Frank Quarternight slumped in his saddle as his horse trod the endless rolling plains. Stars twinkled above, a crescent moon hung near the horizon. The night was filled with the buzz and chatter of insects, and a bird shrieked.
Quarternight slept, awoke, and slept again. He’d been dozing since departing Abilene, slipping in and out of dark and bloody dreams about Shelby and his girl.
No one had ever loved him the way that scraggly bitch loved Shelby, he wondered what it felt like. Sure would give a man confidence, and maybe it’s what pushed Shelby into dangerous territory.
The only women Quarternight slept with were whores. Maybe it was his belly, but he’d seen men with bellies bigger than his, and beautiful wives too. They knew something, he hadn’t a glimmer of what it was. Maybe women were afraid of him. Thank God for whores.
Reverend Blasingame walked past the saloon district, crossed the tracks. He came to the side of town where decent people lived.
“Lovely night, isn’t it?” he asked, tipping his hat. Screwed him out of the Bar Z. “Good evening, Mrs. Applewhite. Good to see you up and around again.” Got her farm in my desk drawer. “God be with you, Mrs. Blakely.” High and mighty now, but when I get my hands on her boardinghouse, she’ll do anything I say.
He saw something dark lying near the base of a cottonwood tree. “Oh, my Lord,” he said. “It’s a bird.” He lifted the quivering feathered creature tenderly as a crowd gathered. “I believe its wing has broken. The poor little thing.”
He held the bird for them to see, an expression of deep solicitude on his face. One wing was out of whack, and dried blood matted its feathers.
“Maybe Dr. Wimberly can do something,” Reverend Blasingame said, holding the bird like a precious crystal treasure. He ran on his little legs down the street, accompanied by the others. They arrived at Dr. Wimberly’s door, knocked loudly. It was opened by the doctor with dark, bushy eyebrows.
Reverend Blasingame thrust the bird toward him. Dr. Wimberly led them into his office. Somebody moved the lantern closer. Reverend Blasingame felt the bird’s heart beating. “Now, now,” he said, stroking the bird’s head with his finger.
Dr. Wimberly examined the bird as Reverend Blasingame wrung his hands in anguish. The bird was terrified of the heavy-footed giants crowded around and nearly died of a heart attack.
“Only a little break,” Dr. Wimberly said. “Should be fine in a couple of weeks, unless something inside is broken, but I don’t think so.” He filled a basin with water and washed the bird’s wound.
“Guess you don’t need me any longer,” Reverend Blasingame said. “I’ll take care of the bill.”
“No bill for you, Reverend. Let’s say it’s a little something I did for the Lord.”
“God bless you, brother.”
Reverend Blasingame walked out of the doctor’s office, and there was silence for a few moments.
“People can say what they want about Reverend Blasingame,” Mrs. Hudspeth said, “but they don’t know him the way we do. Did you ever, in your life, see such love and consideration for a poor helpless creature? Now there’s a man who lives the Christian life!”
“He sure knows his Scripture,” asserted Mrs. Applewhite, whose farm was in Reverend Blasingame’s desk drawer.
He paused by the door, listening to their remarks. Then he silently walked away, his face wreathed with a beatific smile.
He circled around and came to the back door of a small cottage near the edge of town. He knocked three times on the door.
It was opened by Abigail Thornton, the town’s schoolmarm. “You look like the cat that ate the mouse,” she said. “What happened?”
“Ran into some people—my assistance was required. Miss me?”
She was a gangly woman with saucer eyes, snaggled teeth, early forties, and she led him through the kitchen, down a hallway, up the stairs.
They’d didn’t light the lamp in the bedroom, because Abigail didn’t want her neighbors to guess she might be there with Reverend Blasingame. The lamp in her parlor was aglow instead, so neighbors would think they were studying Scripture together. They undressed in the darkness, bony schoolmarm and porky parson, then crawled beneath the covers. The room filled with pants and sighs, the cat came in to look. Reverend Real Estate was buried between the schoolmarm’s legs, she chewed an old rag to muffle her screams of joy.
~*~
John Stone’s head lay on the table, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. Every other man at the table was drunk except for Don Emilio, who sat erectly in his chair, his eyes burning into Cassandra. The Blue Devil Saloon had become even more crowded and raucous than before.
She hadn’t intended to stay so late, but she’d never been in a saloon before; it had all the fascination of a zoo. At the bar stood a man whose clothing would be appropriate on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, while lying on the bar rail beside him was the most filthy, dismal drunken cowboy imaginable.
The whores horrified her. She worried about ending up like them someday. All she had was the herd, and she’d need a man who could help her, not drag her down. Her eyes fell on John Stone, unconscious on the other side of the table.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Rooney, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, gazing at her through half-closed eyes. “Johnny’s been in bad spots. I could tell you stories, raise the hair on your head. Can you imagine what it’s like to walk over a battlefield after the shooting’s ended, and you can’t put your foot down anywhere except on a dead man, or part of a dead man?”
Cassandra saw a landscape covered with soldiers, some in blue, others gray, entwined forever in the cold embrace of death.
“Johnny lost his best friends,” Rooney continued, “and never got over it. He was nearly killed himself. You can’t judge him as you judge other men. Some veterans are better at covering it up than others, but Johnny’s honest, he doesn’t hold anything back.”
Cassandra was touched by Rooney’s remarks. She placed her hand on his. “You’re a good friend.”
“He was a helluva soldier, let me tell you. His men would follow him anywhere. Very few of them survived the war, and Johnny feels responsible.”
Don Emilio said, “Señor, no one here is judging John Stone as a man. We have seen his courage many times, and do not doubt his skill as an army officer. But La Señora is planning to marry him, and that is a horse of a different breed. Does she want a husband who is like this all the time? We are sorry so many of his friends have died in the war, but that is no reason to marry him.” He looked imploringly at Cassandra. “I am a drinking man myself. I love to get drunk—I admit it. But I am not drinking now. My love for you is stronger than my love for drink. Evidently our friend here does not feel the same way.”
Could she deal with Stone drunk on a regular basis? Nothing more disgusting than a drunk, and some of them were dangerous when angry.
“Amazing, the resemblance,” Rooney said to her. “You and Marie could be twins. She was quite a beauty, just like you.”
“How did she behave? Was she smart?”
“I’d say clever rather than smart. Very good manners. Perfect lady.”
“Did you like her?”
“We were all in love with her, but she only cared for Johnny.”
“I think he’s still in love with her. Why do you suppose she left without leaving a note or message for him?”
Rooney looked at Stone to make sure he was asleep. “Sherman’s Army passed through the county where she lived. The courthouse was burned to the ground. Records were destroyed. Many civilians were killed, and I think she was one of them.”
~*~
Runge entered the Blue Devil Saloon, followed by Reverend Real Estate’s personal army of street brawlers and gunfighters. They’d been gathered from the back alleys and robbers’ roosts of the frontier, and would rather punch a man in the mouth than plow a row of corn or brand a steer.
They broke through cordons of drunken cowboys, made their way to the bar. Runge placed one foot on the rail.
“Triangle Spur here?” he asked the bartender.
“Over there.” The bartender pointed a bottle at the table where Cassandra and her men sat.
Runge didn’t expect a blond woman in cowboy’s clothes, but orders were orders. He wanted to impress the old man with his ability to get the job done.
“Wipe ’em out,” he said.
Sometimes they had to shoot people, other times burned property, this was the part they liked best: kicking ass. Runge hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and walked toward the Triangle Spur.
“We want this table,” he said.
All heads resting on the surface began to rise. Stone blinked his eyes and tried to clear the cobwebs out of his brain. Runge signaled to his men, and they charged.
The Triangle Spur cowboys arose from the table, and Runge’s men collided with them. A cowboy in a green shirt threw a punch at Stone’s head, and Stone managed to block it, countering with a punch to the jaw. The table was knocked over, Cassandra pressed her back against the wall, hand resting lightly on her gun. She’d thought Stone and the others were dead to the world, but suddenly they’d become lions.
The cowboy in the green shirt tried to knock Stone out with one solid blow, but Stone leaned to the side, slipped it, and hammered him in the pit of his stomach. Green shirt expelled air, and Stone hooked him to the face. The man stood his ground and whacked Stone in the mouth, but Stone threw an uppercut that caught him on the tip of his chin.
Green shirt went stumbling backward, and Stone followed him. Out of the tumult, a man in a fringed buckskin charged Stone, knife in hand, blade up. Stone reached to his boot and pulled out his Apache knife. The man in the buckskin jacket said, “I’m a-gonna shove that thing up yer ass.”
He lunged, and Stone timed him coming in, darted to the side, slashed him from wrist to elbow. The man in buckskin howled in pain, the knife fell from his hand. Footsteps approached from Stone’s right, a chair crashed onto his head, he was thrown to the floor. The cowboy stepped over him, looking for someone else to crown. Stone opened his eyes, caught his breath, saw the cowboy with the chair slam Diego, one of the Triangle Spur vaqueros. Stone got to his feet, dived, and brought the cowboy with the chair down.
They hit the floor as fighting raged around them. The entire saloon was brawling, and the bartender screamed: “Stop it, you bastards! You’re ruinin’ me saloon!”
His voice could barely be heard above the uproar. High on the wall, harem girls watched serenely as angry men busted each other up. Cassandra’s fingers tightened around her Colt. If any man made a move, she’d gun him down.
Stone rolled on the floor with the cowboy who’d struck him with the chair. They punched and kicked each other, struggling to gain an advantage, when another cowboy snuck up behind Stone and hit him over the head with the leg of a chair. Stone fell backward, the whites of his eyes showing. The cowboy stood over him, ready to bash him again, when a cuspidor came flying across the saloon. The bilious fluid struck the cowboy in the face, and he was blinded. Gobs of abominable substances rolled down his face, and some got into his mouth. He coughed, vomited, staggered from side to side. Stone rose groggily in time to see a fist streaking toward his nose. He couldn’t get out of the way, the fist landed on target, and Stone went stumbling backward into the crowd.
His assailant was named Trevino, and he was wanted for armed robbery in Uvalde County. Trevino followed Stone, trying to kick him in the head. Stone grabbed his leg, twisted, Trevino fell to the floor.
Stone jumped to his feet. A fist streaked out of nowhere and landed on his forehead. He saw stars, wobbled backward. A cowboy jumped on him, dug his teeth into his ear. Stone elbowed him in the guts, slammed him against the wall, hit him with everything he had, and the cowboy dropped like a bushel of eggs.
Somebody got punched through the front window of the saloon, amid shards of glass. The horses at the rail stared through the broken window at their bosses annihilating each other with anything they could lay their hands on.
Somebody fired a shot, and fighting stopped for a second, as men checked whether they’d been struck by a bullet. Then they resumed the struggle. Behind the bar, one cowboy slammed a bottle over the head of a gambler. A freighter whacked a cattle buyer with a full mug of beer. The floor was covered with glass and a variety of liquids, not the least of which was blood. There were groans and screams of pain. Men vomited in corners from punches to the belly. The stench of whiskey was thick in the air, and the harem girls smiled sadly, frozen in time.
Stone got to his feet, staggered, saw a big, brawny bull-whacker headed straight for him, a full cuspidor in his hands. He threw it at Stone, Stone ducked, and it sprayed over the men behind Stone, stinging their skin like corrosive acid, some suffered blurred and distorted vision.
Stone dived on the bullwhacker. They rolled over the floor as other fighting men tripped over them. Somebody kicked Stone in the head as he strangled the bullwhacker, but the bullwhacker’s neck was thick and tough as the trunk of a tree. The bullwhacker brought both fists together and bashed them onto Stone’s head. Stone saw stars, let go, fell into the endless night.
The bullwhacker raised his fist to punch Stone in the mouth once more, and a table came crashing down onto the bullwhacker’s head. It was in the hands of Don Emilio Maldonado, who had gone berserk.
He was the only sober man in the saloon, enraged by Cassandra’s rejection. Built like a bull, he punched, kicked, and elbowed his way across the floor, a constant stream of vile Spanish epithets rolling off his tongue.
Stone shook his head and tried to focus on the incredible violence unfolding around him. After so many weeks on the trail, no sleep, insufficient rations, misery, stompedes, crazy injuns, cutthroat rustlers, hailstorms, lightning, water shortages, working under ramrods who thought more of the cattle, by the time the cowboys hit towns, they were so damned mad they could kill.
A chair flew over him, and men battled everywhere he looked. He got to his feet and turned around. Standing before him was a man with two teeth missing in front and a mad gleam in his eyes as he hurled his fist with astonishing speed toward John Stone’s head.
Stone dodged the punch and eased to his left. The man lunged after him, and Stone threw the uppercut. It caught the man coming in and snapped his head back. He was wide open, and Stone shot a jab to his nose. The man raised his hands to protect his face, and Stone hooked him in the left kidney, right kidney, pounded his ear, took him apart. The man stumbled backward, struck the lantern, it fell to the floor.
“Fire!”
Fighting ceased instantly. Stone grabbed Cassandra’s hand and pulled her toward the back of the saloon. Slipchuck, wearing a black eye, smashed the rear window with a chair, stood back, and dived out. A tongue of flame climbed the wall. The bartender rushed forward with a bucket of water, threw it, causing a loud hissing and a big smelly cloud of smoke. Cassandra coughed. A shot was fired. Somebody screamed. There was mass confusion, and Don Emilio took hold of her other hand.
“The front door would be better,” he said.
“No,” replied Stone. “The back door is the best way.”
Each pulled Cassandra in an opposite direction. “Let me go!” she shouted.
They dropped her hands. She joined the morass of men trying to get out the back. Stone and Don Emilio followed, but it was difficult to see. Cassandra felt stray hands brush her breasts, her hips, and somebody pinched her behind.
“Son of a bitch!” she yelled.
She grit her teeth, punched, kicked, and an open path appeared before her.
“After you, ma’am,” somebody uttered.
She ran through the door into the alley behind the saloon, and the air carried the sweet fragrance of the prairie. She took deep breaths as men poured outside, battered and bruised, coughing, spitting, limping. John Stone, Don Emilio, and Rooney joined her, followed by Slipchuck and the other cowboys from the Triangle Spur.
John Stone was sober and in command. Somehow he’d returned from his stupor, and so had her other men. They laughed, lit cigarettes. The mood changed from savage mayhem to low comedy.
“Jesus—you see the guy what got hit with the spittoon? I thought he was a-gonna die!”
“He did die, I think. Last time I seen him, he was a-lyin’ on the floor.”
What kind of people are they? Cassandra wondered. One minute they tried to kill each other with fists and knives, now they were pals? They examined each other’s wounds, roared with glee, enacted great moments from the brawl. They’d tell the story around campfires till the day they died.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame approached the back door of the church, looked both ways, inserted the key. A dim light came to him from the parlor, Little Emma held a lantern with one hand, rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other.
Her voice was tiny and soft. “Would you like something, sir?”
“A bit of warm milk and some cookies if you please, my dear. I’ll be in my office.”
“A man was here to see you. He left a message—it’s on your desk.”
Reverend Real Estate hung his coat in the hall closet. “What did he look like?”
“Wore a big top hat, sir, and a gold earring.” She pinched her fingers around her earlobe. “Think he was from the carnival. Can I see the carnival?”
“You go to the carnival, they’ll steal you away from me, put you on display, people will poke their fingers at you.”
He climbed the stairs to his office, his face ashen. He opened the door, lit the lamp, sat at the desk. The scrap of paper was in the middle of the blotter, and he hesitated to pick it up. He wiped his mouth with his hand, grit his teeth, and said, “Oh, God, don’t do this to me now.”
He read the words scrawled in that old familiar style:
Dear Reverend:
Stop by the tent tonight. We got things to hash over.
Jimmy Boy
Reverend Blasingame gaped at the note. What he feared most had come to pass. He closed his eyes and prayed for divine guidance. There was a knock on the door. Emma entered with the tray of cookies and warm milk.
“Did the man say anything to you?” he asked.
“Said he was an old friend of your’n, before you was a preacher.”
“Get out of here. I want to think.”
He sipped milk and stuffed cookies into his mouth. The only thing to do was consult the Good Book. He picked up his desk Bible and opened it. The pages broke on Jeremiah 40:
I will slay Ishmael
and no man will know it ….
~*~
Carnival tents, bright lights, clowns. Families had come from miles around to see the show, and it attracted an army of drunken, staggering cowboys.
“’Round and ’round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows!” shouted a clown wearing a golden earring. “Put your money on the square, my friends, and if your number comes up, you win the jackpot. You can’t get a better deal than that. Winners all the time. Put your money down. You, sir!” he said to Stone. “Feel lucky tonight?”
“Not me.”
“I feel lucky,” Don Emilio said. He walked to the counter and placed his money on a square. Cowboys and farmers covered the other numbers, and the wheel of chance spun against the starry sky. It stopped, a number was called, a whoop went up from the vaqueros. Don Emilio raised both arms in the air. “This is my lucky night!”
They came to the next tent: EGYPTIAN GARDENS.
Another clown stood on a small stage. “Do you like ’em pretty?” he asked. “Do you want ’em to have a lot up here and lot down there.” He made comical motions with his hands to indicate portions of the anatomy the cowboys might find appealing. “Well, you come to the right place, my good people! Right here, within this very tent, I have specially trained temple dancers from Cairo, Egypt, and when they shake them hips, you’ll want to let it rip. Only a dollar, gentlemen, a mere paltry nothing for the most beautiful dancing girls in the world. Step right up. Don’t be shy!”
The crowd moved toward the ticket booth in front of the tent, which emitted eerie music and the rumble of drums. The cowboys and vaqueros got in line, and John Stone was among them. Cassandra held back for a few moments, but curiosity propelled her forward. She felt a grip like steel on her arm.
Don Emilio held her. “That is not a place for La Señora”
“I want to see the temple dancers.”
“It is disgusting.”
“If I weren’t here, you’d be first in line.”
“That is true, but you are here. Please, señiora, let us leave this ugly place. Ride away with me now. I assure you, it will be better than a hootchy-kootchy show.”
“I’ve always wanted to see a hootchy-kootchy show!” She moved toward the door, but he continued to grip her arm. “Let me go!” She pulled herself away from him.
He watched her go. Women will be the death of me yet. He moved toward her as the crowd streamed into the tent.
Four musicians played on a rug beside the stage. Lanterns hung from the ridgepole, incense burned in a brazier shaped like the Sphinx.
Cassandra looked for the chairs, but none were provided. The music was exotic and strange, incense tickled her nostrils, and she was the only woman in the crowd.
“Where’s the goddamned girls!” somebody hollered.
The flap behind the stage moved, and the clown with a golden earring appeared. “Here they are, direct from Cairo, Egypt, for your pleasure—let’s give them a big hand—the Pharaoh’s Temple Dancers!”
The drum became louder, and the flute shrieked like an eagle in flight. Three young women dressed in diaphanous garments danced from behind the flap and moved toward the stage, swiveling their hips to the beat of the drum. They had dark skin and exotic features, Cassandra wondered what they were doing here in the middle of a godforsaken foreign land.
They smiled and held their arms outstretched like the wings of birds. They shook their shoulders, and their breasts jiggled beneath the flimsy fabric. A roar went up from the crowd. Cassandra took a step back, because the reaction of the cowboys was as interesting as the dancers themselves.
The men were dazzled by the mere sight of female flesh dancing to music. Cassandra could see lust on their faces. They’d kill at the drop of a hat, but a woman could subdue them with a jiggle.
Her eyes fell on John Stone. A faint smile was on his lips, and she knew what he was thinking. How can he forget me just because a few women are dancing without clothes?
Cowboys threw coins onto the stage, and the clown scurried about like a squirrel, picking them up. The band made its strange desert music, and Stone watched the dancer in the middle, her golden skin, the way she shook her hips vigorously. The costume showed her smooth, naked belly, and she wore a ruby in her navel.
“Like her?” Cassandra asked, jealousy in her voice.
“She’s all right, but not nearly as lovely as you.”
“Maybe you’d like to spend the night with her?”
“Of course not.” He returned his eyes to the dancer with the ruby in her navel. She winked at him, or was it his imagination?
~*~
Reverend Blasingame moved through the shadows at the rear of the carnival, leaning on his shiny black cane. Two midgets approached, chatting noisily, and he hid behind a tree until they passed.
He could hear the hurdy-gurdy, laughter of children, firing of guns. Carnival night in a small town. It brought back memories.
He waited until the midgets passed, then skirted the rear of the tents. The band played in the Egyptian Gardens, and the barker sold freaks to the crowd. A toothless old lion in a cage growled, his coat half eaten by fleas.
Reverend Blasingame passed the lion and made his way to a tent standing beneath a tree at the edge of the encampment. The sign said: MANAGEMENT.
Reverend Blasingame tiptoed toward the tent and peered through a tear in the fabric. A clown with a big red nose, wearing a golden earring, sat at a collapsible table, eating steak and fried potatoes. Papers were stacked around him, and a pile of coins shimmered in the light of the lantern.
Reverend Blasingame looked to his right and left. No one was in the vicinity. He ducked his head and entered the tent.
The clown looked up from his plate of food. He stared at Reverend Blasingame for a few moments.
“I’ll be a double son of a bitch,” the clown said. “Is it really you, Dickie? I heard you became a preacher. They told me you even got a church.”
“The Mount Zion Church of God, on State Street. You should come and pray with us sometime.”
The clown laughed heartily. “The greatest flimflam man of them all, dressed as a preacher.” He reflected professionally for a few moments, then said, “It’s a good costume. Sit down, and let’s have a drink.”
“Can’t drink anymore, I’m afraid, but I’ll sit with you.”
“Pour one for myself, then.” Jimmy picked a bottle and tin cup from a drawer. “Good to see you, Dickie boy. Been a long time. We hit a lot’ve towns, you and me.”
“Many years ago.”
“Not that many. Is it ten years? Fifteen? How the time goes, eh, Dickie? Them was the days. We went everywhere together, shared everything including our women. Do you remember the twins from France? Tumblers they were, or was it the trapeze?”
“Tumblers.”
“You do remember.”
“A man doesn’t forget things like that, but I have a new life now. You shouldn’t’ve come to the rectory today. I wouldn’t want anybody to know about our connection. I lead the religious life now.”
“What Bible school you go to? The one that met in the back room of the whorehouse where you and me lived most of the time?” The clown laughed. “God, them was the days, Dickie. We was young and the world was full of good things.”
Reverend Blasingame’s eyes flashed in the light of the lantern. “God smote me on the forehead, I fell off my horse like Saul of Tarsus. Jesus appeared to me, nailed to the cross. He told me to go forth to all the nations and preach the Gospel.”
Jimmy placed his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Dickie, if I haven’t known you so long, I’d make a donation to your church right now. But I remember you when, so save the bullshit for the rubes.”
“Christ could perform no miracles in his hometown. They didn’t understand how a man can be reborn.”
“Folks say you own most of this town, steal from widows and orphans. Don’t tell me it’s not a good flimflam, because I seen a shitload of ’em, and I knows a good one when I sees it.”
“God rewards those who have faith in him. The more you believe, the more you get. But possessions mean nothing to me. Money comes and money goes, but God remains unto eternity.”
“You’re good. You’re damned good. And this flea-bitten carnival of mine is going under. You got a job for me, with your operation, Dickie boy? I could run something for you, like the bank. Somebody told me you own it and lots of other prime businesses in this town. How’s about a job for an old friend?”
Reverend Blasingame smiled sadly. “I can’t let you live in this town, Jimmy. You might confuse the people. I don’t want them to know about my past. No, you must take your carnival and move on.” Reverend Blasingame held out his hand. “Let us go in peace and carry forever the memory of two happy young men making their way in the world.”
“It won’t be that easy, bunkie. You can’t toss me away like that.”
“I’m not your father, I’m not your mother, I’m not your brother. I’ll always remember the happy days we had together, but that was long ago. Don’t try to contact me again.”
Reverend Blasingame arose from his chair, but Jimmy placed his hand on the pastor’s shoulder. “I think you’re forgetting something. I saved your ass a few times in the old days, when you didn’t have anything. We shared and shared alike. All I’m asking now is a little help.”
“You want help, turn to our Savior. He showers his riches on those who revere him.”
Reverend Real Estate moved toward the door, and Jimmy grabbed his shoulder again. Reverend Real Estate pushed him away. Jimmy stepped backward, drew a derringer. Reverend Real Estate gazed at Jimmy. “You wouldn’t shoot an old friend, would you?”
“I should’ve left you lying in the alley where I found you,” Jimmy said.
“You were so drunk you couldn’t walk. You’d fought with the bartender, your nose was broken.”
“Still is.” Jimmy wiggled his nose. “But I won.”
“You always had a good punch.”
“Still do.”
Reverend Blasingame’s eyes were glued to the derringer in Jimmy’s hand. “Isn’t it sad, when old friends argue?”
“You always did have a short fuse, Dickie. Sometimes I used to think you was crazy.”
Reverend Blasingame sat on the chair in front of the desk. Jimmy tucked the derringer into his pocket and returned to his seat. “Sorry I lost my temper,” he said.
“A shock to see an old friend again,” Reverend Blasingame said. “Ever run into any of the gang?”
“Saw Shorty in Cincinnati last year. Pickin’ pockets, burglarizin’ houses. Looked like death warmed over.”
As Jimmy spoke, Reverend Blasingame lowered his hands beneath the edge of the desk, where Jimmy couldn’t see. Silently, keeping his shoulders straight, he withdrew the sword from his cane. When the blade was clear, he said, “It’s true, we were brothers, some things never change.”
“It’s okay to flimflam the rubes, but don’t flimflam yourself, Dickie boy. A lot of good men got into trouble that way.”
“That lantern is shining in my eyes. Do you think you could move it?”
Jimmy raised his hands toward the lantern. Reverend Blasingame leapt forward and stabbed the sword into Jimmy’s back. The scream was muffled with the palm of the pastor’s hand, and Reverend Blasingame raised his arm, stabbed Jimmy again.
Jimmy coughed blood, pitched forward, fell to the floor. Reverend Real Estate bent over him, to make sure he was dead. Then he wiped his sword on the tablecloth, slid it into its scabbard. He poked his head outside, heard the hurdy-gurdy, no one in sight. Reverend Real Estate slipped into the darkness and disappeared.
~*~
Inside the Freak Show tent, the tattooed man wore abbreviated crimson shorts, flexed arm muscles. Even the bald spot atop his head was covered with images and designs.
He had ships on his cheeks, a dog on his chin, the American flag on his chest, skulls on his shoulders. Interspersed among the larger images was a snowstorm of hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades. His back was a massive crucifixion at Calvary, with all the principal characters.
He delivered a lecture as the crowd examined him in amazement. “Why do I have so many tattoos? Because I love art, and want to take it with me wherever I go. Even if they throw me in prison, I’ll have my art collection. When I go to my grave, my tattoos are the only things I can take with me.”
Next attraction: a mustached man inserted a sword into his throat. He left it down there for a while so everybody could see, then pulled it out smoothly, smiled, bowed. Next he placed a torch into his mouth, extinguished it with his tongue. “My kiss of fire.”
The fat lady, mountain of rippling pink flesh with a pretty face. She wore a purple garment constructed like a tent, long earrings, several golden necklaces, gold bracelets, a crown sat upon her auburn tresses.
A midget in a funny red suit placed a plate before her. She picked up a fork and dined her table etiquette impeccable. She was the queen of food.
A drunken cowboy giggled. “You’re gonna explode someday, you don’t stop eatin’.”
“I love food,” she replied, munching. “If I don’t eat, I get weak. And it tastes so good. Don’t you like to eat?”
“Sure, but don’t you think you’re overdoin’ it a little?”
Slipchuck thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He yearned to place his weary head upon that exquisite opulent breast. She looked at him and smiled. The others drifted to the next attraction. Slipchuck gazed at her with lovesick eyes. She munched daintily, as if he weren’t there.
“Miss,” he said. “Could I ask yer name?”
“I’m the fat lady. Can’t you see?” She raised her arms, and great globules of fat swung in the air.
He was old, withered, getting arthritis in the knees. She was an ocean of caressing love, just what he needed. He wanted to be a baby again, inside that mass of warm womanly flesh.
“I meant yer real name, miss. I thought maybe we could take a walk later.”
“The tattooed man is my husband.”
She finished her plate, the midget waiter brought another as the next crowd approached. Wishbone heard the oohs and ahs as new eyes fell on her vast bulk. Somebody laughed nervously. Slipchuck felt sorry for her, forced to exhibit herself for money.
“You come with me,” he said. “You won’t have to do this no more.”
She swallowed her mouthful of food and looked him in the eye. “You couldn’t keep me in carrots.”
Cassandra approached the strong man. His head was shaved, his musculature gigantic, he wore a black beard, looked like Zeus. His shorts were made from the skin of a Siberian tiger, and he had a single tattoo, a scimitar, on his left shoulder. He stood behind the massive iron barbells, huffed and puffed a few times, bent over, snatched the barbell and raised it over his head, his stupendous arms quivering. The audience applauded, and he lowered the barbell to the stage.
“It does not look that heavy to me,” Don Emilio said.
“You want to try it?” the strong man replied in a thick Russian accent. “Come. Let us see what you can do.”
The vaqueros cheered as Don Emilio stepped onto the stage. He removed his shirt, had a powerful chest and large arms, but not like the strong man’s. Don Emilio bent over and placed his hands on the bar. He tightened his fingers, took a deep breath, and pulled. Nothing happened, except his face went beet-red. The barbells hadn’t moved an inch off the floor.
“Do not be embarrassed,” the strong man said in a deep voice. “There are not many men in this world who could lift this weight.”
Don Emilio stepped down from the stage, cursing himself for his pathetic performance.
“Mind if I try?” John Stone asked.
The strong man held out his hand and pulled Stone onto the stage. Stone was drunk, but thought he could lift it. The strong man didn’t appear that much larger than he.
He took off his shirt, showing scars and bruises on a solid physique and flat stomach. He rolled his shoulders a few times, then stood behind the bar.
Everyone watched avidly. Cowboys and vaqueros made bets, with the odds two to one against Stone. One of the strong man’s bushy eyebrows was raised high. Stone bent down, grabbed the bar, pulled with all his strength.
It rose from the floor, and everyone sucked wind. The sinews of Stone’s body quivered as the bar inched higher. His face was wrenched with exertion, and sweat poured out of his forehead. Everybody watched the bar elevate in Stone’s big hands, but then his muscles gave out. He gritted his teeth and pushed, the barbell fell to the side. He tried to catch it, lost his footing, fell off the stage, landed on the dirt floor. The barbell landed a few inches from his skull.
He shook his head and rose to his knees. The strong man slapped him on the shoulder.
“You are nearly as strong as me,” he said. “I am Captain Boris Koussivitsky, formerly of the Don Cossacks, at your service.” He bowed slightly from the waist. “I recognize the hat you are wearing.”
Stone shook his hand, recognizing another lost soldier. “Let’s have a drink.”
“I will meet you later in town, if you can call this heap of rubble in the middle of nowhere a town.” Koussivitsky curled his upper lip in derision.
They heard a scream outside. “Murder! Bloody murder!”
Everyone dashed toward the exit, Stone’s head emerged into the night, a woman waved her hands frantically at the edge of the clearing. They ran toward her, she pulled back the flap of the tent.
They saw a clown with a golden earring and a big red nose lying on the ground, his gaily colored costume covered with blood.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame rested against the wall of the vestibule, breathing heavily. The blood-smeared face of his former friend floated before his eyes.
Little Emma shuffled toward him, carrying her lantern. Her eyes widened at the sight of blood on his clothes and hands. Even a smudge on his white clerical collar.
“Make me a bath,” he said.
She took a step backward, her distorted features twisted with terror. He wanted to sit, but didn’t dare mark his furniture with blood. His cane was covered with blood. I did it for you, Lord. He climbed the stairs to his office, took out his vial of laudanum, prepared a drink, returned to the kitchen. Little Emma heated a tub of water on the cook stove.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame undressed in front of the fire pit, threw each garment into the roaring flames. He closed the hatch and stood naked beside the stove. Little Emma poured warm water into the circular wooden tub.
“You’ve killed him, haven’t you?” she asked. “He was a friend of your’n. Why’d you do it?”
“Shut up, you little idiot!”
He waited impatiently until she filled the tub, then stepped in, lay down, soaked. The hot steamy water washed his sins away.