by John Legg
Rhodes grabbed the bottle in his right hand, since his left was occupied with the cut-down Darby shotgun. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he bellowed into Bonner’s ear.
The old man nodded, and they battled their way across the room and into the street again.
Chapter Fourteen
The two men stopped just outside of the saloon, a little to the left of the door. They were out of the way of most of the saloon’s business, and not many other people seemed to be using this patch of mud under the sagging overhang of the saloon’s false front.
Bonner stuck the butt of his rifle into the mud and leaned it back against the saloon wall. Rhodes held the bottle out, and Bonner pulled the cork. Bonner grabbed the bottle. “Age comes afore beauty, boy,” he growled. Then he tilted it up to his lips. When he finished the healthy slug, he held it out for Rhodes.
“’Bout goddamn time, you blowhard old fart,” Rhodes said with a grin. He, too, had a healthy snort. “Phew,” he said after pulling the bottle away, “that goes down good.” He grinned. “Even if it does taste like it just came out of a sick mule.”
Bonner cackled gleefully. “Sure as hell.” He grabbed the bottle and sipped. Done, he said, “Now, boy, let’s go see what kind of man you really are.” He grabbed his rifle in his right hand, keeping the bottle in his left.
As the two headed up the small alley toward the line of cribs out behind the saloon, Bonner looked surreptitiously at Rhodes. The younger man walked with straight back, head held high, as if daring the world to just try something with him. There were far too few men who had that much pride and self-esteem these days, Bonner figured. To him, most men nowadays were all boiled shirts—suited-up, lime-smelling, pale city folks.
Not Travis Rhodes, though, Bonner knew. He had taken to his young companion the moment Rhodes had flung himself into the brawl back at Fort Laramie. Old Joe Bonner was a tough old coot, set in his ways. He didn’t take to people easily, but he plumb admired a man who gave little thought to himself while trying to help a friend. Like that night in the saloon. And with the Mormons. It had surprised Bonner when he found out somewhere along in their trip from the fort that Rhodes was not a Mormon. Not that Bonner cared one way or another what religion any man had—or didn’t have. What surprised him was that it seemed for all intents and purposes that Rhodes was one of the Mormons. Why else would someone give others so much help?
For a little while, Bonner could pretend this was back in the old days, when he was young and hard, wild and fearless. Them had been shinin’ times, and he missed those days. He was tired much of the time now, and he could no longer carry a hundred-pound bale of furs so easily. Old wounds and old bones ached with each change in the weather, and the rheumatism sapped him at times. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he knew his eyesight was failing. He had gone back East a few years ago and stopped by a place in St. Louis where the young doctor had tested him and given him a pair of spectacles. He carried the specs in a small brass case and wore them only when necessary—which usually meant when he was alone.
All these things wore on him, dragging him down, making him realize his mortality. He could not live forever. Hell, he didn’t want to live forever. But he sure as hell would rather go out fighting or fornicating or raising hair on some painted goddamn Blackfoot. Travis Rhodes made him think that he was back, in those days, like his blood was running free and singing in his veins, rather than moving like molasses. It was another reason old Joe Bonner liked Rhodes.
They stopped and surveyed the double lines of small, mostly decrepit shacks. Five women stood leaning against a wall, drinking and smoking, talking and laughing. They quieted, though, and looked toward the newcomers. The five headed toward the two men. All of them gravitated toward Rhodes, and he laughed. “See, you old coot, you ain’t got anything these ladies want.”
“Bah,” Bonner growled. “There’s life in this ol’ chil’ yet!” He grabbed one of the women, who was easily young enough to be his granddaughter, and pulled her close. Then he planted a big kiss on her plump lips. When he pulled back a little, he said, “Come on, darlin’. This old hoss’s got somethin’ to show you.” The two shuffled off, the woman warming to the old man. Then they disappeared into one of the shacks.
“How about you, bucko?” a woman said to Rhodes. “You gonna let that old buzzard do better’n you?” Her brogue was muted but evident.
“Oh, I reckon I can keep up with him,” Rhodes said dryly. He looked at her and smiled. She was a big woman, as tall as he and square-shouldered. Her face also was square, but not unpleasant. She looked better than the other three. He waved a hand. “After you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am now he’s callin’ me,” she said, standing with arms akimbo two feet in front of him. “Hoo, probably thinks I’m his mum.”
Rhodes bit back the retort that fought to get past the gate of his teeth and clamped lips. When it was defeated, he said, “Well, now, I suppose you might not be able to keep up with me, missy. You can’t, I’m sure one of these other lovely belles’d be happy to…”
“The hell with them other girlies,” the woman said, latching on to his arm protectively.
As they moved off, Rhodes asked, “There something I can call you?”
“You really want a name?” she asked with a grin.
Rhodes shrugged. “It’d sap our passion was I to call out the wrong name in the heat of things,” he said smoothly.
“That’d never do, now would it, bucko,” she agreed. “Call me Myrtle.”
“You plannin’ to stay awhile, bucko?” Myrtle asked half an hour later.
“I am. Unless you’d rather I didn’t.” His eyes questioned her.
“Oh, I don’t mind, bucko,” she said with more enthusiasm than she really felt. He was better than most, she acknowledged to herself, mainly in that he was polite, well-mannered, and didn’t smell too bad. Left to her own devices, though, she would be alone for the rest of the night. The role-playing was tedious work for her, harder sometimes than the actual job. Still, if he stayed the night, he’d be paying her pretty well, and she would not have to spend the whole damn night on her back.
“Suits me,” he said, pillowing his head on folded arms. “I could use a bottle, though, and it wouldn’t put me out none to have a bite.”
Myrtle was thinking the same thing. “Right, me bucko.” She climbed out of the small, rickety bed and opened the thin door to the shack. Standing there without a stitch on, she shouted, “Hey, Fannie. Get one of them darkies to bring us a bottle and some grub.”
“You got you an all-nighter?” a voice called, floating in to Rhodes. He smiled. He had been called worse things in his life.
“Sure do.” It sounded to Rhodes like Myrtle figured she had hit the mother lode or something. He shrugged. That did not bother him either.
The whiskey and food—in the form of boiled hen’s eggs, jerked buffalo, cold roasted chicken and turkey and two kinds of cheese—arrived soon. Rhodes, still lying on the bed, quickly and quietly grabbed one of his revolvers from where they lay on the dirt floor of the shack, and he held it ready until he was sure there was no danger.
“Hell,” Rhodes said when he saw the food, “I ain’t eaten this good since I left home.” Even though the portions were small, it still looked good to him.
After eating and sharing some whiskey, they coupled again. Shortly after, Rhodes fell asleep, to Myrtle’s relief.
Rhodes figured it was near midnight when he woke. He sat up in the dark, wondering what had woken him. He reached for a pistol. In the flickering light of a coal-oil lantern that burned low on a table, he could see Myrtle sleeping next to him.
Then he heard a sound, and he wasn’t quite sure of it for a few moments. Then it came again, his wonder increasing. He grinned and as the sound continued, his smile widened considerably. Old Joe Bonner was singing—in one of the most beautiful tenors Rhodes had ever heard—Old Rosin the Beau. The pure, fresh notes and the mildly lascivious words were as cle
ar as the night air.
“He’s really somethin’, ain’t he, bucko?” Myrtle said in a whisper, not wanting to break the moment.
Rhodes nodded. “That he is,” he answered in kind.
Ten minutes or so later, Bonner’s wonderful voice wound down. No one had said another word that whole time. But as the final notes drifted up into the cool night sky, Rhodes turned to Myrtle. “Seeing as how we’re both awake now...”
“I’d be delighted,” Myrtle said huskily, surprising herself. She didn’t realize until later that it was that old man’s soft, sweet voice that had made her so willing, indeed, eager for a man’s embrace.
Myrtle pleasantly suffered another go-round in the morning, before Rhodes rose and dressed. Outside, he went to the crib Bonner was using. He pounded on the door, almost breaking the fragile thing down.
“Get up, you lecherous old reprobate,” he roared. “Come on, now, get up, before I come in there and drag your scrawny old ass out.”
Rhodes moved back a step, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He had roused several people, who were watching from other cribs or from the back porches of the few nearby buildings.
The door was flung open suddenly and a bleary-eyed, disheveled scarecrow glared out.
“Jesus, Joe, if you ain’t the ugliest looking son of a bitch I’ve ever set eyes on.”
“Goddammit, boy,” Bonner growled low in his throat, “you don’t leave me alone I’ll be usin’ your ass for a goddamn target.”
“You ain’t going to do no such thing. Now get yourself together and let’s go get us some grub.”
“Goddamn young son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “Ain’t got no goddamn consideration for their elders...” He turned, still muttering.
Five minutes later, Bonner came out, squinting against the fierce glare of the sun. It was warm already, and they expected another barn-burner of a hot day, but the chill of last night was a reminder that Indian summer wasn’t going to be around long. The two walked off, Rhodes at a good pace, which he had to slow considerably, since Bonner was barely shuffling. “You really are a sorry bastard, ain’t you, gramps?”
“You keep talkin’, boy and I’ll cut your goddamn liver out and eat it.” He suddenly looked queasy. “Soon’s I get my stomach back,” he groaned.
“You really feeling that poorly, Joe?” Rhodes asked, concerned.
“Worse.”
“How about we find someplace you can get some more shut-eye?” Rhodes felt bad that Bonner was so hung-over. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but he still felt bad about dragging the old man out of bed so early.
“Need a little hair of the bear first.” Bonner tried to spit out some of the foulness that clung to his tongue like he was born with it. He had no success. “Jesus,” he mumbled. “Goddamn sweet Jesus.”
“Don’t you think you’re a wee bit old for such nonsense?” Rhodes asked, unable to refrain from teasing Bonner.
“I’ll be too goddamn old when I’m in my grave a month, and not a goddamn day before,” Bonner grumbled.
Rhodes laughed. “I’ll be certain to come along the day before and dig you up, just to see if you’re still interested.”
Bonner said nothing, but if the stare he fixed on Rhodes was a dagger, Rhodes would be six feet under right now.
They finally curled around the corner and then entered the saloon. It was still going strong; perhaps not quite as busy as the evening before, but roaring nonetheless.
By the time he had downed his second shot, Bonner was feeling a little better. “Now, goddammit, you can buy me some victuals, boy,” he said firmly.
“Be glad to—so long as you don’t eat as much as you drank last night.”
“Boy, you are plainly treadin’ a fine line here.”
“You don’t scare me none, gramps. Old windbag like you.”
They found a restaurant and stepped inside. A pleasant, though overworked young man took their order and hurried away, summoned by clanging pots and a shouting cook.
Rhodes and Bonner took their time eating. Rhodes was hungry and paid serious attention to his food. Bonner was still suffering from his hangover and picked at his food. “Goddamn,” he muttered early on, “there ain’t no one can mess up a good piece of meat like a goddamn Dutchman.”
“Just shut your trap and eat. I ain’t going to sit here all day waiting on you,” Rhodes said calmly.
By the time he got a third mug of coffee in him, Bonner was ready to go to town on his food, false teeth clacking. “What do you got planned for today, boy?” he asked after shoving his empty plates away from him. He pulled out his pipe and fired it up.
“Reckon we ought to go see if Erastus needs any help.”
“What’s this ‘we’ shit?” Bonner asked, but he grinned.
“Hell, we’re all in this together now. Even though we don’t have any money tied up in their venture, we’ve been with ’em all along. We might as well see it through.”
“You’re too softhearted, boy,” Bonner said. Then he grinned again.
Chapter Fifteen
Rhodes and Bonner wandered over to the hotel, taking their time to check out the sights. Intolerance was muddy, dismal even under the bright sun, odorous and boisterous. It was anything but dull, lent houses and buildings stood side-by-side with ones of log or stone. Many of the buildings tilted dangerously, looking ready to fall over from their own weight. Small side streets and alleys straggled off at odd angles, taking people to nowhere.
The town seemed little different from yesterday, when the small group had ridden in. People still hurried about, gunfire erupted sporadically, and fights broke out. A crowd gathered quickly, and ended fast, most often with the two combatants walking away together to toast their battle.
Rhodes noted more women and children on the streets, though, and more townsmen. He also was aware of the many businesses—besides the dozens of saloons, brothels, and gambling dens—lining the main street: at least three general stores, two dry goods stores, three groceries, a hardware store, gunsmith’s, assay office, two doctors’ offices, five barbershops, three blacksmiths, two newspaper offices, eight lawyers, a couple of Chinese laundries, one large, imposing bank and two smaller ones, and a plethora of restaurants.
It was a wild and wooly place, and Rhodes felt almost at home—as long as he had his pistols and his shotgun at hand. He glanced at Bonner. The old mountain man seemed somehow different, though Rhodes could not figure out why. “Something bothering you, old man?” he asked.
“Too many goddamn people for this ol’ chil’, goddammit.”
“All these folks make you nervous?” Rhodes was surprised.
“Goddamn right they do. Why’n hell you think I stayed out here in these mountains or nearby for so goddamn long anyway?” Bonner asked rhetorically. “Hell, the beaver trade died but afore you was born, and most of the mountaineers went off to some place or another where there was people about. But not all of us, goddammit. Ol’ Gabe Bridger, he stuck it out as long as he could. Poor ol’ bastard’s half blind and finally had to give in and move to the States. Man, but he was a feisty son of a bitch in his prime.”
A deep, resonant wistfulness in Bonner’s voice made Rhodes glance sharply at him. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes, and he was fighting them off. “You don’t need to say any more,” Rhodes said quietly. “It’s none of my business and I ought not to’ve pried.”
“Goddamn right,” Bonner growled, finally managing to control his emotions. He was grateful for Rhodes’s consideration. Most other folks would have been solicitous and made Bonner feel even worse. But Rhodes seemed to have a knack of knowing just what to do. It would never do to tell Rhodes that, though, Bonner figured. It’d most likely just give him a swollen head.
They went inside the hotel. A skinny old man with a long beak of a nose sat behind the counter. He stood when the two men came in. He was unable to keep his distaste off his pinched face.
“What room’s Mr. Flake in?” Rhodes asked. “Twenty
-two. But he’s not there.”
“You know where he might be?”
The skinny man shrugged and made a surreptitious movement, opening his hand.
Anger flared in Rhodes’s chest. He had been having a good day, but it had soured on him. He reached across the counter and grabbed the hotelier’s shirt with one big hand. He jerked the man forward. “The only thing you’re going to get from me, you maggot, is broken bones. Now, you know where Mr. Flake might be?”
“He and the others went to breakfast,” the man said, almost wetting his pants. “At Brindle’s.”
“Where’s that?”
“Right next door.” He pointed a quivering hand. Rhodes released him. “Obliged,” he said evenly, anger gone already.
Rhodes and Bonner went next door and spotted the group of Mormons. They each grabbed a chair and set them next to the table and sat. “Morning, folks,” Rhodes said.
“Are you two hungry?” Flake asked.
“No, sir. Me and Joe ate already. We come to see what you have planned.”
“Well, we’re going to auction off the goods we brought in. We put up some signs yesterday afternoon.” He chuckled. “Two store owners offered to buy us out, lock, stock, and barrel for a considerable profit, but I turned them down and told them to come to the auction. I figure we can do better by selling the goods piecemeal, but if the offer’s right, I’d be glad to sell all to one buyer.”
Rhodes nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Where and when?”
“At the livery where the wagon is stored. At noon today.”
“You ain’t wasting much time are you?” Rhodes said with a little laugh.
“Sloth is sinful, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake said solemnly.
“I suppose it is,” Rhodes responded flatly. He ran his index finger and thumb around his lips a few times. “You given any thought to what you’re going to do for the winter?” he asked. It had not occurred to him until just now that while the Mormons would get a good price for the goods they brought in, they would also have to pay high for anything they bought in Intolerance.