But it wasn’t. He stuck his hand all the way down and felt the entire pocket. When he pulled his hand out, it was empty.
“Haw!” Carter said. “I reckon this proves the boy was lyin’.”
Art’s stomach tumbled in fear. Almost in desperation, he put his hand back in Riley’s jacket pocket, and this time, he felt something. Grabbing it, he realized that whatever he was feeling wasn’t actually in the pocket, but was behind a layer of cloth. Something was sewn into the lining of the jacket.
“I think I’ve found it!” Art said.
“Pull it out. Let us see it,” Cooper said.
“It’s behind . . .” Art started to say, then seeing Riley’s knife, he picked it up and used it to rend the fabric. After that, it was easy to wrap his hands around the wallet.
“Glory be!” McPherson said. “That’s my purse!”
“Damn your hide, boy!” Carter shouted from the edge of the bar. As Art looked toward the one who had let out the bellow, he saw that Carter was pointing a pistol at him.
Carter fired, just as Art leaped to one side. The huge-caliber ball dug a big, splintered hole in the wide-plank floor. Though the bullet itself didn’t strike Art, he was sprayed in the face by the splinters that were ejected when the bullet passed through the floor.
On top of the roar of Carter’s pistol, came a second, even louder blast. This was from Cooper’s shotgun, and Art saw Carter’s chest and face turn into instant ground sausage. Carter pitched backward, dead before he even hit the floor.
“Free beer to anyone who helps drag that trash out of here,” Cooper said as he stood there holding the still-smoking gun.
The offer of free beer was all the inducement necessary. Instantly, it seemed, half-a-dozen men sprang forward. It took them but a moment to drag the two bodies out into the alley behind the dram shop. Leaving them there, they hurried back inside for their reward.
Although neither Art nor Harding joined the detail in dragging the bodies out, they didn’t lack for beer. McPherson, whose poke Art had saved, bought a round for each of them.
After the round furnished by McPherson, Harding suggested that it might be better if they moved on. As a result, Art, who by now had drunk five beers, was a little unsteady on his feet as he followed him outside.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Art asked.
“What sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?” Art repeated, surprised by the question. He nodded toward the bar they had just left. “The knife fight. I mean, that man was trying to kill you.”
“Yeah, he was,” Harding answered easily. “That’s why I killed him.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“The hell you say. What about the business down on the river?”
“That wasn’t the same thing,” Art said. “The fight on the river happened real quick. This . . . I don’t know . . . this sort of unfolded real slow. One minute everyone was having a nice time, and the next minute you and that man Riley were fighting.”
“Have you thought about what caused us to fight?”
“You said he wanted to kill you.”
Harding chuckled. “I mean, have you thought about why he wanted to kill me?”
“I guess because . . .” Art paused.
“Because I asked him to empty his pockets,” Harding said. “And the reason I asked him to do that was because you had just accused him of stealing.”
“Oh!” Art said. “Then I was the cause.”
Harding chuckled again. “No, not really. Riley and Carter brought it on themselves. Stealing is not the safest way to make a living out here. If someone plans to make his livelihood that way, then he damn well better be prepared to face the consequences. And in this case, the consequences were pretty severe.”
“Yeah, I guess they were,” Art said rather pensively.
Harding reached over and rubbed his hand through Art’s hair. “Look, Art, it’s like I told you back on the boat when you killed that son of a bitch who was trying to kill me. Life is hard out here. Look around you, and you’ll see an eagle killing a mouse, a snake killing a frog, and a fox killing a rabbit. If you aren’t ready to face up to that, then you may as well go on back home to your mama and papa. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I reckon I do,” Art said.
“Good.”
“But I don’t reckon it’s ever goin’ to be somethin’ I will enjoy doin’. Killin’ someone, I mean.”
“Son, I pray to God that you never do get to where you enjoy it. There’s a difference between doin’ somethin’ that you have to do to survive, and doin’ it for the pure, evil pleasure of it. And when you stop to think about it, it’s those who do take pleasure from it who are going to wind up giving you the most trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Art said.
“Well, that’s enough teaching for now. I’ve saved the best for last. Come on, I want you to see the Blue Star.”
The Blue Star dram shop was decidedly more attractive than the other saloons had been. Where the others had been thrown together with unpainted, ripsawed, raw lumber, the Blue Star was a carefully finished building. The outside was painted white, and trimmed in red. It was also a two-story building with a false front that made it look even taller from the street.
“Doesn’t look like this building suffered any from the earthquake,” Art said.
“Oh, but it did. It went down, just like the others did. But whereas everyone else has only halfway built their buildings, Mr. Bellefontaine decided he would return the Blue Star to its original state, complete with paint and all the furnishings. The other bar owners were a little put out with him, and if truth be known, I think most of them are sort of privately hoping that the earthquakes come again to sort of even things out for them. Come on, let’s go in. If you think it looks nice from out here, wait until you see the inside.”
The inside lived up to Harding’s promise. Instead of rough-hewn lumber, the bar was finished mahogany, and behind the bar was a large, gilt-edged mirror. Scores and scores of elaborately shaped and colored bottles stood on the counter in front of the mirror, their number doubled by the reflection. At the back of the room, a finished staircase climbed up to a balcony that overlooked the ground floor. Though he couldn’t see it all, he knew that the balcony went as deep as the saloon itself, so there had to be rooms upstairs as well. The interior of the bar was lit, not by unfiltered sunlight, as had been the case with the others, but by a brightly shining chandelier. As a result the windows were closed, and no flies were crawling around on the customers’ tables. Even these tables, Art noticed, were made of finished wood.
“Oh, my,” Art said, looking around.
“Impressive, huh?” Harding asked. “My friend, there is not another dram shop like this on the Mississippi, not from St. Louis to New Orleans. And I ought to know, for I have been in just about every one of them.”
“It is beautiful,” Art said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
“You can see now why I saved this for last.”
As soon as they chose a table, a woman came over to join them.
“And, as an added attraction, the Blue Star has something that none of the other dram shops have,” Harding added, smiling at the approaching woman. “It has women. Art, meet Lily.”
“Well, Harding, I hear you’ve had a busy night,” Lily said by way of greeting.
“You mean you’ve already heard?”
“Word of a killing gets around fast. Even if it is some no-count like Moe Riley, who needed killing.”
“You knew him?”
“All the girls knew him,” Lily said. “And there won’t be any of us shedding any tears over the likes of him.”
Art had never seen a woman who looked like Lily. There were dark markings around her eyes, her lips were as red as ripe cherries, and her cheeks nearly so. The top of her dress was cut very low, and it gapped open so that Art could actually see the swell of the top
s of her breasts. He couldn’t stop staring at her.
Bellefontaine brought three beers to the table. Art didn’t remember ordering, but he picked up the beer and began drinking it. Whereas the taste had been somewhat foreign to him when he began the evening’s drinking spree, he now found that he liked it. He drank nearly half the mug before he set it down. As he looked at Lily’s breasts again, they seemed to be floating in front of him. His head was spinning, and he felt very peculiar.
“Do you like what you see, Art?” Lily asked, looking directly at Art.
“Yesh, ma’am,” Art said. His tongue was thick and he found that he couldn’t make it work as easily as he normally could. He pulled his tongue out of his mouth, felt it with his thumb and forefinger, then looked down at it, trying to see it.
Lily laughed. “I’ll say this for your boy, Harding. He’s a polite one, calling me ma’am.”
“He’s not my boy. He is my friend and business partner.”
“Business partner, is he? He’s a fine-looking young boy, I’ll give you that. But isn’t he a little young to be a business partner?”
“Well, he was my partner,” Harding said. “And he still could be if he wanted to, but he wants to see the creature.”
“Yesh, shee the creasure,” Art repeated.
“Uh-huh,” Lily said. “Well, it ain’t ‘the creature’ he’s been lookin’ at since he come in here.” She stared right at Art and grinned broadly. He was still trying to see his tongue. “Ain’t that right, sonny?”
“Whash right?” Art asked, his speech still slurred.
“I just told your friend here that I don’t believe you been lookin’ at the creature tonight. I think you’ve been lookin’ somewhere else.” She grabbed Art by the back of his head, then pulled his face down onto her breasts. He could feel the warm smooth skin against his face, and he reacted quickly, pulling away.
All the other patrons in the tavern had a good laugh at Art’s expense.
“I . . . I’m shorry,” Art said, blushing in embarrassment.
“Hell, sonny, don’t be sorry,” Lily said with a whooping laugh. “If I didn’t want men to see my titties, I wouldn’t wear clothes like this.”
Art had not only never seen a woman who looked like this, he had never heard one talk like this.
“You’re embarrassing him, Lily,” Harding said.
“I’m not embarrassing him. I’m giving him an education,” Lily said. “Here, Art, as long as we are at it, have yourself a good look.” She unbuttoned two more buttons, then opened her bodice, exposing her breasts all the way to the nipples. “Do you like what you see?”
Again, there was reaction from the others in the tavern. Lily didn’t stop at exposing herself to Art. She opened her blouse wide, then turned toward the others in the tavern, curtsying formally as they whistled, cheered, and beat their hands on the tops of the tables.
She turned back toward Art. “Well, we know what they think about them, but what about you? Do you like my titties?”
“I think your titties are very nice,” he finally said.
Lily whooped again. “Nice,” she said. “I have to tell you, sonny, nice is not a word folks use much around Lily Howard. I do appreciate it, though.”
“Are you a painted woman?” Art asked.
“A painted woman? Well, yes, I reckon I am.”
“Come on,” Harding said, taking Lily by the arm. “You’ve got a room upstairs, don’t you?”
“Right at the head of the stairs, honey,” Lily replied. “As if you didn’t know that. You’ve been there enough times.”
This time the laughter was at Harding’s expense.
“Well, so I have,” Harding admitted. “But what do you say we go again? I think Art has seen as much of ‘the creature’ as he needs to see.”
“I could get Sally to join us. We could teach the boy a thing or two, we could,” Lily offered.
“The boy has grown a lot since he came to me,” Harding said. “But I don’t think he’s ready to be that grown just yet.”
“Okay, honey, whatever you say,” Lily replied. She put her hands on his shoulders, leaned against him so that the spill of her breasts mashed against his chest, then looked up at him.
“Here, watch that. Else we’ll be startin’ right here.”
Smiling, Lily took Harding by the hand and led him to the foot of the stairs.
Harding looked back toward his young friend. “Art, I’ll be back in a little while,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you get something to eat? I think it might do you good.”
As Art watched them climb the stairs, it was almost as if he was watching himself watch them leave. He had never felt such a peculiar sense of detachment from his own body.
“Another beer, sonny?” Bellefontaine asked.
“What? Oh, uh, no, thank you,” Art replied. “I think I’d rather have something to eat, if you’ve got it.”
“I got bacon, eggs, taters right here, if that’s to your likin’.”
“That’ll be fine,” Art said. He stood up, almost too quickly, and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.
“You all right, boy? You look a little unsteady on your get-along there,” Bellefontaine said.
“I’m all right. I think I’ll jush step out back to the privy,” he slurred. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, sonny. Wouldn’t want you to wet your pants,” Bellefontaine said, laughing loud at his own joke.
“I told the boy I wouldn’t want him to wet his pants,” Art heard Bellefontaine telling someone as he stepped out into the alley.
It was quite dark outside, and Art wondered how long he and Harding had been drinking the beer. He wasn’t surprised by the dark. He had watched it get progressively darker after each beer, because he’d found it necessary to visit the privy after each one. He had never peed as often as he had been peeing since he arrived in New Madrid. He wondered if something was wrong with him. Using the privy, then feeling much better, he turned to go back into the tavern to have his supper.
Suddenly he felt a blow to the back of his head! He saw stars, his ears rang, then,he felt himself falling. After that, everything went black.
4
Harding awakened to the aroma of coffee. When he opened his eyes, he saw Lily sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of coffee.
“Uhmm,” he said. “Is that for me?”
Smiling, Lily handed it to him. “I’ll just bet you don’t get service like this from all your other women.”
“What other women?” Harding asked, receiving the cup from her, then taking a welcome swallow of the brew. “You’re the only woman for me, Lily. Hell, you know that.”
Lily laughed out loud. “You are full of it, Mr. Pete Harding,” she said. “I know at least three other women right here in New Madrid you have bedded.”
“Well, yes, but I had to pay them for it.”
“Here, now, what are you trying to do? Cheat a poor working girl out of her money? Of course you had to pay them for it . . . just like you are going to pay me.”
“Oh, Lily, now I am really hurt,” Harding said. “And here I thought you invited me to your place out of love.”
“Compassion, maybe, but not love,” Lily teased. “Besides, this is what I do. I’m a . . . what did the boy call me? A painted lady?”
“Oh, shit!” Harding said, sitting up quickly. “Art.”
“What about him?”
“1 just left him sitting there last night.”
“I’m sure he’ll be all right. He looked like a pretty resourceful young man to me.”
“He’s very resourceful,” Harding said. “And about the finest person I’ve ever run into, regardless of his age. But he was also drunk.”
Lily laughed again. “He damn sure was. Cute too.”
“The thing is, he’s never been drunk before. I think I’d better go down and try to find him.”
Harding swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
As soon as he did so, Lily hiked up her nightgown and straddled him.
“Wherever he is, he has waited this long,” she said. “Don’t you think he could wait just a little longer? This one is free.”
Feeling himself reacting quickly to her, Harding lay back down. “He could wait just a little longer,” he said.
* * *
Art felt the sun warming his face, but that was the only thing about him that felt good. He had a tremendous headache, and he was very nauseous. He was lying down, and even though he had not yet opened his eyes, he knew he was lying on sun-dried wood, because he could smell it. He was also in motion. He could feel that, as well as hear the creak and groan of turning wagon wheels, and the steady clopping sound of hooves.
The last thing he remembered was leaving the tavern to go to the privy. What was he doing here? For that matter, where exactly was here?
Art opened his eyes. It was a mistake. The sun was glaring and the moment he opened his eyes, two bolts of pain shot through him.
“He’s awake,” a girl’s voice said.
Putting his hand over his eyes, Art opened them again. Now that he was shielding his eyes from the intense sunlight, it wasn’t as painful to open them. Peering through the separations between his fingers, he looked at the girl who had spoken. She appeared to be about his age, with long, dark curls hanging down and with vivid amber eyes staring intently at him. There was something familiar about her and for a moment, he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then he remembered. She was the girl he had seen in the passing wagon yesterday afternoon.
Was it yesterday afternoon? Somehow it seemed much longer ago than that.
“Who are you?” Art asked.
“My name is Jennie.”
“Whoa, team,” a man’s voice said. The wagon stopped. “Boy?” the same voice called. “You all right, boy?”
Art sat up and as he did so, his head spun and nausea swept over him.
“I’ve got to throw up,” he said, leaning over the edge of the wagon. He threw up until he had nothing left, which didn’t take long as his stomach was nearly empty.
When he was finished, he looked back into the wagon. Besides the girl who had introduced herself as Jennie, there was a man and a woman in the wagon. Both of them were staring at him as if had just turned green.
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