Ragtime Cowboys

by Loren D. Estleman

  “I thought writing was honest work. It’s why I left the Agency.”

  “No wonder you can’t find a publisher with a flashlight and a map of New York City.”

  “It’s worse than dishonest. It’s a waste of experience.”

  “Experience is like rhubarb. You got to add sugar to make a pie.”

  “Huh.” Hammett threw his cigarette overboard and started rolling a fresh one. “How’d the Kid get away from that town marshal?”

  Siringo grinned.

  “Shinnied up the jail chimney and lit out black as Old Joe for New Mexico. He was skinnier’n your boy Feeney. They never made a pair of cuffs that fit him.”

  “Was he as ugly as his picture?”

  “That wasn’t him. He wasn’t any longer on brains than most outlaws, but he was smart enough not to get his picture struck with paper out on him all over New Mexico Territory, like them dumb sons of bitches in the Wild Bunch. Some slick photographer paid a tramp to pose with a prop pistol and carbine, made plenty of copies, and sold ’em like French postcards. The Kid had nice teeth and he was generous with them. That’s what made all the señoritas wet their drawers the minute they laid eyes on him.”

  “I’m beginning to see what you mean about rhubarb. The truth may not be ugly, but it can always use a boost.”

  “I’ll make a writer out of you yet, Mr. Hammett.”

  9

  The Sonoma Valley was as alien to an old plainsman like Siringo as a lunar landscape—which may have served as Jack London’s inspiration to call the location of his ranch The Valley of the Moon—with strange bare rounded hills standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Riding up one side, down the other, and up the side of the next grew monotonous in a bluetick hurry. Even the horses were bored.

  “When do you calculate this country’ll get tired of jumping up and down and stretch out?” he asked.

  But Hammett was unresponsive. A sidelong glance showed a pallid and sweating rider hanging on to his saddle horn as if it were a life preserver. His slouch hat was soaked through, and although he’d shrugged out of his coat and secured it behind his cantle, his shirt lay plastered to his chest. Siringo could practically count his ribs.

  “You ain’t fixing to die on me, are you? ’Cause I ain’t packing your carcass back over these goldarn hills.”

  “Don’t worry about me, old-timer. I’m sandier than I look.”

  “You’d have to be, or I’d have you half-buried by now. What possessed a man with your affliction to set down in a wet place like Frisco?”

  “I tried that desert air in Los Angeles, but Hollywood just made me sicker. What they’re doing to Fatty Arbuckle shouldn’t happen to a dog.”

  “Think he’s innocent?”

  “He’s guilty of throwing a party that got out of hand. If you’re asking me did he rape that girl with a Coca-Cola bottle, the answer’s no. It’s just an excuse to throw him in jail so the studios won’t have to pay him his high salary.”

  “I’d expect a Marxist would say he got what he deserved for being a capitalist.”

  “Well, I don’t make a religion of it.” Hammett fortified himself from his flask. His color improved.

  It was well past noon when they mounted a hill between rows of staked-out grapevines. The smell of the ripening fruit was overpowering. It made a man woozy.

  “Reckon they’re for grape juice?” Siringo asked.

  “Oh, that and the Catholic Church. You can’t feed a worshipper three-two beer and tell him it’s the Blood of Christ.” They topped the rise. Hammett drew rein. “There it is, Beauty Ranch.”

  “You don’t say. I never would of figured it out on my lonesome.”

  Beyond the base of the hill, the furrowed road passed under an arch fashioned from among the redwoods that lined it, the wood carved in a twisting configuration spelling the single word BEAUTY.

  “We’ll put on our best behavior from here. It’s a female household since Jack’s death. Not that you might think so when you meet the widow.”

  “Which I take it you have.”

  “Oh, she’s a force of nature. You can’t miss her when she’s in town.”

  “Then what in thunder was that Walter Noble Burns business? She’ll know you by sight and have us both thrown off the spread for imposters.”

  “I’d read in the Examiner she was in New York, dealing with Jack’s publishers. That’s what I get for believing everything I read.”

  “What makes you think she ain’t?”

  Hammett was rolling a cigarette. “Because that’s her coming this way.”

  Siringo saw a lone rider approaching the gate from the other side at full gallop. The figure wore riding breeches, a white shirt and broad-brimmed hat, and knee-length boots. He drew his spyglass from the bedroll, snapped it open, and focused on the horse and rider. “Holy jumping Jesus, it is a woman.”

  “What’d you expect when I said ‘her,’ a sow bear?”

  “I never seen a woman ride straddle.”

  “The better you know Charmian, the more things you’ll see you never did.”

  “I don’t figure we’ll get on, then. I don’t burn tobacco in a woman’s presence and I expect the same sort of decency from her.”

  “If you did, she’d probably bum some off you and burn it in yours.”

  “You do all the talking. I’m likely to say something rash and waste the trip.” He folded the glass with a bang.

  She was an uncommonly good rider, he’d say that for her. The horse was a fine one, a sleek sorrel with a blaze, and together they raced down as bad a stretch of road as he’d seen without a single misplaced hoof. He himself wouldn’t have dared it in his prime: One loose rock, one small hole, and half a ton of mammal rolled over on top of you like a rockslide.

  “God spare me from a reckless woman,” he muttered, not low enough to avoid one of Hammett’s nasal snickers.

  Twenty yards from the top of the rise where the two men waited, the woman leaned back on the reins, slowing the animal. It was a stallion, Siringo knew then; that snort when it caught the scent of his mare couldn’t be mistaken. The mare in its turn tossed its head and shook its mane. Two reckless females, he thought; just what the situation was missing. He choked up on the bit and his mount settled itself.

  The Widow London switched from a canter to a walk and drew alongside the visitors. “Welcome to Beauty Ranch, gentlemen. You’re Mr. Hammett, if I remember correctly. Dear Eliza’s a conscientious manager, but she gulls easily. Would you introduce me to your friend?”

  “Charmian London, Charles A. Siringo.”

  She brightened considerably. A striking woman rather than a pretty one, she had a boyish figure and a turned-up nose in a long horse face and buck teeth that altered her appearance greatly when she smiled. He judged her to be nearer fifty than forty—senior to her late husband—but fit, with no gray in the dark hair that hung in a bob to the corners of her jaw. The hat, he saw, was a Montana Pinch, with dimpled crown and a broad silk band, considerably weathered, and too big for her; it must have taken at least a section of newspaper stuffed under the sweatband to keep it from sliding down over her eyes. He seemed to remember having seen a similar rig on Jack London’s head in a rotogravure. Quite probably this was it. It made her look younger somehow, like a little girl playing dress-up.

  “Not Charlie Siringo, the cowboy detective?”

  “I was. Now I’m just plain Charlie Siringo.”

  A slender hand took his in a man’s grip. “How Wolf would have loved this moment! He enjoyed A Texas Cowboy.”

  “Wolf?”

  “My dear Jack. If you like, I’ll show you his copy, all scribbled in the margins with his praise.”

  He was flattered despite himself, and sad suddenly. He’d have enjoyed discussing his work with the most famous writer in the world, even if the man was a Socialist. Before he could respond, she turned to Hammett.

  “Now. What is this Burns business? We met, I believe, at a demonstration calling for the releas
e of Eugene Debs. You told me then you were a writer of fiction, not history.”

  “Habit. I was a detective myself, but no cowboy, and I learned early on to lie first and apologize later. I didn’t think you were home.”

  “I was delayed. The lawyer for Jack’s literary estate is in Los Angeles, threatening to shut down a moving picture company if it proceeds with its plans to film The Sea Wolf without the courtesy of paying for the privilege. I thought it best to stay close.”

  “I dealt with their like,” Siringo said. “I should of brung a rope.”

  She slid her hat to the back of her head to study the gathering clouds. “Rain’s coming. You can tell me in the cottage why you’re here.”

  They rode three abreast through the open gate and between more redwoods. To the right, after they’d been riding a while, rose the charred timbers of Wolf House, Jack London’s dream home, gone up in flames years ago. Siringo had read of the disaster and felt bad for the owner. He himself had been flush then, and had considered building a place of his own on a more modest scale; the incident had made him put off the project, the only thing predictable about the future being its uncertainty. In retrospect, he wouldn’t have been any worse off than he was had he gone through with it. There wasn’t a dime’s worth of difference, worry-wise, between a man who was flat broke and one who was so deep in debt he’d never climb out.

  Farther on, they came alongside an enormous boulder that looked out of place in a clearing in the woods. Charmian removed her hat as they passed it. Hammett followed suit, and signaled to Siringo to do the same, which he did, hoisting his eyebrows in a silent question.

  “London’s grave,” Hammett whispered. “They rolled a rock on top of it to keep the coyotes from digging it up.”

  There was something about the ranch, beautiful as it was in its sylvan setting, that depressed Siringo. It was a holy shrine. Nothing had been overlooked, from the widow’s dreamy tones when she spoke of the late writer to the still-standing remnants of the great ruined house, which ought to have been torn down the minute the ashes cooled, and now this rock. He wondered, impiously, if London had come out from under it after three days.

  Hatted again, they passed a Fordson tractor idling by a silo built of concrete blocks and then an extensive series of pens where Siringo’s nose told him, well before he saw the animals rooting around inside, hogs were raised. Beyond that was a stable. He became alert as Charmian stepped down to hand her reins to a boy who came out from inside.

  “Rub down these gentlemen’s mounts first, please, Abner. They’ve ridden all the way from San Francisco.”

  The men dismounted. Hammett put his coat back on with the weapons in the pockets. The boy who took their reins was a sullen-faced youth of about nineteen, with a mop of brown hair that needed soap and shears, in filthy bib overalls and rubber boots crusted with manure: Abner Butterfield, who had presided over Wyatt Earp’s stables the day his prize racehorse had disappeared. Siringo noticed the young detective appraising him as he led the animals into the stable.

  The first drops of rain were plunking their hats when Charmian London led them up a flagged path to the porch of a whitewashed cottage. She was shorter than Siringo, a surprise; she had a long torso and the kind of bone structure that usually belonged to a woman of stature, all loose-limbed, with long narrow hands and feet to match. She pulled open a screen door against the pressure of a noisy spring, hung her hat on a peg, and ran her fingers through her boyishly short hair. Her guests took up two more pegs, Siringo adding his sourdough coat, and scrubbed their feet on a sisal mat after her lead.

  They entered a room that took up most of the ground floor, which served as both dining room and parlor, with a plain table under a ship’s helm hung with chains from the ceiling, oil lamps mounted on the varnished handles, and rockers for relaxing.

  “Eliza’s gone to the village for supplies,” said their hostess. “That’s good luck for you. She’s guileless, as I said, but she can be a fierce old dragon when she realizes she’s been taken in. She’d have had a hand throw you both out, and no mistake.”

  “And you, Mrs. London?” The cozy domesticity of the arrangement, with the rain hissing now on the roof—a roof without holes—brought out Siringo’s soft-talking side; but he was rusty and groped his way.

  Her face became homely when it wasn’t wearing a smile. “I’m not sure yet. If it turns out you’ve come to pick my brain for stories you can sell, I’ll do the ejecting myself. I was Jack’s favorite sparring partner in the ring he built, and he taught me to shoot and fence.” She inclined her head toward a pair of foils with basket hilts crossed on one wall. “I could run you through before you raised either of your weapons.”

  10

  He had to smile at that. The woman had sharp eyes. The Colt was plain in its worn chamois holster, but even Hammett had missed the Forehand & Wadsworth under Siringo’s shirt. “We’re not here for ideas.”

  “We’ll see. Are you hungry? We have sandwiches and beer. Becky can’t abide turning away even a plagiarist on an empty stomach.”

  “Becky?”

  “Jack’s youngest, by his first wife. She’s here on a visit.” She raised her voice. “Becky?” No answer. “She’s probably upstairs, reading.”

  “One of her father’s books?” asked Hammett.

  “One of Dickens’. David Copperfield, I believe. She’s on the second volume. She started the first in January. She makes it a point to read Dickens every winter. A determined child, Mr. Hammett. And no longer a child, as I must keep reminding myself. Sandwiches, gentlemen? Beer? Something stronger? Jack left us well-stocked.”

  “Thank you,” Siringo said. “I could eat a horse, and as you can see, Hammett plumb disappears when he turns sideways. And a beer would go good right about now.”

  She looked at Hammett, who nodded.

  “I’ll get them. Make yourselves at home meanwhile.” She left them, her English riding boots clip-clopping on the redwood floor.

  Hammett sat, coughing quietly into his fist, while Siringo toured the room. China settings in every design filled a row of glass cabinets. Jack London had been nearly as well-known for his hospitality as for his writings, but they looked neglected now; although not a speck of dust showed, they bore the air of objects that hadn’t left their places for weeks, months, maybe years, like books in a library owned by a semiliterate man who wanted to appear educated. The trophies on display—swords, boxing gloves, long guns and pistols, a pick worn to nubs, probably during prospecting days in Alaska—all contributed to the sensation that they were visiting a museum, or more particularly a mausoleum.

  Hammett, apparently, had been thinking along the same lines. “Scatter a few heads around and the place might have belonged to Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “I met him once.” Siringo lowered himself into a rocker and squirmed around on his saddle sores. “He didn’t have anything good to say about London. We shared the same opinion of radicals.”

  “He’d’ve thrown me down the White House steps.” The young man looked around. Reassured, evidently, by a framed photo of London writing with a cigarette drooping from his mouth, he took out his makings. “Hell, I’m out of tobacco.”

  Siringo tossed him his pouch.

  He examined it. “What is it, horsehide?”

  “Buffalo.”

  “I thought buffalo’d be coarser.”

  “It is, till you get to the balls.”

  Hammett smiled. “What happens if I rub it?”

  “Turns into a pair of saddle bags.”

  He laughed his snarky laugh, opened the pouch, and sprinkled some tobacco onto a paper. He was lighting the cigarette when a young woman entered. She stopped when she saw the two men, who rose, Hammett just behind Siringo.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “When I smelled someone smoking, I thought it was one of Father’s old friends. I’ve missed that smell.”

  She looked just under twenty, a pretty, grave-faced girl with blond hair that curled in
ward at her shoulders, in a sheath dress with an unnaturally low waist, the way women her age were wearing them now. There seemed to be a good figure underneath. Her feet were small in patent-leather pumps that buttoned to the ankles.

  “I’m Mr. Siringo, and this is Mr. Hammett. We’re guests of your stepmother’s. I’m sorry to say we never knew your father.”

  “You missed something, I assure you.” A wisp of a smile lightened her features, and Siringo saw the resemblance then. She had her father’s deep-set eyes and strong brow, but the shy upward twist at the corners of her mouth had appeared in hundreds of photographs of the oyster-pirate-turned-sailor-turned-prospector-turned-vagabond-turned-world-traveler-turned-bestselling-writer. They were very modern faces, Siringo thought; not at all the grim visages of his contemporaries, men and women resigned to hardship, who only smiled when something amused them. Very little had.

  The smile vanished then, like breath from a mirror. “You call yourself guests, but that’s no comfort. As long as I can remember, guests in this house have taken advantage of my father’s good nature. They borrowed money and didn’t pay it back, stole his ideas and sold them to other writers—one of them even left with a dozen of his silk pajamas in his suitcase. Pajamas! Death hasn’t stopped them. You’re not movies, are you?”

  “Movies?”

  “Moving-picture people. They’re the worst of all. They make away with Father’s experiences and imagination and hard work like thieves in the night.”

  “Mr. Hammett and I are here only to ask the favor of a few minutes’ conversation. We’re detectives.”

  “You mean like Nick Carter?”

  Hammett laughed, this time without sarcasm. “Not as heroic as that; but if it’s all right with you, we’d prefer to discuss the details with the lady of the house.”

  She beamed—genuinely beamed—and clapped her hands. “A lady! Oh, she’d be amused by that. She says that’s Mother’s area of expertise.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “She voted for Debs.”

  “So did I,” said Hammett. “We met at a rally.”