by Len Levinson
Major Salter’s career would be over if he made one wrong move now. “I think we should get the sheriff in on this. Don’t want to overstep my authority.”
Mayor McGillicuddy stepped out of the crowd, followed by Alderman Shaeffer. “We’re elected officials,” he said. “I think we ought to search that house!”
“Now just a minute!” hollered Hudspeth, armed with a shotgun. “You can’t go bustin’ in on Reverend Blasingame like he was a common criminal.”
Slipchuck pointed to the blood on the ground. “It’s where the trail leads.”
“It’s the house of God, and we dare not desecrate it!”
Mayor McGillicuddy said, “We have reason to believe a bushwhacker is holed up in there.” He turned to Major Salter. “Break down the door!”
“Like hell you will!” Hudspeth leveled his gun at Major Salter. “I’m a deacon of this church, and you’re not breakin’ down no doors!”
Major Salter saw the crowd break apart into two factions, each facing each other across the courtyard. The crew from the Triangle Spur stood near the door. “One of my men’s been killed,” Stone said in his deep cavalry officer’s voice, “and two more wounded in a bushwhack. The blood leads to this door. We’re going in.” He aimed his gun at the doorknob.
The townspeople looked at the trail-hardened cowboys and vaqueros, and nobody dared challenge them. Stone cocked the hammer of his gun, and Koussivitsky stood beside him, ready to throw his colossal shoulder at the door. As Stone squeezed the trigger, suddenly the knob turned. The door opened, Reverend Blasingame stood before him, lantern in hand, black shirt and white clerical collar bloody.
Stone lowered his gun and eased back the hammer. Reverend Blasingame’s white hair was mussed, and his eyes had a peculiar gleam.
“This way, gentlemen,” he said.
They followed him into the kitchen, and on the floor, next to the table, lay Trevino in a pool of blood. Cowboys and townspeople strained to see, and Little Emma stood in the shadows of the next room, observing silently.
“I was in my study,” Reverend Blasingame explained, his voice the epitome of calm reason, “working on my Sunday sermon, when there was a knock on the door. My housekeeper opened up, and this poor unfortunate fellow asked for me. I came downstairs, and it was clear he was mortally wounded. He asked me to pray for him, and I did.” Reverend Blasingame gazed sadly at the blood on his clothing. “He died in my arms.”
There was silence in the room. Many were deeply moved by the pastor’s story; others appeared skeptical.
“Search the place,” Stone said. “There may be more.”
Hudspeth made a threatening motion with his rifle, but Stone snapped his gun on him. “One of my men was killed, and the people who did it are going to pay.”
“The reverend just told you the man on the floor was the only one who came here. Don’t you believe him?”
“Hell no.”
A cold glimmer of hatred appeared in Reverend Blasingame’s eyes.
Hudspeth said, “This is a sanctuary of God. You desecrate it, there’ll be war in this town, you mark my words.”
Major Salter stepped between them. “Gentlemen, please ...”
Mayor McGillicuddy took a notepad out of his pocket. “I’ll write out the search warrant right here and now.”
“You’d better write your death warrant while you’re at it,” Hudspeth said.
It looked like a shootout in the dim light of a small crowded room. “I think,” Major Salter said, “we’d all better step outside and get some fresh air. Talk this over like reasonable men.”
“You can talk all you want,” Hudspeth said, “you ain’t searchin’ the reverend’s house.”
“Yes we are,” Stone replied. “Nobody shoots at me and gets away with it.”
“This is the House of God!”
Lewton Rooney stepped forward. “Everybody knows Reverend Real Estate is behind every dirty deal in this town. I say search the building immediately.”
Men pointed guns at each other at close quarters. Major Salter thought of his beautiful wife as a merry widow.
“There’s a dead woman in the cellar,” Slipchuck said.
His voice went like lightning through the room. Everyone turned to him, and he stood in a doorway, Colt in hand.
“We’d better take a look,” Mayor McGillicuddy said.
Slipchuck led them through the corridor and down the rough-hewn wooden stairs to the cellar. She lay on a worktable, her complexion white, a faint sickly sweet odor arose from her corpse.
“It’s the schoolmarm!”
They gathered around. She’d been stabbed repeatedly, her face wrenched in agony.
“Clear-cut case of murder,” Mayor McGillicuddy said. “Where’s the preacher?”
They looked around. The pastor of the Mount Zion Church of God was nowhere to be seen.
~*~
He ran through the back alleys of Sundust, a plump figure in a black shirt and clerical collar smudged with the blood of a gunfighter. He wore no hat, a wild frightened look was in his eyes, he feared the wrath of God.
He came to the end of an alley, peered both ways, saw a drunken cowboy passed out in a backyard, lying on his face. Somebody hollered on the main street of town. If they caught him, they’d hang him high. He felt a sudden constriction in his chest. It felt as though the Apocalypse had come to pass in his life.
He needed sanctuary, ran out of the shadows and crossed the yard, passed sheds and privies. A mongrel dog rushed from behind a woodpile and snapped at his heels as he fled toward the outskirts of town.
He came to a small boarded-up nondescript shack near the stockyards. It looked as though it was ready to fall over, and an old FOR RENT sign was badly faded. Reverend Blasingame could smell the cattle in their pens; the moon sat near the top of a lone Cottonwood tree. He grit his teeth and jammed the key into the lock, opened the door. Quickly he jumped inside and shut the door behind him.
He was assailed by stale odors, walked into a cobweb. A spider crawled on his face, and he frantically clawed it away. He tripped over a chair, fell to the floor. A cloud of dust arose in the air. He hadn’t been here for a long time, in fact had nearly forgotten the place. He’d designed it himself in the early days when the town was being built, in case he needed a quick hideout.
It was cheaply constructed, a dwelling poor people rented, the outdoors could be seen through cracks in the boards that covered the windows. He didn’t dare light a candle. But he was safe.
A cot was pushed against the wall, he sat upon it. He loosened his clerical collar and breathed deeply. Against the other wall were jugs of water, crates of food, clothing, guns, laudanum, and saddlebags full of gold. Grow a beard, change his appearance. One dark night steal a horse and ride away.
This was his first chance to think, he was deeply shaken. Was he a false prophet? He remembered his Bible: His eyes were aflame of fire, and on his head were many crowns...
That day in the fields had been no dream. God had spoken to him. To doubt that would be to doubt his sanity. What did God want from him?
Babylon the great is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.
“You want me to destroy Sundust?” he asked. “How can I do that? I don’t have anything!” If he showed his face outside, he could be shot on sight. You couldn’t expect ordinary men to understand a dead schoolmarm in the cellar.
...if a man has faith the size of a mustard-seed, he can move mountains.
There’s a deeper significance I don’t understand. His eyes fell on a crate of tinned beef and another of hardtack. A good meal clarified a man’s thinking. At least I won’t starve, he thought, prying up wooden slats.
~*~
The front desk in the lobby of the Majestic Hotel was surrounded by homeless freaks, midgets, and clowns clamoring for rooms.
“Only two rooms left,” the room clerk told them. “You’ll all have to make
the best of it.”
“I need at least one room just for myself!” said the fat lady.
He couldn’t disagree. “Might be able to find space in the attic.”
“What about the lobby?” asked Dr. Wenders.
“Twenty-five cents a night,” the room clerk replied.
Slipchuck’s eyes fell on the fat lady arguing with the room clerk. He swerved toward her, but Duvall grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
“Keep movin’, you goddamned idiot.”
Slipchuck tried to break loose, but Duval’s grip was like steel. Duvall half pushed and half carried Slipchuck to the stairs, and they climbed to the third floor. They made their way down the hall, and Slipchuck unlocked the door.
They entered Cassandra’s room, could smell her perfume. Slipchuck lit the lantern, and they saw her clothes in the closet. Duvall looked through the window at the main street of town, and it was nearly deserted. The excitement was over, everyone gone to bed.
The rest of the crew was spending the night at Rooney’s house. Tomorrow the herd would be sold. The drive was finally over and the party could begin. Slipchuck reached into his saddlebags and pulled out his old battered deck of cards.
“Cut you fer the bed,” he said.
They cut, turned the faces up. Slipchuck had the king of hearts, no one else was close. They took off their boots, putrid fragrance filled the room. Duvall opened the windows. They felt cramped after so many nights on the plains.
“See you all in the mornin’,” Slipchuck said. He crawled into bed and placed his Colt underneath the pillow. The mattress was soft as a cloud, he smiled as he sank into it. The other men lay on the floor, bones jutting hard wood. They looked up and saw whitewashed ceiling instead of the moon and stars.
The bed jiggled for several moments every time Slipchuck moved. He tossed and turned like a cork on the ocean. Squeaky, creaky sounds filled the room.
“Be still!” somebody growled.
Slipchuck felt as though he were drowning in marshmallow. Never really liked beds that much. He climbed out and joined the others on the floor.
It was hard and painful. The ground at least had a little give, and you sweep together a few leaves, you got a nice bed for the night. A gun was fired outside, and everybody in the room jumped three inches off the floor.
Pedro looked out the window, Colt in hand. “Are you thinking what I am thinking, amigos?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Duvall replied. “Damn place probably’s got fleas.”
~*~
Cassandra and Stone lay naked in bed, and the cool prairie breeze wafted through the open window. He held her closely, nuzzled her fragrant golden hair. He loved the feel of her body against his.
“I’m tired of fighting,” she mused aloud. “All I want is peace and quiet. What do you think you’re doing?”
“You know very well what I’m doing.”
There was silence for a few moments, then she said, “Lew is in the next room.”
“We don’t have to be noisy.”
~*~
It was three o’clock in the morning, and a tall, lean figure walked the dirt sidewalk of Main Street, a black cape wrapped around him, a slouch hat covering most of his face.
The tattooed man only came out at night, when people couldn’t see him; he caused a disturbance in broad daylight. Not many men wore the tattoo of a cobra on their foreheads, sailing ships on their cheeks. The tattooed life forced him into a strange clandestine existence not without its charms. The town was peaceful at night, after such a tumultuous day.
He was now president of the carnival, and many worries bent his shoulders. Where would they buy new tents? Another act was needed to replace Koussivitsky. The dancing girls wanted to run off with cowboys. The musicians wanted to become ranchers. His wife demanded star billing. Every walk of life has its own special torments and afflictions.
Something moved near the doorway of a saloon. At first the tattooed man thought it was a dog, but it was a little person, one of the bunch from the carnival out for a walk.
The tattooed man bent lower, saw a misshapen hunchback girl, her face covered with a scarf. Shyly she raised the palm of her small hand for a few coins. The tattooed man had sharp eyes and took in every item of her appearance. She wasn’t with the carnival.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Emma.”
“You have no place to live, Emma?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Let me show you something, Emma.” He took a step backward, entered the light emanating from the saloon. Dramatically he opened his cape, she saw the dog on his chin, flag on his chest, diamonds and rubies around his throat. He covered himself again and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
“Come with me, and you’ll meet my lovely wife.”
Little Emma hesitated, then offered her hand. He took it, gave a little squeeze. “We’ll be good friends,” he said. “You’ll see things you never seen before.”
They walked down the street, passing darkened storefronts. Most of the saloons were quiet, a few men sitting at tables, others passed out at the bar.
They came to the Majestic Hotel. Strange shapes slept on the floor of the lobby. The tattooed man pulled her gently. “You can meet them tomorrow.”
They climbed the stairs, he inserted his key in a lock. The door opened, and Little Emma walked into a small hotel room. The lantern burned next to the bed, illuminating a gigantic woman with the face of a fairy queen. The queen turned to her, stared for a few moments, and Little Emma felt sure she’d be kicked down the stairs at any moment.
“Come closer, dear,” the queen said.
Emma hesitated, but the tattooed man pushed her forward. She took little pigeon-toed steps closer to the bed.
“Pull away the scarf,” the queen said. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t bite you.”
Emma’s hand trembled as she lowered the scarf.
The fat lady saw the nonexistent nose, twisted mouth, eyes out of balance. “The best beauty of all,” she said, “comes from inside a person, and what a pretty little girl you are. Come up on the bed with me, dear, and we’ll have cookies and milk.”
A broad smile wreathed Little Emma’s face as she moved toward the soft immense arms of the fairy queen.
~*~
Reverend Real Estate sat on his bed, cracking nuts and stuffing the meat into his mouth. He couldn’t sleep, had a headache, felt afraid. How did twenty of the meanest gunmen in Kansas get beat by a scraggly crew of drunken cowboys? Cassandra Whiteside was a witch, that was clear to him now. She’d put a spell on him, opened him to lust and false pride.
Women twist men’s minds. Perhaps that’s what God was telling him. He’d given in to the temptation of Eve, was cast naked into the world. He poured himself a strong dose of laudanum, drank it down. Cows mooed in the distance; it was almost daylight. Somehow he had to survive a few days in this hellhole, but he was at peace with himself. He knew what God wanted now. Sundust must be destroyed, like Sodom and Gomorrah, and Cassandra Whiteside must die.
Chapter Nine
Stone examined his freshly washed face in the mirror. Lines had deepened around his mouth and eyes, and he was amazed at the beating he’d taken over the years. A cynical man looked back at him, not the happy-go-lucky kid of days gone by.
He wiped water from his face, noticed the door ajar to Rooney’s office. The wall behind the desk was covered with books, and Stone hadn’t browsed through a library for years. He entered the empty office and looked at the bookcases. An old beat-up leather-bound antique caught his eye, ratty and out of place beside distinguished tomes on law, agriculture, and modern business practices.
He reached up and took it down. It felt familiar in his hands. The signature Ashley Tredegar was written inside the front cover. Now he remembered. It had been Ashley’s copy of The Iliad. Many times during the war Stone had browsed through it whi
le Ashley was busy elsewhere. His favorite passage was in the Twenty-first Book. He flipped through the pages. It took moments to find the passage:
What a man I am, how huge, how splendid. Yet even I have also my death and my strong destiny. There shall be a dawn or an afternoon or a noontime when some warrior in the fighting will take the life from me also.
Spoken by Achilles before he slew Lyacon on the field of battle, it summarized the truth of war to Stone. Sooner or later a soldier is killed. You have to accept it, and get on with your job.
One night in San Antone he’d wandered drunk into a fortune-teller’s parlor, and she’d predicted he’d die young. At first he thought she was just another charlatan, but she also said Calvin Blakemore would die young too, and Blakemore had been gunned down by rustlers a few weeks later.
Stone had been extra cautious after Blakemore’s funeral, but nothing happened and he gradually thought less about the Gypsy’s curse. It was coincidence, superstition, bullshit, but troubled him anyway.
Rooney entered the office. “Had to run out for a few minutes,” he explained, pug nose red from exertion. “What you got there? Oh. I was the one assigned to collect Ashley’s personal belongings, and I kept it to remember him by. Didn’t think anyone would care.” Rooney darted his fingers into his back pockets and looked out the window. “I’ve had it all these years, and you were a closer friend of his than I. Maybe you should take it for a while.”
“I’d lose it.”
Cassandra walked into the room. “The funeral is in fifteen minutes, and you’re not even dressed!”
She looked like the avenging angel, and Stone fled beneath her merciless glare. Cassandra turned to Rooney, and he was already halfway out the back door. She hitched up her gunbelt in the manner of Duke Truscott and walked to the kitchen for another cup of thick black coffee, just the way Truscott liked it.
~*~
Tod Buckalew approached the Mount Zion Church of God. He climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail behind the rectory, knocked on the rear door, waited for Little Emma to open up. She didn’t come. He reached toward the knob, the door opened. He looked inside the darkened kitchen. A shotgun was pointed at Buckalew’s shirt.