“I might, after I crack open that second bottle.”
“There’s still some left in the first.”
“It’s getting mighty low. Makes me kind of anxious. Hard to concentrate.”
“Help yourself.”
Osgood eagerly pulled the bottle from the bag and opened it. Matt picked up a double armful of papers, carrying them to the desk, setting them down. Gray dust puffed up from the pile into his face, causing him to sneeze.
“God bless!”
The voice came from one of the cells in back, the one adjacent to that of the bandit Gila Chacon.
“Quiet! Don’t start cutting up now,” Osgood said, over his shoulder. “Don’t make me come back there.”
A figure, big and bearlike, rose from a cot and shambled to the front of his cell. He gripped the bars with both hands, pressing his face between them. “Is that my old pal Matt Bodine?” he asked.
Matt craned his head, trying to see the speaker. “Who’s that?”
“Polk Muldoon,” Osgood said sourly.
“It’s me, sure ’nuff,” the prisoner said.
Matt went into the cell area. It smelled bad. He wrinkled his nose, glad for the dust which partly blocked it up.
The prisoner was large sized, thick bodied, big bellied. He was fifty years old.
A pear-shaped head sat on a pear-shaped body. He was hard though—even his fat was hard fat, with plenty of muscle beneath. His weathered face and hands were seamed and cracked like old saddle leather. He had thinning wispy hair, an iron-gray beard, and a thick-featured, good-natured face.
He looked like an aging but still vigorous working cowhand, which indeed he was—among other things. The other things were what put him behind bars, Matt thought.
“Polk Muldoon! What’re you in for?”
“Well, Matthew, I ain’t rightly sure. I got drunk last Saturday night and I don’t remember too much after that.”
Osgood stood at the head of the aisle, glass in hand, facing the cells. His other hand held the bottle at his side, holding it by the neck. “I’ll tell you what he did. He got blind, stinking drunk for starters. He tore up Dyker’s bar, wrecked the place. That was after he beat a couple of miners senseless. Big, tough, pick-and-shovel men.”
“They was prodding me, I do recall,” Polk said.
“Is that all he did?” Matt asked.
“That was just the warm-up,” Osgood said. “After that, Mr. Muldoon here shot up a couple of stores on Fifth Street, shooting out the front windows. They was closed for the night, so no one got hurt. Blind, stinking drunk though he was, he managed to find his way to Miss Laverne’s sporting house. When the doorman wouldn’t open up, Muldoon tore the door off its hinges and bulled his way in. A tinhorn in the parlor room threw down on him but Muldoon shot first.”
“Kill him?” Matt asked.
“Shot him in the arm.”
“Hell, I thought they was three fellows reaching on me,” Polk said.
“I believe that’s how you seed ’em,” Osgood said.
“You was trying to set the place on fire when Miss Laverne conked you on the head with a solid brass spittoon, and knocked you out.”
“I still got me an almighty big lump, too,” Polk said, rubbing the top of his head.
“You’re lucky she didn’t bust your skull wide open and spill out what little brains you got, she was so mad. You done tore up her prize player piano.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Matt said. “He didn’t kill anybody.”
“Not for lack of trying!” Osgood declared.
“What’re you keeping him locked up for?”
“He’s got to pay damages, which are gonna be considerable. And he ain’t got no money. Which means he’s gonna have to do a stint working for the city on a chain gang. Be working well into next year afore he’s paid his debt.”
“Anything you can do to help me out, Matt?” Polk asked meekly. “I’d surely appreciate it.”
“You gonna pay his fine?” Osgood said, sneering.
“How much?” Matt asked.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“That’s awful hard,” Polk said in a small voice.
“Sam and I are low on funds right now, Polk, awful low. Once our claim starts paying off, I’ll go your fine but, to be honest, that seems like a long way off right now.”
“That’s all right, Matt, don’t trouble yourself.”
“That could change anytime if we sell the claim. The ore assays high, the vein looks rich, but we don’t have the funds to develop it properly by ourselves yet. . . .”
“Wouldn’t do you no good if you had the dollars,” Osgood said. “Marshal Fred’s got a big mad on Muldoon and ain’t letting him get off the hook. He’s bound and determined to see he pays the full penalty of the law.
“Ya danged fool! Why’d you have to go and pick Miss Laverne’s place to tear up? Don’t you know she’s the marshal’s special lady?”
“I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”
“You’ll have plenty of time to think it over now. At least six months, I’d say.”
“Sounds like you had yourself a big night, Polk.”
“I reckon. Wish I could remember more of it. It’s a hard life full of troubles, Matt.”
“Maybe you’d like to trade places, amigo?” The voice came from the adjacent cell, Gila Chacon speaking.
“No, thanks!” Polk said swiftly.
Osgood came down the aisle swaying. “You’ll be getting out of jail come Saturday, Mex. All the way to the gallows. After that, your troubles’ll be over.”
Gila Chacon was silent, smiling.
“What’d he do?” Matt asked.
“Shot three men dead. They was Mexes, same as him, but that don’t matter. We still got laws in this town against killing folks, even Mexes,” Osgood said.
“They came to kill me,” Gila said to Matt. “You have an honest face, hombre. Perhaps this will be of interest to you. I have an enemy back home where I come from.”
“Where’s that?” Matt asked.
“Pago.” Gila pronounced it “pah-go.” “Pago, in the state of Sonora.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Not good things either, Matt thought.
“My enemy is a rich and powerful man. He hates me and would do anything to kill me—anything but face me himself. He sent pistoleros, paid assassins, to do the job. They were slow and their aim was bad. I was fast and my aim was true.”
“He told that story to the jury and they wasn’t buying,” Osgood said.
“Sounds like self-defense,” Matt said judiciously.
“He was riding a stolen horse when he was caught. We hang horse thieves here in Tombstone.”
“Partic’arly when the horse belongs to Judge Randall,” Polk said.
“It was a handsome horse,” Gila said, smiling sadly.
“You’ll swing for it,” Osgood said.
The street door opened. Sam Two Wolves came in. “Matt Bodine around?”
“Back here, Sam,” Matt called.
Sam crossed the office and went down the aisle between the cells. He seemed excited, pulsing with barely contained energy. “Hey, Matt, I’ve been looking for you—”
He broke off when he recognized the occupant of the cell. “Polk! What’re you doing here?”
“It’s a long story, Samuel.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Matt told Sam.
“Come on, let’s take a walk,” Sam said.
“I just started looking through the Wanted notices for the Vollin gang,” Matt said. “It’s a big job. I can use your help with it—”
“It can wait till later. Something’s come up. It’s important, Matt—business.”
“If you say so.” Matt turned to Osgood. “I’ve got to go now.”
Osgood frowned, pressing his lips together in a tight line. “You ain’t taking the bottle with you?”
“You keep it,” Matt said.
The frown smoothed out. “
That’s all right, then. You just go about your business.”
“I’ll be back later,” Matt said.
“Bring another bottle when you come,” Osgood said.
“Say, how ’bout a taste of that there red-eye?” Polk asked.
“Be serious,” Osgood said.
“I could use some myself, señor,” Gila said.
Osgood snorted.
“Surely you would not deny the simple request of a condemned man?”
“No? Try me.”
“Give them a drink, Deputy, both of them,” Matt said. “Give them a drink, and when I come back, I’ll bring two bottles.”
“How do I know you’re good for it?”
“Hell, I already came across with the whiz when I didn’t have to. I’ll be back to visit my friend Polk anyhow. You can trust me.”
“I reckon one little drink wouldn’t hurt ’em,” Osgood said grudgingly—it was like pulling teeth from him.
“If they don’t get it you can say good-bye to the next two bottles.”
“Dang it, I said I’d come across, didn’t I?”
“Thanks, Deputy, I knew I could count on you. I’ll be along directly,” Matt said. “See you later, Polk. Maybe we can do something to make your stay here a mite easier.”
“You know where to find me,” Polk said cheerfully.
“Sit tight, Polk.”
“What else can I do, Sam?”
Matt and Sam went out.
“You’re in an all-fired hurry, Sam. What’s the big rush?”
“We’ve got an appointment with greatness.”
SEVEN
Night had come to Tombstone. Sam Two Wolves and Matt Bodine stood outside the Hotel Erle, the best hotel in town, and there were some fine hotels in town.
Speculators had found it profitable to build and operate high-toned hostelries to accommodate the ever-growing number of wealthy businessmen and entrepreneurs who flocked to the boomtown to cash in on the silver bonanza.
The Hotel Erle was located on busy, bustling Allen Street, Tombstone’s main thoroughfare, in the heart of the lively commercial district. It stood between Fourth Street and Fifth Street, on the same stretch of prime real estate as the Cosmopolitan Hotel and the Occidental Hotel, two other outstanding establishments.
Farther along the street was the Oriental Saloon, site of the recent high-stakes poker game featuring some of Tombstone’s most celebrated citizens.
Wyatt Earp was a professional gambler at the Oriental when he wasn’t attending to his law enforcement duties. That was where he made his real money. Oriental owner, Milt Joyce, had recently cut Wyatt in on a percentage of the profits of the gaming room, a plum prize for the most ambitious and dangerous member of the Earp clan.
Now Wyatt, and brothers Virgil and Morg, were out of town on the posse hunting the Wells Fargo robbers, along with the sheriff, Marshal Fred White, Deputy Marshal Johnny Behan, and a number of Tombstone’s top guns.
Sam and Matt had made almost two hundred dollars this day selling off the Vollin gang’s horses, guns, and saddles. After leaving the marshal’s office, they went to a dry-goods store to buy some new clothes, following which they went to the bathhouse to get cleaned up—a telling sign of the importance of their upcoming meeting at eight. They put on their new clothes and left their old ones wrapped up in a brown paper parcel, held in a bin under the front counter for later retrieval.
A stop at the barbershop for a haircut and shave further spruced them up. Sam kept his hair shoulder length, but he cleaned it up by having the edges trimmed. They ducked into a café for something to eat. The food worked on Matt’s stomach something like a blotter, soaking up much of the booze he’d taken on at the marshal’s office. The steam and hot bath earlier had already sweated much of the alcohol out of his system, for which he was grateful. He’d been feeling a bit unsteady, but now he was back on an even keel.
At the time of twenty minutes before eight o’clock, the duo arrived at the Hotel Erle. Their appointment was at eight o’clock. The scene was alive with lights, color, people, movement.
The Hotel Erle was two stories of white-painted wood ornamented by a variety of Gilded Age architectural embellishments: newel posts on staircase bannisters, scrimshaw decorative moldings and cornices, gables, and dormers. The ground floor was edged on three sides by a verandah, the second floor by a balcony.
The double-door entrance was topped by an ornate stained-glass fanlight. Backlit by bright lobby lights, it threw a scattering of rainbow highlights on Sam and Matt standing at the foot of the front stairs.
Matt finished smoking a cigar, tossing the butt into the dirt street. He brushed some few specks of dust off his shoulders, straightened out his lapel, and hitched his guns on his hips so they sat just right, gun butts level with his fingertips. Not that he anticipated using them at this upcoming meeting.
But he and Sam had more than a few enemies; this was Tombstone, where danger and sudden death might come anytime, from any direction.
Sam similarly performed a last-minute overseeing of the fine details of his personal appearance.
“We’re early,” Matt said.
“That gives us time for a word with Buckskin Frank, who tipped us to this deal,” Sam said.
“Time for a drink, too.”
They climbed the stairs, crossed the verandah to the entrance, and went inside into the front hall. The interior blazed with light, reflections glimmering on brass and bronze fittings and dark wood paneling. Men’s starched shirtfronts, cuffs, and collars gleamed white and shining. Women were gowned in outfits with plunging necklines that bared smooth shoulders and deep cleavage, luscious flesh all cream, pink, and ivory.
A wide central staircase led to the second floor. To the right was the front desk and a restaurant. To the left was a lobby, beyond which lay the bar.
People came and went, hotel guests and visitors, restaurant and bar patrons. A lot of business deals were done in the lobby and barroom. The men looked prosperous, well fed; the ladies, well dressed and well turned out.
The lobby featured big overstuffed armchairs and divans. Globe lamps sat on drum tables. The hardwood floor was richly carpeted. In the spaces between carpets where the floor showed, honey-gold-colored wood showed, waxed and polished to a lustrous shine.
Some men smoked cigars. No ladies smoked, not here. Even in the free and easy West, it was thought improper for women to smoke in public, if at all.
Matt and Sam went through the lobby into the barroom. A long bar stretched along the rear wall. It was a stand-up bar with a brass rail along the foot, no chairs or stools. Tables and chairs were grouped around the space. There was a good-sized crowd, some hotel guests, some not. Most looked to be of the business class.
Among the men there were less belt guns to be seen on average than on the streets of Tombstone. Some carried concealed weapons, no doubt. Others relied on their wits, well-stuffed wallets, or both.
One of the barmen was Frank Leslie, clad in a trademark fringed buckskin shirt. He was armed. A gunman of renown such as he must go armed at work or play.
Buckskin Frank was considered a popular local character and he played the role to the hilt. He made a show out of tending bar, tossing empty glasses into the air and catching them behind his back, pouring drinks from a height into glasses without spilling a drop, and suchlike dazzling bits of business. He had fast hands, an asset in both his trades of gunman and bartender.
Seeing Matt and Sam approaching, he finished the drink he was making and handed it to a patron with a flourish. He spoke to the other bartender on duty, telling him he was going to step away for a moment. He wiped his hands on a hand towel and came out from behind the bar, crossing to Sam and Matt.
They shook hands. “You two look all duded up,” Frank said.
“We want to make a good impression,” said Sam.
“You want to make a good impression on the colonel, you’ve got to show him how he can make some money. A whole lot of money.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Matt said.
“The colonel’s looking forward to meeting you. He made a point of saying how much he wanted to meet some of the famous gunmen of Tombstone, so naturally I thought of you,” Frank said.
“We’re not so famous,” Matt said with a show of modesty.
“No, but the other famous gunmen are on the Wells Fargo posse,” Frank fired back.
Matt gave him a dirty look. “What’s the matter, weren’t you famous enough for him?”
“He’s already met me. Besides, I don’t have a silver claim—you do.”
“Tell me, Frank, did you know Colonel Davenport was coming for a visit when you tried to buy our claim this morning? You don’t have to answer that, I already know the answer. Of course you did. You work here at the hotel, so you know when important guests are coming.”
Buckskin Frank was unabashed. “Business is business, Matt. You can’t blame a man for trying. With those poker winnings in hand, I tried to make hay while the sun shines. Guess I got a little carried away. But I’m making amends by steering you to the colonel.”
“And we appreciate it,” Sam said.
“I gave you a big buildup with the old boy, telling him about some of your adventures. He’s mighty keen on meeting real Westerners.”
“It might have helped if you gave the claim a big buildup,” Matt said.
Frank held out his hands palms up, shrugging in a kind of gesture that said, what-can-I-do? “I know you boys can shoot. I don’t know that your claim’s a silver mother lode.”
“You thought enough of it to try to buy it.”
“I’m a gambler, remember?”
“That’s water under the bridge,” Sam said, wanting to smooth things over.
“My sentiments exactly. Time to move past that. Sell the hell out of the claim to the colonel and good luck.”
“Thanks, Frank. Anything we should know about the setup before we walk in?”
“Colonel Davenport’s got an assistant with him name of Stebbins. A private secretary or bookkeeper or something, he keeps an eye on the colonel’s money for him. He’s a real tight ass and a cheapskate. He squeezes a dollar so hard the eagle screams. You could be giving away solid silver bars and he’d still say nay. He don’t tip worth a damn neither, the waiters and chambermaids tell me.”
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 7