But a callous villain, so evil as to cause the sensibilities of decent men to feel the utmost revulsion, shot this fine young man down like he was a dog. And the reason, clearly stated by this scoundrel, was his anger over this interference to the satisfaction of his base, sinful physical lusts.
Outrage is the only word that can describe your editor’s reaction to the situation, and outrage should also be the proper depiction of the noble reader’s response to this heinous crime. But what do we do? Must we simply wring our hands and cry out in empty anger of this abomination, then go back to our lives to exist until yet another similar misdeed occurs?
I say NO!
It is the time for action, citizens of Lighthorse Creek. It has been said that a single lawman cannot remedy the situation of crime and sin in our town. If that is so, there is only one solution to this monumental problem: all the law-abiding men must form a union of justice.
I therefore call for you all to rally, as one would to the colors in the instance of a war to defend the nation, and elect a town government that will pass the necessary laws and ordinances to rid ourselves of the vermin that now infest the west side of Main Street.
Martin finished the editorial and reread it. After a couple of alterations he picked up the paper and carried it back to the area of the office he used as a composing room.
Working with the same fervor that had driven him when he wrote the article, he began to put it into type. His fingers flew to the case and back to the composing stick countless times as the words formed up, and the spacing materials pushed each line out to the justified measure of twenty picas. When the stick was filled, he transferred the lines to a waiting galley, then went back to refill his typesetting device.
Finally the entire editorial was set. He took it to his small proof press and ran the brayer over it. After slipping a piece of paper of the whole affair, he printed a copy.
The bell over his front door rang as it opened. “Martin?” Abbie’s clear voice sounded out.
Martin turned around. “I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled at him. “We were wondering when you’d be home for supper.”
He ignored the statement. “Would you be kind enough to proofread this for me, Abbie? I’ve only now finished writing and setting it. After all the frantic work, I’m afraid I can’t see the woods for the trees when it comes to typos.”
“Why, certainly, Martin. I would be happy to,” Abbie said, glad for a chance to help him. She took the proof and walked over to his desk and sat down. The young woman had spent several days studying the proofreading marks that Martin had written out for her. With both the handwritten editorial and its printed form in front of her, she began a rapid but accurate comparison between the two. It took ten minutes; when she finished, she handed it back with the errors clearly and correctly marked.
“That was a wonderful editorial, Martin.”
“I hope you weren’t offended by any of the base terms,” Martin said. He tried to look stern and mature. “But if you’re going to work in the newspaper business, I fear you will be exposed to the seamier sides of human existence from time to time.”
“Yes, Martin,” she said deferentially. “And don’t you worry about those sensibilities of mine. I hear plenty of swearing from Papa. Even Mama couldn’t end that habit of his.”
“I suppose you have been exposed to some, shall we say, strong words, from J. T., haven’t you?”
“Anyway, Martin, I do so admire the strength of your words!”
“Really?” he said, enormously pleased.
“Oh, yes, Martin,” she said. She assumed a serious expression and formed her small hands into fists. “And I am sure that the whole town shall be heartened by your courage.”
Martin did his best to appear modest and nonchalant. “Well, I suppose that’s what I hope for too. This is mighty important work, Abbie. The whole future of the town is at stake here.”
“Why, even our way of life, Martin!” she added. “Yes. Yes, indeed.” He took the proof over to the galley. “I must correct these errors, and lock this editorial into the chase,” Martin said. “Tomorrow the first edition hits the streets.”
“Hits the streets?” she asked.
“That’s newspaper talk for going on sale to the public,” Martin said. “I’ve named no names this time, Abbie. But if things don’t work out, I may have to go straight after the culprit behind all this.” Abbie’s response to that was not so much put on. “Martin Blazer! That would be Culhane Riley!” Now Martin swaggered as he walked back to the composing area. “I think it can be assumed that there approaches a day of reckoning between me—” he paused and turned around, “and Mr. Riley.” Now Abbie’s expression was more of worry than a display of feminine admiration. “Martin, you’d better be careful!”
Ten
Weariness seeped into Tom Deacon’s total being. It sapped his strength, parched his throat, and made the trail dust seem as if it clung to him with an insidious glue made of dirt and stale sweat.
The town that had been only a smudge on the horizon an hour before was now a welcomed sight of buildings that promised whiskey, food, and a hot bath.
He glanced over at his companion. “Well, Yule? Are you thinking the same thing I am?”
Yule Quint grinned and wiped at the three days’ growth of whiskers on his chin. “If it has anything to do with cleaning up, resting up, and drinking up—then we’re both got ideas exactly alike.”
“Hell, let’s go!” Tom said. He snapped the reins and urged the horse to step out a bit more.
It took the two friends only ten minutes to ride into the town limits. A sign posted there informed them that they were about to enter the limits of Simpson, I. T. It further enlightened Tom and Yule that the population was in the vicinity of nine hundred souls. That information didn’t mean much to them, but the sight of the barbershop roused their interest to a great extent. They dismounted in front of the establishment and removed their saddlebags. Then they wasted no time in entering the tonsorium.
The barber had no customers at that particular time. He sat in one of the chairs put out for those awaiting his attention, reading a periodical. "Howdy, gents,” he said amiably. “What can I do for you?”
“You got baths?” Tom asked.
“With lots o’ hot water?” Yule added.
The man got happily to his feet. “I sure do. And that includes soap and towels too. Two bits for the works.”
“Two bits!” Yule exclaimed.
“Fifteen cents if you furnish your own towels,” the barber said.
“We’ll pay the two bits,” Tom said. “Lead on, mister.”
“This way,” the man invited. He led them through a curtained entrance to a back room. There was a dirt floor, but a deck of thin planking kept visitors from walking on raw earth. Two large bathtubs were situated there.
Tom and Yule wasted no time in shucking their clothes and hanging them up on the hooks nailed into the wall. While they undressed, the barber poured cold water into the tubs. “Hop in, boys. I’ll warm ’em for you directly.”
Tom stuck his foot into the water. “Damn! That’s cold!”
“Play like it’s a creek back home,” Yule said. He wasted no time in stepping in and sitting down. “Brrrr! But I’ll tell you, it’ll feel a hell of a lot better once it’s warmed up.”
Tom imitated his friend and forced himself down into the cold water. The barber, however, was merciful and hurriedly reappeared with a kettle of boiling-hot water. He gingerly dumped some of it first into one tub and then the other alternately until both were steaming, and the occupants finally relaxed into the now torrid water.
Next a bar of soap was tossed to each and clean towels laid out. “Anything else I can get you fellers?”
“A bottle of whiskey,” Tom called out.
“And a coupla cigars,” Yule suggested.
“I’ll have ’em fetched for you directly, boys,” the barber said, making an exit. “And sing out when you want
some more hot water.”
The pair soaked for a full hour. They sipped the whiskey brought to them, and slowly smoked the thin cheroots that came with the liquor. The trail dust seemed to melt away under the scrubbing, and the stale odor of male sweat was replaced by the strong, but not too disagreeable, smell of the soap suds.
Finally Tom announced, “We’d better get the hell outta here, Yule, or we’ll be wrinkled as prunes.”
“I suppose, but I hate to,” Yule said. He held up the empty bottle. “But what the hell? This dead soljer ain’t no good to us no more.”
Tom stood up and stepped out onto the decking. He grabbed his towel and started drying off. “Get outta there, boy!”
Yule grinned. “Okay, Pa.”
The coolness of the room quickly became uncomfortable after the steamy baths. The pair toweled themselves rapidly and roughly to stimulate their blood circulation for warmth. Afterward, Tom and Yule felt like new men, and the feeling was enhanced by changing into the wrinkled but clean clothing they had in their saddlebags.
But they were yet to complete their business. They went out into the shop and submitted to shaves and a trim of their hair. Finally, clipped and cleaned, they paid the barber the money due him.
“Any good restaurants in town?” Tom asked as he stuffed their half-full bottle of whiskey into his saddlebags.
“Damned right,” the barber answered in undisguised pride. “Just two doors down is the Simpson Cafe. Ever’body in this part o’ the country knows the place. They not only got good vittles, but they’s clean tablecloths put on ever’ morning.”
“Sounds elegant,” Yule said agreeably.
“It is,” the barber said. “And I thank you gents for your business. Come again soon.”
Tom led the way to the eatery. They found steak dinners with fried potatoes and corn bread on that menu that day. Tom Deacon and Yule Quint ate with the quiet gusto of men hungered by a long period of hard physical activity in the outdoors. When they’d filled their stomachs, they paid off that bill, and stepped outside to take a quiet but thorough survey of the streets of Simpson, Indian Territory.
It was a prosperous farming community with the usual businesses associated with such a town. All the shops and services necessary to a rural family were available, and there was also a place where a hard-working man could wet his whistle.
Tom and Yule ambled over to a barroom that proclaimed itself as the Palladium. “You want to buy a bottle over there?” Yule asked. “I’ll bet that’s where the barber bought the other one.”
“We could get another to save for the trail,” Tom suggested. “I reckon we can afford it.”
“Well,” Yule allowed. “I’ll be outta pocket money perty soon.”
“Let’s not worry ourselves about that yet,” Tom said. “There’s whiskey waiting for us.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Yule said.
The Palladium was not quite as large or fancy as its name indicated, but it was a well furnished and stocked saloon. There were tables scattered around and a long bar over to one side. Despite its neatness and completeness, Yule was disappointed. “There ain’t no gals in here, Tom.”
“They don’t allow whores in a town like this,” Tom said. “Leastways, not in the open.”
“Then, let’s get drunk,” Yule suggested cheerfully. They went to the bar and ordered the two bottles that Tom had suggested. The saloonkeeper also set them up with a couple of glasses. “Are you boys staying in town long?”
Tom shook his head. “We’re just passing through. We come up from Texas and been on the trail so long we just had to stop and clean up some.”
“And have a drink under a roof,” Yule added. The bartender grinned. “I know how you feel, boys.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “But if you’re looking for a real good time, there’s a place on the east road less’n two miles out.”
Tom treated himself to a quick swallow of the liquor. “Telling us might hurt your business, mister.” The man burst out laughing. “Hell, no! I own that one too.”
Yule was interested. “What you got out there?”
“Usual stuff,” the barkeep answered. “It’s a log-and-shingle affair, but the gals know how to treat a couple of fellers that’s been too long away from civilization.”
“C’mon, Tom,” Yule said eagerly. “Let’s go.”
“We ain’t finished this bottle,” Tom protested. “We can stick it in the saddlebags with the other,” Yule said.
“Damn, Yule! That’s unorganized drinking,” Tom said. “Besides, the feller running things out there will expect us to buy at that place.”
“Hey, boys,” the saloonkeeper said. “Don’t worry about it. Just take the bottle in with you. They’ll know you got it here.”
They left the man and went back to their horses. A quick look to the east indicated there was only one road heading in that direction, so they took it. The barman’s directions were accurate, and they found the log building.
The women there were no prizes. Surely, the insincere whore smiles, they sashayed up to the two men as they entered the place. “Y’all want a good time?” one spoke out, asking the eternal question of the world’s oldest profession.
Yule didn’t give a damn what they looked like.
“You bet!”
Tom was more mercenary. “How much?”
“A dollar,” came back the reply.
“I ain’t paying you a dollar,” Tom said. “Forget it.”
“Six bits then, and that’s the bottom line, honey,” the whore said.
“That’s right!” Yule said, grabbing the plump one. “Let’s you and me git to where we’re going.” The thin one looked at Tom. “You look like you ain’t made up your mind.”
“I ain’t been without a woman as long as my pard,” Tom said cagily.
“Four bigs, and I don’t take off nothing,” the woman said. “I just lift my skirt.”
“That’s worth four bits,” Tom said. “Let’s go.” The woman was as flinty as she was homely. Unemotional and resigned, she took Tom’s money and allowed him the liberty with her he’d paid for. When they were finished, she quickly untangled herself from him and smoothed down her skirt. “If you want some more, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Sure,” Tom said, pulling up his pants. He went outside and found Yule already standing at the bar. “I got the bottle outta the saddlebags,” Yule said. The bartender was a large fat man wearing a vest over a stained longjohn shirt, and a derby. “I told your pard you could have tin cups for two cents.”
“We bought that bottle at the Palladium,” Tom explained.
“I can see that, but it’ll still cost you two cents for the cups,” the fat man insisted.
“Give him two cents,” Yule said. “It’ll save us passing this bottle back and forth.”
“Ain’t you got any money?”
“Nope,” Yule said with a satisfied grin. “I told you I was near broke. And I spent my last six bits on that gal.”
Tom paid for the cups. “Now,” he said, “can we settle down to some slow drinking?”
“We don’t have to drink all that slow,” Yule said. “Remember we got another bottle out in our saddlebags.”
Tom poured them each a cupful and they made themselves comfortable at the bar. The liquor acted as the hot baths had. It soothed them and let muscles tensed by hours in the saddle unwind and relax. Tom could always hold his liquor pretty good, but Yule was another matter. Alcohol reacted fast in him, and his speech slurred and grew louder as cup after cup was consumed.
They were on the second bottle when Tom finally figured Yule had drunk enough. “Let’s go, pard. It’s still early enough to stable the horses and get a hotel room.”
“I ain’t got my money for all that shit,” Yule said. “I’m paying for it,” Tom said. “C’mon.”
Three young men came in through the door and called out to the whores.
Yule turned around quickly to take a look at the newc
omers, and he stumbled against the bar. Tom had to grab him to keep him from falling.
One of the youngsters, a kid still in his late teens, laughed out loud. “Looks like you need a lesson in handling likker, mister.”
Tom’s face went white. He knew Yule, and he knew his temper. “Let’s go, Yule.”
But Yule pushed away from his friend and stepped out from the bar. “And you need a lesson in keeping your damn mouth shut,” he said.
“Godamn it, Yule! Let’s get the hell outta here,” Tom yelled.
The kid sneered. “It’ll take more’n a damn drunk to teach me.”
Now Tom was fully alarmed. Yule Quint was a violent man, his disposition fueled by a terrible war and the brutal life he’d led since. “It ain’t worth it, Yule.” He made a grab for his friend but missed.
“Boy, you’re dead,” Yule said. His hand dropped to his pistol, and he pulled it free from the holster.
The kid’s eyes opened wide, but he didn’t back down. Sober and fast with the speed of youth, his own Colt cleared leather. He pulled the trigger.
The bullet plowed into the bar by Tom’s elbow and he jumped away from the flying splinters. The cards of the gun duel were dealt, and they had to be played. Tom drew and cocked the hammer, swinging the bore of his Colt to cover the other youngsters.
By then Yule returned fire, shooting three times. Two of the slugs hit the kid in the chest and he was knocked over a table behind him while the two whores screamed.
Tom reached out and grabbed Yule’s gun hand and pulled it up so he couldn’t fire again. He kept his pistol on the shot kid’s two friends. “Don’t move,” he said coldly. “Blink an eye, and I’ll kill you.”
The two were obviously shook up and nervous.
White-faced, their eyes went from their pal and back to Tom. Now Tom pulled Yule away from the bar and they walked out to the center of the room. “Barkeep!” Tom yelled, knowing that if the whorehouse was typical, there would be a shotgun handy under the bar. “Keep them hands of yours where I can see ’em of I’ll plug you. So help me God!”
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