Mojave

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Wait here,” Whip Watson said, and he leaped out of the carriage, with some writing papers in his hand, and he . . . disappeared on the other side of the street in a building with a sign that said:

  S L A T E R & M C C O Y

  Purveyors in Implements & Sundries

  Guttersnipe Gary wasn’t much of a converser, and I didn’t feel much like talking, so we sat there in the front seat, nodding at some men who passed our way, not making eye contact with some of the other brutes.

  Five minutes later, I heard barking, growling, then a savage attack of yipping and screaming. The Holsteins got a little skittish, and I got a better grip on the lines, wanted to look back, but didn’t dare take my eyes off our horses. Whip Watson’s dander would get up if I wrecked this carriage, and I remembered Conrad, and what Whip Watson was capable of when his dander—not to mention that whip of his—got up. Guttersnipe Gary leaned out his side to see what the commotion was about. The barking stopped, a yelping replaced it, and Guttersnipe Gary leaned back inside and fingered the brim of his fancy top hat.

  “Dog fight back at the garbage pile?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” Guttersnipe Gary said. “Only it wasn’t the dogs, but the men we passed.”

  “Oh.”

  I stared off down the street at the endless desert. It could drive a man insane, living out in a place like this for . . . what? . . . five or six years? A long time to be in a furnace with no trees and nothing at all but mines.

  “You reckon mining silver’s worth it?” I asked.

  Guttersnipe Gary snorted and spit tobacco juice onto the boardwalk. Dust soon covered it. “Well,” he said, “there’s a bunch of borax nearby, too.”

  “Oh,” I said, like mining borax made living in this hellhole worth getting so addled that you think you’re a dog and fight over scraps to be found in a mountain of ash and garbage.

  About that time, Whip Watson stepped out of Slater and McCoy’s mercantile, and climbed back into the carriage. He was smoking a cigar that wasn’t a Havana, but wasn’t no two-center, neither, and he passed one to Guttersnipe Gary and another to me. By the time we reached our next stop, Guttersnipe had thumbed that tobacco out of his cheek and was puffing away like a satisfied man.

  I wasn’t satisfied yet, even though I was smoking a cigar, too, because we weren’t at Mr. Noel’s saloon, but at the grocery store. Once again, we waited, and Whip Watson went inside. No dog fights this time, but a few rowdies standing in front of the hovel on our side of the street stared at us a most uncomfortable time. We didn’t say nothing. They didn’t, neither.

  Whip Watson came out, and we continued our way back down the street, stopping at just about every business that wasn’t a saloon or a café.

  More men passed us. We nodded.

  One even come up to us, the first sociable fellow we’d met, and put his left hand on the lamp on Guttersnipe Gary’s side and said, “Fancy rig you boys got here. Interested in sellin’?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the boss man,” Guttersnipe Gary told him.

  “You tell him to look me up,” the gent said, and he fished out a card and passed it to Guttersnipe Gary, who took it and slipped it in one of them green and velvet pockets. The gent told us his name, but I disremember what it was, and tipped his derby and went on down the street, whistling.

  Eventually, Whip Watson had been inside most of the businesses, and we finally got to stop at Noel’s saloon. I feared Whip might make me stay out with the Columbus carriage, on account every man we’d met seemed to fancy it. Or maybe they just admired the Holstein geldings and Whip Watson’s trailing black mare. I surely did, and I know something about horses. At least, stealing them.

  But whip in hand, Whip said, “Come along, boys, and let’s cut the dust.”

  On the crowded boardwalk, he stopped a little waif—first kid I’d spied in town—and said, “Boy, do you know a Rogers Canfield?”

  “Can’t say I do, sir,” the waif said.

  Whip produced a half-eagle from his fingertips. He was good at magic, too. “Find him,” he said. “Send him here.” He let the boy take the gold coin. “And there’s another one of these for you when you fetch him.”

  The boy’s eyes growed like mine was probably doing, and he took off running. Whip laughed, rose, and noticed—like me and Guttersnipe Gary already had detected—that the crowd of men had given us a berth, and everyone who wasn’t eyeing Whip Watson was watching that kid run down the street.

  “If something happens to that boy,” Whip told the waif-watchers, “something happens to every mother’s son of you.”

  He grinned that scary look, told me to fetch his black horse to the water trough, then join him and Guttersnipe Gary inside. Which I done real quick.

  The saloon was crowded, but I made my way to the corner table where Whip sat with Guttersnipe Gary, and I slid into the vacant chair as Whip filled a long-stemmed glass with wine. I would have preferred whiskey, Irish if they served it, but a beer would have tasted good, too. Still, I accepted. Guttersnipe Gary lifted his goblet in toast.

  “To Calico,” Guttersnipe Gary said.

  “Calico,” me and Whip said.

  Glasses clinked. Wine wasn’t bad at all.

  “What did you notice about Calico, boys?” Whip said, and set his glass down on the table.

  “Not big,” Guttersnipe Gary said, “but plenty of people.”

  Whip nodded. “More than twelve hundred, Max Slater told me. And that don’t count miners in the district.”

  “What else?” This time, he trained them mean eyes on me.

  Well, I’m not blind. Didn’t think I’d be interviewed about it, but I’ve trained myself to study things like towns and gamblers, and I’ve spent enough time in dungeons and pits and stockades to know when one’s missing.

  “There’s no jail,” I said.

  Guttersnipe Gary slammed down his goblet. He hadn’t noticed, but Whip Watson looked pleased. Until this guy with brown-stained teeth sitting at the table across from us dragged his chair against the floor—which made all of our skin crawl—turned around, and spoke directly to Whip Watson.

  “Don’t need no jail.”

  That wasn’t all he said. “Don’t need no jail,” he repeated, “because Calico is as pretty as a girl’s calico skirt.” Which, ask me, was a bald-faced lie. “We’re peaceful. No murders. No robberies. Not even a marshal. Now we do have some vigilance committee, but they haven’t even met since we tarred and feathered Bart Marcy and sent him up to Utah back in eighty-four.”

  The way we had seated ourselves was that Whip Watson sat with his back against the wall. Superstitious, I guess. Like Wild Bill Hickok, he wanted to see who was coming in the saloon. Wild Bill hadn’t done it once, and he was dead. Whip Watson still breathed. From Whip’s seat, he could see the front and side door to Isaac Noel’s saloon. He could see who was passing by the window that was behind my head. He could even see the long mirror that stretched behind Isaac Noel’s mahogany back bar. I sat on Whip’s right, where all I could see was Whip, Guttersnipe Gary, and the backs of seven miners crowding along the bar, plus an overflowing spittoon. Guttersnipe Gary sat on Whip’s left, where all he could see was me and Whip and the window and the people outside staring inside and likely wishing they had money for a fine wine, a fine liquor, or a fine cigar.

  Whip Watson leaned forward, and his eyes got darker, and his right hand let go of his glass of wine, and he reached for his whip, which lay atop the felt-topped table like a rattler.

  “Mister,” he told the man with the brown teeth, “who in hell invited you to join our private conversation?”

  I glanced at the man. He got all pale, and his eyes growed with fear—and, criminy, he hadn’t even witnessed what had happened to Conrad a few days back. So he muttered his apology, and slid his chair, careful not to make anybody’s skin crawl, and got back to the conversation he had been invited to listen to at his own table.

  After letting go of his b
lacksnake, Whip Watson drained his glass. I refilled it because that’s the kind of guy I am. Then I needed a drink myself, so I filled my glass and slid the bottle to Guttersnipe Gary.

  “That’s right.” Whip had lowered his voice. Just so some other fool wouldn’t think he was invited to join our private conversation. “No jail. No law.”

  Guttersnipe Gary emptied the bottle into his own goblet. “My kind of town,” he said.

  “Not quite.” Whip Watson straightened, sipped his wine, all pleasant again. “What else is missing?”

  I sipped my wine and thunk. Guttersnipe Gary sipped his wine, but I don’t think he had a brain to think with.

  My brain drew pictures of what I had seen. There was an apothecary . . . and Whip Watson had spent considerable time inside J. M. Miller’s store, which had a powder depot attached to one side . . . and I recollected the barber shop on account that I needed a haircut . . . and another mercantile on account that I needed some new duds . . . a doctor’s office . . . a newspaper called the Calico Print (I remembered that because the editor’s name was stenciled on the window, and Guttersnipe Gary had told me how he’d hate to be called Overshiner, which told me that Guttersnipe Gary knowed how to read) . . . a couple of picket homes that said they was boardinghouses . . . and the Applewhite Livery and Lodging House.

  “Come on,” Watson said, just a trifle louder. “We rode up and down Calico. What didn’t you see?”

  Right then I knowed, but turned out that Guttersnipe Gary had a brain and could think and had noticed the same thing that I hadn’t seen.

  “Petticoats!” he shouted.

  Actually, he used another word that begins with a P.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Don’t misunderstand me. There was women in Calico. A town five or six years old with a population of twelve hundred, there had to some petticoats, and after our bottle of wine and our rye whiskey chasers at Noel’s place, we discovered some. Like that prostitute named Betty who had a crib behind the privies behind one of the worser grog shops, but she was, as Guttersnipe Gary described (mind you, to her face), “a dried up ol’ whore,” which wasn’t polite but did describe Betty to a T. Denver Dotty run the South Saloon, where we’d stop for another drink, and I’d hate to tangle with her. She’d stitched overall pockets onto the front of her dress, wore a cap made for a man and boots made for a miner. Her whiskey wasn’t fine. Another lady, if you ain’t too particular about who you call a lady, we found at another watering hole, where we stopped for another drink, but this Madame De Lill wasn’t much to look at, neither. Later that afternoon, I got a fleeting glimpse of a dressmaker who had an office above the bank. Not to mention, as we saw a few more kids, we figured there had to be a schoolteacher who might be a school marm, and some of these businessmen likely had wives, or at least concubines, and a drummer at the South Saloon said a couple of gals run a couple of the boardinghouses.

  Say ten to twenty women. In a town of more than twelve hundred. And probably another two thousand men in the mining district that stretched all through this desert.

  “You know what you’re doing, Whip,” Guttersnipe Gary said.

  “That I do,” Whip Watson agreed, and we entered the Globe Chop House for some real good beefsteaks and fried taters.

  We were finishing our slices of cherry pie—the cherries come from airtights, but it wasn’t like you’d find fresh fruit in Calico—when the dirty little waif poked his head inside the restaurant, and before the man in the black evening duds with tails who’d sent us to our table could toss the boy out, another fancy-dudded man came in, said something to the guest-sitter, and slid the fellow a coin. Dirty Waif kept pointing at us, and him and the dude eased their way to where we was sitting.

  Whip Watson laid down his spoon and pushed back his chair a mite.

  “I found Canfield, sir,” the kid said.

  “I see you did,” Whip said, and tossed the boy another five-dollar piece. The waif was gone before you could say thank you, sir, which the kid didn’t say. All the patrons eating seemed relieved that the dirty tyke wasn’t spoiling their dinners.

  “Have a seat, Mister Canfield,” Whip told the newcomer, who settled into the empty chair.

  He was a dark man. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Dark suit. Dark hat. And, as I’d soon learn, an even darker soul.

  Whip didn’t introduce us to Rogers Canfield, and Canfield had no interest in us.

  Canfield said, “So you are Whip Watson.”

  After a slight bow, Whip said, “And you are Ronen Kanievsky.”

  His dark face got a bit lighter, and he was leaning back in his chair, and I thought he might either suffer an apoplexy or get up and leave. But another man in some more fancy garb had stopped by and was asking, “Would you care for a cocktail, Mister Canfield?”

  Mr. Canfield, or Mr. Kanievsky, stuttered and stammered and finally spit out that a Tom and Jerry would be just fine, so the waiter in the black duds said, “Very good, sir,” and walked away.

  For a while there, nobody said anything until Guttersnipe Gary finished licking the crumbs off his plate.

  Finally, Mr. Canfield/Kanievsky, said, “What’s in a name?”

  Which, considering as many names as I’d used in my life of devilment, was something I could relate to, and I figured so could Whip since I allowed how his mama and daddy likely hadn’t named him Whip.

  The drink arrived, and our guest took a fair-sized swallow, set the glass on the table, and straightened, doing his damnedest to look dignified again. “Names are not important,” he said, “but business is. And by business, my name is shadchan.”

  Now, I know Micah Bishop ain’t much of a handle, and some of the other names I’ve used—John Smith, John Jones, Smith Jones, and Big Tim Pruett mightn’t be all that clever—but Canfield and Kanievsky and Shadchan sound a bit ludicrous, if you ever ask me. Even Guttersnipe Gary said, “Shadchan sounds like you’re a damned Chinaman.”

  Which got me to thinking about Jingfei.

  “You don’t look like no Chinaman.” Guttersnipe Gary had consumed quite a lot of liquor, and the canned cherry pie and all its crumbs hadn’t sobered him up none.

  “Shadchan isn’t his name,” Whip said. “It’s his occupation. It’s Hebrew. He’s a matchmaker.”

  Canfield/Kanievsky the shadchan/matchmaker lifted his Tom and Jerry and toasted the air across the table toward Whip Watson.

  Then Whip Watson dipped his left hand into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather purse, and fished out more coins. Two he slid to me, and they was by-grab double eagles. The other, which I took pride in the fact that it was only a ten-dollar piece, he pushed over toward Guttersnipe Gary.

  “Canfield and I have private business to discuss, boys,” Whip said. “Making arrangement for our delivery in a week or so. Isn’t that right, Canfield?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Canfield said.

  “Guttersnipe Gary.” Whip eyed him. “You need a bath. And a poke.” Although he didn’t seem pleased with either chore, Guttersnipe Gary took the gold coin. Whip then turned toward me, and I sure hoped he didn’t say I needed a poke because I’d seen that dried out ol’ whore named Betty and really didn’t want to come down with one of them painful diseases in my manhood. Again.

  “Micah Bishop,” Whip said, “you need some new clothes. A bath. And a shave.” That was it. I let out a sigh of relief. “If you’re going to be my lieutenant,” Whip said, “I want you to look like a man and not a bum.”

  I thanked him, sent a nod Canfield’s way, and rose.

  So I was Whip Watson’s lieutenant. I’d always figured his segundo was Juan Pedro, and wondered how that graybeard would feel now that he’d lost ten dollars to his boss and might soon be taking orders from me. Looking at Guttersnipe Gary, who was standing and giving me a cold, cold stare, I knowed he wasn’t too pleased with my promotion.

  “I’ll meet you in an hour at Noel’s saloon,” Whip told us.

  That afternoon, I wandered down the streets and boardwalks
of Calico, gripping those double eagles tighter than a miser. Walked to the end of town, where the carpenters stayed busy as bees building what was to become the palace of this town. Next door was Miller’s store and his “Giant Powder Depot,” where a guy in sleeve garters was directing some hefty gents as to how to load kegs of blasting powder onto the back of a wagon.

  Went inside the store to get duds that would befit a man of my new stature.

  Black boots, with seventeen-inch tops, fit me just fine. As I’d always been partial to striped britches, I found a pair that were brown—Calico’s favorite color, seemed to me—with navy stripes. Some suspenders, too, new socks, and a pretty blue band-collar shirt that even come with a pocket over my heart and mother-of-pearl buttons. A double-breasted vest of burgundy brocade. A fine Seth Thomas watch with a bird and a tree and a farmhouse and some other pretty designs on the hunter’s case so I’d have something to stick in one of the vest’s pockets. Gun belt, brown, and holster, brown, and pouch, also brown, for my percussion caps, capper, and some .36-caliber paper cartridges. New bandanna, brown again, only color they had except for pink polka dots. Socks. Unmentionables. And a real nice Stetson, not a Boss of the Plains, but a fancy hat with tan bound edges, a curved brim, and side dents.

  Been a long time since I’d paid for store-bought duds, and I’d never spent Calico prices. I walked out with my new clothes wrapped in brown paper and my fancy hat in my hand and what little change I had in another one of my vest pockets, thinking that Whip Watson would make a fortune on his carriages and hammers and gunpowder, and wondering if I had enough money for a haircut and bath and shave.

  So there I stood, listening to the hammering and sawing next door and a whistle whine way up the canyon at one of the big mines. Trying to recollect where the barbershop was.

  That’s when Lucky Ben Wong stepped into my life.

  First words he says to me was: “Need bath? Need shave? Yes. Yes. You do. You do.”

  I looked down to see this Chinese gent, not even as tall as Jingfei. Black cotton shoes, black cotton pants, and a fairly fancy black cotton shirt that wasn’t tucked in. His ears stuck out, his mouth was too long for his face, and he wore a silly little wool cap on his mostly bald head. I say mostly, because this little pigtail—called a queue, I’d learned in all my travels—come out of the back of his noggin. He even held a black umbrella. Like it had rained in this place in the past fifty years.