Friends

by Charles Hackenberry

  "Do you know the man I ask you about or not? Just give me my five dollars worth and then I'll look elsewheres. Any honest whore would do that much."

  The barman came and poured us two more whiskeys, and she stopped talking while he was there, just looked around the place. Bessie was still a pretty woman, though a mite fleshy for my tastes, but you could still see how sweet she would have looked a few years back. Her eyes was dark and so was her hair, long and full and clean. The life and the whiskey would soon begin to show a lot more in her face, but just now the years was still kind to her. "Well, I'll see what I can find out," she said after the barman left. "What'd he do, kill somebody?" she ask, making a joke.

  When she saw my face, she didn't have to ask a second time. "Oh shit," she said, then took her whiskey in a jolt.

  I did the same with mine. Pretty fair whiskey. Didn't feel no worse go in' down your throat than swallowing a nervous cat backwards.

  Bessie pulled a hanky out of her sleeve, wiped her mouth, and then tucked it back in just like a lady. "Come back later," she said, kind of careless. "I can't promise nothin', but I'll ask around. What's your name, anyway?"

  "Willie," I told her.

  "No last name, huh? See what I mean?"

  "It's Goodwin. Willie Goodwin. And I'm not running from nobody."

  "Well, you watch out for yourself, Willie Goodwin," she said, patting my hand. "And don't go asking every tainted dove in Deadwood about this tall old Southerner you're after, you hear me? You're about the same age as him, I know, but you look like you could still give a gal a pretty good roll in the hay, if you catch my meaning. And I hope you don't get shot up before I have a chance to find out."

  She made half a grab at my manly parts. When I pushed her hand away she winked at me, picked up her beer, and then strutted over to the table where the telegraph gent and his friends sat. Pretty soon Bessie walked out the door with the ugliest one of the bunch. She didn't even look back at me.

  Chapter Twenty

  I had another whiskey and went back outside. Things'd quieted a good bit in the street, but some fool still fired off his pistol every once in a while. I walked uphill toward where we'd left the horses and it was a climb. On the way, I looked over the establishments that might have been hotels. Some was certainly whorehouses, all right, and I couldn't tell for sure which was which. By the time I got up to the Grand Central, I figured I'd try there.

  That young fellow that had got hisself throwed back into the street wasn't just braggin' about his daddy's place, either. Maybe it wasn't the showiest hotel west of St. Louis, but it was neat and clean and fancy enough for me. In a room like a parlor, a man sat reading a newspaper on a big stuffed chair and two others at a little table was studying a checker board.

  I didn't even bother asking the serious man standing behind the desk, a fellow about my age, if whores lived there. His hair was plastered down enough to withstand a tornado and his beefy face was all business. If this was the daddy of the young fellow who went in and out of here like one of those birds in a clock, then there would be no midnight ruckuses at this place.

  I paid him for one night, signed his book, and ask where the livery was. After he told me, I went out and got Clete's things and mine off the pack horse and took them inside. The man I'd rented the room from said he'd carry our trap upstairs for me, so I let him. I went outside again, climbed the bay and led Clete's horse and the roan back down through town, the reverse of the way we come in.

  Deadwood smelled like a town, all right. Onions and potatoes frying in some lady's kitchen-horseshit trampled into the mud of the street. You'd catch a whiff of pine pretty strong every once in a while. Wove in with all them smells mixed together was one that meant somebody wasn't throwing lime enough down the hole of his outhouse. Deadwood smelled like people living close together always does, I suppose.

  A tall redheaded gal wearing a funny ruffled hat and swingin' her ruffled handbag crossed the thoroughfare right in front of me, smilin' real pretty, and the smell of her was mighty powerful. A lot of it was perfume, of course, but a lot of it wasn't, too.

  After I looked over all the horses he had there, recognizing none of them, I gave the livery man my name and Clete's and a brand-new fifty cent piece and walked back up through town. The celebratin' was nearly through with by then, and the hollering and music was coming mostly from the saloons, of which there were a plenty. Some all decorated up with colored paper streamers and paper balls and bells and the like, strung on the walls and behind the bars, most of them you could see into through the swinging doors.

  At one saloon that called itself a theatre, a man standing just outside the door grabbed my sleeve and started telling me what-all they had inside. After a while I figured out he wasn't just a fellow trying to show me where to have a good time, but instead, he was a man hired by that saloon to drum up their business. I walked away from him soon as I saw into what he was trying to do.

  I was thinking about another whiskey, but the sun'd slipped below the mountain and I wondered what Clete'd found out about DuShane. So I forwent the rye and walked on up the street looking for Bullock's office. Once I found it I saw right away, even from the outside, it was a whole lot nicer than ours back in Two Scalp. Three stories high, made entirely of white-painted boards. Around the top was a fussy balcony and below that, narrow little porches for the rooms on the second floor. I wondered what use a sheriff had for all them rooms.

  I started in through the door beside Sheriff Bullock's shingle and run straight into Clete coming out, looking madder than a cornered badger.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he growled at me, and I followed him across the street to a saloon.

  Clete smacked the batwing doors open and walked straight through to the bar that stretched all along the back. The bald-headed man behind it saw Clete coming and brought a whiskey right away and then got another after he seen me.

  "Yeah, I was here before, while I was cooling my heels waiting to talk to the high-and-mighty Sheriff Seth Bullock," Clete said, his voice sand-dry and his green eyes sharp. I seen Clete heated up a time or two before, so I knowed that him reining himself in so tight and stiff was what happened before he exploded. The next step was knocking somebody down. He killed his whiskey in a gulp and I downed mine.

  "The sonofabitch is sitting over there talking to a salesman, deciding whether he wants to add a line of mining equipment to the store he runs here … his deputy said he wouldn't have time to see me today. Meanwhile, that goddamn DuShane is running around loose in these goddamn Black Hills." He shook his head a couple of times and stared at his empty glass. "An old friend of his wanted me to say hello when I got to Deadwood," he said after a time. "Well, here I am, by God!" He turned around and headed for the door. "C'mon, let's go pay a social call on Mr. Bullock."

  By the time we got across the street I had caught up with him. He flung open the door, walked straight up to a tall man sitting at a desk, looked him over a second, and then drew his Remington quick as a snake. Before that fellow could even blink.

  "I'll see Sheriff Bullock right now," Clete said. "C'mon, move your ass." He waved the barrel of his gun toward what I guessed was Sheriff Bullock's private office-since that's what was painted on the door in big gold letters.

  The fellow stood up, his face angry and red as a brand-new union suit, and he was even taller than I'd guessed. Clete took the man's gun from his holster and it wasn't 'til then that I noticed the deputy badge on the vest of the tall drink of water that my pardner was shoving toward Bullock's door. The deputy knocked once and when he started in, Clete give him a shove that sent him halfway across the room. We walked right in behind him, Clete pointing that big-bore Remington directly into the face of a man wearing a dark-striped suit who sat behind a big desk. I guessed from his look that he would have to be Seth Bullock.

  The Sheriff of Deadwood was damn surprised to see someone have the drop on him in his own place, I'll tell you. It was clear he wasn't used to it and
even clearer that he didn't like it at all. He was tall and thin, like his deputy, but his face was leaner and hatchety. First thing you noticed when you saw him head-on, though, was the longest, fullest moustache you ever laid eyes on. Seth Bullock's moustache covered his mouth and reached almost to the end of his chin. The tips of it hung down nearly to the points of his stiff white collar.

  He had pans and spikes and wooden boxes of bolts and all kinds of hardware spread out on his big oak desk. The drummer sitting in front and to the side of Bullock took one look at Clete's gun, jumped up, and dumped a tray of silvery rings right off his lap onto the wood floor. They clattered and spun away in all directions.

  Clete let the last loop roll to a quiver and stop before he spoke. "You're through looking at hardware today, aren't you?" His voice was calm, like he was just talking over a business deal.

  Bullock stood up slow, looked at the drummer and nodded toward the door. "I'll see you later, Mr. Lawrence. I'll send Sam here by your hotel room with your wares within the hour."

  The salesman appeared damned relieved to be let out of there, but he glanced back at his bag and things. He was a mighty unhappy-looking fellow as he hurried out and closed the door behind him.

  Bullock looked Clete over extra careful. "This better be good, Mister, or you'll be sleeping in my jail tonight."

  Clete smiled. "Pretty big talk for a man looking down the barrel of my .44," he said, but then uncocked his Remington and holstered it. He took his time sitting down in a leather-covered chair by the door-stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. "Take it easy, Sheriff. This is only a social call, Montana style. I heard you deputied up there awhile so I believe you know what I'm talking about. Matter of fact, an old friend of yours from up that way asked me to look you up and say hello." Clete tossed me the deputy's gun. "Take the cylinder out and give it back to this gentleman. No use boring him with a lot of jawing about mutual friends."

  Bullock's eyes narrowed and looked from Clete to me and then at his deputy.

  When I give the tall man back his empty gun, he glanced at his boss.

  "It's all right, Sam," Bullock said matter-of-fact. "I'll take these men upstairs for a drink and you can return this merchandise to Lawrence." He walked from behind his big oak desk toward some curtains in the comer and moved the heavy drapery aside, showing a fancy carpeted stairway with a carved handrail. "After you, gentlemen," he said, a thin smile on his sharp face. The deputy began banging things into the drummer's bag and Clete walked over toward Bullock.

  "You go first, Willie," Clete said. "But I'll ride drag after Mr. Bullock here."

  The lean-faced Sheriff of Deadwood chuckled. "I see you're a careful man, Mr., uh… "

  "Yes I am," Clete told him. "I don't trust everyone wearing a badge, either. And my name's Shannon, Clete Shannon. I'm the sheriff of a little town to the north and east of here, Two Scalp."

  Bullock's eyes showed his surprise at that. "I don't know as I've ever heard of it," he said. "And what the hell is a lawman doing breaking into my office at gunpoint?"

  "And what the hell is a town sheriff doing posting an armed guard at his door? Keeping everyone out while he spends the afternoon looking at hardware?" Clete asked right back, and then plowed straight ahead. "I needed to see you today. I've been on a man's trail for more'n a week, and I don't intend to wait 'til tomorrow, especially if he's in this town. As I believe he is."

  Bullock looked at Clete a little amused. "I have many interests, Mr. Shannon, and each one gets its due. Now then, who are you looking for?"

  I started up them stairs about then, since Bullock was still holding the curtain aside and it looked like we still might get that drink he had spoke of. They followed me, Clete coming last, talking about the man we was after. It was pretty dim in the stairway, but once I got to the top, a little light from the west windows lit the room some and a lamp with a ruby shade was already burning on the table in the middle of the room, but nobody was there. The wick was trimmed poor, though, and the smell of kerosene pretty strong.

  That was about the fanciest room outside a whorehouse I ever saw. Heavy red drapes on the windows and the tablecloth of the same rich stuff. That room was big, too, and it was nearly filled up with dark, heavy furniture of all kinds-a big desk kind of thing with glassed in book shelves above it, reaching nearly to the tinned ceiling. A fancy little table set between the windows, with big hairy plants and little figurines of angels on it, the whole affair just perfect for spiders to hide in. Sofas and chairs of all description. Two wood pedestals in front of the windows held statues of men's heads, though I didn't reconize who they was of, and a big floor clock ticked out the seconds while I stood watching the brass pendulum swing back and forth.

  "Wilson?" I heard Bullock ask when he got to the top of the stairs. "Yes, I've heard of him, but I never met the man." He went straight over and adjusted the lamp 'til the flame stopped fluttering and the smoke cleared away.

  Clete stopped at the head of the stairs. "Well, he ran the town before we got there. Ran it at a pretty hefty profit, too, grabbing everybody's land in the bargain." He quit talking and looked around at the fancy place Bullock had for himself there. "Appears you're doing all right, too."

  Seth Bullock's squinty eyes narrowed down to just slits. It was plain he didn't like anyone throwing down hints that he run things like Wilson done. "Yes, I'm doing well for myself, Shannon. But I do it honestly. Besides the store, I have a ranch up near Belle Fourche. Next year I'm going to build a sixty-room hotel just down the block. Pretty stupid trying to work both sides of the law, isn't it?"

  "That's what a friend of ours from Montana always says. 'One side of the law at a time.' "

  "If you're talking about Wilson, I told you I never knew him," Bullock said, easy and comfortable, though you could see the strain pinching his narrow face. "Have a seat, men," he said, and then went over to a little cupboard and got out a cut glass bottle of whiskey and some fancy glasses to match. He set them on the table with the red cloth on it.

  Bullock was about to sit when he seemed to remember something. He walked over to an archway draped in the same red stuff, big tassels hanging down to chase the flies off your hat. "Sarah, would you bring us some water, please?" he called into another room. I guessed he had a servant girl up there.

  He come over and poured us each a stiff one and then sat down at the table. Clete sat across from him, but I took one of those cushioned seats by the window so I could look both outside and in. Bullock's deputy Sam was going down the street with the drummer's bag, so I figured no one was about to come bustin' in there and try to throw us out.

  "It was Wilson you had reference to, wasn't it?" Bullock asked after he took a sip. "Concerning our mutual friend from Montana?"

  "He'll, we chased Palmer Wilson out of town before I had a chance to ask him where he hailed from," Clete said. "No, I was talking about old Hank Wormwood from Miles Town. You deputied for him, I understand. Worked for him before he was the marshal, too, I believe?"

  Bullock kept his voice low, but he sounded excited. "What do you want, Shannon? Money? How much?"

  Clete started to shake his head before Bullock even stopped talking. "No, no, it's not like that. I didn't come here to put the squeeze on you. Shit, I'm glad there's at least one lawman in this Territory who's getting rich by doing nothing worse than gouging prices in a store or a hotel."

  Bullock looked like he didn't quite believe him.

  Clete pushed his hat back. "All I want is what I should have got from you a couple hours ago, your help finding the killer we're chasing. Give us that and we never heard of old long-haired Hank Wormwood and his crew who used to rustle government beef, change the brands, and then sell them back to Uncle Sam for more than he paid for them the first time." Clete kept a straight face for a minute, but then he started laughing.

  Bullock was surprised for a second, but then he begun to chuckle and pretty soon he was laughing right along with Clete. "Where'd you ever h
ear a lie like that?" Bullock asked, laughing and talking together.

  Things had got a whole lot more relaxed in that room all of a sudden. You could tell those two men had reached some kind of a understanding.

  Clete took a sip of his whiskey. "Straight from the horse's mouth. Hank came to Abilene while I was deputying there for Marshall McKee and him and Wormwood got to swapping yarns about the old days over a bottle. That lazy bastard McKee had spent his share of time in the outlaw trade, too. Hank Wormwood was real proud that one of his boys was doing so well for himself, and he bragged you up good, how you got yourself one of the fattest gold towns in the West." Clete was smiling though all of this, and you could see he wasn't trying to tell Bullock the error of his ways.

  "That was a long time ago," Bullock said, still nodding his head. "And I was a lot younger and hell of a lot more foolish in those days."

  "Well, hell, who wasn't? But those were wild days right after the War, weren't they? I hate to say it, but I miss them sometimes."

  "Goddamned if I do," Bullock said. "Living in the dirt and not knowing who was going to take the next shot at you." They each stopped talking for a while, lost in their memories, I guessed, different as they was. Wasn't uncomfortable, like it is sometimes when men talk and then run out of words. Just quiet. After a minute Bullock looked at Clete real close. "What's the name of this man you're after?"

  "It's DuShane, but that's about all we know about him," Clete said.

  "Yeah, I know him," Bullock answered. "Mean bastard, enjoys killing. He came here to shoot Hickok, like a lot of men did. Only this one might have done it-beat Hickok, I mean. But he was too late. Jack McCall had put a bullet in Hickok's back before Whitey got here. Don't know where he is now, though. He cleared out-"

  "No, it's not Whitey DuShane we're after," Clete said. "I know where he is-Two Scalp's bone yard. He came gunning for me last fall, but he didn't get the job done. The man we're after-"