by Lou Cameron
Stringer followed the old-timer to a glorified packing crate set in one corner. The keys hung on nails driven into the wall behind it. The old-timer took one down, turned, and said, “I’d like to see some money, first, no offense.”
Stringer placed a silver cartwheel on the so-called counter, and when he got the key in return, asked whether they were to sign in or not. The older man shrugged. “We used to have a register. Some kids stole it a spell back. You-all just go on up, if you’ve a mind to. We don’t have a bellhop, neither, if that’s what you’d be waiting on.”
Stringer pocketed the key, rejoined Pam, and together they carried their baggage up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top she asked him which room might be theirs. Stringer led her to a door, unlocked it, and as they ducked in to drop their gear by the big brass bedstead in the center of the little room, she asked, “How did you know which one? I was listening for our room number down there. But I didn’t hear it, did you?”
He shut the door. “Didn’t have to. I’ll show you why.” He dropped to his hands and knees to peer under the bed. The string the bell was hanging from in the center of the lobby ceiling was, as he’d expected, tied to the bedsprings. He got out his pocket knife, dug a .38 round from the gun-rig loop, and soon had the jingle bell hanging harmlessly from the same, with the connection to the bedsprings cut. As he got out and up, Pam asked him what on earth he’d been up to.
“I wasn’t up,” he said, “I was down. Old boys in small towns don’t have much to keep them occupied, I reckon. I don’t see what the pleasure in it might be to even a dirty old man, but it does seem their custom to dangle a bell down through the floor under just about every honeymoon suite.”
She frowned. “There’s a bell attached to that bed?”
“Not now. I disconnected it.”
He saw she was still confused about rural American customs, and explained, “Say I hadn’t and, later this evening, with half the old boys sitting down there spitting and smirking, the two of us were to, well, get friendly as we did last night.”
She gasped, and then had to laugh. “It seems such a shame to spoil their fun.”
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I find it sort of distracting, to bounce bedsprings, knowing the whole town might be timing my performance.”
She dimpled, called him a spoilsport, and tried the door to the adjoining bath. Then she swore in a most unladylike way and demanded, “Is this someone’s idea of a bath?”
He peered over her shoulder at the skimpy claw-footed zinc tub and cast-iron commode. “For West Texas, that’s pure luxury. You can see they have one cold-water tap and a chain to flush the crapper. There’s a washstand in a comer in the main room, far side of the bed. I reckon that’s how come they never bothered with a sink. But we’ll manage.”
She told him to speak for himself. “I washed good enough for now aboard the train this morning,” he said. “Feel free to wash your pretty hide some more if you’ve a mind to. I thought I’d go on over to the Jersey Lily and see if old Roy Bean has any idea what all the fuss is about.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” she said. “I can’t see bathing in cold water to begin with.”
He assured her cold water would feel just fine after a full day in West Texas, and as he locked their door and pocketed the key, she asked if it was always this hot out here.
“Nope.” he said. “It’s a lot hotter in high summer. We just made it past winter, so this is fine weather for these parts.”
“Good Lord, what’s it like in the winter?” she asked.
“Colder than a banker’s heart. It hardly ever gets nice in West Texas. That’s why it’s mostly desert. I know why rail locomotives stop here. I’ll be switched if you know why anyone else would want to live here.”
They went on down. The two old geezers in the lobby had been joined by two cowhands and a Mex kid. They all looked sort of disappointed for some reason. Stringer howdied one and all and led Pam out, muttering, “Stop smiling. The essence of cowboy humor is a poker face.”
She asked if that was his idea of humor.
“Nope,” he told her. “It’s their idea of humor. You have to grow up sort of stupid as well as illiterate to enjoy cowboy humor in full. I learned early on not to let anyone see I noticed when they put a burr under my saddle or Frenched my bedroll. Takes all the fun out of it when the victim doesn’t seem to notice.”
As they headed up toward the Jersey Lily, she asked him to explain how one Frenched a bedroll.
“You fold one sheet or say a blanket double, with the two ends sticking out from under the top cover,” he said, “as if two separate sheets or blankets were still the way the victim left ‘em. When he climbs in, likely tired, or better yet, drunk, he feet hit bottom halfway down. Sometimes it takes him a heap of time and kicking before he figures out why the hell he can’t seem to get in bed, see?”
She grimaced. “It sounds moronic.”
“It is,” he replied honestly. “But how wild would the Wild West be if everyone out this way acted sensible all the time? A heap of legends have been built on sort of dumb jokes, honey. Kid Curry might not have killed nearly as many other morons if he’d had a better sense of humor. He told me himself about the old boy he felt obliged to kill for spilling coffee on him one night in camp.”
“I didn’t get the joke when that man tried to push me off a speeding train last night,” she said. “Do you think he was only out to give us all a good chuckle, dear?”
Stringer shook his head. “It’s considered good clean fun to hurt other folk within reason. Killing ‘em entire isn’t. Of course, like I said, a lot of legendary events have resulted from one man’s joke being another man’s notion of a declaration of war. But I can’t see anyone smart enough to put his boots on thinking it would be funny to peg a shot my way and then shove you off a train.”
By this time they’d reached the Jersey Lily. As Stringer helped Pam up the porch steps, he asked yet another old geezer lazing in a rocker by the door whether His Honor might be on or about the premises. The old-timer spat politely clear of Pam’s skirts and replied, “You might say he is, and then again you might say he ain’t. The judge just come back from San Antone in poor shape physical and financial. I keep telling the stubborn cuss none of us is young enough to indulge in such sprees, but will he listen?”
Stringer asked if all that meant Judge Bean was sick or just hung over.
“Little of both, I reckon,” the old-timer answered. “They found him all banged up in a San Antone alley a few days ago, dead drunk according to them, or beaten and robbed by a whole army, according to him. Anyways, he’s sleeping it off in the back. His eldest daughter, Laura, will no doubt be able to serve you inside, if you needs something. Don’t mess with old Roy when he’s in bed, though. He’s sure to fine you for disturbing of the peace, do you wake him.”
They thanked him for his advice and went on in. The interior of the Jersey Lily was a dark confusion at first. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they saw it was still confusing. A vacant poker table and chairs occupied the center of the floor. The walls all about were lined with everything from soup to nuts. A beer cooler shared one corner with a cracker barrel. Wherever a bit of wall space wasn’t lined with stocked shelves, someone had posted yet another picture of Miss Lillie Langtry, at various ages and stages of her career. One was a good-sized theatrical poster with the poor old gal stuck under a long-out-of-fashion feathered hat.
“Good heavens,” Pam said, “that show folded when I was still a very young schoolgirl. I think she was the mistress of the Prince of Wales then. It’s so hard to keep track, with our Lillie. Didn’t that man out front say someone was supposed to be in here, minding the store?”
As if she’d heard them, a pretty young brunette came out of the back through burlap drapes, saying, “Alas, we are out of bottled beer. The Double W was in town last night. We still have some cold Moxie or Coca-Cola, though.”
Pam made a wry face and a
sked Stinger, “What does Moxie taste like? I’ve tried Coca-Cola. It reminded me of cough syrup.”
“Moxie tastes worse,” Stringer said, “if you don’t like medicine. Folk have started drinking Coca-Cola just for the hell of it, since they took the cocaine out and put more fizz and sugar in.”
He turned to the younger and more Mex-featured girl to tell her, “We’re not all that thirsty. We might want to hire some supper later, but to tell the truth, we’re both newspaper folk who’ve come to interview your father about his town, here. Is it true he’s feeling poorly, Miss, ah, Laura?”
“Is not true our mamacita was not married to our papacito,” she said. “Who told you that, eh?”
“Nobody, Miss Laura,” he assured her. “We’re not here to poke fun at the famous Judge Bean. We just want to talk to him and put what he says in our papers. This is Miss Pamela Kinnerton from the Manchester Guardian, and I’d be Stringer MacKail from the San Francisco Sun.”
“Es verdad?” she asked. “You wish to tell nothing but the truth about papacito? I mean no disrespect, but so many people have written so many bad things about him, for to make him look loco en la cabeza, or worse yet, funny!”
Pam took over, assuring the girl she and her readers had the greatest respect for a famous frontier judge and adding that she was almost as interested in his long friendship with Miss Lillie Langtry of the London stage.
Laura Bean looked less hostile but still suspicious. “Everyone knows papacito has admired the lovely Miss Langtry since both of them were much younger. But you must put down that his love for her is pure. They have never done wicked things together, as that one fool wrote in his own paper. It made papacito most angry. He says that if ever the carbrone shows his face in this town again, Papacito will shoot him with one of the beautiful guns the beautiful Miss Langtry sent him that time.”
The two reporters exchanged glances. “So that story’s true,” Pam murmured. Then she smiled girl-to-girl at Laura and asked when and why Lillie Langtry, of all people, had seen fit to send a brace of six-guns to a Texas lawman.
Stringer thought she was stretching the term a mite, but kept still as the old coot’s kid said, simply, “When I was little, Miss Langtry was touring America with her theatrical company. So Papacito wrote to tell her he’d be proud to rum the whole town out to watch her act if only she’d see fit to put her show on here in Langtry. It was still called Vinegaroon then, I think. Anyway, Miss Langtry sent Papacito a most gracious letter, saying she would not be able to visit us because her tour did not include this part of the world. Papacito wrote her back for to tell her they were changing the name of the town in her honor. She wrote back that she was touched by his tribute to her, but that she still could not come, so she was sending him a present for to make up for it. Papacito said he is sure she must have paid almost a hundred dollars for such fine pistols. Perhaps he will show them to you when he is feeling better, no?”
The more worldly couple exchanged glances again. Pam shrugged. “Not a bad bargain, considering the coverage she got on that gesture.”
He shot her a warning look. “I’ve heard she was a swell lady,” he said. “What seems to be ailing your father, Miss Laura?”
“Quien sabe?” she said. “He was more smeared with dirt on his face and in his beard than truly bruised when they brought him home for us to clean up. But he seems to have caught a fever, lying on cold, wet pavement overnight.”
Stringer started to ask what the local doctor might say it was. Then he realized what a dumb question that was, and started to tell the girl they’d come back later. But then the burlap drapes parted and a sort of white bear tottered out at them, demanding in a delirious voice, “Is that an English accent I keep hearing? Is she here at last? Where are you at, Miss Langtry?”
Another, younger Scotch-Mex gal came tearing out after him with what had to be her kid brother as old Bean stood swaying in his sweat-soaked long-johns and almost as dirty white beard.
All three of his kids grabbed him, with Laura sobbing, “Pero no, Papacito. You must get back in bed!” But the fat old man outweighed his whole family, and would have likely taken them with him to the floor had not Stringer moved in to grab the bearlike Bean just in time.
“Easy, now, Your Honor,” he soothed. “Laura, take the lead and show me where all this belongs.”
As the eldest daughter led them all through the burlap drapes, with her kid sister and brother getting more in Stringer’s way than helping, the delirious old-timer growled, “Unhand me, you damnyankee! Hang on to your Confederate money, boys, Texas ain’t whipped yet. I always figured General Lee for a sissy with his fancy Virginia ways and— Where did Miss Langtry go, damn it” I was talking to her just a minute ago.”
Pam came unstuck and fell in on the far side from Stringer, saying in a soothing tone, “Behave yourself and let us get you back in bed, ah, Roy.”
Which at least served to make Bean stop struggling with Stringer, shake his dazed head, and mumble, “Aw, mush, ma’am. You know we never been to bed together, more’s the pity.”
So between them, Pam teasing and Stringer dragging, they got the sick man back to a rumpled bedstead in a cluttered back room of the Jersey Lily. As Stringer lowered the old-timer to the sweaty, stained mattress, Pam told Laura, “We need a sponge and some cool water, young lady.”
“Zulema, aqua frio, poco tiempo!” Laura snapped, and her kid sister went running, with the kid brother right behind her to make sure she got it right.
The old man opened his bleary eyes but seemed to be staring right through them all. “Don’t leave me, Lil” he croaked. “Not after all these years I’ve waited to howdy you.”
So Pam sat on the edge of the bed and took one of his big paws in both her cooler hands, soothing, “It’s all right. We’re all here, Roy. Zulema’s gone to fetch some water. So just lie still and be a good boy.”
Old Bean sounded like a tired little boy as he closed his eyes again and mumbled, “Anything you say, old pal. Don’t pay no mind to my half-Mex kids. A man has needs, and their mother was decent, for a greaser.”
Stringer didn’t dare look at Laura Bean. So there was no way to be sure whether that had been a gasp of concern or pure fury coming out of her. As she stood near the foot of the bed, Pam murmured, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Laura. Stuart, what do you think might be wrong with the poor man?”
“I don’t think,” Stringer said, “I know. He’s got a ferocious case of galloping pneumonia.”
“In this weather?” she asked.
“They say it’s a bug, not a chill,” he explained. “Most of us are more likely to work a cold into pneumonia and fight it off. Little kids and the elderly can pick it up without catching cold first, albeit lying about on wet pavement wouldn’t do wonders for anybody.”
She patted the old man’s wrist in a motherly way as she asked why Stringer had called it galloping pneumonia.
“You just saw him galloping, didn’t you?” he said. “Most folk have sense enough to lie still when they’re down with pneumonia. Sometimes the fever gets ‘em so confounded, they think they’re well and run all over the place trying to figure out where they are. Needless to say, that’s not good for ‘em.”
Zulema came back with an olla of water, and her brother packed a big blond sponge. Pam took it from him with a nod of thanks and had Zulema pour water over it. Then she proceeded to mop the old man’s fevered brow. “Don’t you think he needs a doctor, dear?” she asked Stringer.
Stringer was aware of the kids hanging on their every word. “If they had one, here,” he told Pam, his voice level as possible, “he wouldn’t do much more than keep the judge in bed, as comforted as possible, until the fever broke or… didn’t. There’s no medicine around today that cures pneumonia outright, and you can see he doesn’t need sedation. He just needs to keep breathing enough air to keep his body going until the fever chases the fool bugs out.”
Pam stopped what she was doing. “Oh, is it wro
ng to cool his head, then?”
Stringer told her she was doing fine, adding, “His head isn’t infected. He’s just delirious from the fever, so cooling his brain might even help. We want to keep his chest warm, though.”
He turned to the eldest daughter, who seemed pathetically young to be saddling with so much. “Miss Laura, it’s so warm in here right now, it doesn’t matter. But come sundown, you kids had best cover him with more than one blanket, and see he stays covered through the cool desert night.”
She nodded. “We did so last night. We know this bad thing Papacito has. Our mother’s people die of it more often.”
Stringer nodded and turned back to Pam. “I’d say that was enough sponging for now. You’re getting his collar wet.”
“What do we do now, Stuart?” she asked, and old Bean muttered, “Stuart? Stuart? Is that old J.E.B. Stuart or Bonnie Prince Charlie Stuart? They told me both you old boys was dead. But didn’t we give ‘em a licking for messing with us, both times?”
Before Stringer had to figure out how to answer such an odd question, they were joined by another old gent, only he was leaner, healthier, and had a Ranger star pinned to the front of his somewhat damp and dirty white shirt. The old gent was packing a Colt ‘74, cross-draw, and his leathery hatchet face smiled out from under a dusty once-white Stetson. “They told me you was back here, Judge,” he said. “I just heard about the stock the Double W is missing and— What’s wrong with him, ah…?”
“He’s down with galloping pneumonia,” Stringer said. “This is Miss Pam Kinnerton, and I’d be Stringer MacKail. Do you want to see some I.D., Ranger?”
The old Texas Ranger shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting to meet cow thieves in the judge’s company. How bad is it?”
Stringer might have been more honest with the law if three worried children hadn’t been standing there. “I never made it through medical school,” he replied, “but you can see he’s in no shape to try a case, if that’s what you wanted.”