The Last Shootist

by Miles Swarthout

  “William, open that faro box. Let’s see how it’s stacked?”

  The dealer started to protest, but the beefy gambler leaned and thrust the dealer’s over-and-under derringer right up his nostril.

  “I want my money back!”

  The Bonanza’s floorman and its burliest bartender were already on the move, the latter holding a wooden cudgel behind his apron tied in back. The dealer’s “lookout,” the man who sat on his right corner of the faro table and collected and paid off the bets, was also on his feet with his hand on his side gun.

  The gambler’s buddy opened the faro box, a small metal rectangle inlaid with abalone shell designs, removed the cards, and examined the insides. At the bottom William found a metal plate that, when pressed with a finger, sprung up slightly to allow him to pull out a hidden card, an ace of spades, concealed in a smaller stack beneath the plate.

  The gambler yelled, “Lookit that! He’s pullin’ two cards out of the slot! Whichever he needs to win! Bastard’s bracing the deck!”

  The big man with the Roman nose pulled back the derringer and with both meaty hands shoved the green felt faro table hard at the dealer, pushing him suddenly back into his chair and pinning him right up against the saloon’s wall.

  “I want my money back!”

  The floorman leaned in, took the angry gambler by the shoulder of his gun hand to restrain him. Right along his other side was the bartender, thrusting his cudgel.

  “Okay, Luther, calm down. We’ll give you your money back if it’s justified.”

  “Justified! His box is gaffed to double-deal! Look!”

  A crowd had gathered around this faro table, wanting their look, too. Luther’s partner demonstrated the spring plate card concealer to the elbowing barflies and floor boss, who stared hard at the sweating dealer pinned against the wall.

  “You’re through, Simmons. We don’t allow gaffed faro boxes in the Bonanza. Be on the next stage out of Bisbee.” There was nothing more to say, so the dealer wisely didn’t. The gambling manager was making good on everybody’s losses while Luther held the rigged faro box high as his trophy. The din returned as bettors loudly demanded to examine the boxes at other faro tables.

  “C’mon. I’m not supposed to drink much in here after work, and the owners’ll be coming in, they hear about this mess.”

  “Let’s put on the nosebag then. I’m starving!” The boys chugged their beers and were outside the Bonanza in a burp.

  “Who was that spotted the fix?” Gillom wanted to know.

  “Luther Goose. One of the biggest gamblers around. They say he comes down here to recruit our girls for his parlor house up in Clifton, the other big copper town in Arizona.”

  “Funny name for a gambler.”

  “His whorehouse in Clifton’s called the Blue Goose.”

  They chuckled as they strolled farther up the dirt lane comprising Brewery Gulch, Ease explaining it was the next street in town scheduled to be brick-paved. They stopped to watch a fierce dog fight erupt from an alley. No one claimed the territorial mutts so a few miners paused to watch, even started to make bets on the barking, biting combatants.

  “How do you know so much about Bisbee, Ease? Were you born here?”

  “Nope, grew up in Tucson. My dad was a bartender, part owner of a saloon. Mother was a barmaid there awhile. She’s still over in Tucson, lives with her sister after my pop died a few years back. Heart went. Saloon business is a hard one, never stops, but the money’s good if you can stand the late hours. I learned from the bottom up, mopping vomit and washing out spittoons. I came over here right after high school. There’s more promise here in Bisbee with all its mining money, although Tucson’s still the biggest trading town in Arizona Territory.”

  They pushed their way through the dozens of men sitting along the boardwalks outside the twenty saloons and rooming houses lining the lower end of the gulch. Miners off their day shift clotted in groups smoking, chawing, or passing round a bottle as they watched their brethren make the rounds of the bars this fine Friday night.

  Ease steered him into one of the better establishments, Tony Down’s Turf Saloon. Gillom was soon digging into steak and potatoes and steamed vegetables washed down with another beer.

  “Hell, you got to be a little on the rustle to make your fortune in Bisbee now it’s being dug out and built up. I’m just training on the day shift, where I miss the better tips at night, but eventually I’ll meet some well-connected gentleman through the Bonanza who can get me a head bartender’s or a manager’s job somewheres else.”

  “Same here,” agreed Gillom. “Hope to bodyguard enough wealthy businessmen during my day job at the bank, to slide into something more lucrative nights.”

  “Just don’t end up an enforcer, a fast gun for somebody like Luther Goose. He’s put the evil eye on the Bonanza now. Rigged faro, gollee.”

  “Does he really steal girls from your saloons for his own joint?”

  “Yeah, but lots of professional gamblers take up with prostitutes and make money off them. Doc Holliday had Big-Nosed Kate following him around the West. Over in Tombstone, the famous Earp brothers were known as the fighting pimps.”

  “Huh.” Gillom leaned back and wiped his mouth with his linen, well satisfied with his supper. The boys ordered dried plums soaked in water overnight, dessert fare in an arid country where fresh fruit was a rarity. “Well, I’m no dirt digger. I aim to keep my hands clean and make my fortune aboveground.”

  Ease wiped foam off his bare upper lip. “Me, too, pard. Waitress! Bill, please! I feel like goin’ on a tear tonight!”

  Twenty-two

  They tumbled from the Turf Saloon into the night. The upper end of Brewery Gulch was beyond a sharp bend in the gorge that cut it off from the street of that name as if it were in a different mountain range altogether. Ease explained this was Bisbee’s red light area of twenty dance halls, cribs, and whorehouses known as “the reservation,” all licensed and taxed by the city fathers to keep a lid on their licentiousness in one boiling kettle. Consequently, it was the part of town notorious for robbery, assault, and drug use, so they had to watch their tails. Bisbee’s wickedness beckoned these young men this fair spring night with a wide red smile.

  Gillom had strolled El Paso’s notorious Utah Street at night with his pals, so he wasn’t shocked when he passed the rows of cribs on both mountainous sides of the gulch. These were frame rowhouses about the size of boxcars, fifty to seventy-five feet wide, partitioned into ten to twelve cubicles, each with an entrance to the street and a bedroom in front and a small washroom, closet, and stove in the back, with privies and clotheslines out behind. Women posed in the doorways and front windows displaying their charms, soliciting customers with lewd gestures, whistles, and insistent entreaties.

  “Hey, I’m Cassie, an awful nice friend to you boys.” Or, “Say, sweetheart, what’s your hurry?”

  They were different shades, brown or white, some overweight or worn, others fresher, lingering in the lamplit openings in skimpy nightgowns or colorful kimonos, rocking on their front porch pulling up silk stockings and stifling yawns.

  “Come in and see me, cowboys! Two-for-one special tonight!”

  Ease walked Gillom to the bitter end of the gulch to take it all in, the bright lights and the depravity, giving him a good look at bad Bisbee by night, but now he took his new friend by the elbow and turned him around on their evening constitutional.

  “These tramps ain’t for the likes of us. I’ll show you the Red Light dance hall, back near the bend. Nicer, younger girls to talk to, dance with, and you don’t have to fuck ’em to have some fun.”

  Gillom grinned. “Sounds about all right.”

  As they entered, Gillom saw the Red Light was a little bigger and better decorated than most of the Western dance halls of 1901, for this narrow frame building had a long bar on one side of the dance floor. It also featured a bandstand for music and no nude paintings on its walls of harlots posed in prostrate beauty com
mon to frontier gambling establishments. Some of the Red Light’s younger dancers were of foreign, European extraction or, this close to the border, Mexican. Gillom and Ease admired the flashier girls whirling about the wooden floor, trying not to bowl over their lead-footed partners.

  “Howdy, Ease,” said the plump, mustachioed barkeep. “What’ll you boys have?”

  “I believe I’ll have a Stone Fence, Fred, thank you.”

  Gillom looked puzzled. “Whatever that is, make it two.”

  “That is a shot of rye in a mug of hard cider with some ice and a dash of lemon. Couple of Stone Fences and you’re ready to try buildin’ your own,” Ease explained. The lads laughed. “Know whose favorite drink that is?”

  Gillom shook his head.

  “Buffalo Bill Cody’s.”

  Their drinks appeared and Ease paid and they clinked glasses.

  “To love, wherever her pretty ass may be,” toasted Gillom.

  “Maybe right in here!” chortled Ease, as up on the bandstand, Swart John bowed his plaintive fiddle, and Ramon and his kid brother their melodious guitar and guitaron, as another chili-flavored stomp commenced.

  Gillom turned to admire the ladies spinning past them. “Are these girls whores?”

  “Some of them are, sure, but not all,” advised Ease. “You’ve gotta know which ones do the deed. There’s small rooms with beds in back up there. Three dollars a poke, plus tip. Ten dollars for the whole night, after hours. You hafta buy ’em a drink before each dance, see, but it’s only cold tea, so they don’t get too drunk to maneuver.” Ease pointed toward a wall sign. DANCES AVAILABLE! ONE BUCK A SPASM!

  “A dollar gets her tea and a dance with her. Whiskey, beer, or mixed drinks extra.”

  His younger friend looked perplexed. “I thought all hurdy-gurdy girls were prostitutes?”

  “In the cheaper joints, yes. There’s those in Bisbee. But some of these dance hall queens are so popular they don’t hafta make their money watchin’ the ceiling. And they’re insulted if you ask ’em to go upstairs, so be careful you don’t get slapped.”

  There was a disruption as one of the drunken miners tripped over his heavy boots and took his partner down to the floor with him. The fast music played right on, and except for a ripped stocking, the girl appeared to be okay as she stalked off from her clumsy partner while he rolled to his feet grinning loopily.

  Then Gillom saw her, a heart-quickening eyeful in a dress of white satin as she whirled by with a better-dressed, older gentleman. Her lighter brown skin was clear and her coloring shone around the lipstick she had smeared across her warm prettiness. Many of these bar belles favored too much makeup, rouge and eye shadow, but the ones with the most face powder to cover their wrinkles were more likely to be “painted” ladies of the evening as well as dancing partners. This girl looked lighter-skinned than most Mexicans, so there had to have been a white European in her family’s generational woodpile somewhere. Her long, black hair spun out as she swung from her partner on small, light feet. He was a skilled dancer and got her spinning faster so the bell shape of her knee-length skirt spun out, giving the attending men a good view of her ankles and calves and, more excitingly, her ruffled white bloomers.

  “What about her? The beauty in the white dress?”

  “Don’t know ’er. New girls are always popular. You’ll have to get in line to meet her.” Ease pointed to another sign on the wall—NO DRINKS, NO DANCES.

  So Gillom imbibed his liquor and inhaled the powerful odor of tobacco, stale drinks, cheap perfume, sweat, and stained clothing that a Western dance hall mixed in strong doses, while the patrons thrashed about the dance floor under the allure of yellowish lamplight. And it was often more thrashing than ballroom dancing with these clumsy miners, so some of the gals wore work boots just to keep their toes from getting mashed. When the five-minute song ended, he watched the enchanting girl return to her bench along the wall and her partner to refresh himself at the bar. Whistling and applause came from some of the watchers for this dancing gal’s lingerie display, which would increase her tips this busy night in the Red Light. Gillom walked over to join her.

  “May I have your next dance, ma’am?”

  The señorita smiled, but pointed a slim finger at the sign nearby.

  “Oh yes. What are you drinking, ma’am?”

  She smiled coquettishly. “Sweet tea.”

  Gillom now knew the gambit, and at least she was honest, not calling it liquor. He hurried to the end of the long counter, got a bartender’s attention, and pointed back at who he was buying a phony drink for. There was a five-minute interlude between dances so business could be transacted. But now the music was starting up again and her missing partner was pulling her out onto the dance floor once more. Gillom shook his head, frustrated. This is gonna be difficult, he figured. She’s so damned popular.

  But he bought the glass of tea the bartender poured from a pitcher under the bar and watched as the man chalked a quick mark next to a name he couldn’t read on a small blackboard he hadn’t noticed behind the glassware. It was the Red Light’s scoreboard for which girls had had how many drinks when it came time to split the proceeds at night’s end, fifty-fifty. For an energetic evening of sweet tea and tips, a few of the prettier girls could make as much as fifty dollars, good money just for dancing their feet afire.

  Gillom took his tea and mug of hard cider back to her empty seat, getting a high sign from Ease as he passed, and proffered it to the young lady as she waltzed off the dance floor again, out of breath. Her partner gave Gillom a cold stare as the beauty accepted his drink. The middle-aged gent started to protest, but the dancing queen cut him off by pointing at the no drinks sign once more. He knew the house rules. In a huff, the gentleman in the blue suit stomped off for more refreshments, as Gillom moved in.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Anel.”

  “What?”

  “Ana Leticia. Mi papá put them together. So, Anel.”

  “What’s it mean? In Spanish?”

  “Nothing. Is made up.”

  “Ah. Pretty name, though, like you. I’m Gillom Rogers. From El Paso.”

  “Ah. Tejano.” She presented him a bent wrist. He didn’t know whether to kiss it or bow? So he tried to shake it instead. Then, a pause amidst the din, both of them looking away, then back at each other, sipping their drinks. The music commenced and they could put down their glasses, step out on the dance floor. This one was slower, a waltz almost, so they could converse as they danced.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Zacatecas. Where I was birthed. Then Minas Prietas, La Cananea, to Bis-bee. Mining towns. Mi papá, hees a miner.”

  “Ah, sí. So your family is here?”

  “No. Mi familia ees in Mexico. La Cananea. Work the mines.”

  Gillom swung her around under his outstretched arm, even if it wasn’t the proper move for this dance. Anel giggled but seemed to enjoy him. At least he wasn’t tripping over his own feet, but following her lead. The whiskey, hard cider, and beer were rising from his gut to his head when he waltzed her off the dance floor as the music ended and back to her bench.

  “Thank you, Mis-ter Vaquero.” She curtsied, having fun with him. They took up their glasses, thirsty from the exertion.

  “No, no cowboy. I’m the new bank guard. Starting Monday.”

  “Guard?”

  “Bodyguard. Bank of Bisbee. For the customers. So they don’t get robbed.”

  “Ah, sí.” And then he was back, her first dance partner, bearing a fresh tea and a shit-eating grin. That was enough for this impatient teenager, this constant changing of partners.

  “Okay. See you around.”

  The cute Latina gave him a little wave as he walked away, then turned back to her work. He found another spot at the bar and ordered a last beer, watched Ease reel by in the arms of a muscular Amazon tossing about a mass of flaming red hair to match his own. His buddy was beaming as he thanked his Lorelei after this dance en
ded and panted back to his companero.

  “Who’s the big gal?” inquired Gillom.

  “Red Jean. Tougher than a mesquite root, pard. Jean could grind my stem to pulp if she wanted to. I’d never cross her, but she’s fun to dance with. How’d you do?”

  “Anel’s pretty, but she’s getting play from the sports in here.”

  “Yeah, it’s Friday, crowded.” They watched Gillom’s beauty dance by again with her older gentleman. “Older bucks just won’t leave the new does alone.”

  The young bucks rued their luck. But Mr. Bixler was still full of fire.

  “C’mon! Finish your drink and let’s go find some more fun!”

  The lads stepped outside to clear their lungs of the smoky, stale smell of the dance hall.

  “This place must rake in money.”

  “You bet. Dancing miners just pour down the booze, and there’s not as much overhead as with a gambling saloon or a parlor house. The noise is such a nuisance the neighbors complain, so the Red Light has to pay a higher tax to the city council for more deputies to patrol this action,” Ease explained. “You can’t open up a dance hall just anywhere. Come back on a quieter week night, Gillom. If that’s gal’s workin’, she’ll have more time for you then. These girls make most of their money on weekends.”

  “Figures.”

  “Let’s go have a toddy downtown. Joe Muheim’s is where Bisbee’s important men like to drink. No dancing girls there, though.”

  “Lead the way, pard.”

  And Mr. Bixler did, off the lighted porch. They were crossing a dirt alley between buildings when a voice hissed out of the darkness.

  “Reach for Heaven, if you value your lives.”

  The threat wasn’t shouted but it got their attention, halted their stroll. A pistol poked from the black night, beckoned them back into the inkwell. The boys did as instructed, slowly.

  “Hurry up. Hands against the wall. Your wallets, boys.” The pistol’s owner wore a dark suit and a heavy black mustache. All they really noticed, though, were mean eyes glaring from beneath a slouch hat.

  Ease wasn’t armed, coming off his work shift, but he was in front and so was shoved against the wall first. Pulling up the tails of Ease’s wool coat, the footpad spied the bulge in Bixler’s back pocket and groped for it. Whether he didn’t notice Gillom, still facing him, was packing iron covered by his coat, or the thrill of finding his first victim’s money distracted him, but the moonlight bandit forgot to keep an eye on his second prey as he ripped Ease’s wallet from his pants.