort Whipple . . . but I understand that he’s settled down some, thanks to you.”
“We came to our own Appomattox.”
“Yes, good. Let’s hope that Colorados and his Apaches also come to the same conclusion.”
“I think Colorados already has.”
“So do I, but there’s always young bucks afire with the fever of hostility. How’s everything else going for you around here?”
“Well, I was just welcomed to this fair city by the president of the First Bank of Prescott.”
“Amos Cantrell himself?”
“The same.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yes, it is . . .’specially in view of the fact that he’s going to turn me down for a loan.”
“What kind of a loan?”
“Oh, to pick up extra supplies in La Paz.”
“That’s even more interesting.”
“How so?”
“Well, in the first place, Amos Cantrell might be the nominal president of that bank, but somebody else calls the shots there . . . and at a lot of other places in these parts—namely, your competitor in the freight business.”
“Rupert Lessur himself?”
“The same. He’s slippery as a snake on ice.”
“You do a lot of business with him.”
“I’ve had to . . . up to now. He underpays when he buys in La Paz and overcharges when he delivers in Prescott . . . and Fort Whipple. That’s because he’s had a monopoly . . . up to now . . . which brings me to the second place and why I’m here . . . besides to get a good cup of coffee.”
“And that is?”
“Lessur’s already bringing in a wagon train of supplies from La Paz and I’ve got to pay him his price, but I’m prepared to give you a contract for all you can deliver after that. What do you think about them apples, Mister Silver?”
“I think them’s good apples, Colonel Crook.”
“So does the army. Furthermore, I’ve brought along a draft of one thousand dollars as an advance payment on that contract . . . along with a list of supplies we’re in need of most. So you can forget about that loan.”
“It’s forgotten.” Ike smiled.
“Howsoever, there’s one thing we can always use that we’re not going to get. At least not for awhile.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d put in a requisition for a hundred of the latest repeating Winchesters and two thousand cartridges, but I just got a telegraph that those rifles and cartridges are being sent to another destination.”
“That destination a military secret?”
“Nope. The Dakotas, along the Platte. Down here there’s just a few hundred Apaches. The Dakotas are swarming with six thousand Cheyenne and Sioux.”
“I thought the Cheyenne and the Sioux were at peace.”
“Not anymore. They’re painted again and doing something called a ghost dance . . . following a leader named Wovoka. He’s fevered up Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Big Foot, Kicking Bear and the rest of the Oglala and Hunkpapa chiefs. There’s even talk Sheridan might send Custer up there.”
“Custer’s in Michigan, isn’t he? Retired.”
“Looks like he’ll unretire. He’s only thirty, and the boy general’s getting restless.”
“He was at Chickahominy, Gettysburg, Saylor’s Creek, Yellow Tavern, Appomattox and at other places, but he’s also a powder keg. The whole thing’s liable to blow up any time . . . so we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“You’ll make do, Colonel.”
“We both will. By the way, we made good on that first delivery at Spanish Flats we promised Colorados . . . and so far he’s kept his promise.” Crook rose and set down the tin cup. “Well, thanks for the coffee, Mister Silver.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Uh-huh. Just watch out for that slippery snake.” No sooner had Ike and Colonel Crook stepped out of the door of the store and onto the boardwalk than they were greeted by the caramel voice and physical presence of the subject of their recent conversation.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Rupert Lessur smiled. “Colonel Crook, I was told you were here.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“Gallagher will be back with that wagon train of supplies any time now, so I thought you might want to come by the office and make out a list for the next shipment.”
“I’ve already made out the list.”
“Good.”
“And handed it to Mister Silver.”
“You have?”
“I have.”
“Well, that’s surprising, Colonel.”
“Why?”
“We’ve done an awful lot of business. What’s the reason?”
“What do you mean, Colonel?”
“I mean a lot of that business was awful as far as I was concerned, but then I had no choice. Now I do have a choice. And for the time I choose to do business with Mister Silver.”
“I see, and Mister Silver, may I inquire, are you fully funded to keep that ragtag, patched-up freight line supplied . . . and in operation?”
“I appreciate your concern, Mister Lessur—and the answer is, yes I am, no thanks to the First Bank of Prescott.”
“Well, gentlemen,” Crook said, “I’ve got to get back to Fort Whipple. But I’m glad to see that the spirit of friendly competition is alive and well—as a matter of fact, thriving—in this part of the Territory.”
Ike Silver and Rupert Lessur watched as Crook mounted and rode up the street at the head of a small contingent of troopers that had escorted him into Prescott.
“Does this mean,” Lessur asked, “that you’ll be out of town a good deal of the time?”
“I don’t think so. Jake and Ben can handle a big part of the freight business. By the way, if you know of any good teamsters looking for work, send ’em over. We’ll be hiring.”
“I’ll do that, Mister Silver, and when you’re ready to sell out, let me know and I might make you an offer.” Lessur smiled.
“That’s very good of you, Mister Lessur.” Ike also smiled. “And that goes both ways—if you decide to sell out, after the spirit of friendly competition.” Ike turned and walked into the store.
Lessur turned and walked toward his office.
Both men knew that the competition would be anything but friendly.
Sister Mary Boniface was walking south along the boardwalk past the Emporium when the bat wings swung open and she heard her name called out by Belinda Millay, who came toward her with a serious countenance and an upraised hand.
“Sister Bonney!”
“Oh, good morning, Miss Millay. And how are you this fine day?”
“Never mind that. That’s not the question.”
“Oh, I’m sorry then—what is the question?”
“The question is, what the hell . . . uh, what are you doing down here in the Slot?”
“What is the Slot?”
“Part of it is where you’re standing.”
Sister Bonney looked down and around, then shrugged.
“I don’t see anything different from anyplace else I’ve been standing.”
“Well, that’s because you’ve been lucky so far . . . but I wouldn’t go any farther, not in the Slot.”
“Will you please explain to me, Miss Millay, about this so-called Slot?”
“From that corner you crossed back there,”—Belinda pointed north—“two blocks ago . . . from there on, it’s called a lot of things—‘Whiskey Row,’ ‘Deadline,’ ‘the Slot’—and some other things I won’t mention. It’s an area not frequented by most estimable citizens, particularly female citizens, night or day. Just take a gander at some of these passersby.”
Sister Bonney took a moment to do just that. There was a noticeable difference in the dress and deportment of the almost exclusively male pedestrians, some of whom stared in virtual disbelief at the sight of the slim figure dressed in black.
“What are you doing down here, anyhow?”
“Well, I was told that a Doctor Zebelion Barnes had an office on this street.”
“That’s true, because a lot of his patients are from around here, but he makes house calls to the regular folks. Are you sick, Sister?”
“Oh, no. I think Obadiah has a slight fever. I didn’t want to disturb Ike or Jake—they’re so busy—and I thought, perhaps the doctor . . .”
“That’s all right, Sister, I’ll get word to Doc Barnes to stop by.”
“Thank you.”
“Now look, you stay away from this riffraff. Stay away from the Slot. If you need—”
“Welllll! Howdee-doo!” The odor of whiskey accompanied the crackle of the voice out of the pinched, dirty face as he stopped unsteadily, too close to both women. “Hey, Bee-linda. What have you got there?”
“On your way, Windy.”
“I am on my way . . . into your saloon.”
“No, you’re not. Keep moving.”
“I got money.”
“You got a snootfull. Beat it!”
The little man pursed his rat lips and squinted at Sister Bonney. “Ho! Ho! What is this? You got a new saloon gal! I ain’t never seen no whore like this!”
“Windy!” Belinda warned.
“Let’s have a closer look, maybe—”
As Windy reached out and wobbled closer, Belinda’s knee, in a swift upward movement, crunched into his groin. He buckled in agony, and with both hands, she shoved him hard against the wall, where his head banged, his hat fell, and he followed it down onto the boardwalk as he moaned once and settled into unconsciousness.
“Oh, my,” Sister Bonney said. “Shall we go for Doctor Barnes?”
“No, Sister. You just go back to where you came from and I’ll see that Doc Barnes comes by . . . to check on Obie.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
The bat wings moved slowly open and Binky peered out, then looked down upon the recumbent figure on the boardwalk.
“Ah! He is of a very melancholy disposition.”
Once again at Spanish Flats, Colonel Crook and Colorados sat across from each other on rocks, talked and smoked, Nan-Tan-Lupan his cigar, and Colorados the pipe that Ike Silver had given him.
This time, Captain Bourke and Lieutenant Gibbs stood out of hearing distance behind Crook, as did the two Apache elders behind Colorados.
They had been talking and smoking for nearly a half hour.
“And I heard that you have taken a bride, Colorados. Congratulations.”
“In prison, you think of two things—freedom and—”
“I know what you mean. I was in a Confederate prison once—and sometimes a fort is like a prison.”
“You have a wife, Nan-Tan?”
“Far away in a place called Ohio.”
“Why is she not here? A fort is not like a prison in that way.”
“She will be . . . if things stay quiet, and I don’t get transferred.”
“What is ‘transferred’?”
“Assigned to some other territory or fort.”
“No. It is better you stay here.”
“That’s not up to me, but in a way it’s up to you and your braves. If the truce holds and we sign a treaty, my wife and the wives of other officers and soldiers will come.”
“That will happen.”
“I hope so. In the meantime, I gave our friend, Ike Silver, a list of the things we talked about and he will bring them from La Paz.”
“Good.” Colorados inhaled from the pipe. “Tobacco?”
“You bet, tobacco.”
“Su-Wan smokes, too.”
“Who’s Su-Wan?”
“My wife. She is young. Strong. She smokes. Your wife smokes?”
“Mary? No. She doesn’t smoke.”
“Is she young? Strong?”
“Well, she’s twelve years younger than I am and pretty strong.”
“Good. I have had two other wives. Both dead. Not strong. The Apache way is hard.”
“I know, my friend.”
From the mouth of a cave, high in the distance, Quemada, Secorro and four other braves drank homebrewed tizwin—an Apache drink that was forbidden by the white man—a drink that has the same effect as whiskey. They drank and listened as Quemada pointed in the direction of Spanish Flats below and spoke in their tongue.
“Colorados has taken a bride, but he has become a squaw to Nan-Tan-Lupan. He is Crook’s woman, who does the white man’s bidding and makes us do the same. We are not farmers, but they will want us to plant crops, stop us from hunting, and drinking tizwin—from moving across our land whenever we choose. Instead, they will have us squat like squaws and do their bidding while they break their promises. While they dig for yellow iron and scar the sacred resting place of our ancestors.”
“What will you have us do, Quemada?” Secorro asked and drank. “Will we break away? There are others who think the same and will follow.”
“Not yet. We must have more cause and more weapons. Once again, the bluecoats will break their word and I will get us rifles—then more will come with us when we break away as Goklaya broke from Cochise. Now he is more remembered by his new name, Geronimo. The time will come when Quemada takes a new name and breaks away from Colorados.”
With help from Rupert Lessur, Quemada intended to do just that, and also take with him Su-Wan, who was to be his bride . . . until Colorados broke out of prison and took her for himself.