“Don’t see nobody in there, do you, Everett?” Virgil said. “No burnt-up people, no bones?”
I continued walking around the coach, looking into the fire.
“Nothing yet,” I said as I walked back up the other side of the coach, looking closely into the smoky fire.
“Do not,” I said. “Don’t see any bones.”
I looked back to Virgil holding the Henry rifle. The rifle’s brass receiver was reflecting the flames and glowing a brilliant golden orange against the darkness.
“I reckon the governor and his wife got out, and away,” I said.
“Seems so,” Virgil said.
“Yep,” I said. “Somehow, some way.”
I walked back to where Virgil was standing, smoking his cigar. He was looking off toward Half Moon Junction.
“Hard to figure all this,” I said. “The governor and his wife, horses gone, the Pullman burning, the passengers, cars separated.”
“Is,” Virgil said.
“I figure the bandits took off and left the passengers to fend for themselves.”
Virgil nodded, slowly smoking the cigar.
“You think they took the governor and his wife hostage?” I said.
Virgil shook his head.
“Don’t think so,” Virgil said. “Now they are back here away from us, don’t think they’d have a need for ’em.”
“No,” I said. “Don’t guess they would.”
“Whether they are alive or not,” Virgil said, “is another matter altogether.”
“So what are you thinking?” I said.
“I’m thinking we do ourselves the necessity of getting over to this Half Moon Junction,” Virgil said, pointing the Henry rifle in the direction of the town, “and figure out just what befell.”
I nodded, and we started walking toward the town. We walked back past the other cars and past the caboose. A lamp was hanging on the back of the caboose, and as we passed it I noticed the engraving on the receiver of the Henry rifle Virgil was carrying.
“That yellow belly looks fancy,” I said.
Virgil held up the Henry a bit.
“It is,” Virgil said. “Got detailed engraving on it. Bunch of new scratches on the stock, and the front sight is busted off.”
We continued walking and left the light from the caboose behind.
“Not Bloody Bob’s rifle, that’s a fact,” Virgil said. “He stole it, I imagine. It’s got a deck of cards and a riverboat engraved on it.”
“Maybe he got it off some professional boat gambler,” I said.
“The other side of the receiver has happy and sad masks,” Virgil said. “Like you’d see displayed on tent shows.”
“Maybe it belonged to a gambler,” I said. “Who is a performer, a thespian or something.”
“Might,” Virgil said. “Just might.”
I opened Bob’s pouch and pulled out the extra cartridges I’d previously felt were inside and handed them to Virgil as we walked.
“Here,” I said. “What’s left of the cartridges.”
Virgil took the bullets and put them into his coat pocket as we continued making our way toward Half Moon Junction.
42
HALF MOON JUNCTION was painted in Gothic-style lettering on the north side of the water tank. The south side, the side I’d seen when we were passing through, traveling north, simply bore the symbol of its namesake, a painted half-moon. Virgil and I walked down the tracks, around the water tank, and crossed over the planks of the depot’s wide loading dock. We stepped over another set of rails that tapered off to the west and made our way up the wet caliche road toward the streetlights of Half Moon.
—
The first sign of life was at an encampment on the east side of town at the edge of a small brook. There were several tents pitched around an open-sided teepee with a fire burning beneath it. A few miners were having a spirited game of blackjack in their underwear; their trousers and shirts were hanging near the fire to dry. Across from the brook was another encampment with rows of single tents, and somewhere within we could hear a man and a woman arguing about something. A short ways on, there was a lean-to shack set back off the road surrounded by a corral with a few scrawny goats and a donkey. There was a wagon-wide bridge over the brook, and on the other side was the start of the proper buildings of Half Moon Junction. We crossed over the bridge, and a young barefoot fellow wearing a China hat approached carrying a laundry sack. He looked to be part Chinese and maybe part Indian.
“Young fellow,” Virgil said, stopping the young man’s forward momentum.
“Yes,” the young man said.
“You speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Where would we find an officer of the law, sheriff, marshal, police?”
The young man nodded, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Virgil said.
“Yes,” the young man said, then hurried on over the bridge and into the tent encampment.
Virgil looked at me, smiled a bit, and said, “Yes.”
We walked on. The rails that were running westerly from the depot had a section of track that switched off into a big miners’ yard with a covered loading facility on our right. Just past the miners’ yard, there was a livery stable. The door was open, lamps were on. There were a number of horses standing in a lot next to the barn. Virgil walked next to the rail, looking at the horses in the lot, and when he got to the barn door, he looked inside. There were two young Indian men at the back of the barn, mucking stables. Virgil took a few steps inside and looked around. The Indians watched him for a moment and went back to work. Virgil walked down the center of the barn, looking at the horses in the stalls. When he got to the end he turned around and walked back to the door. As he figured, there was no sign of his chestnut or my lazy roan, but he was taking a look anyway, if for no other reason than just to provide himself an understanding of some sort.
We walked on up the street, and the next building we came to was a small church on the south side nestled between two big tents. A large woman opened the door as we walked by and threw out a basin of water. She turned to go back inside but stopped when she saw Virgil and me.
“Well, hey there, boys. How ’bout getting a piece of Heaven with Betty Jean?”
Virgil looked up to the steeple. He glanced at me and looked back to Betty Jean. Betty Jean was no church lady, and obviously this church was no church. It had been converted into a brothel, and Betty Jean was most likely a member of the congregation.
“Come on in,” Betty Jean said. “You can ring the bell.”
Betty Jean’s face was thick with face paint. She looked kind of like a harlequin queen on a deck of French playing cards, with wide, dark eyebrows and red lipstick that exceeded the borders of her lips. We could smell her strong perfume from where we were standing. If it were not for her behemoth breasts that were nearly falling out of the low-cut dress she was wearing, I would have thought she was a man.
“What kind of law is in this town, Betty Jean?” Virgil said.
She leaned on the doorjamb sort of manly-like and smiled, showing her big teeth smudged with lipstick.
“You’re looking at it,” Betty Jean said.
Another whore poked her head out the door from behind Betty Jean. She was a skinny woman with a large nose.
“Y’all with them others that come off that train that got all busted ’n burnt up?” She looked at Betty Jean. “Are they?”
“We got some whiskey,” Betty Jean said. “Why don’t y’all come on in and let me and Laskowski here take good care of you.”
“Where are the others that came off the busted train you’re talking about,” I said.
“A couple of ’em come in for service, but they done left,” Laskowski, the skinny whore, said. “So why don’t y’all come on in and confess with me and Betty Jean here.”
Virgil tipped his hat and was already walking away when he said, “Evenin’.”
I tipped my hat.
�
��Some other time, ladies,” I said, and followed Virgil.
“Won’t find no better,” Betty Jean said as we moved on.
I caught up, getting in step with Virgil.
“There is something wrong there,” I said.
“There is.”
“Not being a religious person, but that just does not seem right.”
“No,” Virgil said. “It does not.”
“If there is a trap door to hell,” I said. “I reckon that might be it.”
“No need to find out.”
“I’m not sure I could even do it under those conditions.”
“Not sure any conditions you’d even ever want to do it.”
43
PETE’S PLACE WAS a small open-air saloon with a thick board spread across two barrels. A nicely painted sign in front let us know this was Pete’s Place. Virgil and I stepped up. Pete’s Place was empty except for an elderly bartender who was cleaning an old single-shot twenty-gauge and two Indians dressed in white men’s clothes. The Indians were drunk. One Indian was sitting on the floor, asleep, with his head to the wall. The other Indian was sitting in a chair, glassy-eyed and staring straight ahead like he’d been hypnotized.
The old fellow smiled and slid two small glasses in front of us and was pouring before I could say “Whiskey.”
The old fellow poured us two generous portions.
We drank, and he poured two more.
“You two with the group that got stranded?”
“No,” Virgil said.
“We are not, but we are looking for them,” I said. “Some of them, anyway.”
I slid back my coat and showed him the badge on my vest. Pete’s eyes shifted back and forth between Virgil and me.
“You Pete?” I said.
“I am.”
Virgil and I drank our second shot and Pete poured two more drinks.
“Hell of a thing that happened with the train,” Pete said. “I looked up and them folks came traipsing through town like a bunch of tuckered cattle.”
“You see any of them on horseback?” Virgil said.
“No, they was all on foot.”
“Where are they now?” I said.
“I think some of them caught the last D and WV back to Denison, but I’m not for certain. There’s three hotels here; some of ’em might be there. This joint was full of black coal faces for a few hours, and I was busy for a while with the shift change, so I don’t rightly know.”
“Who’s in charge of this place, Pete?”
“I am.”
“The town, Pete,” I said. “Who’s in charge of this town?”
“Oh. Officially, that’d be the Choctaw Nation,” Pete said. “But Burton Berkeley is the constable-elect. I think he’s a quarter Choctaw, but he don’t look it.”
“Where’s the jail?” I asked.
“Just up the street, but he ain’t never there, really. He’s got a few deputies that might be there if they got somebody locked up. Only on rare occasions do they lock somebody up. Most everybody here in Half Moon is pretty scared of big Burton, and therefore they don’t do much to get themselves arrested. Burton is tough, and miners for the most part are a hardworking, harmless sort.”
“Where can we find him,” Virgil said. “The constable, Burton Berkeley?”
“The Hotel Ark.”
“And where might that be?” I asked.
“On Half Moon here.” Pete pointed east. “Go past Quarter Moon Street, the next street you get to is Full Moon, turn right, and you’ll come to Three Quarter Moon Street. That’s this town: Quarter, Half, Three Quarter and Full, those are the streets. On the corner there of Full and Three Quarter is Hotel Ark and Saloon. That’s his place. Most evenings that’s where he is.”
“He owns the place?” I asked.
“He does. He owns damn near the whole of Half Moon Junction.”
44
WE LEFT PETE’S PLACE and walked up the south side of Half Moon Street past a busy card house, a bathhouse, and a grungy miners saloon where a bare-chested wrestling match was under way. We crossed to the north side at Quarter Moon Street and walked past dark alley passages between storefronts, with upstairs rooms where working women were practicing their trade. We turned right on Full Moon and made our way toward what was obviously the main part of town, passing a pool hall saloon with a sign advertising Chuck-a-Luck, Faro, Roulette and Bowling.
“Big place,” I said.
“Is.”
“Lot of people.”
A bit farther ahead was a double-decker lavishly painted brothel, aptly named Over the Moon. A few ladies tried to sell us a piece on the walk just before we got to Three Quarter Moon Street, but we declined and moved on.
“Whip was right,” I said.
“’Bout?”
“This town does seem like a place written about in the Bible where God got mad.”
“Not shy of whores,” Virgil said.
“Nope,” I said, “it’s not.”
“They ain’t a bit shy, neither.”
“No, they’re not.”
We stopped on the corner under a lamp, where a swarm of bugs circled around the light as a mule team passed by, slowly pulling a long flatbed loaded with pipe. Staggering along following the flatbed was a short, round swamper. He was talking to himself.
“Half Moon Junction seems like an appropriate name for this wallow,” I said.
“Does,” Virgil said.
We crossed the street to the Hotel Ark on the corner of Full and Three Quarter. Hotel Ark was a big hotel, bigger than the Boston House in Appaloosa. From the outside it resembled its title; it was oddly constructed to look like a big ship, and the whole structure was without an inch of paint. The porch wrapped both sides of the building facing Full and Three Quarter Moon Street. It had crooked oak supports for porch posts and a thick rope for railing.
We entered the front door, and inside the foyer there was a stuffed pair of snarling black bears to greet us. The foyer set the stage for the main room. Inside, the place looked more like a hunting lodge than a hotel; the walls were covered with animal hides and taxidermy mounts, with as many male/female couplings of animal species as could be pulled together. There was a set of narrow stairs rising up behind the front desk with a mezzanine overlooking the main room. Behind a set of saloon doors next to the front desk, a piano was playing a snappy rendition of “Camptown Races.” A woman’s voice was doing a pretty good job of singing along with the piano. I thought about Widow Callico and Allie and their nightly mus-A-cal duo and was quite certain they did not sound near as good as the Hotel Ark duo. A big bald fellow was behind the front desk, folding pillow covers. He was young and had big bulging biceps.
“Evening, gentlemen,” he said.
“How do,” Virgil said.
“Fine, just fine,” the big fellow said. “You from the train?”
“We are not,” Virgil said.
“Need a room?” the big fellow said as he moved to the registry book sitting on the front desk next to a hen and drake mallard.
“No,” Virgil said. “Looking for Constable Berkeley?”
“He’s in the saloon, but unless you’re a member or a guest of the hotel, that’s off-limits, I’m afraid.”
“What’s your name, son?” Virgil said.
“Burns.”
“Well, there’s no reason to be afraid, Burns,” Virgil said. “We’re here on marshal business.”
Virgil pulled back his lapel so the big fellow could see his silver star.
“Oh,” Burns said. “Um . . . well. I suppose then it’d be okay for you to go right ahead on, Marshal.”
“S’pose we will,” Virgil said. “Much obliged.”
Burns grinned a lopsided grin. Then he resumed folding pillow covers.
We walked across the wide room toward the saloon, where a pair of bobcats stood side by side on a twisting sweep of bleached-out juniper. Their backs were arched, and they looked ready to attack.
“Look
damn near alive,” I said.
“Odds are they’re not,” Virgil said as we pushed through the doors and into the saloon.
45
THE SALOON WAS small and cozy compared to the main room of the hotel. It was nicer, too, with velvet-covered chairs and paintings of ships and naked women. A big painting of Noah’s Ark covered at least six feet of the wall behind the bar. A bartender with a twenty-past-eight mustache and wearing black satin armbands was standing in front of the painting with his head down, reading a newspaper. The piano player and a heavyset chanteuse were set up in the center of the room, working the song louder than it needed to be worked, and somewhere, something smelled good.
“Food,” I said.
Virgil nodded as he looked around the room.
“Fancy place,” I said.
“It is.”
We could tell right away this place catered to a more exclusive clientele. There were two separate couples at the bar: one couple at one end, and another couple at the other. The whores were good-looking and acting like they were interested in what the men were saying. Sitting at a corner booth were two young men wearing expensive suits with bowlers and two older yet well-put-together whores.
“Members, I reckon.”
“Guests, maybe,” Virgil said.
For the moment, nobody in the place even paid us any attention.
“In respect to what we’ve seen of this town so far,” I said. “Seems kind of civilized.”
“Does,” Virgil said. “For a whoring facility, it most assuredly does.”
In the back, behind a set of half-closed curtains, we could see three women throwing darts, and behind them in the corner sat a few men at a card table, playing poker. One of the dart-throwing gals came from the back room and out to the bar. She was real pretty, and though she was a whore with a flower in her hair she could pass for someone proper, a teacher or a college student. She was young, straight-backed, with high cheekbones and pointed shoulders. She stopped when she saw Virgil and me.
“Oh!”
She walked over to us.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said.
Only then did the bartender look up from his newspaper.
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