by Len Levinson
“To do what?”
“You’ll run the saloon operation. I got too many other things to do.”
“Told Edgar Faraday I’d work for him at the Lodestone Gazette”
“What’s he payin’?”
“Seventy dollars a month.”
“Why work fer less? Let’s drink on it.”
Stone was about to say: I don’t drink, but comes a point where a man has to stop making excuses. Champagne is pisswater compared to what I used to drink. The rims of their glasses clicked. Her perfume swept over him, clouding his senses, her eyes deep pools of immeasurable delights. She touched the tip of her tongue to the rim of her glass, her eyes mocked him.
“Nothin’ like bubbly to end the day.”
Champagne tickled the roof of his mouth and glided down his throat, subtle as a woman. Firelight flickered on her face. An artery throbbed in his throat. She was there for him, round, soft, voluptuous. Her eyes had the gleam of naked lust. He could see the outline of her waist, lovely legs, feet small, toenails painted. One ankle wore a thin gold chain with a gold heart affixed.
Logs crackled in the fireplace. Stone knew the time had come for him to jump on top of her or get the hell out. He reached for the bottle of champagne and refilled their glasses. Part of him wanted to rip her gown off, another said don’t you dare.
He loved Marie, but Belle McGuinness was a short reach away. The champagne made him light-headed. Her perfume drew him closer. I’ve got to control myself, because I’m engaged to somebody else. His hand shook as he sipped the champagne.
She wondered what was wrong with him. This had never happened to her before. Surely he knew why he was here. “Are you sick?”
“Champagne’s going to my head,” he alibied.
She lay practically naked beside him. But Marie was in the room. Duty and lust ripped him apart.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her diamond earrings danced as she refilled their glasses. “Don’t you like girls?”
Her nipple touched his arm. The fragrance of her body made him dizzy. He swallowed hard. The artery in his neck pumped harder. The blond beast inside him awakened.
“I’m in love with another woman. I’m supposed to marry her. I can’t … I just can’t.”
He felt exhausted. His whole life was a fight. Nothing ever came out right. He leaned against the sofa and closed his eyes.
“I envy her,” Belle said wistfully. “Wish somebody loved me like that. But you ain’t seen her for how long? Momma’s here right now.” She pressed her lips against his ear. “I won’t hurt you. What’re you savin’ yourself for? For all you know, she’s doing the same thing. Pretty women don’t stay alone long. Take it from one who knows.”
Stone stared at Belle’s bosom spilling out of her nightgown. The champagne made him feel floaty. His eyes roved over her body. I don’t have to tell Marie when I find her. A slice from a cut loaf will never be missed.
He emptied his glass, set it on the table, and buried his face in his hands. Torn between loyalty to Marie and desire for the naked woman beside him, he muttered, “I don’t know what to do.”
She pressed against him, inserted the tip of her tongue into his ear. He melted like ice in the tropics. She pushed him onto his back and crawled on top of him. His arms wrapped around her as if they had a life of their own. She squirmed against him and pressed her lips to his. Their tongues touched, electricity shot through him.
He lifted the hem of her gown. She covered his face with impassioned kisses. They tore each other’s clothes. The fire cast weird shadows on their entwined bodies as they sank deeper into the cushions.
Chapter Four
Stone awoke in Belle McGuinness’s bed during the middle of the night. She cuddled against him in sleep, pitch-blackness, silent, the fragrance of her perfume permeated the air.
He never experienced anything like her. She knew tricks he never dreamed of. A cold dagger pierced his heart. What will Marie and I say to each other when we meet? I’m sorry? Sorry for what? Is Marie just a silly dream? Why can’t I forget her?
Even now, lying in bed with Belle, he missed Marie. She’d touched him deeper than anyone else. He felt as though they were one person. It never happened before with any other woman, even Belle with her repertoire of fabulous whorehouse tricks.
The walls closed in on him. He lifted Belle’s arm and rolled out of bed, gathered his clothes, put them on. He stepped into the corridor and descended the stairs.
A sleepy whore and her drunken miner staggered down the corridor, the wall splotched where a bottle of whiskey struck it. Only two bartenders were on duty in the saloon. A croupier spun the chuck-a-luck wheel, hoping to squeeze every penny from his only customer, a little old miner wearing knickers and a hat with a high-peaked crown.
Stone walked out the front door and stood on the veranda. The moon sat on the far horizon. A few miners shuffled along the sidewalks, several slept on benches in front of stores closed for the night.
Stone walked to the first alley, heading for the open country. Drunks slept against walls, curled up like children, empty bottles nearby. He came to the next street, a few small saloons spilling forlorn light onto the sidewalks. Stone felt like a ghost as he made his way through the next alley. Couldn’t be faithful to Marie. He shook his head bitterly. Now what do I have?
He thought of Belle, hardly knew who she was. What could come of it? He was just her passing fancy. Tomorrow she’d find somebody else, a woman like that loyal only to herself.
He needed somebody he could rely on. Marie and he’d been through too much together, his interlude with Belle just one of those things.
“John Stone,” said a voice in a doorway.
Stone yanked both Colts. A shadow moved, Tommy Moran appeared, holding both his empty hands in the air.
“I wanted to talk with you, John Stone.”
Stone kept both Colts aimed, wondered if somebody was behind him. He glanced backward quickly.
“I’m alone,” Moran said. “This ain’t no bushwhack. I wanted to kill you, would’ ve done it in the Grand Palace. That’s what I come to tell you about. I din’t want you to think I’m afraid of you.” He removed his hat. “We met once before, long time ago.”
Stone narrowed his eyes and examined Moran in the light of the moon. “Don’t remember you.”
“Antietam, the second day, in the afternoon. That ring a bell? I fought for the Union, you were a rebel cavalry officer, damn near killed me. But then you stopped and let me live. Remember?”
“Maybe it was somebody looked like me.”
“Never forget your face. You saved my life.” Moran glanced furtively behind him. “Somebody paid me to kill you. He’d shoot me if he found out I told you, but I’m pullin’ stakes tonight. It was Maaa ...”
A shot rang out, Moran shuddered, Stone dropped to the ground, both Colts ready to fire. The assassin’s gun flashed again at the back entrance to the alley. Stone cut loose a four-shot barrage that sounded like thunder. Moran lay beside him, clutching his stomach. Lights came on in buildings nearby.
“What the hell’s goin’ on out there!”
Stone rolled Moran onto his back. Moran gasped as he tried to speak. “Kkkkkkk …”
Moran went still. His eyes glazed over and jaw dropped open. Stone wasn’t a doctor, but saw dead men before. A deputy blew a whistle. Stone ducked into a doorway and listened to the tumult in the street. They’d remember his quarrel with Moran earlier in the saloon. Men had been hung for less. He had to get back to the Grand Palace without being seen.
~*~
Kincaid latched the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and took a deep breath. His heart beat like a drum. His whole operation nearly blew up in his face, but he saved it with two lucky shots. Can’t trust nobody, he thought ruefully.
He had caught a scrap of the conversation between Stone and Moran. That’s what happens when you look for a bargain. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
“Where
were you?” his wife asked sleepily.
“I ain’t left yer side all night.”
“Come to bed.”
Kincaid took off his clothes and crawled under the covers. Her arm fell across his chest. He stared at the ceiling. First thing in the morning, hire the fastest available gun to kill John Stone.
~*~
Belle McGuinness looked through the peephole. It was John Stone. “Where’ve you been?”
“Somebody got shot.” Agitated, he paced back and forth on the rug and told the story. “Thought they’d arrest me, so I ran away. Probably looking for me right now.”
“Tell ’em you spent the night here. I’ll back yer story.”
“You don’t have to drag your reputation through the mud for me. I’ll fend for myself.”
“My reputation can’t be worse than it is already, and I don’t give a damn anyway. If the marshal bothers you, send him to me. I can handle that son of a bitch. Come on to bed.”
“Does anyone know who Kincaid was before he came here?”
“I told you: In Lodestone, we don’t ask people where they come from.”
“He just showed up one day?”
“That’s what all of us did, includin’ you. Why’re you askin’ so many questions about Kincaid?”
“He makes me curious.”
She kissed his throat. “You make me horny.”
The second time is always easier. She led him to the bed, peeled away his clothes. He didn’t have strength to resist. She tossed her nightgown over her head, revealing a figure that reminded him of a Rubens painting. Stone closed his eyes. She lowered herself onto him. He felt electrified. I’ll worry about this some other time.
~*~
A short distance away, Rebecca Hawkins prayed in the cellar of her home. Naked, a bloody cat-o’-nine-tails gripped tightly in her hand, her back and buttocks striated with welts, she bowed her head in the darkness.
“Purify me, O Lord. Cast out my wickedness and sin. Make me worthy of you.”
She raised the whip and lashed her back, the pain exquisitely delicious. The whore of Babylon and John Stone could be vanquished with a mere glance if her faith were strong. She danced on the cold hard-packed earth, punishing herself for the memory of John Stone’s arms. “Out, Beelzebub! Away with you, Satan.”
The whip whistled through the air and came down on her scarred and bloody back. She shivered with pain and delight. “Make me victorious over thine enemies.”
The whip wrapped round her body, digging into her flesh. Exaltation came over her. She dropped to her knees, sobbing and sniffling. Her body trembled uncontrollably, floor covered with dots of blood. Darkness spun around her, she fell, banging her cheek on the way down. She whimpered and went slack. A black pool drew her toward its vortex. Waves of ecstasy passed over her.
Chapter Five
The corpse of Tommy Moran lay face down on the table, skin turning pale blue. Dr. White removed a lump of lead from a hole cut into his back. “Looks like a forty-four.”
Marshal Kincaid screwed up his eyes as he examined it. Forty-four all right, from his own gun.
“Shot him twice in the back,” Dr. White said. “Didn’t even give him a chance. What kind of man’d shoot another in the back?”
Kincaid said nothing. Any man would shoot another in the back, if he had to.
“Any idea who did it?” Dr. White asked.
“The new bartender at the Grand Palace, name of John Stone. He and Moran got into it last night. They was a-ready to draw on each other.”
“You figger Stone bushwhacked him?”
“He don’t have a good alibi, he’ll spend the night in the cooler. He puts up a fuss, you’ll be a-seein’ ’im right here in this room afore sundown.”
The atmosphere was icy at the Madden breakfast table. Gail buttered her corn muffin and wished she hadn’t come to Lodestone. Unwittingly, she’d dropped into the middle of a bad marriage.
The walls in the house were thin. She heard her sister and brother-in-law arguing most of the night. Patricia accused Bart of keeping another woman, he denied it vehemently. They’d gone round and round. Gail wanted to get out of the house. She ate quickly, gulped down her coffee, said, “I’d like to take a little walk.”
Her sister raised her eyebrows. “Are you crazy? Don’t you know what’s out there?”
“I was looking out the window before, it didn’t seem that bad.”
“This city,” her sister replied, “is full of inebriated miners armed to the teeth, and there’s a woman shortage. No telling what they might do to a pretty young thing like you.”
“Don’t scare her needlessly,” Bart said, flashing his smile. “They’d never bother anybody who looked like a lady. It’s the poor soiled doves who get the abuse, but they can usually handle themselves.”
“Who’d know better than you?” Patricia asked, caustic innuendo in her voice. She turned to her sister. “The most notorious prostitute in Lodestone is a woman named Belle McGuinness. She’s slept with everybody important and unimportant, and now’s the richest woman in town. She parades around like a lady, and many of this town’s foremost gentlemen are in love with her. I guess there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.” She shot her husband an angry glance.
He maintained his smile. No matter what he felt inside, he could turn it on.
“I can go alone,” Gail said. “I walked in Boston by myself, nothing happened to me.”
“The good citizens of Boston don’t wear guns,” Patricia said. “The point I’m trying to make is the men here are heavily armed, and never hesitate to shoot.”
“She’s right.” Bart pulled a derringer from an inner pocket of his frock coat. “Even I carry one. You never know when you might need it.”
“Have you ever used it?” Gail asked.
“Not yet.” He handed it to her. “Take it with you. Might come in handy. You never know. I have more upstairs.”
Patricia reached across the table and grabbed the derringer. “She’s liable to shoot herself with it! How can you give an inexperienced person a loaded gun? Are you crazy?”
“Protection,” Bart said. “Every woman in the West should know how to use one.” He turned to Gail. “I’d be happy to give you shooting lessons.”
“You’ll give her no such thing!” Patricia said. “You keep away from her!”
“Only trying to be helpful to my sister-in-law, dear.”
Gail pushed back her chair. “I don’t need a gun. I’ll stay on the main streets, and it’s broad daylight. I doubt anything will happen.”
She climbed the stairs to her room. Bart and Patricia sat facing each other across the dining-room table. Slowly and deliberately, Patricia raised the derringer and pointed it at her husband’s chest. He continued to smile, though beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.
“You ever lay one of your filthy hands on my sister, I’ll kill you,” she said evenly.
“This has nothing to do with your sister, and you know it. You’re jealous of Belle McGuinness, but I swear to you, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. I know what you’re up to. You’re disgracing me.”
Patricia sighted down the barrel. Bart’s smile faltered. They heard footsteps on the stairs. Gail’s feet came into view. Bart snatched the derringer out of his wife’s hands.
Gail wore a plaid wool coat and bonnet, carried a purse. She waved to her sister and brother-in-law as she made her way to the door.
“Don’t go too far,” Patricia warned. “Keep your wits about you. Expect you back for lunch at twelve-thirty. Don’t talk to strange men, and whatever you do, don’t get too close to saloons. Worst of them all is the Grand Palace. When you see it, cross over to the other side of the street. And watch out for stray bullets. Do you hear?”
~*~
Cool breeze blew through the open window of Belle’s boudoir. She opened her eyes to the new day. Her arms wrapped around John Stone, she felt full of hope and joy.
> Usually she awoke cranky, her days spent scheming and plotting cynically. But not today. Today would be different. She nudged him. “Wake up.”
“Want to sleep,” he mumbled.
“No time. Got to teach you the saloon business. Anything I can’t stand, it’s a lazy man. What you like for breakfast?”
“Lots.”
“When I come back, I’ll ’spect you to be ready to eat.”
She tied on her robe and left the boudoir. Stone rolled onto his back, put on his pants near the window, the street full of wagons, carriages, individuals on horseback, stamp mill pounded in the distance. He opened the window a crack, noxious odor entered the room. He poured water into the basin, washed hands and face. Belle returned. “Breakfast’ll be ready in ten minutes. You’ll need new clothes, by the way. The manager of the Grand Palace Saloon wears a suit.”
“I don’t have money for clothes.”
“Go to the haberdashery across the street. Put them on my account. The Grand Palace ain’t no bust-out joint.”
Stone frowned. Beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes, said Henry David Thoreau. “Why do I have to wear a suit?”
“Goes with the territory.”
“Find yourself another manager.”
He headed toward the closet. Her face mottled with emotion. He took his fringed buckskin coat off the hanger.
“You win,” she said. “Wear what you want.”
Defeat was in her voice. Stone didn’t like the sound of it. Just to get his way over a matter of no real consequence. He wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll get a suit,” he said, “but I’m keeping my old Confederate cavalry hat and my guns.”
She liquefied in his arms. He gave in to me. Maybe he really loves me. She raised on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.
The maid entered. “Marshal Kincaid here to see you, ma’am. Says it’s important.”
“Send him in.”
Belle separated herself from Stone. “I’ll do the talking.” She looked into the mirror and applied cosmetics. Stone adjusted his guns. Kincaid entered the boudoir, hat in hand, badge shining on his brown leather vest. His eyes fell on Stone.