Dawn in Damnation

by Clark Casey

  Chapter 4

  Red’s Dead Men

  Ms. Parker scurried across the road trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Her long brown hair was tucked beneath a bonnet she had fashioned from an old gray pillowcase, but it wasn’t possible for her to not attract attention the way she was dressed. The whole town wanted to get a look-see at the dead bride scrambling to get her rations. She had to hold up her long white dress to keep from tripping in the mud. As a result, bystanders were given an unintentional peek at her naked ankle. Just the prospect of seeing those few inches of silky flesh was enough to lure the dirty men to the boardwalk each morning.

  A less flattering gown might’ve helped her blend in, but all the women who came before her were fed to the pigs in their garments, so there was nothing to be found. To her credit, she didn’t pay the men’s whooping and hollering no mind, and she almost made it across the road untouched. At the last second, a cowpuncher whistled loudly then caught the tail of her dress, cackling wickedly as she spun and fled from his grasp.

  They got more riled up with each passing day. A hundred drunken outlaws yearned for the dainty figure they’d seen the night she arrived, all soaking wet with little hidden. It was burned in their minds, and no amount of whiskey or bacon could make them forget it. Just a matter of time before someone took things too far, then shot her for complaining about it afterward. And everyone knew it.

  She raced into the general store and slammed the door shut behind her. As she paused to catch her breath, the old-timers gave her the up and down. Those who had grown tired of the riffraff at the saloon sat on storage barrels, chewing the fat to pass the time. They’d all lost their nerve long ago and were considered easy prey. Out in the street, newbies would gun them down to show their grit. Folks called the general store the chicken-shit saloon.

  The shelves stocked dry goods taken from wagons that’d come through the dust. Ms. Parker browsed the canned beans and dried pork jerky as if there was some great debate about what she was going to get. She had her pride though. Finally, she selected the same stale crackers and cold tea that she got every day—the cheapest items in the store—then placed them on the counter.

  The clerk looked them over and said, “That’ll be two dollars—in addition to what you already owe.”

  Ms. Parker nearly wept having to say the words. A day couldn’t pass without a reminder of how her father’s debts had gotten her into this situation. If he hadn’t borrowed against his store, his creditor wouldn’t have been so bold in his advances on her, and she never would’ve been driven to stab him and jump in a lake. “Put it on my tab, please,” she said softly.

  “Getting mighty steep,” the clerk remarked disapprovingly. “How you aimin’ to make things square, ma’am? If you don’t mind me askin’?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make good on my debts,” she said.

  “Mighty hard to come up with that kind of money ’round here.” He eyed the pale bosom peeking out from the ruffles of her dress. “’Specially if you ain’t got no skills, like me having a head for sums or Thomas here having a knack for letters. But maybe something could be worked out,” he added, and the old fellas sitting on the barrels snickered.

  “I said I’d make good on my debts,” she replied firmly.

  The clerk opened the ledger like he was St. Peter presiding over the gates of heaven. Resting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he made a discerning scribble in the margin. Despite his showboating, it wasn’t even his store. He ran it for Sal and had no real authority over how and when folks paid their debts. The temptation to humiliate a pretty lady was too much for him to resist though. She didn’t pay him no mind and began thumbing through the old issues of The Crapper that sat in the corner.

  “How much for these?” she asked.

  “Them’s old. The latest issue’s on the rack. It’s a nickel.”

  “But how much for the old ones?”

  “What ya want ’em for? Lotta them folks already got sent to hell.”

  “Just something to pass the time,” she said casually.

  “Gotta ask the man who wrote ’em then, I guess. Tom’s right behind you, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right,” I spoke up. “The lady can have as many as she likes. Nobody else’s gonna buy ’em anyway.”

  “In that case, I’ll take them all,” she said brightly.

  “Well, that’ll keep you busy,” I said. “There’s several years’ worth. It’ll catch you up on everyone in town, I suppose, and quite a few who ain’t no more.”

  Sal only kept the clerk around because no one else wanted to sit in the stuffy shop with the old-timers and add up sums in a ledger. Nonetheless, the clerk prided himself on his diligence and wasted no opportunity to remind folks of it. That evening in the Foggy Dew, he announced loudly that Ms. Parker’s debt had exceeded what was permissible. Money was more of a formality, but it still meant something. And it meant the most to those who had none.

  “Why’s she get to eat for free?” a cowboy asked.

  “Ah, leave the woman alone,” I said. “She’s just a child.”

  “How come I gotta play cards for my drinks and dry-as-hay pork, and she don’t?” the cowboy squawked.

  “Mind your business!” Sal hollered. “And you, just sit in the damn store and don’t tell me how to run things, or I’ll let these cowpunchers have at you.”

  Sal kept wiping down the bar, acting as if he’d already decided on the matter, but after the clerk and the cowboy cleared out he dropped the hardcase act. “The clerk’s a ninny, but he’s right,” he admitted. “If I let her off scot-free, soon nobody’s gonna wanna pay for nothing.”

  “Why they gotta pay anyway?” Stumpy asked. “Could just give it to ’em for free.”

  “Think about it,” Sal said. “Why would folks play cards all day if they didn’t get nothing for their winnings. And if folks stopped playing cards, they’d get bored and start shooting each other over nothin’. Probably start with you and me. They need a distraction, and I’d much rather be trading coins than dodging bullets.”

  “But what you expect Ms. Parker to do for money?” I asked. “She don’t seem like a card player to me.”

  “She could sell her wares,” Fat Wally suggested. “I’d give two bucks for a poke.”

  “Hell, I’d pay five!” Red added.

  “A lady like her ain’t ripe for that line of work,” I said.

  “Well, it ain’t my problem,” Sal argued, “so long as she earns somehow. Everybody earns! That’s the rule.”

  Later that evening, before Sal had a chance to approach Ms. Parker about her debt, she crept into the Foggy Dew looking as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockers. Must’ve sensed her time on the dole was coming to an end.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” Sal asked. Every man in the room was watching her. She looked like she wanted to turn around and run but was forcing herself to stand her ground. Kind of reminded me of my wife. Consumption had taken her at the tender age of twenty-four, not long after we had settled in the Dakota Territory. Ms. Parker probably reminded a lot of fellas of their wives in their early days, dressed as she was.

  “I want to learn how to play cards,” she piped up with some resolve. “I don’t want to be indebted to no man. My father borrowed against our store, and that’s what got me in this mess in the first place.”

  There was no shortage of volunteers to teach her. Red was the loudest and most enthusiastic. The big Irishman made room for her beside him at the poker table. He explained the rules of five-card stud, and she proved to be a pretty quick learner. Red offered her whiskey, but she didn’t want none. Just kept quizzing him on every move he made.

  Red wasn’t much of a card player. In fact, that was what got him killed. He tried to bluff a large pot he couldn’t cover, and they shot him in the mouth for lollygagging. Had a hole in his tongue to pr
ove it. Liked to wag it at the newbies to taunt them. The reason why he ended up in Damnation was because he was an asshole. Bullied women all his life. As Ms. Parker studied his card playing, he was eyeing her bosom. He threw his cards down after a glance and put his hand on her thigh. She just moved it away.

  “Why’d you fold that pair of tens?” she asked. “Nobody’s had better than a pair of sevens in four hands.”

  “Don’t you fret yourself over my strategy, little lady.” This time he slipped his hand up beyond the hem of her dress. His fingers quickly traveled north. Ms. Parker screeched and shot up with a start. The boys sitting at the table all laughed. There was one man at the bar who clearly wasn’t amused though. He was an older farmer who had only been in town a couple of weeks. He rose from his seat, rearing to stick up for the lady.

  “Better let her be.” Sal caught him by the sleeve.

  “I don’t abide the disrespecting of women,” the farmer said. “And I ain’t afraid of that carrot-topped heifer.”

  “Simmer down there, alfalfa desperado,” Sal told him. “Ain’t Red you should be afraid of. It’s them other micks that got his back. See those clover munchers at the dice table and that fella up on the catwalk with half a face?” The gruesome-looking man was holding a Winchester repeating rifle. From the internal balcony above the bar, he could cut anyone down before they got within ten feet of Red. Seeing he was out-gunned, the farmer wisely sat back down.

  “Better for her to learn her place now anyway,” Sal advised.

  Ms. Parker took a lonesome look around the room. When she saw that nobody took exception to a man getting fresh with her, she quietly scooted over to the other side of the table.

  “I thank you for your instruction, sir,” she told Red. “It’s been very informative, but I think I’m ready to play a few hands by myself.”

  “Suit yourself,” Red huffed.

  In an odd moment of generosity, Sal staked Ms. Parker the ten dollars she was due on her first arrival, even though her debt now far exceeded that. He wanted to at least make it look like he had done all he could for the lady before she inevitably turned to trading her wares.

  The cards were dealt and Ms. Parker barely glanced at hers. “I bet five dollars,” she piped up. Her brazenness gave the other players pause. One by one they folded, except for a soot-covered fella in the corner. Either he had a good hand or little faith that a woman could draw better cards than him. He raised her ten.

  “I don’t have that much,” she said softly.

  “Guess you’ll have to fold,” he replied blankly.

  “My wedding dress is worth thirty-five dollars,” she said. “I’d wager it against whatever you have there in front of you.”

  Whistles and catcalls broke out around the room. There was more than fifteen dollars in front of him, and he was certainly in a position to haggle, but the prospect of seeing Ms. Parker without her dress was too tempting—especially with the fellas egging him. “Okay,” he said and tugged his ear blushingly. “But you have to put the dress here on the table first. And you ain’t walking out of the bar with it if you lose.”

  The catcalling rose to a frenzy. He reckoned he had her either way. If she folded, he’d take the pot. And if she took off her dress, there’d be little chance of her making it out of the saloon. At the very least, the spectacle would give him the opportunity to grab his money back.

  “Agreed,” Ms. Parker said and pushed back her chair back. As she stood, every beady eye in the room was watching. She hopped up on the table without removing her garment and sat directly on top of the chips.

  “Pot’s square,” the dealer declared. The crowd laughed, and the man reddened in anger for how she’d outwitted him. Begrudgingly, he flipped over his cards showing a pair of fours. Ms. Parker laid down a pair of sevens, then climbed off the table to collect her winnings.

  It would cover her debt, but more importantly, it showed that she could earn without resorting to anything unrespectable.

  “Neither of those hands were anything to write home about,” I said to her. “Why’d you go all in?”

  “I reckoned they’d all think I was too scared to bluff,” she smiled. “When someone went in, I was petrified I’d lose it all.”

  “You could’ve folded and still had nearly five dollars for the next hand. How’d you know that fella was bluffing?”

  “Well…” She hesitated to answer. “I guess I can tell you since it’s you who told me, in a way. I noticed the coal dust on his clothes and figured he was a miner. He also had the initials TJ stitched on his coat pocket. I remembered one of those old issues of The Crapper had mentioned a miner named Tim Jerkins. It said that he had died of an allergy to peanuts. Earlier, when he was offered some nuts, he got real fidgety and tugged on his ear, but he didn’t want to admit that he had an allergy. He probably thought it would be taken as a sign of weakness by the others. That’s when I figured it was his tell. He touched his ear every time he had something to hide. I noticed he scratched his ear when he raised me ten dollars. And then he nearly tore his earlobe off when I raised him with my dress.”

  “Glad to see somebody profited by my writing,” I told her.

  By way of thanks, Ms. Parker paid for my next few drinks. Those old issues of The Crapper might’ve given her some clues, but she was plain good at reading folks. After all, I wrote the paper and still had no idea the fella’s cards were shit.

  Not everyone was willing to give her credit. Red came out of the latrine, and while he passed he took the opportunity to goose Ms. Parker’s behind, then called out cheekily, “There’s a big winner! See what I taught ya, little lady?”

  It must’ve been a gut reaction. She turned around and smacked him clean across his saggy red cheeks. The room fell silent.

  A fella might’ve laughed off a woman smacking him when he was alive, but in Damnation it was looked on as a sign of weakness. Wasn’t much use in trying to win a lady over since everybody was going to have her eventually, or nobody was because she’d be sent to hell. If you let a lady boss you, some newbie might think you didn’t have any grit. Then he’d shoot you to set an example so people would think twice about coming at him. Red did the only thing he could. He smacked Ms. Parker right back.

  Everyone knew she’d learn her place eventually, but it had been a nice change of pace having a real lady around, and a spunky one to boot. It reminded folks of what it was like to be alive. Like seeing a tulip in the early days of spring. You knew it was going to wilt soon, but you wanted to hold onto it as long as you could. Tulips need sunshine to grow though, and it was always dusk in Damnation. Ms. Parker wept from the blow, but when she saw that nobody was surprised that he struck her, she wiped her tears and put on a brave face.

  There was one other person in the room who hadn’t been around long enough to tolerate the hitting of women.

  “Hey!” Buddy shouted from the doorway.

  “Mind your business, newbie,” Red said.

  “I just decided my business is making sure no ladies get hit today.”

  “If you want a piece of her, wait your turn,” Red snarled. “It’ll come soon enough.”

  We learned then that Buddy wasn’t the waiting type. He marched up to Red and backhanded him across the cheek, knocking him clear to the floor. Red reached for his gun, as did the rest of his gang, but Buddy had both his pistols out with the hammers cocked before any one of them cleared leather.

  Red rubbed his swollen cheek as he got to his feet. “You may be fast enough to beat Jack Finney,” he said, “but you ain’t gonna take out six of us.”

  “Shucks,” Buddy said with a playful smile. “Can’t say I much mind going to hell. Just stopped off here for a drink anyway. To tell the truth, I’m kinda curious what the place looks like.”

  Everyone else scattered as Red’s men surrounded Buddy with their pale knuckles gripping holstered guns, wa
iting for an excuse to pull. Buddy kept both his pistols trained on Red.

  “Killing me ain’t gonna stop the rest of these boys,” Red warned. “And after they gun you down, they’ll all have their way with the lady. By the end of the week, every man in town’ll have a go at her, ’cept maybe the pencil pusher and the halfwit.”

  “Not him.” Buddy nodded to the man beside Red. “Nor him.” He locked eyes with the fella just beyond that. “Eh, maybe he’ll survive.” Then Buddy shifted his gun. “On second thought, I’ll start with him. My record is five men without a scratch on me. Course, I was dead drunk then and I’m cold sober now. Hell, I bet I could shoot six of you before your ugly friend up there with the coward’s stick hits me.” He motioned to the faceless man on the catwalk above the barroom. An oval of raw skinless meat squinted down, with one eye atop the barrel of a rifle. Much of Red’s courage for intimidating folks came from having a fellow Irishman up there. Since he was the only one of them born in America, they deferred to him as leader of the gang. At Red’s signal, he would pick off anyone in the room. Even Jack Finney left Red alone, so he never had to test his speed against the sharpshooter.

  “Then again, I could just peel him off first.” Buddy raised one of his pistols to the second floor. The other six men had yet to pull their weapons. It wouldn’t be easy for them to hit a moving target through the gun smoke of Buddy’s first shots. “Yeah, come to think if it, I might be able to get all seven of you.” Buddy smiled with genuine pleasure. “Then when we’re all in hell, I’ll shoot y’all again and you can see where they send you next.”

  Buddy laughed loudly, which made the gang uneasy. None of them seemed keen on going to hell over a woman—even one as pretty as Ms. Parker. Red could tell their confidence was slipping. He slowly backed out of the door, and his gang followed, including the man on the catwalk with no skin on his face. Up close, you could make out the gnawed muscle and ligaments webbing his jaw bone. On his way out, he flashed an eerie smile that gave me the willies.