Stone walked toward the Emerald City, carrying his saddlebags over his shoulder. He felt refreshed and clean in a green shirt with a black bandanna, and another pair of faded blue jeans.
His Confederate cavalry hat was square on his head and he was looking forward to a night on the town. There’d be some music, and maybe some dancing girls. He could see the bright lights of downtown Clarksdale in the distance, but around him was darkness, shuttered storefronts, a few drunks sleeping on benches.
He was aware of someone running toward him in the night. He was coming fast, straight at Stone, and Stone drew his guns.
Materializing out of the night was a young man with curly black hair, a mask of panic on his face. He had no weapons in his hands, but Stone held him in his sights as he passed by.
Stone had only seen him for a moment, but his face had said abject terror.
“Stop him!” somebody shouted. “He’s a crook!”
The man with curly black hair disappeared into the darkness, and from the other direction a man with a mustache emerged, waving a six-gun, his face red with exertion.
He ran past Stone, and Stone followed him into an alley. They made their way to the backyard, and stood side by side, listening to the sound of hoofbeats.
“He’s gittin’ away!” the man said.
“What’s he done?”
“Stoled my wallet out of my jacket while I was in the pisshouse. Took everythin’ I got. Damned bastard must’ve follered me in, but I din’t see him. I’m a-gonna git my horse and track the son of a bitch. I might not find him tonight, and I might not find him tomorrow, but I’ll find him one day, and when I do—” He drew his finger across his throat. “What did you say yer name was?”
“John Stone.”
“I’m Jesse Culpepper. Thanks for yer help.”
Jesse Culpepper tipped his hat and ran off into the night. Stone walked back through the alley and headed toward the bright lights at the center of town.
He came to the front of the Emerald City, on a corner, surrounded by a wide veranda. Stone climbed the stairs to the veranda, where men and a few women sat on benches and chatted, sipping their favorite beverages in the golden light that spilled from the windows.
He passed through the doors, and inside was a plush sprawling saloon. A bar was on the left, another bar on the right, tables were in the middle, and the chop counter was in back, colored ladies working at the grill.
Stone’s stomach was grumbling. He headed for the chop counter, making his way among tables crowded with men and women, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.
“I say there—John Stone!”
Stone turned in the direction of the voice and saw Paul Dunwich arise from the sea of heads, waving his hand. At Dunwich’s table was a brunette dressed in men’s cowboy clothes that were far too big for her, and she wore a red bandanna around her neck.
“John, may I present my assistant, Diane Farlington.”
Stone accepted her hand. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Paul’s told me all about you,” she said. “Please sit down and tell us about your experiences with Indians.”
“Awfully hungry.”
“I’ll get the food,” Dunwich said. “Have a seat. What would you like?”
“A steak well done with everything that comes with it.”
Dunwich launched himself toward the chop counter, and Stone sat opposite Diane, removing his hat, placing it on an empty chair. His hair was dark blond, growing over his ears and down his back.
Diane looked at him. “So you’re a real frontiersman, and you’ve actually known Indians. Tell me something about them.”
“They’d shoot you as quickly as they’d shoot a rabbit. How long you been out here?”
“We’ve been west of the Mississippi about two weeks.”
There was a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table. She noticed Stone looking at it.
“Help yourself.”
Stone took a glass, filled it half full of whiskey, and slugged it down.
“Paul told me you’ve fought Indians. What was that like?”
Stone refilled the glass and sipped whiskey off the top. She watched him intently, with bright shining eyes.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she said.
Stone drank the rest of the whiskey in the glass. Dunwich returned to the table carrying a platter covered with an immense steak, mashed potatoes, carrots, gravy, and a fat slice of bread. He placed it before Stone, and Stone reached for the silverware. He cut off a big chunk of steak and placed it in his mouth.
Diane watched as he chewed. She glanced at Paul, and he winked at her. Patiently they waited until Stone finished eating.
Stone looked around as he dined, reconnoitering the saloon. If anybody pulled a gun, he wanted to be the first one on the floor.
He pushed the plate away, drank some whiskey, and rolled a cigarette.
The two Britons watched him. “Where are you from?” Diane asked.
“South Carolina.”
Paul took a notebook out of his shirt pocket and began writing. “Were you in the war?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Don’t remember. It was so long ago.”
“Come on now, Mr. Stone. You couldn’t forget something like that.”
“Afraid I have.”
“We don’t care about the war,” Diane said. “Mostly we want to know about the Indians.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “Tell us about the Indians.”
“If you want to know about Indians,” Stone said, “you should go to Arizona. There are a lot of them around there.”
“How long were you in Arizona.”
“Around two months.”
“In the bathhouse, you told me you’d actually known an Indian personally. What was he like?”
Stone reached for the bottle. “Indians are trained from infancy to be warriors. Killing is all they know.”
“Have you ever killed somebody, Mr. Stone?” Diane asked.
Stone sipped his whiskey.
“Have I offended you?”
Stone finished the glass and poured another. “You don’t know the territory,” he said quietly.
“That’s what we’re talking with you for. So that you’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“All you need to know is this: If you’re not careful, you won’t live long. Everybody’s buzzard food until proven otherwise.”
“I believe you’re trying to scare us.”
“There are probably wanted killers in this room right now.”
Diane smiled. “Really?”
Dunwich held up his hand. “Mr. Stone is right. The frontier is dangerous, and I’m fully prepared.” He pulled back the right side of his impeccably tailored worsted suit and yanked out a Colt .44, which he pointed at Stone. “I’m capable of protecting myself and Diane, and furthermore, I know how to shoot.”
Stone found himself looking down the barrel of a gun for the third time that evening. “Please point that thing someplace else.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not loaded.” Dunwich smiled, pointed it at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger.
The Colt discharged, sending a bullet into the rafters.
“My word,” said Dunwich, an expression of astonishment on his face. “I didn’t think it was loaded.”
Everything in the saloon stopped. Dealers held their shuffles. Everyone looked in the direction of the shot, and every man moved his hand closer to his gun.
Dunwich saw everybody looking at him. “Terribly sorry. Just a mistake. Won’t happen again.”
He holstered his gun, sat down, and looked at Stone. “I almost killed you, didn’t I?”
“You’re a dangerous man,” Stone replied.
Diane burst into laughter. “This is wonderful! Englishman Shoots Notorious Western Gunman. I can see the headline in the Morning Sentinel. And it’d be an authentic story because here I am, your faithful reporter, right in the middle of it.”
“I can see a different headline,” Stone replied. “Englishman Hanged on American Frontier. How do you like that one?”
“Not bad.”
Dunwich smiled with embarrassment. “I suppose I should be more careful with this gun. Actually, I’ve never fired it before.”
Stone stared at him. “You’re in an enclosed space with armed men, most of them with violent natures, and you’re carrying a gun that you’ve never even fired?”
“That is correct,” Dunwich said. “It just hasn’t seemed that dangerous to me.”
“I’ve been here over four years, and I know what I’m talking about. You’d better start being more careful, otherwise you might find yourself in deep trouble very suddenly, and you won’t have a chance.”
Dunwich looked around him. The cowboys were easing back to whatever they’d been doing before he’d fired his six-gun. “I didn’t realize,” he said, “that it was so dangerous here. Nothing bad has happened yet.”
“Let me tell you what I’ve gone through tonight,” Stone said. “Right after I came to town a man in a bar pointed two loaded pistols at point-blank range at me and smiled. Then, out on the street, I nearly got shot in the back. After that I nearly got shot by mistake while I was taking a bath. Then I was witness to a robbery. Just now I was nearly shot through the head by you. And I only arrived a few hours ago.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a rather interesting night. Are you getting all of this down, Diane?”
“Every word of it,” Diane replied, smiling as she wrote in her notepad.
“I still don’t think you understand,” Stone said to her. “You’ve got to exercise prudent caution. Otherwise you’re simply not going to survive.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Diane said. “I can take care of myself.” She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a derringer, pointing it at Stone.
“I hope that’s not loaded,” he said.
She looked him in the eye, and a faint smile came over her face. “It is.”
“Please point it in another direction.”
Stone looked into her eyes, and she didn’t flinch. Her face was serious, even solemn. Then she smiled and dropped the derringer back into her shirt pocket.
“Had you scared for a moment, didn’t I?”
“I thought you might shoot me, yes.”
“I’ll do anything to get a good story, Mr. Stone, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
Dunwich placed his hand on Stone’s shoulder. “Let me make a proposition to you. I’ll give you twenty American dollars, in gold, if you’ll give us two days of your time. We’ll put you up in the best hotel in town, we’ll eat in the finest restaurants, drink the best whiskey, and you’ll tell us about all your adventures, for the Morning Sentinel. I happen to know that cowboys in this region earn thirty American dollars a month, so this is a most generous offer, as I’m sure you realize. What do you say?”
“Sorry,” Stone said. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning on the stage to Santa Fe.”
“Why are you going to Santa Fe?”
“Personal.”
Diane’s eyes brightened. “We can go with you, and you can tell us your story on the road. Sounds like it might be fun. Will we have to worry about Indians?”
“I believe there are Comanches and Kiowas in the area.”
“How thrilling!”
“And you always have to watch out for road agents.”
“Ah, the dashing road agents.”
Stone groaned. There was no use trying to reason with them. Their brains were addled.
He heard a voice behind him. “If it ain’t the undefeated Galahad of the Noble Cause.”
Stone turned around and saw Chance Stevens, the gambler.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Chance said. “Mind if I sit down?”
Dunwich replied: “By all means.”
Chance sat at the table and looked more closely at Lady Diane. “By God, it’s a woman!”
Lady Diane laughed delightedly and Chance turned back to Stone. “Care to cut cards?”
“I’m a little busy right now.”
Chance looked at the bottle. “Mind if I take a drink?”
Dunwich said: “Go right ahead.”
Chance poured himself a glass, and the two Britishers stared at him.
“Are you a professional gambler?” Dunwich asked pleasantly.
“That’s right.” Chance grinned. “Care to cut a game of cards?”
“What do you play?”
“Anything you like.”
“I’d like to learn how to play poker.”
“I’m a professional gambler, not a teacher. I play for money.”
Dunwich took out a handful of gold coins and dropped them on the table. “I have money.”
Chance stared at the coins, glinting in the dim light. “I don’t think it’d be fair for me to play with somebody who don’t know the game.”
“Chance really doesn’t care about the money,” Stone explained. “He mainly gambles for the intellectual challenge.”
Dunwich looked at Chance. “Is that true?”
“I do it for both.”
“I’m a fast learner,” said Dunwich, “and I like intellectual challenges. Let’s play a few hands.”
Chance reached into his pocket and took out a deck of cards. “Care to deal?” he asked Dunwich.
“I told you I don’t know how to play poker. However, if you can explain the rules, I’d be happy to try.”
“Well,” said Chance, “the easiest kind of poker to play is draw poker.” He explained the rules, what beat what, and how to draw. Then he shuffled and cut the deck, handing it to Dunwich.
“Cut it again,” he said.
Dunwich cut the deck and threw one card to Chance. “Are you in?” he said to Stone.
“No thanks,” said Stone, seeing the gleam in Dunwich’s eyes. This English dandy was fast by nature, and there was something clever in his style. Let Chance handle him.
Dunwich dealt himself a card, then threw another one to Chance. Diane stared at Chance as though he were a genie who just popped out of a bottle. “Is that a real diamond stickpin?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nice touch. You know, you’re really put together very well. I especially like the black hat. Makes you look evil.”
“I am evil.”
“In what way?”
Chance studied his hand. It consisted of a king, a jack, two nines, and a tray.
“Care to open?” Dunwich said, a sporting twinkle in his eyes, as if he’d just spotted the fox.
Chance threw a fifty-cent piece on the table, and so did Dunwich. Stone pushed back his chair.
“Where are you going?” asked Diane.
“To the bar.”
“Don’t go far,” Chance said to Stone. “You and I’ve got a game to play.”
Stone walked to the bar, and Diane followed him. They passed tables surrounded by gamblers, and heard a steady roar of conversation punctuated occasionally by a shout. Stone spotted Slade, the cowboy from the stagecoach, seated alone at a table against the wall, sipping a glass of whiskey. Their eyes met, but they didn’t smile or wave.
Stone and Diane came to the bar. Stone leaned over the rail, and Diane imitated him.
“I’m having such a good time,” she said. “This is so much better than London.”
“What did you do in London?”
“Mostly I went to parties, and they were usually boring.”
“Are you royalty by any chance?”
She looked startled. “How did you know?”
“Just a guess.”
“I’m Lady Diane Farlington, and Paul is the Earl of Dunwich. We’re here on a lark.”
“Every man in this room is carrying at least one gun, and you think you’re on a lark?”
“I think they’re charming. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. We understand each other.”
“What’s yer poison?” the bartender said, and he wore a patch over one eye.
“Whiskey,” Stone replied, and he turned to Diane. “How about you?”
“The same.”
The bartender stared at her with his one good eye. “Are you a man or are you a woman?”
“A woman.”
“What the hell you wearin’ that getup fer?”
“I thought it looked rather nice.”
“A woman should look like a woman, not a man.”
“This is a new country, and we must dress accordingly.”
“You should wear a dress.” The bartender poured two glasses of whiskey, and Stone paid him.
She grasped her glass firmly. “Let’s drink to our new collaboration.”
“What collaboration?”
“You’re going to tell Paul and me all about your fascinating adventures.”
“I’m afraid I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“I know. The stage to Santa Fe. We’re going with you. And you’re going to tell us everything.”
“You can take that stagecoach if you want, but I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Why not?”
“My life is nobody’s business but mine.”
“You don’t look very prosperous. Couldn’t you use the money? Tell me about your Indian friend.”
“Don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why?”
“Personal.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Hello, cowboy,” said the voice of a woman.
Stone looked in the direction of the voice and saw the whore with the red dress whom he’d run into on the street earlier in the evening.
“You said you’d buy me a drink later,” she said. “Remember?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say, but it’s Naomi.”
“May I present Diane Farlington, from London.”
Naomi looked around. “Where?”
Stone indicated Lady Diane. “Right here.”
“I thought that was a man.”
“I’m no man,” Lady Diane said.
“Why do you dress like one?”
“These are the best clothes when you’re riding the range.”
“Have you ever ridden the range?”
“I intend to soon.”
“Do you know how to ride a horse?”
“Of course. Do you?”
“I was born on a horse.”
Stone turned to the bartender. “A drink for the lady.”
“Name yer poison,” the bartender said.
“Whiskey,” said Naomi, gazing with distaste at Lady Diane. “She yer woman?”
“I’m nobody’s woman,” Lady Diane replied.
“I’m not surprised, seein’ how you dress.”
Stone heard a booming male voice behind him. “Harlot of Babylon!”
Everybody turned and saw a man wearing a white clerical collar with a black suit and a black hat. He pointed his finger at Naomi and hollered:
“The daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched-forth necks And wanton eyes Walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet; Therefore the Lord will smite them with a scab And the Lord will lay bare their secret parts.”
Naomi raised her glass of whiskey. “He follows me everywhere. I wish he’d leave me alone.”
“Harlot of Babylon!” the preacher continued. “Repent while you still have time!”
“Tomorrow,” Naomi said.
“There may not be a tomorrow for you, harlot!”
Naomi pulled a .22 caliber Smith & Wesson First Model 1857 Revolver out of her red satin pocketbook. “There may not be a tomorrow for you either, preacher man.”
“You can shoot me, but you can’t shoot Jesus.”
Stone stepped between them. “Let me buy you a drink,” he said to the preacher.
“I won’t drink at the same bar as that harlot.”
“Drink over here with me.”
“Whiskey!” said the preacher.
The bartender filled a glass for the preacher, who drained it dry in one gulp. He slammed the glass on the bar and looked at Naomi. “Young lady, you need a good horsewhipping!”
Naomi sidled next to Stone. “I have a room not far from here.”
“I told you I’m engaged to be married.”
“You should have your last fling, while you’ve got the chance.”
Diane moved closer to them, still writing. “I say there, Stone—is she propositioning you?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you charge?” Diane asked Naomi.
“Five dollars ... for you.”
“I wasn’t asking for me. I was asking for him.”
“Why are you asking for him?”
“She’s writing an article for a British newspaper,” Stone explained.
The preacher shouted:
“Though your sins be as scarlet
they shall be white as snow;
Though they be red like crimson
They shall be as wool.”
“I can’t git rid of him,” Naomi said. “He wants to save my honor... for himself.”
“I want to save you for Jesus!” the preacher raved.
Chance Stevens stepped toward them, an expression of profound disbelief on his face. “He cleaned me out,” he said to Stone. “All I got left is this.” He held a coin up in the air. “Bartender, a whiskey if you don’t mind—and fast!”
Dunwich followed him to the bar. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
“Whipped me in my own town,” Chance said to Stone. “He comes at the cards in a queer way.” Chance looked like a man who just stepped on a rake and got it in the face. The bartender poured him a drink, and he guzzled it down. “Flat broke on my ass again. Everything happens to me.”
“If you like,” Dunwich said, “I can give you some back.”
Chance looked at Stone. “Did you hear that? Now he’s insulting me.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you, old boy. How much do you need? It’s only a game, you know. Take it all—I don’t care.”
Dunwich placed a pile of coins on the bar, and everybody stared at it. It was twenty or thirty dollars at least, and a cowboy had to work sixteen hours a day for a month to earn that much money.
“Go ahead, take it,” Dunwich said.
Chance whipped out his Remington and pointed it at Dunwich. “I ought to kill you.”
Stone felt that characteristic moment surging—the crazy cowboy temper, the readiness to fight to the death over nothing. And Dunwich, the fool, thought he was dealing with an English gentleman.
“All we did was play a game of cards.”
“You said you never played poker before.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Nobody learns that fast.”
“I’ll give your money back, if that’s the way you feel about it.”
“It’s not the money. I don’t like to be cheated.”
“I’m not accustomed to being called a cheat.”
“Well, how’s about four flusher? You tricked me into playin’ you, and then you cheated me. You lied when you told me you never played poker. You play poker like you been playin’ it all your life.”
Dunwich stared at the gun in his hand. “I’ve never cheated anybody. You’ve insulted me, sir, but it’s not worth either of us dying for. Will bare-knuckle combat satisfy you?”
Chance thought for a few moments, then holstered his Remington. “You’re on.”
Dunwich and Chance walked toward the doors of the saloon. A crowd followed, Stone and Diane among them.
Diane reached for Stone’s arm. “Why doesn’t somebody stop them?”
“Fights break the monotony, and some are very entertaining.”
“Somebody can get hurt.”
“That’s what makes them entertaining.”
Dunwich and Chance walked into the middle of the street and faced off. The crowd made a circle around them, drunks pushing their way toward the front, spilling drinks on other people. Several arguments ensued, while others took bets on who’d win. The odds were up to five to one for Chance, who was a known quantity of deadliness, the Englishman was anybody’s guess.
“Why don’t you go for the sheriff?” Diane said to Stone.
“If he’s around, he’ll come.”
“Why doesn’t somebody do something? This isn’t just going to happen, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I really think you should do something, Mr. Stone.”
“What?”
“Get out in the middle of the street and stop them.”
“Why?”
“It’s wrong to fight.”
“Says who?”
“Me!”
She walked resolutely into the middle of the street, chest out, swinging her fists back and forth smartly, as if she were going to war. A smile spread over Stone’s tanned features. The entertainment had arrived.
She walked in between the two combatants, who were rolling up their sleeves, and held out both her hands. “Gentlemen,” she said, “you’re not going to do this.”
Dunwich lay his jacket on her outstretched arm. “Hold this for me, Diane dear, will you?”
“Paul, you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“A woman couldn’t understand these things. Please step back.” He raised his fists and danced lightly on his toes.
“You’re supposed to be reporting the news, not making it.”
“Out of the way,” Dunwich said. “Stand clear. That’s a good girl.”
She refused to move. “Stop being an idiot, Paul! This isn’t fun anymore!”
“Will somebody please move Lady Diane out of the way.”
Two drunken cowboys detached themselves from the crowd and grabbed her arms and legs, sweeping her off her feet Her hat fell off and her brown curls tumbled out, dragging in the muck.
“Now see here!” she said, squirming, trying to break loose.
They dropped her into the muck, and she landed with a splat. Getting up, spitting a grain of dirt out of her mouth, she turned around and saw the Earl of Dunwich and Chance Stevens go at each other.
Chance threw the first punch, a tentative jab, and Dunwich danced to the side on the balls of his feet. He was always in motion, like a jumping jack bouncing around, his legs slightly bent and knees sticking out to the sides.
Suddenly he darted in and shot his right fist forward. It slammed into Chance’s face, and Chance counterpunched but Dunwich was gone.
Chance’s lip had burst when caught between his teeth and Dunwich’s hard knuckles. Blood dripped down his chin, onto his black goatee. He looked at Dunwich bouncing up and down in front of him, cried out, and charged.
Dunwich danced to the side at the last moment while delivering a sharp punch to the side of Chance’s head. Chance tripped and fell into the mud, shook his head, and quickly jumped to his feet again, raising his fists and moving them in circles.
Dunwich bounded around the ring, his face steely. Suddenly he charged again, but this time Chance was waiting for him. Both men swung at the same moment, and both went down.
Each lay on the ground in the middle of the street, struggling to get up. Diane ran to Dunwich.
“Are you all right!”
Cobwebs were in his head, and he tried to stand. Then he heard a deep booming voice.
“What’s goin’ on here?”
Everybody turned in the direction of the voice, and saw Sheriff Pat Butler standing there, light from the Last Post Saloon gleaming behind him.
Dunwich got to his feet, a sheepish look on his face. Chance snarled as he rose from the ground, mud all over him.
“We don’t allow fightin’ in this town. Clear the street.”
Dunwich and Chance looked at each other. The crowd broke up and streamed into saloons. Diane looked at Dunwich’s bruised features. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing like some good fisticuffs to sharpen a man’s senses.”
“I thought he was going to shoot you.”
“So did I.”
“How did you beat him at cards?”
“Beginner’s luck, I guess.” Dunwich raised his hand in the air and shouted: “A round of drinks on me!”
The crowd followed them into the Emerald City Saloon, leaving Chance in the middle of the street, covered with mud, a defiant frown on his face.
He smacked his hat against his leg, to shake the dirt out, and put it on his head, then skulked into an alley, his hands in his pockets, grumbling revenge.
Meanwhile, the crowd gathered around the bar, and the bartender set up the glasses. Dunwich’s arm was around Lady Diane’s shoulders. “What a grand time!” he said.
She felt her mood improving. Nobody had gotten hurt, and she still was having her great adventure on the American frontier. “Yippee!” she shouted.
Stone observed them from the other end of the bar. He’d seen it happen before. People who behaved normally all their lives went berserk on the frontier.
The piano started playing. Waitresses carried trays of whiskey around the room. Stone looked at the clock above the bar. It was nearly midnight. He’d have one last drink and go home.
Dunwich raised his glass in the air. “To America!” he shouted.
Everyone cheered and tossed down the whiskey. Stone was one of them, and it burned his gizzard. He coughed, spat into the cuspidor, and rolled a cigarette.
“Mr. Stone?”
Stone turned and saw Edward McManus, the banker from San Francisco, twirling his mustache. “Care to join us?”
Stone looked in the direction of the banker’s gaze, and saw a large round table surrounded by well-dressed men and women, with three bottles of whiskey upon it.
He followed McManus to the table, and the only two empty seats were on either side of Maureen McManus. Stone sat to her right, and McManus to her left.
“Captain John Stone,” McManus said, making the introduction. “He arrived with us on the stagecoach. Used to be a Confederate officer, and now he’s looking for a woman, isn’t that right, Captain?”
Stone reached for the bottle closest to him and filled a glass. He poured the fine bourbon down his throat and it brought a faint blush to his cheeks. He was drunker then he’d been in a long time. Then he lit his cigarette.
“Where have you been?” Maureen McManus asked.
“Checked into a hotel and had a bath.”
“You smell divine, and you look so much better now that you’ve shaved.”
Stone poured himself another glass and drank it down.
McManus leaned forward, so he could see Stone better. “How do you like Clarksdale?”
“They’ve got a good sheriff.”
A new voice joined the conversation. “Damn right we have. I’m Judd Macintosh, the mayor of Clarksdale. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
Stone shook hands with the distinguished-looking gentleman in the dark suit and striped vest, who was wearing a derby.
“This is a law-abiding town,” the mayor said. “That’s why it’s a good investment. If you have any money to invest, Captain Stone, this is the place to do it. Clarksdale’ll be as big as San Francisco someday!”
“I’ll drink to that,” Stone said.
Mayor Macintosh continued to trumpet the economic attractions of Clarksdale. “The railroad’ll be here within two years,” he said. “By then the town’ll be five times what it is today, and another year after that we expect it’ll triple in size.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I was speaking to a group of French investors just the other day. They said they’d rather put their money here than in the Suez Canal. I tell you, the man who invests a dollar here in Clarksdale today will have twenty dollars to show for it in five years.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The mayor’s voice droned on, and Stone closed his eyes. The tumult around him became a steady roar that sounded like the hoofbeats of cavalry charging across a plain. He saw himself atop his horse, his saber in his hand, leading old Troop C into the fray. Yankee bullets whizzed over his head, and cannonballs plowed through the ranks of his men as they thundered into the maw of hell.
He felt a hand drop into his lap underneath the table. Opening his eyes, he turned to Maureen McManus. Her eyes were bleary and she teetered from side to side.
“Have you ever been to San Francisco?” she asked.
“No.”
“If you ever visit, you must look us up. We’d love to have you as our guest, wouldn’t we, Edward?”
“Indeed, my dear.”
“Time for me to go,” Stone told them, arising from the table.
McManus said: “So soon?”
“Have to catch a stagecoach in the morning.”
“So do we. Who needs sleep?”
Everyone at the table laughed. Stone felt dizzy as he made his way to the bar. A man shouldn’t get drunk among strangers. He lurched alongside the bar, passing cowboys, freighters, dudes, and ladies of the night.
An arm reached out to him. “Captain Stone!” The Earl of Dunwich stood at the bar beside Lady Diane Farlington. “Where are you going, Captain Stone? Let me buy you a drink!”
“I shouldn’t—”
“Of course you should.”
Stone saw a glass of whiskey suspended in the air in front of him. He took it out of Dunwich’s hand and carried it to his lips, a few drops spilling onto his shirt. He sipped half the glass down.
“It’s decided,” Diane said. “We’re going on that stagecoach with you tomorrow and we’ll telegraph your story to the Sentinel’s offices in New York from the next town.”
Stone was about to tell her she’d get no story from him, then recalled the twenty dollars they’d promised him. He became confused, and thought his mind might clear if he took another drink. Raising the glass to his mouth, he became aware that the Emerald City had become very quiet.
He looked up and saw Sheriff Pat Butler striding across the room, followed by two of his deputies, and they looked like hard men. Butler wore his long canvas riding coat and his hat low over his eyes, shading his face from the lamplights.
“I heard some dumb galoot shot a bullet through the roof in here a while ago!” Sheriff Butler shouted. “Who is he?”
Everyone looked at Dunwich, who stepped forward, a smile on his face. “I say, Sheriff—I’m afraid that was me. Sorry. I didn’t know the gun was loaded.”
“Hand it over.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You’re under arrest for shootin’ yer iron in a public place. Hand it over or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Dunwich could feel the tension in the air. The sheriff and his deputies were poised in front of him, their hands near their guns.
“Sheriff, I think you should know that I’m the Earl of—”
They drew their guns, and he raised his hands into the air.
“Git his iron, Tony,” said the sheriff.
Tony, a lean whiplash of a man, approached Dunwich, searched him, and found the gun in its holster beneath Dunwich’s muddied suit. He drew the gun and stuffed it into his belt.
“Get goin’,” Tony said.
“Where?”
“The jail.”
“The jail!”
Tony pushed Dunwich, who stumbled toward Sheriff Butler.
“I say there, Sheriff,” Dunwich said, “do you think I could possibly have a talk with the magistrate?”
Sheriff Butler laughed and pushed him toward the door. Diane ran after them. “Sheriff—could I please have a word with you!”
The Sheriff stopped and turned around, looking at her disapprovingly. “You must be his wife.”
“Not exactly,” Diane said, pulling a muddy hair away from her eye, “actually we’re just friends, and he’s a good man, not a troublemaker or a danger to anyone. He didn’t mean to shoot his gun. It was only an accident. No one was hurt. Can’t you be reasonable?”
“I ain’t reasonable, ma’am. I’m the sheriff and the law is the law.”
Sheriff Butler walked off, following Dunwich on his way to the door.
Diane ran after them and caught up with Dunwich.
“Don’t worry, Paul,” she said. “I’ll start looking for a solicitor immediately. Be sure to take notes all the time you’re in jail. We’ll wire them to London first thing in the morning.”
Dunwich looked toward the sheriff. “Are there clean sheets in the cell?”
“Clean boards,” Sheriff Butler replied with a grin. “Soft too.”
“Nothing bad ever happens to a reporter, darling,” called Diane. “It’s all material.”
They marched off to jail. Diane felt a hand on her shoulder. John Stone stood there, reeling drunk. “The district judge’ll come to town and there’ll be a trial,” he said thickly. “Dunwich’ll pay a fine and go free. Nothing to worry about.” Stone burped as he raised his Confederate cavalry hat from his head. “Good night.”
He staggered toward the door. Around him, the crowd had gone back to their card games and bottles of whiskey. Somebody screamed in a dark corner. The piano began to play. Stone pushed open the doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.
The cool night air hit him, and he smelled the piquant fragrance of the sage. His head and limbs felt heavy, and the street spun for a few seconds. He took off his hat, running his fingers through his thick hair.
He got his bearings, then put his hat back on. Taking out his bag of tobacco, he rolled a crooked cigarette, spilling half the tobacco into the street. Licking the gummed paper, he reached for his matches and found they weren’t there. He was out.
He careened toward the nearest group of men and stuck his cigarette amid them. “Anybody got a light?”
A flame appeared in front of him. Stone sucked the cigarette and its end began to burn.
He stumbled away, heading toward his rooming house, hearing the music behind him.
“Going somewhere without me?” asked a female voice behind him.
He turned around, and it was Naomi in her red dress, her long gold earrings glittering in the light of the moon.
“Goin’ home,” Stone said heavily. “Got to get up early.”
“Why don’t you come home with me? I’ll take good care of you.”
He stared at her through bloodshot eyes. “I’m engaged to be married. I’ve told you before, but somehow you won’t listen. I’m in love with another woman, and I’m not interested in anybody else.”
“No?” she asked, unbuttoning her bodice.
Stone stared transfixed at her magnificent orbs.
“Still not interested?” she asked.
“Can’t.” He raised his hat and burped. “Good night.”
He turned and walked away. She followed, buttoning her bodice quickly, and caught up with him.
“You’re a strange man,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you feel what other men feel?”
“I feel it for one woman, and I’m on my way to see her now.”
“You should never throw away a good time, because life is hard, and good times are few and far between.”
He turned and faced her, his eyes aglow. “A man has to stand for something.”
“What do you stand for?”
He puffed his cigarette and tottered in the middle of the street. “I … hardly know anymore.” He lifted his hat. “Nothing personal. You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m drunk as the lord.”
“You’re a fool.”
He shuffled down, hitched up his gunbelts, and made his way down the street toward his rooming house. She watched him go, then turned and walked back to the Emerald City Saloon.
Stone turned onto a dark street, seeing pinwheels of light in front of him. Stars pulsated in the sky. He felt dizzy, and wished he had a drink.
He heard something move in the darkness on the sidewalk to his right. He was in the middle of the street and turned toward it, drawing both his guns.
He swallowed hard, realizing he was sloshed in the middle of a dark deserted street. Somebody could shoot him, take his money, and run away. He reeled toward the shadows, pointing his guns before him.
He heard the sound again. Peering ahead through the darkness, he saw a man passed out on a bench twenty yards away. The man moaned softly, and Stone looked down at him.
He wasn’t much older than Stone, and in his hand was an empty bottle of whiskey. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up this way, Stone said to himself.
He holstered his guns and stumbled down the street to the rooming house. It was dark, with no lights in any windows, and the moon bathed the scene in the spectral glow. His eyes were heavy and every step was an effort.
He stopped in front of the rooming house, aware of a weight in the back of his pants. Reaching around, he felt the Earl of Dunwich’s metal flask in his back pocket. How the hell did that get there?
He pulled it out of his back pocket and shook it. Can’t let fine Irish whiskey go to waste.
Unscrewing the top, he brought the mouth of the flask to his lips. The shimmering liquid trickled down his throat and warmed his stomach. He drained the flask dry, screwed the lid back on, and stuffed it into his back pocket again.
He staggered toward the front door and opened it silently, entering the rooming house. It was quiet, filled with fragrant cooking odors mixed with the smells of soap and the flowers in the vase on the kitchen table.
He tiptoed toward the stairs, the floorboards, creaking beneath his boots. His hat was crooked on his head and his shirt half untucked. He climbed the stairs, and suddenly became aware that he didn’t have his saddlebags with him.
Where the hell are they? he wondered. A wave of dizziness passed over him. All the whiskey he’d drunk, the food he’d eaten, the lack of sleep and hardships of two weeks in a stagecoach combined and hit him at the same moment. He swayed, reaching for the banister, but missed and lost his footing. With a low growl he went tumbling down the stairs, banging his head against the post at the bottom.
He lay sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling with his respiration.
“What in the name of heaven and hell is going on out there!” a woman screeched.
Stone saw his landlady standing above him in a nightdress, her white hair covered by a tasseled sleeping cap, and she was wielding a broom.
“I told you there’d be no drunkenness in this house! Get out of here this instant!”
He tried to get up, and she kicked him in his hindquarters. He fell on his face and she kicked him again. Then she started beating him with the broom.
Stone struggled to rise. The room spun around and blows rained upon him. He grabbed the edge of a tablecloth in an effort to right himself, and a vase crashed to the floor.
“Out!” she hollered. “I’ll have no drunken pigs in my home!”
Stone lunged toward the door, aimed for the knob, and missed it. Again he lost his footing and again crashed to the floor. The old lady slammed him on the back with the broom. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, diving onto the porch, tumbling over, and falling down the stairs.
He lay at the bottom of the stairs on his back and looked up at the landlady standing on the porch brandishing her broom. “You get away from here, you damned rum pot, and don’t never come back again!”
Stone staggered down the street, his old Confederate cavalry hat askew on his head. He felt sick and dizzy, as if he was going to faint.
“I’ve got to lie down,” he muttered. “I think I’m going to die.”
He didn’t dare lie down in the street, and he had to get away from private property. Wheeling, he saw mountains in the distance, outlined in silver by the light of the moon.
He headed for the mountains, bent forward, tripping over his own feet, uncoordinated, stumbling, gasping for air. His mind was fogged and all he knew was he had to find a quiet place to lie down.
He came to the edge of town, and before him stretched the sage, with the mountains in the distance like a massive length of weird calligraphy. He charged onto it like an old buffalo about to die.
The wind blew across the sage, and a tumbleweed danced by on its endless journey. Stone tripped on a rock, righted himself, and plunged onward. He smelled the wild fragrance of the endless prairies, and saw the stars ablaze above him. The air was cool and felt like water rushing against his face; he took deep draughts of it and hollered like a moose.
He reached above the tried to touch a star, but it eluded him. His foot caught on a dead branch and he dropped to the ground, rolling over, landing on his back.
The ground beneath him was level and devoid of rocks. He closed his eyes and fell asleep in a little gully, beneath the stars.