by Len Levinson
‘That thing twixt their legs.’
‘What if you fall in love with a woman who doesn’t want you?’
‘Get out of town. Women got more power over us than we got over them. Seem that way to you?’
Stone drained his whiskey glass. His mind boiled with images of women, including one with the face of a longhorn. ‘Got to lie down someplace. Been a helluva day.’
The setting sun cast long shadows over the streets of San Francisco. Stone found Miss Rosie Donahue’s on Russian Hill. In the parlor, an astonishing sight stopped him in his tracks. Slipchuck sat with a newspaper, munching a piece of cake. But the old ex-stagecoach driver looked different somehow, his clothes clean. ‘Where the hell you been, Johnny!’
Slipchuck had acquired loose-fitting jiggling false teeth that changed the shape of his face. He looked almost dignified. The landlady entered the room and said angrily, ‘I told you not to cuss in my parlor!’
'This is my pard, John Stone.’
She gazed at him through wire-rimmed spectacles, suspicious little eyes. ‘What’s that in yer hand?’
‘Bottle of whiskey.’
‘This is a respectable house. You want to have a bottle, keep it out of sight.’
Stone tucked the bottle into his shirt next to the King James.
Slipchuck asked, ‘Where you been?’
‘Jail, and a few other places. Found Derek Canfield. Marie’s left Frisco. Don’t know what to do exactly. Think I’ll lie down.’
Rosie said, ‘You could use a bath. I’ll heat the water.’ Sprightly old lady, the female version of the old historian of the West, on whom Stone turned his curiosity.
‘What’s going on with you and her?’
‘We knowed each other when we was kids.’
Stone climbed the stairs, feeling weak in his knees. This is what happens to a man who screws too much. All boxers know it, that’s why they stay away from women before a fight.
Stone found his room, pulled off his boots, took a swig of whiskey, and collapsed onto the bed, bewildered and overwhelmed by what happened since arriving in San Francisco only three days ago.
Who’s the rich old man who ran off with Marie? What should I do about Phyllis Redpath? He wanted to feast upon her alluring body. Never saw such a perfect face. Women’re usually attracted to me, why not her?
If I had brains, I’d go back to Texas. Find a nice gal and settle down. Why’m I chasing a woman from my past, and another woman who doesn’t even like me?
The more Stone thought about Phyllis Redpath, the more troubled he became. He felt ugly, awkward, deformed, a plague upon the world. He reached for the bottle of whiskey. I’ve got to get out of this city before something bad happens.
But I can’t leave Marie. If I don’t follow every lead, I’ll reproach myself the rest of my life. I’ll find that rich old man. He might know where she is. I can’t give up now. Phyllis Redpath refused to leave his mind. He imagined himself in bed with her, kissing her body’s most intimate places.
‘Bath’s ready,’ said Slipchuck.
‘I just met a woman who’s so beautiful I can’t stop thinking about her, but she doesn’t give a damn about me at all.’
‘You can’t love all the gals. All the gals can’t love you.’
Stone gathered clean clothing and carried his whiskey bottle to the room adjacent to the kitchen. He undressed and slipped into the bathtub. Hot water covered his skin and settled him down instantly. He soaked, eyes closed, let his mind run free.
On a ranch, most days were the same. In Frisco, major new events appeared in an endless confusing parade, gone before he could figure them out He readied for a lesson learned long ago. I’m at my best when I live like a soldier.
Main objective: find Marie. Where do rich men go? To the opera, ballet, their private clubs, parties in their mansions. Infiltrate their world. Somebody must know the rich old man.
He hoped and prayed it was friendship, no more. His skin crawled at the thought of Marie in bed with someone else. What the hell happened to you, Marie?
Derek Canfield threw her out like an old dishrag, because she bored him. Ought to tell that son of a bitch what he is, in front of people who think he’s a fine gentleman, and if he calls me out, last person he ever calls out.
Stone fell asleep in the bathtub and was awakened two hours later by a knock on the door. ‘Johnny? You ain’t died in there have you? Rosie’s startin’ to worry.’
Stone crawled out of the bathtub and got dressed. Slipchuck sat on the windowsill. ‘Guess you can see what’s been goin, on round hoe? Think I might he a-stayin’ here with Miss Rosie. I know you and me planned some things together, like that ranch in Texas and all, but sometimes a man wants to relax fer a while’
‘I’d never underestimate the power of a woman,’ Stone replied.
He buckled his six-guns and returned to his room, combed his thick dark blond hair. Slipchuck sat on the bed he hadn’t used since he’d arrived. ‘What you gonna do?’
‘Look for Marie.’
‘Stay away from the Barbary Coast, you know what’s good fer you.’
‘I’m headed in the other direction, where rich folks live.’
Slipchuck watched Stone walk out the door. Should he with 'im, coverin' his back. Slipchuck sat on a stuffed chair in the living room, looked out the window. This is the life. Don't have to do nawthin'. He wore comfortable slippers in place of filthy cracked cowboy boots. His skin felt clean, clothes didn’t stink. This is what I been a-hopin' fer all me life, so how come I ain't happy?
~*~
The train snaked through the Rocky Mountains. Amanda lay in her berth, looking out the window at the starry sky. Strange sensation, speeding horizontally through the night, on her way to San Francisco.
Tense, miserable, frustrated, she tossed and turned. Tomorrow afternoon, San Francisco. She’d visited previously with Randy, had friends there. Something nudged her arm. She turned over and saw Mr. Smith, his buck teeth flashing in the light of the moon.
‘Mrs. LaFollette,’ he whispered, ‘I could hear you moving up there, and was a-wonderin’ if you might need some help.’ He held up his hand to God. ‘Now don’t git me wrong. You and me should understand each other, since we both lost our beloved spouses. Perhaps we can give each other comfort, if you know what I mean.’ He winked lasciviously.
‘Go back to your berth, please.’
He placed his hand on her naked shoulder. She pulled fire Smith & Wesson from beneath her pillow, drew back the hammer with her thumb, touched the barrel to the point between his eyes. ‘Get down, or I’ll kill you.’
Eyes crossed with fear, he pulled back suddenly, gone. Amanda held the gun ready for a few moments, then returned it underneath her pillow. If he kept on, would I've shot him? She ran it through her mind and returned with an unequivocal yes. Without a moment’s hesitation. She closed her eyes and felt at ease with herself. Within minutes, she was fast asleep. The train chugged steadily through the long Nevada night.
~*~
Stone’s mind kept returning to Phyllis Redpath. Her beautiful slim body, if only I could.
I've got to stop thinking about her. She's driving me insane. Stay away from her. But his traitorous boots led turn toward 131 Ashford Street He had to see her again even though he knew deep in his bones she didn’t care for him.
He stopped in his tracks. I've got to get hold of myself. This woman's twisting me into knots. I've nearly forgotten about Marie. He flashed on an image of himself in bed with Phyllis, a hot flash came over him. Frightening what the mere thought of her could do. If I could spend one hour in her bed, no matter what happened to me afterward, I would have reached the summit. He stopped on the sidewalk ate muttered, ‘Please, God, tell me what to do?’
He heard the voice of his old Sunday school teacher reacting from the Bible. Better to marry than burn. If she says no, at least I tried. He found the landlady in the parlor, crocheting a doily. ‘Ma’am, would you mind if I talked with Miss Redpath agai
n?’
‘She’s at work.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Her business. If you want, leave a message. I’ll see she gets it.’
Stone wrote his address on a piece of paper, handed it to the landlady.
‘Marie ever talk with you?’ he asked.
‘A few times.’
‘She didn’t say anything about where she might be going?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What’d she talk about?’
‘She wanted to learn how to make her own clothes. Poor Marie.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Don’t think I ever seen her laugh. I guess some people hold up well, others don’t.’
‘Never saw the old gentleman before?’
‘Hellos and good-byes.’
‘Did he sound like the North or the South?’
‘The South.’
Stone left 131 Ashford Street. A fatherly southern gentleman stepping in to save a former belle. Or maybe he was an old rogue having a love affair with a fine young woman. This is Derek Canfield's fault, and I ought to give him a piece of my mind. The thought of Marie in bed with him made Stone sick to his stomach. ‘I need a drink.’
Stone headed for the Golden Horn Saloon. The premises had the same stench and appearance as every other saloon in San Francisco. If I were smart, I'd get on a horse and leave this city. Getting sicker every moment I'm here. Marie in bed with other men killed him more than anything. He’d rather face Randy LaFollette again. Oh, God, please send that bartender over here.
On the far side of the saloon, two men sat at a table. The young one wore a black hat with silver disks adorning the hatband. The other had on a gray wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
‘Frankie, you see that big feller at the bar? That’s the man who shot Randy LaFollette.’
Frankie Bendigo, well-known Frisco gunfighter, sat straighter, black hair same color as his hat. His pockmarked cheeks were covered with scraggly stubble.
‘You sure?’
‘Somebody pointed him out in the Red Rooster the other night.’
Frankie Bendigo gazed across the saloon at the man who’d killed the fastest gun alive. Not a professional, that was clear.
Cowboy with a lucky night. Frankie was curious to know how fast the man was, but a professional doesn’t duel for free. ‘He keeps swilling whiskey like that, somebody’ll blow his brains out a-fore the night’s over.’
The bartender filled Stone’s glass with whiskey. The old soldier guzzled half, it struck like an avalanche. For the first time since arriving in San Francisco, he felt the old dizziness. One drink over the line and I'll be on my way.
He staggered toward the door. A blast of cool air revived him, and he heard a bark. Glancing toward the ground, he saw Muggs, but several pounds heavier. ‘Who’s feeding you?’ Stone asked, scratching the animal’s ears. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Looking for you.
Stone leaned against a wall to get his bearings. Creatures of the night stalked past, looking him up and down, everybody ready to fight. How can people live like this? But a deeper part of his mind told him it wasn’t Frisco bothering him, but thoughts of Marie sleeping with other men, and the golden goddess who didn’t love him. What does she do at night?
All at once it hit him. She's a prostitute! What other work would a woman do at night? She's just the type, a glorious beauty, command the highest prices. Maybe I can save her. We'll go to Texas and build a ranch.
The streets were crowded with men of menacing visage; they lurked in alleys and congregated in front of saloons while carriages bearing wealthy citizens passed in the street. Stone wondered how to meet the upper classes, then remembered his former employer, railroad tycoon Tobias Moffitt at the Bedford Arms.
Where’s the Bedford Arms? Stone frequently felt disoriented in Frisco. Maybe I should have a drink in that saloon over there. But you've had enough drinks. You’re nearly on your ass. A friend nearly got kitted once, because you were blind drunk.
I'll stop drinking for an hour. Now where the hell's that hotel. I'll ask this character over here. A drunkard stood at the corner, waving his arms wildly. ‘I rule the whole damn world!’
‘Know where the Bedford Arms is?’
The madman pointed vaguely in an easterly direction. Stone murmured thanks and moved on. Sick minds come to Frisco. Never get so drunk you can’t defend yourself.
Stone ambled toward the Bedford Aims, thinking of Phyllis Redpath. Rational argument couldn’t dispel the image of her in her silk robe. He imagined himself gorging on her amazing beauty. I'll never be happy unless I have her.
Why can't she love me? He couldn’t figure it out. Maybe she's got a man. Or maybe she's above me. His shoulders hunched and his head sank into his neck. He looked like a discouraged ape as he shuffled over the boarded sidewalk. I need her, I love her, but I don't even know her. She might be a horrible person, although she loves her cat, and anyone who loves animals can't be all bad.
A familiar figure passed beneath a street lamp ahead: Derek Canfield in his wide plantation hat, puffing a cheroot, thumbs hooked in his vest. A scavenger of the night, he entered the Wagon Wheel Saloon. Stone paused near the door. If l go in there, might come to guns. But it's time I talked with that son of a bitch.
Garish light spilled into the street, figures wobbled and jerked on the sidewalks. The wildness in his mind reminded him of the war. Responsibilities, fatigue, and intense fear on the eve of battle drove him to near lunacy. All he wanted was to get it over with. Waiting for action was worse than action itself. Then a man didn’t have time to worry.
Clean, brightly lit saloon, high prices, fancy clientele. Every man wore a frock coat except John Stone, who had on his fringed buckskin frontier jacket, the one he wore the night he shot the fastest gun alive.
Canfield sat at a small table against the far wall, a glass of whiskey before him, reading a newspaper. What did Marie see in such an unwholesome-looking man? Canfield coughed, covering his mouth with a white handkerchief.
‘May I join you?’ Stone asked, pulling up a chair.
Canfield gazed at him over the top of his newspaper. ‘Sir Lancelot in hot pursuit of fair Guinevere,’ he said sarcastically.
It felt like a slap in the face. Stone’s hand involuntarily dived toward the grip of his gun. Canfield smiled ruefully. ‘Go ahead.’
Stone placed both empty hands on the table, to stow good intentions. ‘I know I’m a fool to you, and maybe you’re right, but I’d like to find Marie, and I’d appreciate your help. Who was the old man she left with?’
‘Could be any of several rickety-boned admirers who crowded around your little girl. She used them quite shamelessly, accepting their gifts, leading them on, discarding them when they lost their usefulness, you know what women are like.’
‘Canfield, you and I grew up by a code that said a man’s supposed to help a lady in trouble. I still believe it. Why don’t you?’
Canfield leaned closer, teeth yellowed with nicotine. ‘We both know Marie’ll never starve. All she has to do is flutter an eyelash, and a man’ll come out of the woodwork. But if I have a bad run at cards, I’ll sink to the bottom. And if you run out of money, which probably will be quite soon, no one’ll do anything for you either. Marie’s a lot smarter than you think. She’ll many a rich man and live like a queen. That’s all she really wants. Quite, ordinary in her tastes.’
‘The rich man who helped Marie wants something in return. That’s what you pushed her into, you bastard.’
‘She’s too clever for that. The man she selects would never dare ask too much.’
‘She selected you, and look what you did.’
‘But she fell in love with me.’ Canfield’s eyes twinkled evilly. ‘That was her misfortune.’
‘You’re the closest tiling to a snake I ever saw.’
‘Look at yourself, wearing your old Army hat, a ghost from the past. When Marie told me you graduated from West Point, I under
stood everything. The biggest fools in America, including our undistinguished president, were educated at that open sewer on the Hudson.’
‘What makes you any better? You play the cynic who knows everything, but what’ve you done except criticize, sulk, cheat at cards, and mistreat women.’
‘I don’ t ask them to come around. Marie was bored with life on an Army post, having an affair with a West Point officer five years younger than she, fighting with her husband, drinking alone in her spare time. It hadn’t been for me, she might’ve killed herself.’
‘It hadn’t been for you, I would’ve found ha-, and we’d be together right now.’
‘Hard for me to see Marie as the wife of a man like you. I’d give you a month with her. You’d shoot her, or she’d leave you. But you probably don’t even want to find her. Just makes life more interesting, eh, Captain?’
'Today I thought of killing you, for what you did to her.’
‘Be careful I don’t kill you first. For all you know, I have an associate who’d shoot at your first threatening move. I’m a professional gambler, and carry large sums of money. Do you think I wander around without protection?’
‘You’re bluffing, Canfield. Where does the lying end and the man begin? Derek Canfield the tinhorn gambler. I think you’re disgusting.’
‘The feeling is mutual.’
Stone slapped Canfield across the face. The force of the blow stunned Canfield momentarily, his hat fell off his head. Stone gazed into Canfield’s eyes. ‘Well?’
Canfield thought of yanking his derringer, but instead picked up his hat, dusted it off. ‘They say you shot Randy LaFollette. Is that so?’
Stone didn’t reply.
‘Then the odds’re against me. No, Captain Stone, when I kill you, it won’t be in the open. You’ll hear something behind you some night, when you’re too drunk to do anything about it. Then you’ll be dead.’
‘If that’s a threat, I’ll shoot you right now.’
‘A West Point officer wouldn’t shoot a man in cold blood.’
‘Want to bet?’
Stone lowered his hand to his gun. Canfield gazed calmly into Stone’s eyes. ‘Now you’re the one who’s bluffing.’