Town Tamers

by David Robbins

He’d ask the mayor to keep his being there a secret until he was ready to commence the taming.

  And with any luck, he wouldn’t have to kill as many men as he had in Ludlow.

  That should make Byron happy.

  35

  From a distance most towns look the same: a lot of squares and rectangles, a few buildings three or four stories high at the most, arranged in neat rows.

  Not Ordville.

  As the Express rounded a wide curve that would bring the train to the station, Asa peered ahead and said to himself, “I never saw the like.”

  The buildings reared with no rhyme or reason amid rolling foothills. Five and six stories, some of them, with one, by God, that had to be ten. Brick, for the most part, with a couple that looked to be stone from a quarry. The streets—what Asa could see of them—seldom ran straight for more than a couple of blocks. Mostly they twisted and turned like so many snakes. Everywhere, people bustled. It reminded him of nothing so much as an ant hill swarming with gaily dressed ants.

  A stir of excitement filled the car as the train neared its destination. Some went to collect their bags so they would be ready to get off.

  Asa was in no hurry. He’d slip out when the majority did and blend into the crowd. The mayor might have let it be known he was coming, and the opposition might have sent an assassin. The prospect was slim, but Asa never left anything to chance if he could help it.

  He passed Byron in the aisle and Byron ignored him. Not out of disrespect. It was part of the plan. He and Byron and Noona were to pretend they didn’t know one another until the time came to confront the bad men.

  The conductor was yelling that Ordville was the next stop, as if everyone didn’t know.

  Asa was slightly taken aback when the conductor stopped on seeing him and said, “Let me guess. You must have heard.”

  “Heard what?” Asa said, wondering if the conductor recognized him somehow.

  “About Mr. Studevant and Indians.”

  Before Asa could ask what he meant, the conductor walked on, hollering, “Ordville, next stop.”

  The shotgun was in its leather case, his clothes and other effects in a carpetbag. With one in either hand, Asa turned to the window just as the train pulled in.

  The platform was packed with folks waiting for new arrivals and others waiting to catch the train to wherever they were bound.

  Asa kept his head low as he stepped down and moved over by a pillar. Only then did he realize the station was built in some sort of Greek style with arches and columns and whatnot.

  Ordville didn’t do things by half.

  Asa glimpsed Noona threading through the throng. She caught sight of him and broke his rule by smiling. It was unlikely anyone noticed, but it annoyed him that she didn’t listen.

  Inside, the station was a madhouse. People yelling and scurrying and an Express company employee bellowing that the train had arrived.

  The street wasn’t much better. The new arrivals were dispersing to waiting carriages and hansoms. Men on horseback clomped to and fro while people on foot thronged the boardwalks.

  Asa took his time. Part of reading a town, like reading a person, was to note every little thing. The small things were important. For instance, one of the first things he noticed was how well dressed everyone was. Nary a farmer or a cowboy or a town drunk in sight. Loggers, though, and lots and lots of mine workers. Plus the tony townsfolk. Derbies and bowlers were common. So were long coats and high boots.

  In his derby and his slicker, Asa fit right in.

  He needed to find a boardinghouse, but first he would check in with the mayor.

  The municipal building, like the train station, boasted Greek architecture. Asa hadn’t seen such fancy buildings since the trip he took to Washington, D.C.

  The mayor’s office was on the top floor. Brass fittings sparkled, and the hardwood floor was clean enough to eat off of.

  The waiting room was full. Asa stepped to the secretary’s desk and had to clear his throat before she looked up from a ledger she was scribbling in.

  “Yes?” she said with an air of boredom.

  “Asa Delaware to see the mayor.”

  She was pretty, not much over twenty, with her hair worn in a new fashion and a dress that in some small towns would be considered scandalous. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. But I believe he’s expecting me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to wait for the first available opening.”

  “Are you sure he won’t see me right away?”

  “Appointments always take precedence unless it’s an emergency.”

  “No,” Asa admitted. “It’s not that.”

  “Well, then. Take a seat and I’ll call your name when the time comes.”

  Asa supposed he shouldn’t be bothered about it but he was. He’d come a long way. Then again, the mayor didn’t know when he was arriving. “Would you at least let him know I’m here, in case he wants to see me sooner?”

  “I will.”

  Asa claimed an empty space on a bench along a wall, set down the carpetbag, and placed the shotgun across his lap. He figured it wouldn’t be long. But a half hour went by and then an hour. The secretary called out names and people went in. Most weren’t in there long.

  The mayor was a busy man.

  Asa like to pride himself on his patience, but after two hours his was wearing thin, and after three he’d had enough. He stood, shouldered the shotgun, and was bending to pick up the carpetbag when his name was called.

  A bronze nameplate on the door read TOM OLIVER. Like everything else in Ordville, the office oozed money.

  From the mahogany desk to the paneling to the glass bookcase and globe lamps, it was an office fit for a governor or a president.

  Tom Oliver smiled, rose, and offered his hand. In his forties, he was balding and well-fed and, of course, well-clothed. “Mr. Delaware, is it?”

  Asa set the shotgun on an empty chair and his carpetbag on the floor, and shook. “I came as quick as I could.”

  “That’s nice.” Oliver indicated another chair. “Have a seat, why don’t you.”

  Asa sank down and sat back. He’d no sooner made himself comfortable than he received a shock.

  “Now then,” Mayor Oliver said, “my secretary informs me that your business is urgent. So let’s get right to it.” He paused. “Who are you? And why have you come to see me?”

  36

  Noona was near breathless with excitement. She’d never been anywhere like Ordville. Most towns they went to were small. Cattle towns, with a main street and two or three saloons and drab frame houses.

  She’d been to St. Louis, a growing city on the edge of the frontier. But few of the buildings there were anywhere near as grand, and the people were downright sleepy compared to the thriving swarm of humanity that buzzed about here.

  Ordville was . . . intoxicating.

  She stood on a street corner, deeply breathed in the cool mountain air, and swore she could feel a pulse of vitality, as if the town had a giant heart that beat to the rhythm of its riches.

  And rich it was. From the ornate buildings to the costly clothes people wore to the flamboyant trappings of the carriages and wagons, the signs of money were everywhere.

  Noona loved it. When she was growing up, their family never had a lot. Back then her pa was a deputy marshal, and lawmen didn’t make much. They got by well enough, thanks mainly to her mother doing seamstress work to help out.

  But this?

  “Oh my,” Noona said in amazement.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice behind her.

  Noona turned and was near breathless.

  He was young and exceedingly handsome with hair as black as hers and eyes as blue as the sky. His suit was impeccable, his hat tilted at a rakish
angle. He had a square jaw and the nicest teeth this side of anywhere, which he displayed in a dazzling smile. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “You’re something, too.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I saw you get off the train. I’ve been following you.”

  Noona’s instincts kicked in. “You have, have you?” she said suspiciously. That she hadn’t noticed him disturbed her. She’d been so drunk on the town’s opulence, she’d let down her guard.

  “Before you take a swing at me,” he said with another dazzling smile, “it’s my job.”

  “To follow women?”

  “To find beautiful ones like yourself.”

  Noona was flustered but hid it. He seemed sincere, but she well knew how men were. “I’m not interested.”

  “You haven’t heard my proposition yet.”

  Noona laughed. “Trust me. I have. At least you’re keeping your hands to yourself.”

  “Oh, no.” He laughed and shook his head. “As much as it would flatter me to have you want to, I’m afraid this is strictly a business proposition.”

  “What is?”

  He glanced at the stream of pedestrians. “This is hardly the proper place. How about if you let me treat you to a bite to eat or something to drink and I explain?”

  “I don’t know,” Noona hesitated. She was supposed to find the nearest saloon, apply for work, and then meet up with her father and brother.

  “What can half an hour hurt? I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

  “Did your folks give you a name, or do I just say, ‘Hey, handsome’?”

  “Listen to you,” he said, and grinned. “James Tharber, at your service.” He held out his hand.

  Noona had to lean her rifle against her leg. It was in a long case that didn’t look anything like a typical rifle case. His hand was warm, and he didn’t try to crush hers. “Noona.” She didn’t give a last name.

  “Very pleased to meet you.”

  Before Noona could stop him, he scooped up the case and blinked in surprise.

  “Say, this thing is heavy. What do you have in here, anyway? I took it for a musical instrument.”

  “It is,” Noona said, snatching it back. “It’s a trumpet.”

  “A woman who plays the trumpet? Now I’ve heard everything.”

  His laugh was infectious. Noona let him carry her bag but she held on to her rifle as they walked a block or so to a restaurant called the Blue Spruce. He held the door for her. Inside was positively elegant, with booths and globe lamps and the waitresses in uniforms.

  “Looks pricey,” Noona said.

  “What in Ordville isn’t?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Noona said. “This is my first visit.”

  A waitress led them to a booth, set down menus, and left.

  “So what is this about?” Noona got right to the point.

  James Tharber slid his hand across and touched hers. “How would you like to make a very lot of money?”

  37

  Byron thought he had died and gone to heaven, a heaven of pure culture.

  He’d never been anywhere like Ordville. The way the people dressed, their hustle and bustle and sense of purpose, the elegance of the buildings—it was like stepping into a whole new world.

  Byron passed two theaters within ten blocks of the train station. Then he came to the downtown district, and he was like a child in a candy store.

  There were four more theaters. Four! And an opera house so elegant on the outside, it made him eager to view the no doubt lavish interior. There were dance halls and a concert hall. Saloons, of course, and a tavern or three, but even they were far and away superior to the shabby variety of Ludlow and other cattle towns.

  He went into one. It was called Pike’s Peak or Bust. A crescent mahogany bar gleamed in the light of a chandelier.

  The floor was polished, the tables covered with felt, the spittoons and rails gleamed, and the dealers were impeccable in their uniforms.

  Byron set down his bag and the long case with his rifle, and one of the three bartenders came over and politely asked what he wanted. “Scotch, if you have it.”

  “We have everything,” the man said. He had seen Byron set down the bag and as he poured he said, “Just in to town, I take it?”

  Byron nodded.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to be in a daze.”

  Byron laughed. “It’s that obvious?”

  “A lot of small-town folks are dazzled by the glitter,” the barman observed.

  “I’m from Austin,” Byron said.

  “Down Texas way? That’s a fair-sized city, I seem to recall.”

  “Nothing like here.”

  “Nowhere is like here,” the bartender said matter-of-factly. “Unless maybe Leadville. But they attract a rowdier lot.”

  “I’ve never seen so many theaters and the like,” Byron mentioned.

  “That’s Mr. Studevant’s doing. I’ve never met him, but they say he’s a cultured fellow. He likes to attend plays and the opera and take in a concert. He’s also fond of poetry, if you can believe it.”

  About to take a sip, Byron paused. “Poetry?”

  The barman nodded. “Word is he put up some of the money to have the Poetry House built.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s around the corner and to the left. Poets come and read their works or sometimes the words of dead poets. I’ve never gone, but my sister has.”

  Byron downed the Scotch in two swallows, paid, and scooped up the bag and his rifle.

  “Why the rush?” the man asked.

  How could Byron explain? He practically ran, he was so excited. And there it was, a three-story edifice with a large sign emblazoned with THE POETRY HOUSE in cursive letters. A marquee informed him that a local poetess was giving a reading that very night.

  On an impulse, Byron tried one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. He entered and found himself in a cool foyer. A thin young man with curly blond hair was over behind a counter thumbing through a book. He looked up as Byron approached and offered a friendly smile.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re closed. We don’t open until six this evening for the readings, but there’s always the café.”

  “The what?” Byron said.

  The man pointed at a side door. “We serve European-style coffee and light fare. Our local poets like to come and mingle and share their poetry.”

  “God,” Byron said.

  The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement and he held out his hand. “I’m Myron Hobbs, by the way. I run this establishment.”

  “Byron Carter.”

  “Myron and Byron?” Myron said, and laughed. “We almost sound like brothers.”

  Byron gazed beyond the foyer where rows of chairs were set up before a stage. “A place devoted to poetry!” he marveled. “I must be dreaming.”

  “You enjoy poems, do you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Myron said good-naturedly. “Shelley is my favorite.”

  “Mine is my namesake,” Byron said.

  “Lord Byron? Then you must be aware of their friendship and the time they spent together at Lake Geneva in Switzerland.”

  “I’ve read everything on him I’ve ever come across,” Byron said.

  Myron suddenly snapped his fingers and straightened. “Say, I know someone you should meet. And by luck, they’re here.” He came around the counter and beckoned for Byron to follow him to the side door.

  The café had an inside and an outside area for tables, and at a table near the curb sat a young woman in a new dress intently reading a book. She was a brunette with a perfect oval face, full lips, and eyes that sparkled. “Myron!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this.”

  M
yron glanced at Byron and grinned and winked.

  “‘When all around grew drear and dark, and reason half withheld her ray,’” the young woman read, “‘and hope but shed a dying spark which more misled my way. In that deep midnight of the mind, and that internal strife of heart, when, dreading to be deemed too kind, the weak despair, the cold depart. When fortune changed—and love fled far, and hatred’s shafts flew thick and fast, thou wert the solitary star which rose and set not to the last.’”

  She looked up, her expression dreamy, and clasped her hands to her bosom. “Isn’t that glorious? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it so very romantic?”

  “He’s no Shelley,” Myron said, and laughed.

  “That’s from his Stanzas to Augusta,” Byron said. “One of my favorites.”

  The young woman seemed to notice him for the first time and blinked as if in surprise. “Oh. Who do we have here?”

  With a flourish Myron made the introductions. “Miss Olivia Rabineau, I’d like you to meet Mr. Byron . . . Smith, wasn’t it? I brought him over because apparently he loves Lord Byron as much as you do.”

  “You don’t say,” Olivia said.

  “He’s new to town,” Myron mentioned. “Perhaps you’d be willing to answer any questions he might have?”

  Olivia looked Byron up and down and said softly, “I would be delighted.” Catching herself, she coughed and motioned and brightly asked, “What do you think of it so far?”

  Byron glanced at the Poetry House and at a theater down the street and the river of well-dressed people and finally at Olivia’s lovely face and sparkling eyes. “I think I’m falling in love,” he said.

  38

  For all of ten seconds Asa Delaware thought that Mayor Tom Oliver was joshing. Then he realized the man was in earnest. “You sent for me. Or, rather, your secretary must have.”

  “I did what now?”

  “Here.” Asa reached into his slicker and brought out the folded letter. He handed it across the desk, saying, “It caught up to me in Ludlow, Texas.”

  The mayor went on smiling as he unfolded it. No sooner did he begin to read than his smile faded and he said, “You got this in Texas?”