Twenty-seven

 

Next morning as he walked along the road to the stables in the upper portion of Tombstone Canyon, Gillom came upon his bank’s cashier, M. J. Cunningham, sitting in his white Locomobile peering back at whisps of steam seeping from the brass exhaust pipes beneath its rear boiler compartment.

“Mister Cunningham.”

“Gillom! I could use a little assistance, young man. This automobile stalls sometimes, trying to get up hills. If you could help me push, turn her around, I can coast back down to town.”

Gillom went to the back of the boiler compartment, while the driver in his seersucker suit yanked the metal tiller hard to the right, turning the forty-spoke bicycle tires in front to the left. The wooden car body weighed about seven hundred pounds, plus the two passengers, so the teenager had to put his shoulder to the frame as the banker released the band brake under his foot. It was difficult for Gillom’s boots to get traction in the dirt, so the driver hopped off and helped push against the dashboard from the right-hand side.

“Is it in gear?” asked Gillom.

“No, in neutral.”

Together they got the vehicle turned sideways, but Cunningham had to jump back in to hit the brake and stop his automobile from rolling into a ditch across the road. The teenager walked around to the front of the seven-foot-long Locomobile and smiled at the young lady perched on the cushioned seat. His bank paymaster looked perturbed.

“Okay, shove!”

Gillom placed his hands on the painted wooden dashboard from the front; Cunningham let off the brake, cranked the steering tiller to the other side, and jumped down to help Gillom push the wooden frame backward.

“Salesman said this Locomobile would do forty miles an hour and climb steep grades, but I think he was exaggerating!”

Grunting, boots slipping, the men got the Locomobile backed up as M. J. leapt onto the seat again to set the foot brake. Gillom held the vehicle steady as the young lady on the front seat looked him over as she smoothed her polka-dot dress. She graced the young bank guard with a smile. Looking down the road, the driver saw an older Mexican leading a string of ten burros toward them up the dirt track.

“Damnation,” muttered Cunningham. This was a wood train, empty of stovewood now, trailing up into the mountains to cut another load of juniper and oak to warm Bisbee.

The two automobilists sat there until the woodsman’s son, moving the burros along from the rear with his switch, had passed. Gillom stepped aside. The Bisbee Bank’s cashier let off the brake and with nary a “thank you” steered the town’s only automobile back downhill. The young beauty, though, did turn slightly in her seat to give Gillom a little wave.

He thought about yelling, “Might be faster walking!” but restrained himself.

*   *   *

Gillom and Ease picked up their mountain wagon later that morning at the O. K. Livery and paid the stableman. As promised, he’d put on the removable top, which was a simple leather cover with foot-long flaps tacked onto wooden poles that slid into metal holders at the four corners of the rear wagonbed. The tough stableman had one last surprise for the lads when he walked out their “matched” team—a pair of gray mules.

“Mules!” groaned young Bixler.

“Now, boys.” The stableman held up a big paw. “Mules ain’t as pretty as horses, I admit, but they are lots steadier haulers. These two have pulled this wagon full of freight or folks many a time. ’Sides, we’re busy on Sunday an’ these mules are the best we got left.”

Ease climbed up to take reluctant reins. Both lads were frowning as he gigged the mules and set them off at a smart pace down the dirt road back to town. The stableman’s grin bid them farewell. More money in his pocket renting horses to wealthier adult swains.

Ease had experience driving horses hauling beer kegs and supplies for the Bonanza, one of his tasks mornings at the bar, so he stopped the mules on a side street back of his saloon and handed the reins to his pal beside him.

“Gotta get our refreshments.”

He soon returned lugging two metal pails secured by tops and wrapped in wet towels to keep the beer inside cool. Ease also toted two bottles of clear liquor, which he packed by stuffing a blanket around them in the cargo compartment.

“Beer for us, wine for the women. Boss wouldn’t lend me any glassware. Said we’d just break ’em, so don’t forget to ask Jean to bring glasses. Ladies don’t like to drink from the bottle.”

“You know where Jean lives?”

“She’s got a cottage up Brewery Gulch. Lives with her pet parrot.” Taking the ribbons from his pal, Mr. Bixler clucked to the mules.

*   *   *

The parrot greeted them from the scrub oak outside Jean’s green-roofed cottage farther up Brewery Gulch from the cribs and bagnios that Gillom had only seen at night. It was a quiet Sunday noon in the “territory,” with the whores and their customers still sleeping off Saturday night’s dissipation.

“Hit the trail, hombre!”

Gillom started at the squawk, but Ease just laughed. “That’s her bodyguard. Miners have taught this bird naughty stuff when they’re carousing around here at night.”

The yellow-head flapped its colorful green wings with splashes of red at its shoulders and flew to a higher perch.

“Keep your pecker in your pants, pardner!”

Gillom had to smile as they walked to Jean’s front porch. The dance hall queen hailed them through her screen door. “Howdy, fellas. Don’t let that bird intimidate you. Fibber’s just a saucy talker, not a biter.”

“Colorful bird, ma’am. What kind?” asked Gillom.

“He’s a yellow-headed parrot, all the way from the Amazon. Probably would like to fly back to South America without a girlfriend up here, but I keep lookin’ for one for him.” Jean gave Ease a welcoming buss and handed him a wicker basket. She looked almost like a man in riding pants, boots, a white blouse, and a short-brimmed, brown felt hat, which covered only part of her pile of red hair.

“Noisy, though, ain’t he?” opined Ease.

“No noisier than the daily dogfight in our streets,” countered Jean.

“Manny at the Bonanza wouldn’t lend me any glasses, Jean, so can we use some of yours?” asked Ease.

“Sure. Let me pack ’em in something.”

“Hullo, amigos.” It was Anel, walking quietly up behind them.

“Anel! Just in time.” Gillom got a fast kiss on the cheek before he led her back to their wagon.

“I bring fruits. Oranges, grapes. And cookies I bake.” She handed up her little wooden crate.

“I’m already hungry. No breakfast today.”

Ease packed away Jean’s lunch basket as Gillom helped his chica up the side step and over the padded backrest to sit in the cargo bed, her back against a side panel. He stood in back of the freight wagon admiring her yellow dress, the petticoats ruffled over her high-buttoned light brown shoes. Anel looked up to anoint her smitten squire with the sunniest of smiles.

Red Jean wasn’t so happy. “Shoot! Mules! I wanted to bring along my saddle for horseback riding. I can’t ride one of these ornery critters.”

Neither young man had an answer. Gillom took her box of glassware wrapped in hand towels, while Ease helped his beauty onto the front seat beside him.

“Hasta la vista, Red!” squawked the parrot. This brought laughs, too.

“Says that every time I leave,” grumped Jean.

“How come he’s named Fibber?” inquired Ease.

“Because he lies all the time, you saucy bird,” admonished his owner.

Ease snapped the mules’ reins, causing them to lurch into their heavier load. The Jersey wagon pulled out from under the scrub oaks and onto the road back down Brewery Gulch, which wasn’t crowded on a Sunday after church.

From his moving perch, Gillom noted the flaked paint on some of the houses and dance halls in the red light district, the rusted brass on their outdoor fixtures, a shabbiness he hadn’t noticed at night. Bisbee’s tenderloin was run-down, like the clothes on the customers idling on its boardwalks, or the drab chemises hanging off the whores languishing in the doorways of their workplaces, watching their little world stroll by. A few waved or yelled when they spotted Jean in the front seat. Imagine, one of our own tribe lucky enough to have a day off just for fun, they probably thought. A couple sports still on a weekend bender whistled at the pretty girls rattling by on the big painted wagon.