by William Gear
The chili was indeed hot. At the first spoonful, Billy expected his scalp was going to melt and slide off his skull. He figured this was how the food in hell burned a sinner’s mouth.
Looking at George Nichols, who continued to eat the stuff without breaking a sweat, Billy wondered if, indeed, he hadn’t just sold his soul to the devil incarnate.
71
April 13, 1866
Spring was coming slowly to the high Colorado Rockies. Glancing out the window, Sarah could see gray clouds; streamers of blowing snow trailed off the peaks to the north and west, and wreaths of white fell in hazy fingers across the valleys. Occasional flakes descended irregularly just beyond the porch.
Central City, just down the slope, was an ugly place. A collection of claptrap plank or log structures, shebangs, shanties, hovels, and tents packed wall to wall. Most of the privies hung out over the creek in back. The surrounding mountains had been logged of every stick of wood, leaving the slopes bare and eroded. Intermingled among the stumps were shacks, privies, prospect holes, waste and tailings piles, and the crisscrossing scars of roads.
Her yard—such as it was—had melted out last week for the first time, surprising her when a small flower bed emerged from the packed white coating of old snow.
Ezra Cummings—the man who’d lost the claim to Bret, along with six hundred dollars—had been a man of contrasts. She had practically had to shovel the two-room cabin out when Bret first brought her here. Beneath piles of empty tin cans and bottles, wooden crates, empty kegs of blasting powder, and a mouse-chewed rug, she had discovered a plank floor. Glass-pane windows looked out on the mountains. An expensive cookstove with built-in water heater stood against the back wall, and a high brass bed with a cotton-ticking mattress dominated the bedroom.
And now she’d discovered an honest-to-God flower bed.
Sarah bent to open the oven and remove the rolls with a hot pad. They’d risen to perfection and smelled divine. Bret would be so pleased as he dipped them into the juices leaking from the elk roast. It now simmered in the Dutch oven atop the stove.
She left the rolls to cool and stepped over to the small desk beside the window. Looking out, she was pleased to see the stack of firewood Johnny Doolan had delivered. It would last them another two months at least. Longer if the weather warmed.
Then she studied her accounts book. She’d taken seriously Bret’s promise to make her the banker. Paw had ensured that she learned sums and numbers by the time she was ten. And she had studied, figuring she would need it to run her fancy household when she married and moved to Little Rock.
That brought a wry smile to her lips. So here she was, mistress to a fancy gambler, living in a tight but small two-room cabin. Some four thousand and fifteen dollars were secreted in the tin box behind the foundation stone. Not bad for four months of labor on Bret’s part.
Since he’d won the cabin and claim in Denver, he’d changed his tactics.
“You’ve got to keep the game balanced,” Bret had told her one night after they’d exhausted each other’s bodies. “I never clean a mark out. I just take a percentage and let him walk away with something. Never leave them feeling like they been cheated or humiliated. That’s the true art of it. That way, they’ll always come back. And better yet, they’ll tell all their friends that you run a square game.”
“I heard you buy everybody a drink.”
“I always keep a bottle on the table. Half empty. That way they think I’ve got a head start on ’em and might be whiskey-headed already. If they sit down, and they’re flush, I’ll pour them a drink. Maybe two or three over the next hour.”
“But you don’t drink?”
“Only enough to look like I’m keeping up, and my cup’s mostly full of water.” He had shifted beside her, fingers playing through her hair. “Here’s the trick: if you can take a big chunk of a chucklehead’s money, and have him stagger away feeling happy, you’ll come out ahead every time.”
“So, are you the best gambler in Central City?”
“There’s others as good at reading the cards and remembering what’s been played, and what the odds are that a given card’s in the other fella’s hand. But when they play, it’s with a sort of fever. They’ve got to be the best. Got to win.” He shrugged. “For me it’s a business.”
She smiled at the memory. Hard to believe that she’d found happiness with a footloose, disgraced deserter. Nevertheless he had placed her at the center of his world, and in doing so had established himself as the center of hers. In his bed she had driven Dewley and his demons ever deeper into the hazy distance, and come to cherish not only Bret’s body and sex, but a marvelous appetite and delight in her own.
“You are a miracle worker, Bret Anderson,” she told herself, placing a hand on her abdomen just at the thought.
The clatter of wheels and a horse clopping on frozen ground caused her to look up as a phaeton pulled into the yard. The woman in the seat was hidden in a bearhide coat. A woolen bonnet was tight on her head, and a buffalo robe lay over her lap. All were dusted with snow. She set the brake and stepped down, pausing only long enough to deliver a sweet to the horse before she tied it to the hitch.
Sarah opened the door and greeted her. “You must be Aggie. Bret said you wished to call today. I’m sorry, but he didn’t give your full name.”
“Aggie’s fine, Mrs. Anderson.” The woman stamped off her shoes, puffing a cold breath into the gray day. In the yard occasional flakes of snow still drifted down.
“Do come in, and don’t mind your shoes. It’s just snow.”
“Oh, my, Mrs. Anderson, it’s cold out there.” She slipped out of the bear coat as she entered. Then she removed her bonnet, careful to shake the snow off at the door. Both coat and bonnet she deposited on the floor before stepping over to the stove and extending her hands.
She looked to be in her late twenties, with curly red hair, and a delicately formed, heart-shaped face. Her complexion was pale, her skin creamy, and her petite mouth bore faint traces of rouge. She closed her green eyes and sighed in relief, as though in worship of the stove. She shifted, and her bright red day dress rustled.
And such a dress! Sarah admired the high-necked collar and ruffles. Below the jacket bodice, a trained overskirt fell in folds from her bustle.
Sarah conscientiously fingered her light blue wool skirt and realized she must look drab in comparison.
What a fool I am. She’d practically swooned when Bret presented it to her, it being the finest dress she’d owned since Paw took her to Little Rock.
Aggie turned, lifting a knowing eyebrow. “I been around women long enough to know what you’re thinking. Stop it, Mrs. Anderson. A dress doesn’t make a woman. Why, me? I’d kill to have your looks. Bret calls you his angel. Not sure I wouldn’t kill to have a man worship me that way, either.”
Flustered, Sarah asked, “Could I get you a cup of tea? Perhaps a hot roll?” She pointed to the water steaming on the stove next to the Dutch oven “The coffee’s cold, but I could boil up some fresh.”
“Tea’s fine. Long as it’s hot.”
Sarah took down the tin from the cupboard and shook leaves into the cup before she poured hot water over it and handed it to Aggie. “Have a seat. I take it this isn’t a social call.”
Aggie chuckled in wry amusement. “Got two things on my mind, Mrs. Anderson. First, thank you for agreeing to see me. It ain’t always considered proper. And even then, it would be back-door admittance only.”
“We don’t have a back door.” Sarah shrugged. “And I’ve been down pretty far myself. A lot of the women I worked beside doing laundry kept their children fed by entertaining men on the side.”
Aggie studied her through thoughtful green eyes as she held the tea before her. “In this world a woman either marries, lives on starvation wages when, and if, the men allow, or she sells her sex. Ain’t hardly ever a way around it.” She sipped at the tea, level green eyes on Sarah. “Me, I come to talk business.”
“Two things. One, I’d like your permission to let Mr. Anderson move his game to my parlor house one night a week.” She lifted a lace-gloved hand. “And no, he’s never set foot in my place. I would give you my word that neither I, nor any of my girls, will so much as bat an eye at him, let alone offer any other temptation. I’ll make sure the professor enforces that when I’m not around.”
“Professor?” Sarah couldn’t help but think of Butler and his books.
“It’s what we call the man who plays the piano, oversees the action, and ensures that our guests keep the rules and behave themselves.” Aggie spread her hands wide. “I just want Bret’s game on Saturday nights, ma’am. I’m guessing his take would more than compensate for my cut given the kind of money most of my clients toss around. And when he closes the table, I give you my word I’m sending him right home to you.”
Sarah considered. “How much do you think his game is worth?”
“I reckon a thousand a night,” she said without batting an eye. “And that’s after my percentage.”
Sarah frowned down into her tea. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I thought men were there to…” She struggled for words.
“Oh, they’re right keen to dip their sticks,” Aggie told her with an amused smile. “But a parlor house is different than a dollar-a-whirl brothel. What I provide is a refuge where a certain class of men can congregate, listen to chamber music, drink the finest spirits imported from the east and Europe, read a volume from my library, discuss business over a perfectly cooked meal, and bed a beautiful woman who isn’t going to milk their pricks and shout ‘Next!’ In return, I receive ample compensation.”
“But why do you need Bret?”
“Mrs. Anderson, Pat O’Reilly, you heard of him? The mine owner? He started a weekly game at one of my tables. It breaks my heart to watch that wealth switch back and forth, and I’m not getting a cut.”
“And what’s the second thing?”
“Bret tells me you can keep figures.”
“I can add columns and tally. But not like a real banker or such.”
“I put my money in a ceramic pot.” Aggie took a drink of tea, before adding, “I can’t do sums. Don’t have the head for it. I can count it, and sometimes there’s more, and other times there’s less.” She glanced up, green eyes sincere. “I come up the hard way. Spent the last ten years learning to read, how to talk, trying to be smarter than the rest.”
“I’m flattered, but it might be that one of the men at the bank could do a better—”
“Could be I want a woman,” Aggie said firmly. “Maybe one as could teach me once she herself gets the way of it. No man from the bank would do that. I’d pay you what you think it was worth.”
“You think I can do this?”
“Bret does. He thinks you can do anything. Says you’re the strongest, toughest, smartest, and most courageous woman alive.”
“Does he?” She paused, somewhat taken aback by his faith in her. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. How much money are we talking about?”
“A couple of thousand a night.”
“Dear God!”
Aggie smiled humorlessly. “If I was doing so well, that ceramic pot would be busting out money all over. You start by paying for cognac, champagne, and wine all the way from France, whiskey from Ireland and Scotland, bourbon from Kentucky, Cuban rum and cigars, tinned oysters and Russian caviar, and it’s all hauled across Indian-infested plains on a jerk line. That ain’t cheap, ma’am. Not to mention fresh meat from the market hunters, real vegetables from down on the Arkansas River, and soda water from Saratoga, not to mention the laundry, the fabrics, the medical, and regular old expenses like firewood and coal oil, and money just seems to disappear.”
Sarah stood, her mind in a fog. She walked over and stared down at her list of figures where it lay open on the desk.
Could I do this?
Hope filled Aggie’s voice. “I could have Mick, the professor, bring the money up here for you to count every Monday.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Sarah turned, leaned back against the desk, and crossed her arms. “And carrying that much money around, especially on a schedule, would be asking for a robbery. There’s more to it. You have to know how much money is coming in and from what. Is it from the girls, the drink, or the food? How much is going out, and to which accounts? When I worked for a woman in Little Rock, I had to have a list of what I spent and what I charged at each store. Old Mrs. Pennington didn’t teach me much, but she knew where every penny was going.”
Aggie frowned. “Wagon shows up with supplies, I just pay ’em.”
“It’s a wonder you’re not broke.” Sarah slapped her hands to her sides. “What if I came down with Bret on Saturdays? He could run his game; I could sit in the back somewhere and make my sums. You’ll need a ledger book. And you will be required to write down each expense. All of them. Right down to a nickel for a bar of soap from a street vendor. I had to for Mrs. Pennington.”
“Come to my place? Mrs. Anderson, it’s impossible. I run a parlor house, and you’re a respectable lady. It wouldn’t do to be seen within a stone’s throw of my door.”
Sarah chuckled, thinking of what Maw would say.
But this was a job. I’d pay you what you would think it was worth!
Something inside her came clear, as if a blindfold had fallen away, when she said, “I’m not a lady. I’m not even Bret’s wife. The ring, and the lie, was to allow Bret and me to travel and room together without complications. I am Miss Sarah Rogers. An unmarried woman sharing a gambler’s bed and keeping his house. Respectable? It’s a front.”
“You could lose even the illusion by setting foot in my place.”
“I want to learn how to run a business. You want to learn how to sum accounts. As a gambler’s woman, I don’t get invited to the women’s sewing socials as it is. And, well, to be honest, Bret and I aren’t long for Central City in the end. Where we’re going, no one will know.”
“Might be a high price just to learn a business,” Aggie countered. “You’ll be tarred, just as if you were in the trade and Bret were your pimp. And you might find yourself receiving unwanted male attention if they see you there.”
Sarah fingered her ring. “They’ll think I’m Bret’s wife. I really want to learn this.”
Aggie narrowed an eye. “I think Bret’s right about you. About that courage and all.”
72
June 28, 1866
The nightmare had been haunting Billy’s sleep all during the long week before the job. It had bedeviled him as he waited in a camp hidden in the breaks up from the Mimbres River. Danny, meanwhile, had scouted the next target. All things considered, the job had been easy: eliminate a placer miner who was working a claim on a mostly dry tributary of the Mimbres. Up a canyon on the western slope of the Black Range.
Billy simply shot him in the back from ambush one morning as the man walked down to work his claim. He and Danny packed the body onto the man’s mule—and dropped his corpse into a sheer-walled canyon as they made their way over Emory Pass. By the time anyone found his body, if anyone ever found his body, it would consist of sun-bleached, coyote-chewed bones. And damn few of them.
But the nightmare hadn’t gone away.
Two days later, they were spending the night at a small roadhouse—what the New Mexicans called a cantina—in a four-adobe community known as San Marcial. Once it had been rife with trade from Fort Craig. The small settlement stood across the Rio Grande from the Valverde battlefield where General Sibley’s Texans had whipped the Federals in 1862. With the end of the war, trade had fallen off significantly.
The cantina consisted of a small restaurant and bar with four tables. Turned out that they served beans, peppers, and some sort of stew with tortillas. The bar in the back—run by a dark-skinned, Spanish-speaking man with a thick black mustache and goatee—dispensed whiskey and something traded u
p from El Paso called mescal. River water was used to dilute it.
Two dark-haired young women, maybe in their teens, both thin, with deep-set eyes and the look of sisters, provided services of the horizontal kind in addition to dishing out food and carrying drinks from the bar to the tables.
As the evening deepened, Billy wasn’t sure that he’d really been drinking whiskey. Coal oil might have left the same burning aftertaste as the house’s fine blend. But feeling flush, his stomach full, and with the satisfaction of another job well done, he offered the mustachioed barkeep a twenty-dollar gold piece, pointing at both of the girls, and then at himself and Danny.
“Por toda la noche. ¿Comprende?”
The man had glanced back and forth between them, nodded, and barked some order in rapid-fire Spanish that Billy couldn’t understand.
“All night?” Danny asked him as the older of the girls reached for a lamp, took him by the hand, and led him out the back to one of the jacales.
“Use her good,” Billy answered, “and don’t let her milk you dry on the first ride.”
The girl he followed had long black hair that hung down below her waist. When she looked at him, her eyes seemed large—almost like a deer’s—in her thin face. Small breasts, the size of oranges, were set low on her chest; the baggy white cotton blouse exposed her brown shoulders and chest. Leading Billy to the second jacal, she demurely closed the door behind him and placed the lamp on a bedside table.
“You got a name?” he asked as she turned to him.
“Margarita,” she replied as she laid herself on the bed and pulled her red frilly skirt up past her waist.
“Por toda la noche,” Billy reminded, reaching down and pulling her back onto her feet. “Now, here’s the thing,” he told her reasonably as he reached down and unbuttoned her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. “I been having nightmares. I see my sister rise up, all bare, and bitten. Then she reaches down and grabs my pizzle. And there’s a demon growing in her womb. It’s cause the devil has a choke hold on my soul. You understand any of what I’m saying?”