“Thar she is!” shouted the stagecoach driver. “Clarksdale straight ahead!”
John Stone opened his eyes, and the stagecoach was shaking and jiggling through the warm New Mexico night. He was seated between a banker from California and a cavalry sergeant who reeked of cheap whiskey.
“I see it!” The banker peered out the darkened window. “We’re almost there!”
Stone maneuvered past the sergeant and the lady seated opposite him, and stuck his head outside. The sage was pitch-black, but in the distance, lying in a valley, scattered lights flickered like a sprawl of diamonds. The horses’ hooves pounded and the maniacal laughter of the stagecoach driver sailed out beneath the canopy of stars as he whipped the horses’ tails.
Stone returned to his dust-covered seat. His legs were cramped from the long hours of sitting, and his toes were numb.
The banker, Edward McManus of San Francisco, puffed a cigar. He was in his fifties, with a thick gold chain hanging across his potbelly. Opposite Stone sat McManus’s wife, Maureen, and Stone’s knees had been touching hers throughout the trip. She was in her twenties, and had the look of a dance-hall girl.
Two other passengers were in the stagecoach. One was Slade, a tall cowboy in his forties who hadn’t said much since leaving Tucson. He looked out the window at Clarksdale, then pulled his head back into the stagecoach, his face expressionless in the dimness.
The other was a hardware salesman wearing a yellow suit and brown derby, who’d spent most of the trip describing his many wonderful products, and making foolish not-so-subtle advances toward Maureen McManus, who treated him with mocking condescension.
They’d been bounced and shaken by the constant movement of the stagecoach over uneven roads. None of them had bathed since leaving Tucson five days ago, which created a ripe atmosphere inside the coach. Cavalry Sergeant Bannon opened his eyes, burped, took out his flask, gulped some down, and screwed the lid back on.
“We’re almost in Clarksdale,” McManus told him.
Sergeant Bannon didn’t reply; he closed his eyes and passed out again.
“Never saw a man consume so much whiskey,” sighed McManus. “He hasn’t seen a bit of the wonderful scenery we’ve passed on our trip. What a waste.”
“Some people don’t know what’s good,” replied Maureen McManus. “You could drop ’em in the middle of paradise, and they wouldn’t know it.”
Stone looked at the sergeant snoring softly in the dimness. The sergeant probably had seen enough scenery from atop his saddle to last him a lifetime.
“What are you going to do, Mr. Stone, after you arrive in Clarksdale?”
Stone turned to Maureen McManus, her green eyes just visible in the starlit darkness.
“Check into the nearest hotel and get some sleep.”
“The best hotel in town,” her husband boomed, “is the Carrington Arms right across from where they’ll let us off. That’s where we’re staying. Perhaps we can have a drink together tonight?”
“I don’t know the town,” Stone replied.
“There’s a saloon called the Emerald City, right on Main Street. We’ll be there later, if you care to join us.”
The hardware salesman, Donald Gershman, took out a little black book issued by his company and did his homework:
Clarksdale, New Mexico (pop. 2,768), is one hundred and fifty miles west of the Texas border. It is the major town in the region and has two hardware stores as of this printing. The center for the local ranching industry, and a way station for wagon trains on their way to Tucson, it will be on the route of the proposed Santa Fe-Abilene line of the T & R Railroad. A prosperous and growing community with a great future. All the comforts of the East in the middle of the wild frontier.
Sure, thought Gershman. In a pig’s ass.
The horses strained at their harnesses as they ripped through the night. They saw the bright lights ahead and knew there’d be a big sweet-smelling barn with good grain and oats, and a dry place to sleep with all the other beasts that’d muscled their way across the world that day. As for their burdens in the coach, Maureen brushed her blond hair, the salesman smoothed his black mustache, McManus buttoned the top button of his pants, and Slade rolled a cigarette, his eyes cold as a reptile’s.
Slade hadn’t said much throughout the trip. He’d just sat and stared out the window, or slept. He looked like a man who’d been used roughly by the world, and now used it in the same way. McManus had tried to strike up a conversation on several occasions, but Slade hadn’t responded.
The sergeant slouched in the corner. Stone had tried some Army talk with him, but the sergeant always backed away, maybe shy, maybe cynical, or maybe just another drunken trooper on a spree.
Stone checked his belongings, and his hands came to rest on his crisscrossed gunbelts. He wore two Colts in holsters slung low and tied to his legs. He touched the Colts with the palms of his hands, to make sure they were there. He could lose his wallet, he could lose his mind, but he didn’t dare lose his Colts.
The night was lighter around the stagecoach, as it approached the edge of town, a jumble of wooden homes, one and two stories high. In the middle of the town was a long, wide, brightly lit street, and people walking around like ghosts in a dream, or so it seemed to travel-weary John Stone.
“Fifteen minutes after ten,” McManus said, looking at the white face of his gold pocket watch.
“Hope the restaurants are still open,” his wife replied. “I could use me a steak about now.”
“I know just where to go,” McManus replied. “Just leave it to me.” He looked at Stone. “The Emerald City, the place I mentioned to you before, has the finest steaks in the world.”
“I’ll be there,” Stone said; he was ready to gnaw on boot leather and saddlebags.
Maureen McManus’s eyes twinkled in the darkness. Was she looking at him? The cavalry sergeant next to Stone sipped some liquid from his flask, preparing for his arrival. The salesman leaned toward Maureen McManus.
“I wonder if you’d mind if I joined you at the Emerald City?”
“It’s a free country,” she said in her faintly sarcastic tone. “You can go wherever you want.”
The banker slapped him on the shoulder. “We’d love to see you. Just drop by.”
Slade puffed his cigarette casually and looked out the window through small, flinty eyes. Stone read him as a man who’d slept under many open skies.
The stagecoach driver shouted happily atop his high seat, and the old Concord coach rumbled into Clarksdale. The passengers looked out the windows and saw rows of stores closed for the night, then a saloon that never closed, a restaurant, and a darkened barbershop with a painted pole.
Men swaggered on the sidewalks, pistol grips glinting in the moonlight. Some had just driven in from the sage, and others were dressed in eastern finery. A few women could be seen, wearing long gowns with bustles in back, the leading ladies in the town. Ordinary women were home sleeping, exhausted after a day of work tough enough to tire a mule.
And then there were the sporting ladies in the windows of the saloons. Stone knew a town like this would have lots of them. They came from all over America and all over the world, some brand-new, some worn-out, and all dreaming of the cattle king who’d carry them away.
The stagecoach hit the center of town, a crowd gathering as the driver pulled back the long wooden brake lever. A drunken cowboy opened the door.
“Where you folks from?” he asked, a crazy smile on his face.
“Tucson,” replied the banker.
The cowboy leaned forward and grabbed the waist of Maureen McManus, lifting her out of the stagecoach and depositing her gently on the ground, and she smiled graciously all the way down. Slade was out the door next, and disappeared into the crowd. The cavalry sergeant climbed down and looked for the nearest saloon. Stone was next, stepping to the ground, and when he pulled himself erect he was taller than everybody in the crowd. He wore a red shirt with a black bandanna around his neck, and his faded blue jeans were tucked into the tops of his boots, cavalry style.
Across the street was the Carrington Hotel, lights gleaming from its downstairs windows. It was three stories high, the fanciest and most elaborate hotel Stone had seen in a long time. The sheets would be clean, the water hot, and if nobody tried to kill him in his bed, he’d get a night’s sleep.
The stagecoach driver and his guard threw down the luggage. Stone snatched his saddlebags out of the air and pushed his way through the commotion, heading toward the Carrington.
It felt good to stretch his legs, and he climbed the steps leading to the veranda of the hotel, where a few men sat on rocking chairs, smoking cigars. They gave him the usual once-over, their eyes saying: Who’s this son of a bitch! He entered the large lobby, and more people sat on plush furniture, while huge chandeliers provided light.
Stone approached the desk. “I’d like a room for the night.”
The clerk had a long black mustache and a bald head. “How long are you staying, sir?”
“Until the next stage leaves for Santa Fe.”
“That’s tomorrow morning, sir.”
“What time?”
“Nine in the morning. It only makes the run twice a month. The one tomorrow will be the last stage this month.”
“I guess I’ll just be staying one night,” Stone said.
“A room for one night is fifteen dollars.”
“That’s a little over my head.”
“It’s our cheapest room, cowboy.”
“Do you know of anything more reasonable in this town?”
“A lady named Mrs. Harder keeps a boardinghouse on the edge of town, and sometimes she has rooms for … travelers.”
The clerk gave Stone directions to Mrs. Harder’s establishment, and Stone slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, heading toward the door. Just then Edward McManus and his wife entered, followed by a retinue of drunken cowboys carrying their luggage.
“Couldn’t find a room?” McManus asked Stone.
“Out of my price range.”
Stone made his way down the main street of town, which was mostly a series of noisy saloons. A drink would be nice, but he ought to get settled first.
He came to the outskirts of town. It was dark and quiet, with no one about. The full moon shone golden in the sky, and the Milky Way blazed a path into the mountains in the distance.
The houses were darkened, made of wood. Some had fences and little gardens. The street was hard dirt covered with a film of dust.
No lights were on in Mrs. Harder’s. Stone approached the door and knocked. He waited awhile and saw a light in one of the windows. The door opened. A little white-haired old lady with a face like a bird stood in front of him.
“What do you want?” she asked, sniffing him as if his character could be fathomed via her nostrils, and maybe it could.
“Room for the night,” he said. “The clerk at the Carrington Arms sent me here.”
“Two dollars.”
“Can I get a bath?”
“Not till mornin’, when we light up the stove.”
She led him into the house. The rooms were small, furnished with sturdy chairs and tables, and a print of Gilbert Stuart’s portrait of George Washington hung above the mantel. Opening a drawer in a hand-carved mahogany cabinet, she pulled out a key.
“Second floor at the end of the corridor.” She looked him in the eye. “Now I want us to understand each other. This is a respectable home. I will tolerate no foolishness, unwarranted noise, rowdiness, or drunkenness. Mothers and young ladies stay here, and we tolerate no bad manners. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stone climbed the stairs to the second floor. It was dark, the only light coming from the window at the end of the corridor.
He stopped to get his bearings, then found his door. The key wouldn’t fit. He tried again, but it still wouldn’t go.
A woman’s voice on the other side of the door said: “I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t get away from my door I’m going to pull the trigger of this rifle I’ve got in my hand!”
Stone stepped quickly aside. “Sorry—wrong room.”
He turned around and inserted the key into the opposite door. The key turned and Stone entered a small room with a bed, chair, and washstand. A Bible sat on the chair.
He closed the door and lit the lamp. Then he walked to the window and looked outside. He could see the glow of the downtown area over the rooftops of the houses in front of him. There was nothing he liked better than coming to a new town and looking around. Every town on the frontier was different in its own way, and you met the strangest people.
He hung the saddlebags from a bedpost and dropped onto a chair, wondering what to do next. He’d been sleepy before arriving at Mrs. Harder’s boardinghouse, but the lady with the rifle next door had wakened him. Being threatened with death had that effect on a man. He wanted a drink, but needed a bath more, and he’d find someplace to soak in this town, he felt sure, even at this hour.
He decided to take his saddlebags with him, so he could change his clothes after he took the bath. But first he’d roll a cigarette.
He poured the makings out of his black leather tobacco pouch and rolled the cigarette. Smoothing the ends, he lit it with a match and leaned back in the chair. It’s been a long trip, and he felt he’d spent it in a torture device. The wagon hadn’t been designed for big men like himself.
He opened his shirt pocket and took out a photograph of a young blond woman in an isinglass frame. He looked at her for a few moments, then raised the frame and kissed her. He dropped the picture back into his pocket and buttoned the flap.
Getting up, he checked his gunbelts and pulled the saddlebags off the bedpost, draping them over his shoulder. He flung the door open, and simultaneously the door across the hall opened.
He found himself looking at a young woman wearing a high-necked blouse with peaked shoulders. Her eyes widened in fear at the sight of him.
“Don’t shoot!” he said, raising his arms. Then slowly, he took off his old Confederate cavalry officer’s hat. “I’ve got the room across the hall here. Was mixed up a few minutes ago, tried to get into your room by mistake. Name’s John Stone. Do you know where I can take a bath at this time of night?”
Suspicion still in her eyes, she said: “Afraid not. Don’t know much about this town. Just passing through.”
“Where are you going?”
“Santa Fe.”
“That’s where I’m headed too. What’s your name?”
“Priscilla Bellevue.”
“If I can be of assistance, just let me know.”
He peered past her and saw a chair identical to his, with an open Bible lying on the footstool in front of it. He tipped his hat and walked down the hallway to the stairs.
He heard her door close above him as he descended the stairs. He crossed the darkened parlor and left through the front door, stepping into the moonlight.
The glow of the downtown area drew him toward it like a moth to flame. He didn’t know the names of the streets, he just followed the light. The closer he came, the more people he saw. Finally he reached the bright lights, and music, and the crowd of revelers.
Across the street was a saloon called the Shandon Star. He paused for a moment, then headed toward it, passing men having loud conversations, wagging their hands in the air. Pushing open the doors, he stepped inside. The bar was to the left, the chop counter to the right, and tables were scattered in between.
Stone walked up to the bar, finding an open spot between a cowboy passed out on his stool and a dude wearing a diamond stickpin in his tie.
“Whiskey.”
The bartender poured the clear amber fluid into the glass. Stone picked it up and rolled some over his tongue, savoring the flavor. It was smoky as an old hickory fire and bright as the fields of grain that comprised its essence.
“I see you’re wearing your old Confederate Army hat,” said the dude next to Stone. “I guess you’re one of them who never gave up.”
“I gave up.”
“Save all yer Confederate money, eh, feller? The South is a-gonna rise again, right?”
“The South will rise again,” Stone said, “but Confederate money is nothing but wallpaper now.”
The dude looked Stone up and down. “You a gamblin’ man?”
“Depends on the game.”
“I’m gettin’ a game up later, with a few of my friends. You’re welcome to join us.”
John knew the dude was a professional cardsharp, with eyes like a ferret.
“First I’ve got to take a bath,” Stone said. “You know where I can get one?”
“The Crystal Palace. It’s a whorehouse, but you can get a bath and anything else you might want at the same time.”
“Sounds like a pretty expensive bath.”
“Everything good has a price.”
“Can a man get a bath around here without the frills?”
“Sullivan’s Tubs. No frills, but the water’s hot and clean, and they give you a bar of soap. It’s extra for the towel.” He looked at Stone’s holsters. “I don’t understand how a man can buy Colts when there’s Remingtons around.” He reached under his coat and whipped out a Remington, holding it in the light of the lamps. “You see this strap of steel on top of this Remington? That gives it strength. Now look at one of your Colts. It don’t have this strap of metal. The entire Colt is held together by two little wedges of metal at the bottom. That ain’t enough.”
“It’s worked all right for me.”
“But it’s weaker—can’t you see? It don’t have this strap of metal on the top.”
“I never had any trouble with it.”
“Let me show you what I mean. Hand me yer gun, will you?”
Stone passed the Colt on his right to the gambler, who took it, turned it around, and pointed it at Stone, along with his Remington. Stone found himself looking down two gun barrels.
The gambler smiled. “You should never give yer gun to another man who you don’t know.”
“You’re not going to do anything with it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Gamblers don’t want trouble with the law.”
The gambler smiled as he handed Stone’s gun back. “Usually I scare the shit out of people before I hand their guns back.” He lifted his hat. “Glad to meet you. I’m Chance Stevens.”
“John Stone.”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“I was on my way to the tubs.”
“They’ll wait.”
The bartender poured two more drinks, and Stone couldn’t walk away from good whiskey. Chance Stevens raised his glass. “Happy days,” he said.
Stone sipped the cool dusky liquid, and it tingled his palate. He felt himself settling down. The saloon was thick with smoke, and a waitress in a low-cut dress carried a tray of beer mugs past him.
“So you’re an ex-Confederate officer down on yer luck.” Chance Stevens sipped his own drink. “But you got sand in yer craw and you like a good drink of whiskey. That about it?”
“Just about.”
“What do you do for money?”
“Odd jobs here and there.”
“Just a drifter?”
“You might say that.”
“There’s a lot of money to be made in this country, for a man willing to stay in one place for a while.”
“I intend to settle down first chance I get.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I’m looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
“A woman friend of mine.”
“I was married a few times,” Chance Stevens said. “It’s a bad business. Cheaper to buy the milk than buy the cow.”
Chance motioned to the bartender, who filled both glasses again. Chance raised his glass in the air. “To all the undefeated Galahads of the Noble Cause!”
He knocked his glass against Stone’s, then tossed the whiskey down his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re obviously a gentleman,” Chance said to Stone. “You don’t look like one, but I can tell you’re an educated boy. You sure sound like one. And here you are, just another frontier tramp, ain’t that so?”
“What about you? A gambler’s a drifter too.”
“I’m not driftin’ anymore,” Chance said. “I’m stayin’ right here in Clarksdale. There’s too much money to be made. Everybody likes a good game of cards, and that’s what I give ’em. Win, lose, or draw, it don’t matter. The game is the only thing that counts.”
Stone smiled. “Don’t tell me you don’t mind when you lose.”
“Well, I might mind a little.”
“I bet you mind a lot.”
“You read me like a book, boy.”
“Why don’t you settle down, Chance? Get some land and cattle, instead of betting your life on a turn of a card.”
Chance made a face as if he’d smelled something rank. “I don’t want to walk ass deep in cow shit all day. There’s nothin’ in that for me.” He pointed his forefinger to his head. “I’d rather make money with my mind. That’s what gambling is. The real spirit of a man is in his mind, and that’s the territory where I want to prove I’m the better man.” He hooked his thumbs under the lapels of his expensive suit. “You think you’re a smart feller, John Stone?”
“I get by.”
“Let’s lock horns—you and me. Come on back here after you take the bath. The stakes won’t be high. I’ll take it easy on you.”
Stone downed the final drops of his whiskey. “Don’t take it easy on me. I can take care of myself.”
Stone headed toward the door, making his way through a mass of men drinking alcoholic beverages, their hats on the backs of their heads, laughing and talking, waving their arms in the air.
A woman in a red dress walked up to him. “Buy me a drink, cowboy?”
“I gotta take a bath.”
“I’ll take one with you.” She smiled seductively.
“Sorry, but I’m engaged to get married.”
“So’m I, but two grown-ups like us shouldn’t worry about something as silly as that.”
“If you’re here when I get back, I’ll buy you a drink.”
He walked toward the door. The prostitute had been beautiful, a Scheherazade of the prairie. And she could buy and sell me.
Men in small groups were gathered in the street, holding glasses in their hands, having conversations. A buckboard rode past, and Stone saw the black collar of a preacher. Stone turned to the left and took a long stride, feeling something bump against his leg.
“Watch where you’re goin’!” a man roared.
Stone turned around and saw a hunchbacked midget cowboy wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a high crown. “Sorry,” Stone said.
The hunchback had on leather chaps with a red calico bandanna tied roughly around his neck. “Who the hell you think you are!” he said. “Just because you say you’re sorry, you think that makes it all right, you son of a bitch!”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Open yer goddamn eyes!”
Stone knew there was nothing he could say to please the man. All he could do was get away. He turned and stepped toward the street. Behind him he heard the slide of metal against greased leather.
“Hold it right thar, you son of a bitch!”
Stone stopped in his tracks.
“Turn around!”
Stone turned and saw the hunchback pointing his six-gun at him. The men who’d been in the street were fleeing toward alleys and doorways, or ducking down behind water troughs.
“You think you can push other people around,” the hunchback said, “and just walk away afterward?”
“I didn’t push you around.”
“You saw me, but you thought you’d walk right fuckin’ over me without me sayin’ anythin’, but you was wrong.”
Stone looked at the gun in his hand. Maybe I can get off a fast shot. But the trouble with fast shots was they weren’t accurate. Stone clicked his teeth and slowly raised his hands until they were level with the ivory grips of his pistols.
“Hold it right thar, or I’ll blow yer damn head off!” the hunchback hollered.
Stone tensed his muscles. He towered above the hunchback in the shadows of the sidewalk, and men watched from their hiding places, or through the windows and open doors of the saloons.
“If you say I’m a liar,” Stone said, “give me a chance to prove you’re wrong.”
“How you aim to do that?”
“Let Mr. Colt decide it.”
The hunchback narrowed his eyes. He looked grotesque and weird standing there with a gun in his hand.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” Stone chided him.
“Afraid of you!” the hunchback bellowed. “I ain’t afraid of you! You ain’t shit to me!”
“Let Mr. Colt decide it.”
“He is gonna decide it.”
The hunchback aimed down the barrel of his gun at Stone, and Stone thought, I’d better make my play.
A deep, strong voice rang out on the deserted street. “Drop that gun, cowboy, or you’re a dead man!”
Stone saw a tall, silver-haired man in a long riding coat standing in the middle of the street, holding a gun in his right hand, pointing it at the hunchback.
“This is Sheriff Pat Butler talkin’, and I got one of my deputies with me. We don’t tolerate no gunplay in this town. You drop yer gun or I’m a-gonna kill you.”
The hunchback let go of his gun. Out of the shadows came the deputy, carrying a rifle, and he picked the gun up. Sheriff Butler holstered his pistol and advanced from the street.
“What’s yer name!” Sheriff Butler said to the hunchback.
“Dorchester.”
“Mr. Dorchester, you’re under arrest. The jail is thataway.”
The sheriff pushed the hunchback, who sullenly walked away, looking down at the ground. He took several steps, then stopped and turned to Stone, his face corded with fury. “I’ll see you again someday, and then there won’t be no sheriff to save yer ass!”
Stone stared at the hunchback coldly. He wanted to remember that face and everything about the man, because next time he saw him it would be draw and fire.
Sheriff Butler and the hunchback continued down the street toward the jail. Stone loosed his bandanna and sat on a bench in front of a shuttered hardware store. He took out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette.
He’d thought the hunchback was going to kill him. The hunchback’s finger had been tightening around the trigger. I shouldn’t’ve turned my back on him.
The tubs were straight ahead. He arose, adjusted his gunbelt, and walked down the street toward the sign in the distance, illuminated by lanterns, that said: SULLIVAN’S TUBS
He walked in the door. Before him in a large yard sat eighteen tubs, nine occupied by men washing themselves in the open air. Stone approached the man at the cash register.
“Number fourteen,” the man said, hardly glancing up from his newspaper.
Stone walked back to number fourteen, an iron tub three feet high. A hat rack was next to it, and Stone took off his old Confederate cavalry hat, dusted it, and placed it next to a sleek new wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Then he unbuttoned his shirt.
The tubs were under the night sky, but the stove and fire was covered by a roof held up by wood posts. The man bathing himself next to Stone had a flask on a stool beside him, and his arm, covered with suds, arose from the tub and picked up the flask.
The man looked up at Stone. “Could you use a touch of real Irish whiskey?” He had a British accent and held the flask in the air.
Stone held out his hand. “If you don’t mind.”
The flask dropped into his hand, and Stone stared at it for a second. Then he unscrewed the lid. He’d been drinking rotgut since coming to the frontier, and hadn’t drunk any real Irish whiskey for years.
He raised the flask to his mouth, paused a moment, and let some trickle in. It was smooth as silk, and he could taste its refinement. He let more trickle in, savored it, and swallowed it down.
“Mighty fine whiskey,” Stone said, handing the flask back. “Where’d you get it?”
“Brought it with me from England, and there isn’t much left.”
“I’m grateful you shared it with me.”
“You looked like a man who’d enjoy a fine glass of whiskey. By the way, my name’s Dunwich.”
“John Stone.”
“What brings you to this town?”
“I’m on my Way to Texas.”
“What’re you going to Texas for?”
“To see a friend of mine. What brings you here all the way from England?”
“In my opinion, the American frontier is the most exciting place in the world to be right now. Look around you: it’s a land up for grabs, fortunes made and lost every day, people shooting each other constantly, men digging up hunks of gold from the ground, savages who’ll skin you alive. The American frontier is inconceivable, and yet here it is, and you and I, my friend, are right in the middle of it. Another drink?”
Stone accepted the flask. Two burly Negroes approached, carrying a barrel of hot water on a stand. They wrestled the barrel off the stand and poured the water into the tub. Then one of them handed Stone a towel.
Vapors arose from the tub. Stone climbed in and sat down, his knees poking up through the steam. The hot water washed over him. He closed his eyes and relaxed.
“Where are you coming from?” Dunwich asked from the next tub.
“Arizona.”
“Nice place?”
“If you like fighting Apaches.”
“You sound as if you’re talking from personal experience.”
“I am.”
“You’ve been attacked?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
“Everything you’d imagine, and worse.”
Dunwich handed him the flask again. “Have a drink and tell me about it.”
“The only thing you need to know is Indians hate white people and they’re killers. I had a friend who was an Indian himself, and he told me to never trust an Indian.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead.”
“How’d he die?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Dunwich.”
“Asking questions in my line of work. I work for the Morning Sentinel, a London newspaper, and you sound like an interesting fellow. Care for another drink? Tell me about the Indian who’s dead.”
“I’m a little tired.”
“What are you doing when you leave here?”
“I’d planned to have dinner.”
“Why not have dinner with me and my assistant, as our guest?”
“I never turn down a free meal.”
“See you at the Emerald City in about an hour and a half.”
Stone closed his eyes and relaxed against the back of the tub. The hot water reached like fingers into his joints and muscles and made them relax.
Arizona had been a bloodbath, thanks to the Apaches, but he found a man there who said he thought he’d seen Marie in Texas.
The man was dead now, Apaches had killed him, but when Stone showed him the picture of Marie, the man said she was a wife of a rancher in the San Antonio area.
Stone heard Dunwich arise from his tub and get dressed.
“Care for one last drink before I go?” Dunwich asked.
Dunwich was dapper in his carefully tailored suit of worsted wool. His cowboy hat looked dashing atop his head, and he wore new cowboy boots. Stone accepted the flask and sipped more Irish whiskey.
“Look forward to seeing you later,” Dunwich said.
He walked away. Stone closed his eyes and relaxed in the hot water. A bird twittered on the roof of the shed that covered the stove. He drifted off into a reverie of Marie, dancing in the ballroom of her family’s home, a slim-waisted woman with graceful hands. He felt a deep longing in his heart. I’ll find her in Texas.
“What the hell d’ya think you’re lookin’ at!” a man thundered a few tubs from Stone.
“Just lookin’ around,” replied a second voice. “Don’t do no harm to look around, does it?”
“You keep yer goddamn eyes off’n me!”
“Who the hell d’ya think yer talkin’ to!”
“You know who I’m talkin’ to!”
Stone heard a rush of water, a metallic click, a shot, and a gun was fired. The bullet whistled over Stone’s head. Then a second bullet fired, and Stone heard a strangled cry.
“I’m hit!” a man said.
Stone raised his head above the wall of the tub and saw a stout hairy man fall to the ground. Standing over him was another man with a gun, a thin trail of smoke rising from the barrel, caught in a shaft of light from a coal-oil lamp.
“Everybody hold still,” the man with the gun said. “I’m gittin’ out of here, and if anybody tries to stop me, he’s dead meat.”
Stone measured the distance between himself and his guns, and they were too far away.
The man with the gun got dressed quickly, pulled on his boots, and ran off into the night. Stone moved the chair with his gunbelt closer to him. The men in the tubs resumed washing themselves. Just another late-night bath, as usual.
Stone sank into the warm water, letting it wash over his head, and it felt like baptism. A man lay dead on the ground nearby. Went to heaven clean.
Stone raised his head, lay back, and looked up at the sky. The smell of wood smoke wafted past his nostrils, and someone was strumming a guitar. The tension and madness drained out of his body.
He gazed at Orion, the warrior in the sky, holding his sword in the cosmos ablaze with stars.