We’re the advocates of all hard-workin’ men,
And if that’s the case you cannot say we’re wrong.
Are we right?
The Irish gents waltz-clogged around the stage, repeating their rousing chorus to loud, stomping huzzahs from the hard-digging miners in the hall, as Gillom and his girl shouldered their way out through the raucous crowd in the Orpheum. Still smiling, Luther Goose waved them goodbye.
* * *
Anel and her beau walked across the wide brick junction of Bisbee’s two main business streets at the mouth of Brewery Gulch. It was before midnight. The streets were quieter than they would be on a weekend. Gillom walked her up the boardwalk of Brewery Gulch past the Miner’s Saloon, from which raucous laughter issued, the Wave Candy Company, and the Bisbee Ice Cream Parlor, which were both closed.
“Where do you live, exactly?”
She raised a slim arm, pointing through her lacy ruffle at sleeve’s end. “High up.”
The young man peered upward through the darkness at the bigger houses along the eastern mountainous side of Brewery Gulch, some ostentatiously ablaze with new electric lights. Other dwellings, small shacks mostly, squatted on a bench of land near the top of the ridge, maybe one room aglimmer from a coal oil lamp.
“Chihuahua Town?”
“Sí.” She lowered her eyes, embarrassed by the name always given to the jerrybuilt collection of goods boxes, tin cans, carajo poles, ocotillo ribs, and mud adobe bricks that housed most of the Mexicans in southwestern mining towns.
“Is it safe? I’ll walk you up.”
“Safe, sí. I live with … girlfriend. An otro dancer.”
“Ah.” Even on the darkened street, she could see he was crestfallen. “Like to see you again, Anel. When we have more time to get acquainted.”
She batted her eyelashes, seemingly shy for once.
“What about this Sunday afternoon? We could go on a picnic. I can rent a buggy.” He talked faster. “I could ask Ease, my friend. And he could ask a girl. Four of us. Find a pretty spot, have lunch.”
“I like that. Sí.”
“Okay! I’ll make arrangements. We’ll let you know, Saturday night, at the Red Light.”
“Sí. Thanks to you, Mister Gil-lom.” She leaned up and left him a smear of red across his cheek.
Then she was off into the moonlight, around the store’s corner to climb the first of several long sets of wooden stairs up the steep hillside toward the south-of-the-border-looking shacks near the top. A flash of white leg hose made Gillom feel a little better.
Twenty-six
Friday was always busy, but at least the widows and unmarried spinsters had slowed demanding the handsome young guard escort them back and forth to the town’s only bank. Gillom was able to hurry a couple blocks up the hill to see Ease in the Bonanza an hour after his bank’s 3:00 P.M. closing.
Sun filtered in to the dim saloon from dirty upper glass windows as he entered one of Bisbee’s biggest drinking establishments. Gillom surveyed one table of card players along the empty row of faro and roulette tables, just to make sure Luther and his minions weren’t about. The day shift at the mines hadn’t gotten off yet, so the vultures weren’t around to loosen their pay. Gillom elbowed up to the mahogany between a couple of day drinkers for whom one drink was too many and more were never enough.
“Compadre! How was your date with the dancing queen?” Ease Bixler drew his pal a tall mug.
“We didn’t stay the entire show. But it was a good one, singing, dancing girls and a guy who twisted himself like a hot pretzel.”
“Sounds like a wonder.” The barkeep winked. “You walk her home?”
Gillom shook his head. “No. It’s a hike up to Chihuahua Town. We’re gonna go on a picnic, though, Sunday. Won’t be so noisy, so’s we can get better acquainted. Why don’t you and that big redhead from the dance hall come with us? We can hire a carriage, split the fee, have some fun?”
“Sounds gooder than gum. Let’s stop over at the Red Light tonight, see if Red Jean wants to go.”
“Anel knows her, but she’s got other girlfriends, too. She said she lived with one of the other dancers.”
“Well, maybe. If she’s not Mexican?”
“Roommate might be, Ease. What’s wrong with brown-skinned gals, if you’re just playin’ around?”
The young bartender paused in drawing more beers from a keg.
“I got into too many fights with Mexican kids from across the tracks in Tucson, growin’ up. That’s a race line we were raised not to cross.”
“Yeah, was the same with us kids in El Paso. We didn’t mix much with the Mexes, went to different schools. Unless they worked for somebody we knew, maids, gardeners, tradesmen, we weren’t around Mexicans much. But, I’m cuttin’ my own trail now. You won’t turn unfriendly due to me seein’ Anel?”
Ease shook his head. “’Course not. She’s a comely chiquita.” He grinned. “Your niños’ll have to be raised Catholic, though.”
They dined on complimentary sausages and cheese at Lem Shattuck’s St. Louis Beer Hall after Mr. Bixler got off work. Gillom stayed wary, keeping his back to walls and his eye on the front glass doors of this upper-crust saloon. Ease had many friends from his Bonanza customers who bought the boys ice-cold Anheuser-Busch beers and helped them enjoy their free meal. Gillom was reassured by his twin Remingtons, for he had resolved after last night’s debasement never to appear again in public unarmed.
The Red Light had gotten a jump on the weekend. Gillom and Ease elbowed their way across the dance floor to the pumping Western music of Swart John and his four-piece band. The boys ordered more beers at the long bar. A brewery was located right in this gulch, hence its name, so the malt liquor didn’t have far to travel. They sleeved foam off their lips as they watched revelers cavort around the dance hall.
“I don’t see Red Jean in here. She’s just a pal, but maybe someday, if I play my cards right…” Young Bixler flashed a hopeful grin.
“Thought Jean was one of ’em went upstairs?” Gillom nodded toward the stairway beside the bandstand which led to an upper floorway of small rooms where some of the girls entertained their lustier dancing partners.
Ease held up both hands. “Not with me! I never pay for it!”
“Me, neither,” joshed Gillom, punching his friend in the shoulder. “You get a little liquor in Jean, maybe she’ll let you squeeze it outta her later.”
They laughed. The Western music strummed to a halt and Gillom saw Anel being deposited back on a bench by her partner.
“Save my beer.”
Gillom pushed through the couples changing partners.
“Gil-lom! Nice to see you, señor.”
“You, too, Anel. You ready to venture forth with us Sunday? Ease is looking for Red Jean right now, to ask her along on our picnic. You like her?”
“Jean, sí. Older amiga.”
The young buck smiled. “Good. If you ladies will pack some savories, Ease and I will rent the carriage, bring the drinks.”
The band struck up a favorite, “Turkey in the Straw.” Cowboys yipped and gals squealed as couples swung out onto the hardwood dance floor. Gillom and his girl gave themselves up to the music, sashaying around the loud hall. Anel’s black hair flew out to match her swirling white petticoats under her yellow-checked dress as he swung her round. Gillom was transported in her arms into being a better dancer than he normally was, his boots pivoting across the dance floor, barely keeping time with his enthusiasm. His dancing partner could have been a happy farm girl at a hoedown, except for her darker coloring. Four bits a spasm indeed!
As they caught their breath after the song ended, he escorted his lady back to the bar. “Gosh, that was a rouser!”
Anel’s sweet tea magically appeared from a waitress.
“This’ll be fun, Anel. I want to see the countryside. Don’t fancy living in this smoky, smelly town forever. Rather have a ranch south of here, near the border, maybe ride into town for work.”
&nb
sp; “So you hope sell cows, thieve horses?”
“No, no horse thievin’, or cattle rustlin’, thank you. I’m an honest cowboy.”
“Bueno.” She flashed him a Cheshire cat’s smile.
He could tell she was foolin’ with him. The band commenced again, but they sat this tune out, engaged in each other’s flirtations. With his back to the bar, Gillom saw them enter through the batwing front door, swung wide to accommodate the bulk of the man in the lead, Luther Goose, with his henchman William right behind.
“Anel, that’s the man gave you trouble.”
She turned to look over the dancers to spot the tall, heavy man in the Prince Albert coat. The gambler smiled slightly when he saw the young couple and nudged his partner toward them.
“No. Is no problema.” Her smile had vanished. She stared at Gillom. “Don’t make problema, por favor.”
Where is Ease? he wondered anxiously.
“Well, well. It’s the Texas hellbender.” The gambler’s smile spread into a sneer as they walked up. The teenager watched Mr. Goose wrap and unwrap a gold watch chain thick as his little finger around another digit, betraying his nerves. “I want a dance with this young lady.”
Gillom was quick to respond. “No.”
“Sí, señor.” She noted her young man’s scowl. “Gil-lom. I must dance. Make monies.”
Luther Goose licked a lower lip. “See. Little lady’s smart. Keeps an eye on her bottom dollar.” Then to his henchman, “buy us drinks.” Luther proffered an arm and led Anel onto the dance floor. The youth was left looking at the stoic William, who hadn’t said a word. Gillom backed off a couple steps, pushed his wool coat back clearing his revolvers, and nodded to the bodyguard with the apelike arms.
“Care to stand up to the iron tonight?”
William just smiled, tipped his gray bowler forward at a rakish angle, and ordered whiskies and a tea from a concerned bartender. Luckily, Ease Bixler pushed his way between them just then, with his auburn-haired vixen in tow.
“Gillom! Meet Red Jean. She’s goin’ picnicking with us Sunday.”
“My pleasure, young man. Little country outing. You boys show me a good time, I’ll pack us a nice lunch,” offered Jean.
Gillom shook hands with the lady, impressed by her strong grip, never taking an eye off his smiling adversary behind her.
“Thank you, ma’am. We will have some fun.” Normally he would have been bowled over by a damsel as pretty as this one, but he was distracted by the bodyguard and trying to watch Anel flashing past on the dance floor.
“Is Anel going with us?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am. Why don’t you talk to her about the groceries?”
The song ended, but Luther kept the girl out on the floor in animated conversation. Gillom motioned her to come back.
“I’ll bring the libations. Gillom’s in charge of the carriage. Meet you at your house at noon, Jean. After church?” Ease grinned at his little joke. Red Jean cuffed him in the arm.
“Sure, Ease. You can even take me to church first, if the good Lord will let us both in.”
Anel led her demanding customer back to the little group before she had to dance again.
The redhead piped up. “Anel! You an’ me’s gotta talk, honey, about this picnic.”
Luther Goose butted in. “Ohh, a picnic?”
“You’re not invited,” Gillom interjected.
“I didn’t ask you, kid.” The brothel owner frowned. “You should be nice to me, ladies, for all the money I’ve passed through this joint, and gambled in the Bonanza, too, fella.” He addressed Ease. “Recognize you from behind the bar.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Goose. We appreciate your business.”
“But not my company?”
“I didn’t say that, sir. It’s just a … private party.”
“And these ladies are already spoken for,” added the kid from El Paso.
Luther nodded. “We can take our business to friendlier saloons. Come along, William.” But his tight brown eyes warned.
As they brushed past, the short Cornishman made a sudden feint at Gillom’s legs, as if he were going to take him down again. Gillom jumped backward, both hands jerking to his pistol grips and pulling them. The quick move caused William to smile, since he’d deceived Gillom as to his intent. The two older men bulled their way out through the crowd forming on the dance floor for the next tune.
Gillom blew hot air. “I’m tired of running into those jaspers. Got into a wrestling match at the Orpheum last night with that damned bodyguard.”
“Oh, yeah? That William Pascoe’s a champion wrestler, Gillom. Hell, most of ’em are. Cornish miners are strong, pard, big arms and shoulders from hammering iron spikes into rock all day. Wrestling’s their national sport!”
“Found that out the hard way, when he dumped me in the toilet.”
“He didn’t?” Ease chortled and even the gals were amused.
“Yeah, well, I’d never seen him before and the bastard just tackled me suddenly, no warning. Wasn’t wearing my guns.”
The wiser harlot weighed in. “Just stay away from them then. You, too, Anel. Luther Goose is bad trouble.”
They had fun the rest of the evening in the Red Light planning their menu, where they’d go, details Gillom was unfamiliar with, having never double-dated before. When he and Ease pulled out after midnight, they hiked back downtown and then uphill to their miners’ cottages, nearly talked out.
He was exhausted when he pulled up his wool blanket and quilt atop his feather pad, but his sore legs were too jumpy to go to sleep immediately. He had to get up again in his long johns to relieve a beer full bladder. With the door open to the outhouse uphill, Gillom rested in the one-holer, contemplating the few lights still on in the large mansions on Quality Hill across the canyon. In the dark, the “dirtiest air in the West” wasn’t so noticeable.
Bisbee’s a booming town, he thought. Everybody here’s trying to elbow their way to fortune and not being too choice about how rough they have to play to grab it. I want a little of that luck, too. I cannot allow myself to be pushed around in public by this gambling Goose joker and his thug. All’s I got to build on is my reputation as a fast gun, and I’ve got to protect that at all costs.
From somewhere down the canyon, an accordionist pulled his bellows and pressed the keys and a haunting Mexican air echoed up the Mule Mountains. The song provided mournful contrast to the deep thrumming of the mines’ blowers and smelters, which he’d gotten used to. A shout in the night—“shut the goddamned up!”—made him smile.
His bladder relieved, his confidence bucked up, Gillom Rogers padded barefoot back into his cottage, retreated under his bedding, calmed by the night air. As he relaxed finally, before Morpheus took him, he remembered his one scrap with John Bernard Books in his mother’s downstairs guest room. Books had learned from the old El Paso stableman, Mose Tarrant, that Gillom had sold Books’s horse one spring morning without his say-so. The old shootist made him give the hundred dollars back, humiliated him right in front of his mother! Books turned the fraudulently obtained money over to Bond Rogers for the trouble he’d caused her by staying in her rooming house. After his mother had been dismissed, the gunman berated him further and Gillom sassed back, which had gotten him slapped. This precipitated a tussle, banging them both against a chiffonier. Surprisingly, the teenager’s strength and suppleness had prevailed over the bigger, cancerous older man as he threw him onto the bed. Gillom hadn’t forgotten what he’d yelled at J. B. Books.
“I’m as good with a gun as you! And you can’t fight for sour apples, not anymore you can’t! So just remember, Mister Blowhard—I’ve got my own laws now, just like you, and I live by ’em. I won’t be laid a hand on, either, or showed up! And I won’t be treated like a kid, ever again!”
He meant every word and had lived on those very terms since. After that little dispute, the great gunfighter had given him no further grief. That was the way men dealt with their difficulties and th
ose causing them, straight on, heads-up, and devil take the hindmost. J. B. Books respected that dominant style, too. From here on, the cautious, the weak, the inferior type of man can just swallow my dust, he promised himself. Gillom Rogers drifted off with a contented smile.
* * *
Mrs. Blair was sweeping her porch the next morning as Gillom went out late to do some errands. The widow fixed him with a hard eye.
“At least you’re quiet when you bump in so late.”
“Yes, ma’am. No singing or playing the gui-tar.”
Her gray hair up in a bun, she smiled, in spite of herself. “Start boiling any water you drink, anywhere. There’s a touch of typhoid in town again, they’re sayin’. Spring down at Castle Rock’s tainted. That fever can kill you, young man, so be careful of what they pour you in restaurants.”
“What about the water off the burro trains?”
“It’s supposed to be drawn from the one uncontaminated well way up Brewery Gulch, but I wouldn’t trust it. Unless you’d like to die with your brain on fire.”
“No, ma’am. I’ll stick to coffee then. And beer!” he yelled back up at her, now brushing her front stoop.
“They’ve gotta hurry digging those wells south near Naco, pump us clean water up here before we’re all diseased.” Mrs. Blair was talking mostly to herself, for Gillom was already taking the wooden stairs two at a time to get out of focus of his landlady’s all-seeing eyes.
* * *
The same pockmarked man was mucking mules’ stalls when Gillom strolled up to the O.K. Livery that Saturday afternoon.
“Howdy. I’m lookin’ to rent a carriage tomorrow. Gonna have four of us to pull, so we’ll probably need a matched team.
“A matched team.” The liveryman leaned on his rake. “Kid, we don’t rent show horses here.”
“Well then, the best you’ve got. Taking some ladies on a picnic.”
“Ah, well then. An unmatched team should work just fine for you. Picnics are pretty popular on summer Sundays. Our surrey and two spring buggies are already spoken for, tomorra.”
He left his rake and escorted Gillom to the side of their barn next to the mountain where this commercial operation stored its wheeled conveyances in space not large enough for corrals.
The Last Shootist Page 17