Fraternity of the Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  * * *

  “That went extremely well,” Irving said in the dining car. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so they were having drinks. It was never too early for drinks, Irving said.

  “I think we did our best work in Chicago,” Ellen Terry said. “Chicago will remember us.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Terry asked Clint.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re looking around so much you’re going to hurt your neck.”

  “I’m doing my job, Ellen,” Clint said.

  Actually, he was looking around for a waiter again, to try and get a Chicago newspaper. He wanted to see if a girl had been killed during the time they were there.

  He didn’t know for sure, but Irving claimed he didn’t go out. If a girl got killed, it meant one of two things. Either Irving wasn’t a killer, or he did go out and lied about it.

  “Are we going to go through this again?” Terry asked.

  “What?”

  “You having to walk the train, look for killers, and not find any.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “I certainly hope the last part is true.”

  * * *

  Mr. Gray sat at a table at the other end of the car, nursing a cup of coffee. Mr. Green was in one of the passenger cars. They decided never to be seen together. They’d even sat separately at the theater the night before.

  He watched as Adams and the two actors stood up and left the car.

  * * *

  They had about a fifteen-hour trip, so Clint once again got them all compartments. It also kept Irving and Terry away from the general public on the train.

  “It’s too early to turn in,” Irving said. “I’m going to do some reading.”

  Clint and Terry left Irving at his compartment and walked to hers.

  When they got to her door, she said, “Yes, don’t tell me. You have work to do.” She went into her compartment. “I will see you later.” She closed the door.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Clint had booked them on the train that arrived in Saint Louis early the next morning. By that time he had met both conductors, and one of them had gotten him copies of the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun.

  He went through both newspapers while Irving and Terry were in their compartments. He didn’t find any stories about a girl being killed. He thought that would make him feel better, but it didn’t. No murder could have meant that Irving really did stay in his room, which meant that he might not have murdered the girls in those other cities but it didn’t prove it.

  They collected the luggage and got two cabs to their hotel in Saint Louis, the Mayflower.

  “This is beautiful,” Terry said as they walked through the lobby.

  “I’m trying to get you into the best places,” Clint said, “but you better enjoy this one. The further west we get, the less the hotels look like this.”

  “Well, I for one will enjoy this one thoroughly,” Irving said.

  They got checked in, and two bellmen helped them carry the luggage up to their rooms. Once again suites for the two actors, but a regular room for Clint.

  “What will you be doing today?” Terry asked.

  “Keeping you and Henry alive.”

  “Well, we’ve arrived so early we have a lot of time before the performance,” she said. “I would like to see some of Saint Louis, perhaps sample the local cuisine.”

  “I don’t know if what they have here is called cuisine,” Clint said.

  “I would also like to try it,” Irving said.

  “All right,” Clint said. “Let’s freshen up in our rooms. I’ll pick you both up in an hour and we’ll go for a walk.”

  “Excellent,” Irving said.

  “Don’t either of you leave your rooms without me,” he said.

  “Understood,” Irving said.

  “Ellen?”

  “Fine.”

  They left Terry in her room and walked to Irving’s.

  “You should be careful,” Irving said as he opened his door.

  “I’m always careful.”

  “No,” Irving said, “I mean about Ellen.”

  “What do you mean about Ellen?”

  Irving smiled.

  “I notice she’s treating you differently,” he said. “I think I know why.”

  “Henry—”

  “No, no,” Irving said, “that’s fine with me. I just want to warn you. Ellen has a history of . . . well, breaking hearts.”

  “She’s not going to break mine,” Clint said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Irving said. “Very good.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour,” Clint said. Irving closed his door.

  Clint went down the hall to his room, entered, took off his gun belt and shirt. He used the pitcher and basin to get cleaned up, then changed into a clean shirt—his last one, he noticed. He didn’t travel with chests full of clothing like Irving and Terry did. He was going to have to buy some new shirts, or have the ones he already had washed.

  He’d eaten in Saint Louis many times. They had good steaks, but he never thought of the food as cuisine. He wondered how Ellen Terry would react.

  It was too early to meet with Irving and Terry, so he went downstairs to the lobby and into the bar.

  “Can I get a beer?” he asked the bartender. He looked around, saw that most of the men in the place were drinking coffee at that hour.

  “You can get whatever you want, sir,” the bartender said. “You’re a guest, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Beer comin’ up,” the man said, “nice and cold.”

  The bartender, a young man in a very white shirt with red sleeve garters, set the beer down in front of Clint and smiled.

  “Welcome to Saint Louis, sir. The first drink is on the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you, thanks.”

  He’d eaten in St. Louis many times

  “Are you here for business or pleasure?” the man asked.

  Clint gave the answer that usually meant you didn’t want to talk about it.

  “A little of both.”

  “Gotcha,” the man said, taking the hint. “Enjoy.”

  He walked away, leaving Clint to enjoy his beer.

  * * *

  “I wish we could go in there and have a drink,” Mr. Green said.

  “Well, we can’t,” Mr. Gray said. “And we shouldn’t even be standing here together.” They were right across the street from the Mayflower Hotel. “You stay here and watch.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To send a telegram,” Mr. Gray said, “and to get us a room in a hotel on Laclede’s Landing.”

  “That’s the riverfront, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Do we have to stay down there?”

  “It’s safer,” Mr. Gray said. “Adams won’t be taking the actors down there.”

  “Well, yeah, maybe, but—”

  “Just stay here and watch,” Mr. Gray said. “Follow them if they leave, but don’t get noticed.”

  “I won’t,” Mr. Green said. “I have done this before, you know.”

  “I do know,” Mr. Gray said. “Just be careful.”

  “I have been careful since I left New York,” Mr. Green said. “And I’m not looking forward to getting any further away from there.”

  “We’ll be crossing the Mississippi after this,” Mr. Gray said.

  “Jesus—”

  “We are going to need some new clothes.”

  “What’s the matter with my suit?”

  “It’s not what they’re wearing in the West these days, Mr. Green
,” Mr. Gray said. “No, it won’t do at all. We’ll need to get ourselves some Western garb.”

  As Mr. Gray walked away, Mr. Green hissed after him, “Well, I’m not wearing spurs!”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint finished his beer, thanked the bartender again, and then went upstairs to collect his charges. He went to Henry Irving’s room first. The actor opened the door, dressed to go out. He wore a three-piece suit, but no hat and walking stick this time.

  “Just in time,” Irving said. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to dress more casually?” Clint asked.

  “This is casual,” Irving said. “I am not wearing my cape. After all, I am not a farmer.”

  “Okay.”

  Irving closed his door and they walked to Terry’s. She opened the door with a smile, but it dimmed when she saw that Irving was with Clint—or that Clint was with Irving.

  She was wearing a dress that covered her from neck to ankle, and a shawl over her shoulders. It was certainly more casual than what Irving was wearing, but not exactly casual by local standards.

  Clint was wearing his gun and holster. While in the East, and even in Chicago, he had worn the smaller Colt New Line, keeping it hidden from view. Closer to the West, however, he felt more comfortable with his holster on his hip.

  “That’s what you are wearing?” Terry asked him.

  Clint looked down at his shirt—his last clean shirt—and his Levi’s and said, “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”

  “If you say so,” she said. She looked at Irving, who shrugged.

  “What would you like to see?” he asked as they walked downstairs.

  “The city, Clint,” Irving said. “I would like to see the city.”

  “And sample the food,” Terry said. “We have been rushed in every city we’ve been to. I would like to make use of this extra time and eat somewhere other than the hotel dining room.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “I think I know a good place to eat, but first we’ll walk around a bit.”

  As they stepped outside in front of the hotel, Irving said, “I have heard something about a place called Laclede’s Landing.”

  “That’s the riverfront,” Clint said. “You don’t want to go there.”

  “No,” Terry said, “we certainly do not.”

  “Why not?” Irving asked.

  “It’s not a good place to walk,” Clint said.

  “Like the East End in London, Henry,” Ellen Terry said. “You wouldn’t go there, would you?”

  Irving didn’t answer, although he seemed to be considering the question.

  * * *

  Clint took them for a walk around Saint Louis, took them to a spot from which they were able to see the Mississippi, without taking them to the riverfront.

  “Is that the riverfront down there?” Irving asked.

  “Part of it.”

  “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “Maybe not from here,” Clint said. “Come on, I know a place near here where we can eat.”

  As they walked, Terry asked Irving, “Why are you so interested in the riverfront?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Lately I’m just . . . curious about some things.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like . . . violence.”

  She looked surprised.

  “Why would you be interested in violence?”

  “I have experienced so little of it in my life,” Irving said.

  “How about getting shot at?” Clint asked. “Wasn’t that violent enough for you?”

  “You see,” Irving said, “you would think so, but that just seems to have made me even more interested.”

  “Interested how?” she asked. “You want to experience it, or inflict it?”

  “Inflict it?” He looked interested. “That thought had never occurred to me. I’ve thought about . . . watching it.”

  “What about a boxing match?” Clint asked.

  “That is controlled violence. I find myself being curious about more uncontrolled violence. Perhaps even frenzied.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “the riverfront would probably be the place to go, but I wouldn’t go there alone.”

  “Would you take me there?”

  “There’s our restaurant up ahead,” Clint said. “Let’s talk about it once we’re seated.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  The restaurant was called Blondie’s. Clint had eaten there a time or two before on his trips to Saint Louis. He remembered they had great steaks, stew, and desserts. And they had something he really couldn’t get anywhere else—pork steaks. That seemed to be a Saint Louis specialty.

  Irving agreed to try a pork steak, so he and Clint both ordered it. Ellen Terry opted for the beef stew.

  “Now can we talk about the riverfront?” Irving asked Clint.

  “Henry,” Clint said, “these walks you like to take at night . . . is that what it’s all about. Trying to find, to observe violence?”

  “I suppose so,” Irving said.

  “I don’t understand, Henry,” Ellen Terry said. “You’re a gentle, talented man.”

  “I am a boring man, Ellen,” Irving said. He looked at Clint. “Look at you. Violence is an integral part of your life. Do you have a boring life?”

  “No, I don’t,” Clint said, “and sometimes I wish I did.”

  “Why?” the actor asked.

  “Henry,” Clint said, “somebody tries to kill me a dozen times a year, maybe more.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because of who I am,” Clint said. “And I don’t like it. But I’m stuck with a life of violence. Why would you want to go looking for it?”

  “Because I haven’t experienced it, except on stage,” Irving said. “I think it would add nuances to my performance that I’ve never achieved before.”

  “I don’t agree, Henry,” Terry said. “I think your nuances are just fine the way they are.”

  The waitress brought their lunches, smiled at Clint, and asked, “Do you need anything else, honey?”

  She was in her thirties, built solidly, with black hair and pale skin. Her eyes were an odd color, almost purple in hue.

  “I’d like a beer,” he said.

  “I would like one as well,” Irving said.

  “Comin’ right up,” she said. “What about you, sweetie?”

  “Do you have a wine list?” Terry asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Duchess,” the waitress said. “This ain’t that kind of place.”

  “Just bring her a glass of whatever wine you have,” Clint said.

  “Sure thing.”

  She walked away, twitching her hips for Clint’s benefit.

  “What an attractive girl,” Irving said.

  “In a cheap sort of way,” Terry said.

  They ate, talked about places they’d been, places they were going to. Clint thought Irving might have forgotten about his quest for violence.

  “. . . and before we go to San Francisco,” Irving finished saying, “we’re going to Tombstone to play the famous Birdcage Theater.”

  “The Birdcage,” Clint said, surprised. “Henry. That place isn’t what it used to be—and neither is Tombstone.”

  “But it is one of the most famous theaters in your country, isn’t it?” Irving asked.

  “That may be true,” Clint said, “but it’s fallen on hard times.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “maybe Ellen and I can bring it back to its former glory.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mr. Gray waited outside the telegraph office for his reply, which he was certain would come almost immediately. He was right.

  “Hey, mister,” the clerk called out.
“Here’s your answer.”

  Mr. Gray went back inside.

  “Thanks.” He took the telegram from the clerk, stepped outside to read it.

  DO WHAT MUST BE DONE

  The telegram was unsigned, but he knew whom it was from.

  He folded the telegram, put it in his pocket, and went to find Mr. Green again.

  * * *

  When Clint Adams left the restaurant with Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, Mr. Green followed at a discreet distance. They seemed to simply be walking around the city. But eventually, they headed back to their hotel, and Mr. Green followed. He found Mr. Gray waiting there for him.

  Clint, Irving, and Terry went into the hotel. Mr. Gray and Mr. Green came together across the street.

  “Plans have changed,” Mr. Gray said.

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Green asked.

  “They want us to do the job now.”

  “What?”

  “No more waiting.”

  “I thought they wanted some Western gunman to do the job,” Mr. Green said.

  “Well,” Mr. Gray said, “now it’s to be us.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Then . . . tonight? Before the performance?”

  “After, I think.”

  “But—”

  “It would be easier to do it after. There would be less likelihood of having to run afterward.”

  “How will we do it?”

  Mr. Gray took his gun from his shoulder holster and said, “We will do it the easy way.”

  “That’s the easy way?”

  Mr. Gray knew that Mr. Green had a similar gun underneath his own arm. He also knew that Mr. Green had not yet ever killed anyone.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to his colleague. “It’ll be easy.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Clint detected a difference in the Saint Louis audience that made him think the farther west they went, the harder it was going to get for Irving and Terry to command those standing ovations.

  “What was wrong with them?” Terry asked on the way back to the hotel.

  “Obviously, they didn’t like us, Ellen.”