"I see," Turnbo said, nodding. "Well, I'm looking forward to the show."
"Good. Then I'll see you both Thursday."
"Would you like to join us for a drink before you leave, Ross?" Spears asked.
"Thanks, but not tonight, Sheriff. We're working on a new act for the show. I need to get back to rehearsal."
"I understand. We'll be looking forward to the show. G'night."
"Night, Sheriff."
Turnbo watched as Lucast departed. "Interesting character, that one," he observed.
"Interesting? You don't know the half of it," Spears responded with a laugh. "He's been talkin' my ears off ever since he and his bunch hit town. Now, how about some poker? You interested in a game?"
"You talked me into it, Jim," Turnbo said.
"Good. Been a while since I've taken dinero from a fellow lawman over a poker table," Spears said, grinning.
"Don't be so certain it won't be the other way around," Turnbo replied.
"Only one way to find out," Spears said.
"Lead the way," Turnbo answered.
* * *
With entertainment in any frontier town always hard to come by, the San Remo Opera House was packed to the rafters for the opening performance of the Ross Lucast Players. Most of the elite of San Angelo society were present, as well as cowboys, farmers, ranchers and their families, who crowded into the balconies and spilled over into the aisles. Tobacco smoke filled the air. As promised, Lucast had arranged front row center seats for Sheriff Spears and Ranger Turnbo. Anticipation built as curtain time neared. The audience began whooping, hollering, and stamping their feet. At last, Ross Lucast emerged from behind the green velvet curtain. He raised his hands for silence.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced. "Welcome to the first San Angelo performance of the Ross Lucast Players. Tonight, you will see some acts which will astound and amaze you, as well as heart-stopping feats of derring-do which will thrill you and send shivers down your spine. From our extensive repertoire, we will also perform several short excerpts from Hamlet and Richard III, two of the Bard's, William Shakespeare's, most famous works. Finally, to conclude the evening's performance, you will see the world premiere of the Lucast Players' reenactment of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth. Now, without further ado, I am proud to present the ladies of our little troupe, the Lucast dancers, in their version of that naughty, bawdy Parisian dance, the Can-Can!"
With that, four women, dressed in flowing green, purple and gold outfits, their legs in black silk stockings, bounded onto the stage. The audience shouted appreciatively as the women, with yips and screeches, gyrated and kicked their legs high in time with the lively can-can music. When the dance was finished, they dropped to the floor, legs stretched out in splits.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," the lead dancer said once the applause had subsided. "Now, for your further entertainment, the Lucast Players are proud to present, directly from her last engagement in New Orleans, the scandalous, sultry siren of the South, Miss Tangela Peele!"
A buxom black woman, her hair cut to shoulder length, dressed in a form-fitting orange silk and crushed velvet gown, emerged from the left wing. She held an enormous feather fan in front of her. Slowly, she walked to the center of the stage, a slit in her gown showing just a hint of ankle. She reached the center of the stage, stopped and faced the audience, then gradually lowered the fan, revealing her full bosom. An enormous topaz pendant dangled from her neck and nestled in her cleavage, where it scintillated in the stage lights. She paused for a moment, and then launched into her version of "If I Ever Cease to Love", a popular song in the Crescent City from the 1870s, in fact the official song of the Rex Krewe. After she finished that tune, she continued with a series of French ballads. Her husky voice lent itself perfectly to the melancholy airs. By the time she finished, the audience was hushed, many of them, despite most having no knowledge whatsoever of French or the meaning of the lyrics, in tears.
After Miss Peele took several bows, Ross Lucast returned to the stage.
"Wasn't Tangela wonderful?" he asked, to uproarious applause. He waited several moments for the crowd to settle down.
"For the next few minutes, while we prepare our next act," he continued, "Jack Martin and Mike Trombley will regale you with a set of tunes from the old South. Then you will see an amazing display of swordsmanship, as I recreate an actual encounter between a lone gallant son of the Confederacy and three no-account Yankees."
After the musical interlude, Lucast returned dressed in the gray and butternut of a Confederate soldier. Three members of the orchestra were now dressed in Union blue. They stood facing each other at the center of the stage.
"Surrender, you Rebel dog," one of the Union soldiers ordered.
"I'll never surrender to any low-down dam'yankee," Lucast answered. He drew his saber from its scabbard, and the three Union soldiers did likewise. For the next several minutes they engaged in a mock battle, Lucast and his enemies slashing wildly with their swords. The first two soldiers fell quickly to Lucast's flashing blade, but the third put up quite a fight. The battle finally ended when Lucast dispatched the last Union man with a saber thrust through his belly. The audience shouted their approval when the final Yankee crumpled and fell.
"The South SHALL rise again!" Lucast declared.
* * *
The performance went on through more acts, including a display of weight-lifting, a song and dance number by Lucast himself, an exhibition of sharp-shooting, and several more, until it reached the final segment, the reenactment of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln at the hands of John Wilkes Booth. The tall and lanky Lucast, now wearing a false beard, played the role of Lincoln, while one of the actresses, Molly Dowd, played the part of Mary Todd Lincoln. Jack Martin portrayed John Wilkes Booth. The audience, for many of them memories of the Confederacy's loss still fresh and painful, cheered when Martin as Booth stalked up behind Lucast as Lincoln and fired the fatal shot into his brain. They groaned when Martin reenacted Booth's breaking his leg during his escape.
The curtains closed, and then reopened a moment later. The cast took their bows, and the applause lasted for three curtain calls. After the curtain closed for the final time, Lucast descended from the stage to join Turnbo and Spears.
"Sheriff, Ranger, I'm pleased you could both join us. Did you enjoy the show?" he asked.
"I sure did," Spears answered.
"It was very entertaining," Turnbo agreed.
"Excellent, excellent. Would you be so kind as to come backstage and allow me to introduce the rest of my troupe?"
"Certainly," Spears said.
"Right this way, gentlemen."
Lucast led them to the cramped dressing room, which was jammed behind the stage. Only a canvas screen separated the men's and the women's sections.
"Attention, everyone," he called. "I know you've already met briefly with Sheriff Spears, but I'd like you to say hello to him again. I'd also like you to meet Texas Ranger J.S. Turnbo. He was on another of the stagecoaches those men who robbed us attacked. Ranger, my actors and musicians are Jack Martin, Mike Trombley, Jake Cutter, Morey Banton, and Hugh Marks. As you already saw, Jake is also a weight-lifter, and Hugh is a marksman extraordinaire. The ladies are Molly Dowd, Julie Ann Cutter, who is also Jake's wife, Carla Kennedy, Sally Jane Stark, and of course Tangela Peele."
"Pleased to meet y'all," Turnbo said. "My thanks to all of you for a very enjoyable evening. You put on a fine show. Miss Peele, you certainly have a lovely voice."
"Why, thank you," the singer replied. "You are a true gentleman."
"I wouldn't go that far," Turnbo said, with a chuckle. "I'm just a man who appreciates good singing. However, I did notice just now that you seem to have lost your New Orleans accent."
"You've discovered my secret. I'm actually from Bridgeport, Connecticut. However, people seem to find a singer from New Orleans or Charleston much more intriguing than one from up Nort
h. Nevertheless, your compliment is greatly appreciated," Tangela replied. "And I'm speaking for the entire ensemble, not just myself."
The others murmured their assent.
"Ranger, Sheriff, we're going to Belasco's for supper after we've changed," Lucast said. "Would you care to join us?"
"I'd purely enjoy that," Turnbo answered.
"Same here," Spears said.
"Excellent, excellent. We'll be ready in half an hour."
"We'll meet you there," Spears said. "I assume you have reservations?"
"We do indeed," Lucast confirmed. "Just have them add two chairs to our table."
"We'll do that," Spears said. "See you there."
* * *
"We're settin' out a bit later than I planned, Hat," Turnbo said to his horse as he saddled the paint, just before ten the next morning. "My head and guts are still killin' me."
Hat snorted as if disgusted.
"I know," Turnbo continued, with a rueful laugh. "Nobody's fault but my own. Should've left that party long before I did."
Ross Lucast had insisted on paying for both Turnbo's and Spears's meals at the after show party at Belasco's, the finest restaurant in San Angelo. Besides the bounteous seven course meal, each dish more sumptuous than the last, the liquor had flowed freely. Turnbo not only downed several of his usual ryes, but had sampled quite a few exquisite brandies and liqueurs, including a Chambord blackberry liqueur which Paolo Belasco, the restaurant's owner, claimed he had imported from France via New Orleans at great expense. And Lucast was every bit as voluble as Sheriff Spears had claimed. The man never seemed to stop talking, especially about swords and sabers. Most of the members of his troupe were also as talkative as their boss. It was well after three in the morning before Turnbo excused himself and went back to his hotel. Despite several cups of strong black coffee at breakfast, his mouth still felt like cotton, his head was pounding, and his gut felt as if he'd had more than one Comanche arrow shot through it.
"Good thing I didn't run into anyone gunnin' for me last night," he added. "Couldn't have even gotten my gun out of its holster, let alone aim and fire before I got myself shot down."
Hat placed his nose against Turnbo's belly and shoved, hard. Turnbo's guts churned and his head whirled.
"Ow! Hat, I said I'm feelin' real poorly, horse. Don't need any scoldin' from you." Turnbo slid the bit into his horse's mouth and the headstall over his ears. He fumbled to buckle the throat latch, but finally got that in place and secured. He pulled himself into the saddle with a groan, and then heeled the gelding into a slow walk.
"We're gonna take it nice and easy, pal, until the fresh air clears my head somewhat," he ordered Hat. "So don't you be gettin' any ideas about trottin' or gallopin'. And if you've got any fool notions about buckin' to get some of the kinks out, you'd best forget 'em right quick if you want any supper tonight."
Despite his misery, Turnbo had to chuckle when he rode by the sheriff's office. The front door was wide open and through it he could see Sheriff Spears, sprawled on a bench, his mouth wide open. Even out here in the street Spears' snores resonated. Turnbo pulled Hat up to the door.
"Hey, Sheriff!" he shouted. "Bank's bein' robbed!"
"Wha… huh?" Spears attempted to rise but tumbled off the bench and landed face-down on the floor. He rolled onto his side, somehow scrambled to his feet, and reached for his pistol. He stopped short at Turnbo's raucous laughter.
"What the hell . . .?" he muttered, standing in the door and looking around, confused.
"Sorry, Jim, but I was afraid you'd swallow a fly and choke to death on it, way you were snorin'," Turnbo said. "I figure you're in even worse shape than I am."
"You're lucky I didn't drill you dead center," Spears retorted. He gazed balefully at the Ranger.
"Doubt you could hit the wall of your own office right now," Turnbo answered. "You seem a bit bleary-eyed."
"That's an understatement if ever I've heard one," Spears said. "Reckon I drank a bit too much last night. Reckon we both did. How in blue blazes are you able to sit that horse?"
"It ain't easy," Turnbo admitted. "But I have to ride over to Grape Creek today and talk to the banker up there. After that I'll scout around a bit, then hit Sterling City first thing Monday morning. Then I'll cut over to Tennyson, question the folks there, and after that head back here. I'll be back sometime Tuesday, in plenty of time for the trial."
"You'd better be," Spears warned him. "Judge Herman Brockman's a real stickler. If you showed up late, he'd toss you in jail for contempt, Ranger badge or no."
"I'll remember that," Turnbo answered. "See you Tuesday, Jim."
"If I survive today," Spears said. He sat back down with a groan. "Good luck, J.S."
"See you in a few days," Turnbo answered. He backed Hat from the office and pointed him northwest.
With more than enough time to reach Grape Creek before the bank closed, Turnbo kept his horse to a slow walk, stopping several times to allow Hat to pull at stunted grass along the road and rest his own aching head. He began to feel better about an hour into the trip, and by the time he rode into Grape Creek, shortly after one, he was almost back to his usual self. He glanced around as he rode up the hamlet's single dusty street.
"Hard to believe a town this small has a bank, Hat," he said. "But there it is, straight ahead."
The bank was Grape Creek's solitary substantial building. The rest of the town's structures were mainly flimsy wooden constructions, so haphazardly thrown together it appeared the first strong wind would blow the entire town off the face of the Earth. Besides the bank, the only other businesses were a general store, a feed and grain, and the ubiquitous saloon. Turnbo looked longingly at that, and then shook his head.
"No, not gonna have even a beer, not after last night," he muttered. Instead, he rode up to the bank, dismounted, and looped Hat's reins over the hitch rail.
"Won't be long, pard," he assured the paint with a pat to his neck. "Once I'm done here, I'll hunt us both up a place to stay. You'll be fed and watered before long." He ducked under the rail and into the bank. There were no customers inside, just a young, bored-looking teller behind the cage.
"Help you, Mister?" he asked, and then stiffened at the sight of the silver star on silver circle badge pinned to Turnbo's shirt.
"Reckon you can," Turnbo answered. "Your boss around?"
"That would be Mr. Bacon. He's in his office. I'll fetch him right quick." The teller hurried from his window and knocked on a door marked ‘Lee N. Bacon, President. Private’.
"What is it, Jeremy?" a man called from behind the door.
"There's a man here askin' for you, Mr. Bacon," the teller answered. "He's a Texas Ranger."
"A Ranger? I'm comin' right out."
A moment later the door opened to reveal a tall, thin individual, who was dressed not in the usual business clothes of a banker, but in a range outfit more typical of a cowboy. He had short brown hair and hazel eyes. Several days’ growth of stubble formed a scraggly beard on his face and cheeks. A Colt Peacemaker hung from his left hip. For a moment, Turnbo thought he was looking at the leader of the bank robbers. Bacon matched Spears' description of that outlaw to a T. He walked up to Turnbo and shook his hand with a firm grip.
"Ranger. I'm sure glad to meet you. I'm Lee Bacon."
"Sergeant J.S. Turnbo."
"I'm assuming you're here about the recent robbery."
"That's correct."
"Good. Mebbe with the Rangers on the job we'll finally get some action. Not that I'm sayin' Jim Spears hasn't been doin' his job, not at all. He's a fine sheriff, but he's spread too thin. And as you undoubtedly noticed, Grape Creek is too small to even have our own town marshal. Anyway, c'mon back to my office and I'll tell you what I can."
"What about your teller? Was he here when it happened?" Turnbo asked.
"Matter of fact, he was.” He called out to the clerk. “Jeremy."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Bacon?"
"The Ranger's here ab
out the robbery. Lock the door and put the closed sign in the window, then join us in my office. I don't want to be disturbed until the Ranger is finished with his questions."
"All right."
"Right this way, Ranger." Bacon led Turnbo into his office. He indicated a corner chair. "Have a seat. Would you care for a cigar? How about a drink?"
Turnbo decided to chance a whiskey. "Don't mind if I do, to both, thank you."
Bacon took two cigars from a jar on his desk, and handed one to Turnbo. When Jeremy came in, he also gave him one of the smokes. He took a cut glass decanter and three glasses from the cabinet behind his desk. He filled the glasses, and then passed one each to the Ranger and teller.
"Thanks, Mr. Bacon."
The three men lit up their cigars. Bacon settled behind his desk, while Turnbo and Jeremy took the office's other two chairs.
"Guess I should introduce you two formally," Bacon said. "Jeremy, this is Ranger Sergeant J.S. Turnbo. Ranger, my head teller, Jeremy Fox. He's also my only teller, I might add."
Turnbo and Jeremy nodded.
"Now, where should I start?" Bacon said.
"First, I'm a bit surprised a town this small even has a bank," Turnbo said.
"It wouldn't, except I wanted one close by," Bacon answered. "You see, I also own and run the Rafter LB, which is one of the biggest spreads around these parts. It was danged inconvenient havin' to run into San Angelo all the time just to do my bankin'. So, since no one else in Grape Creek was willin' to open a bank, I did. Smartest move I ever made, at least it was until those robbers hit us."
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 39