The Christmas Trespassers

by Andrew J. Fenady

  I traveld thro’ a Land of Men

  A Land of Men & Women too

  And heard & saw such dreadful things

  As cold Earth wanderers never knew

  Rosalind DuPree set the book aside, rose, and went to the large oval dressing mirror that stood near a wall. She tilted the mirror slightly to get a full view of her face and body. Unlike that day in Paris when she looked for any sign of her African heritage, this time she sought the telltale signs of her profession. Eyes, mouth, the entire assembly of face and body, of Yellow Rose. Whore.

  But that was not what she saw. That was not what was in the mirror.

  Rosalind DuPree looked back at her, and at the world. Away from the Appaloosa, away from Gilead, away from Texas, she could walk and be welcomed anywhere as a lady. In Europe she might even pass for royalty. There, there were scores of titled men, older men who might share the family title for the favor of sharing the family bed with a woman like Rosalind DuPree. If not the family title, then the family fortune, or a goodly part of it, if Rosalind DuPree were so inclined, or reclined.

  But Rosalind DuPree was not disposed toward Europe. Europe was the east, the past. The future lay west. Yes, west. Probably San Francisco.

  San Francisco, the Athens of America, a sobriquet used frequently by the citizens of that city, those citizens who knew there was an Athens.

  Rosalind DuPree had read and consumed much about the city that had been proclaimed a possession of the United States by Commander John Montgomery when he landed in the largest natural harbor in the world in 1846 from the U.S. naval vessel Portsmouth. The few hundred Spaniards who had been in possession of the territory since Captain Juan Bautista de Anza brought a boatload of settlers there in 1776 were in no position to decline the honor.

  In 1847 the town council officially named the village of 450 persons San Francisco. Shortly after that James Marshall found a glittering substance at Sutter’s Mill and unleashed a stampede of “forty-niners” who swelled the city to 25,000 seekers of fortune.

  Women were scarce, and the all-night variety were remunerated four to six hundred dollars for their time and effort, depending on their wares.

  The rich rose to the top of Nob Hill. Crocker, Huntington, Stanford, Hopkins, Towne, Tobin, Flood, Haggin, and the others looked down from their magnificent mansions on the masses who literally lived below them. But even below, the landscape was awash with opportunity, particularly for someone with the beauty, charm, grace, and ability of Rosalind DuPree.

  She continued to look at her naked self in the mirror. Yes. It would not be a severe task to find one of the pillars of the community, or even a son of one of the pillars, to set her up in a much more ornamental style than the citizens of Gilead, Texas.

  But when was a whore not a whore? When she was a mistress?

  Yellow Rose had allowed her body, if not her soul, to be used by hundreds of men thousands of times in the last ten years. Two of those men she had shot with a derringer for trying to abuse her. Both survived, but only because Yellow Rose knew where she was aiming.

  In San Francisco she would be used by only one man, once she had selected the right one. But she would still be in the same business, only on a more exclusive basis. But it would have to be soon. She was not yet thirty. The sooner, the richer the fatted calf, the better the bounty. By the time she was forty she could retire in splendor without obligation. Without belonging to anybody but herself.

  The alternative? Maybe a legitimate business. A shoppe. She had fifteen hundred dollars in an account at Amos Bush’s bank. Another thousand, ten one-hundred-dollar bills, secreted among the pages of the Collected Works of Shakespeare. And there was the thousand she’d get from Hooter for her share of the Appaloosa.

  Thirty-five hundred dollars from the rental of her body for the past ten years. In San Francisco she could lease instead of rent her body. Or she could open a shoppe and wait for the customers, many of whom might be in the business she was thinking of getting out of.

  There was still another alternative. But she didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

  * * *

  “Sheriff! Sheriff! Elwood!” Deputy Homer Keeler had risen from the chair outside of the sheriff’s office, held on to the sawed-off shotgun with one hand, and was knocking on the window with the other.

  Keeler had been sitting there daydreaming for a couple of hours after making sure the two inmates ate breakfast without doing bodily damage by hurling tin plates and cups at each other from the New Heidelberg settings used exclusively in serving prisoners. No knives or forks were permitted. The inmates had to make do with a spoon apiece. But that was no great hardship since the breakfast consisted of coffee, toast, and mush. Red Borden persisted in muttering through his mush about killing Charlie Reno. Reno cowered on the corner of his bunk as far away from Red as the geography of the two cells would permit.

  Red’s nocturnal mutterings were taking a visible toll on Charlie, whose eyes had become a couple of baggy slits from lack of sleep. He complained to both Elwood Hinge and Homer Keeler that his head “ached and buzzed” and that he was in dire need of medication or doctor’s attention, or change of venue, but his complaints fell on an unsympathetic audience.

  “Eat your mush and shut up,” the sheriff responded.

  “Don’t want mush. I need medicine.”

  “I’ll eat his mush,” Red Borden growled. “Then I’ll kill the son of a bitch.” He appeared to have suffered no ill effects from staying up and torturing Charlie.

  “Make him stop! Make him stop!” Charlie pleaded. “He’s making me crazy.”

  Elwood Hinge instructed Homer to collect the tin plates and cups then take his post outdoors. The sheriff returned to his desk and resumed his Christmas tree carving.

  Since then the deputy had been sitting in front of the office thinking about how it would be to be married to Kathy Lewis and spend the night—nights—with her in a real bed instead of making love to her in makeshift surroundings.

  Just about everybody who passed by “good morning’d” or “merry Christmas’d” Homer, who just nodded and went back to the vision of him and Kathy in a bed of their own. Until he heard the sound.

  The stagecoach clattered into town and made for the front of the livery, which also served as the depot. The livery had been reopened that morning by Dutch and Bub, who both showed visible effects of their previous encounter with Shad Parker. Dutch’s son also had returned to his post outside of Inghram’s.

  “Sheriff!” Homer repeated as he knocked again on the window.

  Elwood Hinge came out with his shotgun in one hand and brushing off wood carvings with the other.

  “I saw it.” The sheriff nodded toward his deputy, who went back to the chair.

  Elwood Hinge proceeded across the street toward the stagecoach, where several passengers already were debarking. Curious citizens of Gilead from every direction also converged toward the coach.

  Hinge watched as a woman with two young children stepped off. One of the children, about seven years of age, was crying, holding himself below the belly, and proclaiming, “I gotta go to the toilet! I gotta go to the toilet!”

  “Well, Teddy,” the weary woman said, “go behind the livery and pee.”

  “I don’t gotta pee . . . I gotta go to the toilet!” Teddy replied through his tears.

  A tall man whom Hinge recognized as a drummer who had called on the community many times before jumped off the stage and headed for the Appaloosa, followed by a middle-aged man and woman who were strangers to the sheriff.

  The driver, a crusty sort, named Shorty for obvious reason, unloaded baggage and was being assisted by the Shotgun.

  “Morning, Shorty.”

  “Hello, Sheriff.” Shorty tossed down a suitcase that landed hard not far from Hinge’s feet.

  “Shorty, you got a U.S. Marshal aboard?”

  “Nope.” Another suitcase crashed on top of the previous luggage and bounced off.

  “You sure?�
��

  “Not unless he’s in one of them suitcases.”

  Elwood Hinge knew from prior encounters that the driver was not much given to small talk. Those who had ridden beside Shorty on his runs had remarked that one sentence per hundred miles was about average for Shorty, as far as conversation was concerned.

  The sheriff was disappointed that he would not be relieved of Charlie and Red for the present and would have to countenance more threats and possibly an attempt or attempts on the safety and well-being of the surviving Reno brother. But that was part of his job. Besides, he was thinking of the six thousand stashed somewhere nearby. The bank at Garden City would provide a reward for the return of the stolen money. Hinge wouldn’t mind adding that to his account.

  Hinge started to take a step back toward his office.

  “Elwood.”

  The sheriff stopped and looked back at Shorty as the last piece of luggage met the ground rudely. Shorty reached inside of his jacket and removed a sheaf.

  “What is it, Shorty?”

  “Packet of dodgers for you.” Shorty tossed the dodgers, which were folded once and tied together by heavy string, at Hinge, who caught them before they hit the ground.

  “Much obliged, Shorty.” But by this time Shorty had disappeared off the top of the stagecoach to the opposite side.

  “Sheriff.” A different voice called out to Hinge, and Dutch appeared from around the stagecoach. He limped, obviously ached when he moved, and instead of a hat he wore a bandage around his head. One eye was blue and swollen shut. He looked more like Halloween than Christmas. Elwood Hinge didn’t bother asking him how he felt.

  “Has that son of a bitch come back into town?”

  “Which son of a bitch is that, Dutch?”

  “You know who I mean, that crazy bastard who was pesterin’ my boy. The one who sucker punched me when I wasn’t lookin . . .”

  “Oh, that son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Dutch, in the first place I’m not so sure he’s any son of a bitch and I wouldn’t call him on it even if I was. In the second place, for your own health and safety, I hope you and Bub, who I guess he also sucker punched, aren’t thinking of pursuing your conversation with him about this or that.”

  “I’m thinking about filin’ charges.”

  “What charges?”

  “Well, you seen it, you name it. Assault with a deadly weapon. Intent to kill . . .”

  “What I ‘seen’ was that he intended to mind his own business . . . morose though he was . . . until the two of you made the mistake of taking on more than you could haul. Was I you, I wouldn’t make any further mistakes far as he’s concerned . . .”

  “What kind of law we got around here?”

  “It’s the law according to Sheriff Elwood Hinge. You want to file a complaint against that, too?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Then exercise your right to vote next election. In the meanwhile,” Hinge looked at the young boy who stood a few feet behind his father and lowered his voice as he concluded, “you’ve already embarrassed your boy and damn near made him part orphan, so how about burying the matter and starting off the New Year right?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “I thought you’d see it that way, Dutch. Merry Christmas.” Hinge smiled at the young boy. “You, too, son.” He turned, began to walk toward his office again, and saw the Keeshaws astride their horses coming back into Gilead.

  Sheriff Elwood Hinge also had seen them ride out just over two hours ago. If it were true, as they made a big display advertising to anybody who’d listen, that they were scouting for a spread to buy, they were spending more time talking than scouting. There were a few things about the brothers Keeshaw that didn’t sit right with the veteran lawman. They were brothers, all right, one look at the three of them was evidence enough, but beyond that Hinge had some doubts. He wasn’t so sure that, as they claimed, they were from Louisiana. There were more than a few from all parts of that state that served alongside Hinge in the war and none of them sounded like the Keeshaws. The Keeshaws sounded more like Kansas or Missouri.

  And the Keeshaws didn’t look to Hinge as if they’d be content to live inside four walls made out of Nebraska marble, as the sod huts were called, and sweat out a living on a piece of hardscrabble Texas dirt. Their eyes weren’t made to look down a plow, more likely a barrel of a Winchester or Colt . . . or at least a deck of cards, a cold deck.

  It was just a lawman’s instinct, but it had kept that lawman alive. Hinge hadn’t seen their likeness on any dodgers so far, but sometimes those dodgers were a year or so behind events and some of the worst hard-cases never got celebrated on posters at all. But Elwood Hinge intended to go through the new edition of dodgers he held in his hand with an eye out for the three pilgrims who just rode in and whose leader was waving at him from horseback.

  Hinge scarcely waved back, with the dodgers.

  Deek reined in and so did Tom and Bart and watched as the sheriff walked with the shotgun in one hand and a packet of papers in the other, toward his deputy who sat cradling his own scattergun. The sky turned darker.

  In the last twenty-four hours Tom and Bart had become even more edgy. Francine and Stella had quelled the edginess for a spell last night, but by noon this day both brothers were back to grumbling about the situation.

  Once again they had taken Amos Bush’s map and gone through the motions. This morning’s sodbuster seemed willing to part with his spread at any price and throw his wife and twin daughters into the bargain. Deek promised that they’d be back . . . after the holidays.

  Up to the moment that Deek spoke to Yellow Rose he had occupied his thoughts with time-consuming visions of the two of them together. But since the abrupt, nearly rude rejection, he, too, was getting anxious. There no longer was any point in visiting the barbershop for a shave and splashes of lilac toilet water. Tony didn’t talk a hell of a lot for a barber. Maybe that was because besides barbering Tony also served as town photographer and undertaker. It appeared that he was more content to shave corpses than citizens.

  Tony did tell Deek how he had shaved and photographed Frank Chase and Johnsy Reno after they became cadavers so the sheriff could prove their identify and collect the reward instead of turning the bodies over to the U.S. Marshal when he got to town. Bodies wouldn’t keep too well for long stretches even in this kind of weather.

  Deek Keeshaw had changed the cadaver subject just as soon as he deemed proper. He didn’t relish hearing details about outlaw corpses. At that time the only body he wanted to think about was Yellow Rose’s. He had tried to turn the conversation with Tony to Yellow Rose, but the barber didn’t respond to that subject, so Keeshaw had closed his eyes and requested more lilac toilet water.

  But since the rejection in the Appaloosa, Deek Keeshaw had only one object in mind, and the biggest hindrance to that object was carrying a shotgun and walking toward his office next to Amos Bush’s bank.

  “How much longer?” Tom grumbled.

  “How much longer what?” Deek said even though he already knew what Tom was grumbling about.

  “How much longer we gonna wait till we do what we come here to do?”

  “I’ll say it one more time, Tom, and you listen, too, Bart, ’cause I don’t ever want to say it again. We wait till the marshal gets here and takes them two fugitives into custody and away from the sheriff and deputy and their shotguns. When Hinge and his man got no more reason to sleep in that office and sit in that chair next to that bank,” Deek nodded toward the corner, “then, and not till then, do we do what we come here to do. Now, does that spell it out plain enough?”

  “Yeah, well . . .

  “Yeah, well what, Tom?”

  “If that marshal don’t get here pretty soon . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, we’re gonna end up saddle sore, that’s what.”

  “That’d be too bad, Tom, because that’s what you usually think with.”


  “Deek’s right,” Bart said. “No sense goin’ up against them scatterguns.”

  “No sense at all,” Deek confirmed. “We need all the odds we can get. We’ll wait it out. Can’t be more’n a day or two. Sheriff said the marshal’ud be here before Christmas. Meanwhile we’ll . . .” he looked toward the saloon, “. . . hit that.”

  “Good idea,” Tom said.

  “That is a good idea,” Bart concluded.

  * * *

  Elwood Hinge had reached the front of the sheriff’s office, where Homer sat in the Douglas chair.

  “No marshal?” Homer asked even though he knew the answer.

  “Nope.” The sheriff set his shotgun against the door, untied the packet of dodgers, unfolded, and started to riffle through them.

  “Anything interesting?” The deputy nodded toward the dodgers in Hinge’s hand.

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “The railroad’s still looking for Frank and Jesse.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Homer said.

  “Ben Thompson,” Hinge continued looking through the posters, “Bill Longley, the Daltons . . .”

  “Pass, pass, pass.”

  “Here’s something different, but no reward.”

  “What?”

  “Circular from some orphanage. Faith, Hope, and Charity over in Palestine . . . looking for three orphans.”

  “Escape, did they?” Homer smiled.

  “I guess.”

  “Armed and dangerous?”

  “Could be. Ages eleven, ten, and six.”

  “Some gang.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Elwood . . .”

  “What?”

  Homer looked upward at the suddenly deep, blue-black sky.

  “I think it’s fixin’ to rain.”

  Several droplets splashed onto the circular in Hinge’s hand.

  “Fixin’, hell,” the sheriff said. “It’s raining.”

  * * *

  Austin, Peg, and Davy sat inside the cave and watched the midday turn near-black and the rain beat into the cold, solid ground and form rivulets all around and into their bunker.