Daniel Randolph, a man of uncertain complexion, took advantage of his makeup. By keeping quiet he could walk the streets of nearly any district, a silent interloper seeking thrill in the limitless pleasure of each culture’s eccentricities.
Out from the center of town he led them. Into narrow streets overflowing with vendors and pushcarts, stalls of produce and criers hollering out the sale of their wares in musical tongues. Strange clothing, hats unseen before, herbs and vegetables unnamable and foreign swarmed around them. Signs over storefronts lost their Latin alphabet, letters disappeared and morphed into characters of whose meaning Balum knew not what.
In a muddied street strung with red lanterns they drew to a stop before a door. A viewing hole slid open at Randolph’s knock, a brief word was exchanged, and the door opened. A woman dressed in silk and a painted face greeted them in a candlelit room draped in soft-colored tones. Daniel did the talking and the three were led to separate rooms in back.
The interior of Balum’s room was dark and furnished with plush fittings. Lantern light flickered under the shade of a painted globe. A table with a mattress over it made up the centerpiece. At the end of the mattress was a hole cut out for the comfort of one’s face. He stood for a moment, unsure what to do, when the woman who had greeted them entered and, in broken English, made him to understand that he was to disrobe and lie on the mattress.
The door closed and he wondered for a moment if he had misunderstood her. If he had, he thought to himself, he would discover it soon enough. He pulled off his boots, his hat, the gunbelt and all the rest and laid them out over a chair then climbed onto the mattress where he covered his naked rump with a small towel and waited with his eyes closed.
In short order the door opened and closed and he felt the presence of a woman at his side. He felt his heart beat faster. He felt vulnerable, without control.
A drop of moisture touched his back and he flinched, then relaxed as warm hands began to rub the hot oil into the skin of his posterior. He felt pressure move to his neck, gentle squeezes, the press of thumbs and fingers. He felt the ropes of his muscle fight, then give in and relax in submission.
He let her take his arms and rub them down, his thighs, his calves, his feet and toes. She let her hands go from him, and a moment later he felt hot stones on his back. His throat let out a moan as she drew them over his body. The fascia below the skin relented, his mind fell into a trance. The stones were removed and the woman climbed onto the mattress and straddled his backside. Her hands ran along his spine, over his ribs and neck and shoulders, and he shuddered as previously unimaginable relaxation took hold of him.
She dismounted and he heard her voice for the first time, different from the matron’s, yet no less exotic. She had him turn over, and as he did so she moved the towel over his crotch.
His eyes found her face in the dark. Hair as black as onyx gemstone swirled in pinned coils over her head. Her eyes were shadowed by thin lines of black paint, her lips red and full. She smiled at him and poured more oil over his chest. He watched her rub out the knots buried in his arms and chest, his legs. She stood behind his head and pressed her fingers delicately into his temples and his jaw, and pulled gently at his ears.
When she came back into view she had let the sash holding her robe go free and it opened, revealing two firm breasts and delicate nipples in the soft lantern light. She placed her hands on his chest and lightly ran them down his stomach to the towel covering his rising erection. She looked him in the eye with a smile, then bent and kissed his cheek as her hand crept below the towel and took hold of his throbbing shaft. She drew back from him, stroking gently with her oiled palm, and he raised an arm and put a hand to her breasts, fondling them as she massaged his cock in long smooth strokes. Her hand was warm and soft, it’s rhythm unparalleled. At the end of each stroke she would give the head of his cock a twist, squeezing slightly, working the shaft faster and faster until he could take it no more and he erupted in a moan, his hand clutched tightly at her breast.
She brought a towel to him, cleaned him, cast the towel away. With more oil she drew her hands over the length of his body, massaging calm back into his frame. She kneaded the bundles of fibrous muscle until they were pliable once more and, when his body lay like a sleeping ragdoll, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and departed.
7
The courthouse, such as they called it, had not kept pace with the developments racing throughout the rest of Denver. A one-storied hall, long and narrow and with a facade in need of a wash, brimmed with more people than it could possibly carry. They overflowed into the street, men and women cramming forward to catch a glimpse of Frederick Nelson as he was led from the jail to the courthouse by Sheriff Ross Buckling.
They had come from as far as Cheyenne, a hundred miles just to watch the show. A trial of such magnitude was a rare occurrence, and it served more than a cause for justice; it offered entertainment. Bets had been laid, a thousand arguments deliberated upon by the old men smoking cigars in the barbershop. Schoolchildren pretended they were Frederick Nelson in the playground, shooting their stick gatling guns at their playmates. Pastors decried the sordid story from the pulpit, proclaiming the judgment of heaven and laying out the punishment awaiting the man in hell. Every soul from Denver and beyond had an opinion of the affair, and their viewpoints were shouted at each other in a raucous chorus that came close to resembling a lynch mob on the morning of the first day of trial.
Into the fray Balum wedged himself. He wore his tailored suit for the first time, set off by a new pair of boots still stiff in the toes. Shoulders bumped him. He turned and squeezed through. The courthouse clerks saw him from the double doors and called out for the crowd to move back, yet they pushed forward like a herd of ants on an unrelenting mission. His size was what won out. He stood several inches taller than most men and had a wide set of shoulders laden with beef built by years of hard labor. Once inside he was escorted to the row behind the prosecution’s bench where Ross Buckling had already taken up a position.
‘If they don’t convict him here, the mob outside’ll get him,’ said Balum, taking his seat.
‘It’s a rabble, alright,’ said the Sheriff.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be out there laying down law and order?’
‘I probably should be,’ Ross grinned and squinted his eyes at Balum. ‘Not in a pig’s eye am I gonna miss this though.’
Settled into place, Balum took in his surroundings. In front of the hall on a raised platform gleamed the empty judge’s chair. The twelve jury members sat in two rows along the side wall facing the court. Just in front of Balum was the prosecution bench, a table before it with papers stacked in a pile on top and the District Attorney seated alone.
On the other side of the aisle was gathered the defense. Balum let his eyes slide over. The fat lawyer brought in for the occasion reclined in his seat with his hands folded over his portly belly. He wore a fine suit with shiny buttons and a silver tipped bolo tie with an engraved clasp also hewn from sliver. Beside him sat Frederick Nelson with his hands manacled and his feet fettered at the ankles. An armed court bailiff stood behind him.
Behind Nelson, in the row corresponding to Balum’s on the opposite side of the aisle, Saul Farro sat with a smile, his head turned toward Balum. He wore the appearance of a man quite pleased with himself. As though he found himself precisely where he most desired to be, the situation in accordance with his choosing.
Balum’s eyes flashed to Nelson. The shackled felon gave off no sense of worry. On the contrary, his carriage portrayed a man mildly impatient and in total confidence of his stature, as if the courtroom was his own, the assembled crowd waiting to fulfill his bidding.
‘Nelson looks too calm,’ said Balum.
‘It’s just a show,’ said Ross. ‘He’s shaking inside.’
‘Where’s Freed?’
‘In the back there,’ Ross tilted his head back toward the double doors.
‘What’s that
lawyers name again?’
‘Douglas Crenshaw.’
‘Looks fancy.’
‘He is fancy. Fancier than what Nelson deserves.’
Balum brought a hand up to his jaw and ran it across the smooth-shaven skin. He felt the worry rise up in him again, and brought a hand to his neck but the pain had not returned.
A door to the side of the jury opened and a bailiff standing in front of the court called out for all to rise for the honorable Judge Vanderloop. The audience rose, the judge took his seat, and court came to session.
Court proceedings, Balum soon discovered, did not move smoothly or efficiently. Legal jargon was bandied about, phrases recited and repeated, the lawyers taking turns to ramble on about prior cases and precedents set. Balum felt his mind go numb and his legs get restless. He wished he was outside in the sunshine with a plug of tobacco in his cheek. Anywhere but stuck in the stuffy courtroom with the smell of an overfilled house of people sweating and stinking in a ventless chamber. He’d prefer to be sitting in the Mexican cantina with a glass of mezcal and the banter of Chester and Randolph giving him reason to laugh.
He took another glance behind him at the assembled body and searched out his friends within it. Their faces were not to be found. Only Johnny Freed, standing in back at the double doors with his arms crossed over his narrow chest and his face pouting and foolish.
Balum felt his neck twitch and he swung back around to face the front. As he turned, his eyes flowed unfocused across the rows of seated onlookers and, suddenly, like a horse startled by a snake, his head jerked to a stop and he stared across the aisle and behind him at unexpected beauty.
She caught him looking and held his eyes in hers for a moment that lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt to Balum an eternity all unto itself. Her features were fine and delicate, her mouth set firmly and her eyes stern and piercing. Light brown hair flowed in shimmering waves down her back, and the blue dress she wore covered a frame that drew the focus of every man that happened to set eyes on it. She reminded him briefly of Deborah DeLace; the set of her mouth and the petite yet powerful body of a woman sleek and tempting.
He nudged Ross next to him and whispered to him, ‘Who’s that girl over there? In the blue dress.’
Ross looked over and whispered back to Balum, ‘Sara Sanderson. Aston Sanderson’s daughter.’
‘Who’s Aston Sanderson?’
‘Eastern money.’
‘What’s that mean?’
Ross shrugged and gave a shake of his head.
Balum looked over again but the girl sat facing forward with her eyes firmly on the proceedings taking place at the front of the court. Balum felt a knot of pressure rise in his chest. He felt certain that though her eyes faced forward she nonetheless watched him from her periphery.
He forced himself to turn and face the front, though try as he might he could not bring himself to focus on the opening motions of the trial no matter how hard he bent his mind. The lawyers rambled on about matters strange and distant to him, and he sat rigidly on the bench with his jaw set, waiting for the afternoon recess and knowing where his mind was leading him, for he was old enough to know himself, and recognized the familiar cudgel that hijacked his senses, wielded only by the rarest of women; women to which he had yet found no riposte.
By the time the noon recess arrived, opening arguments had still not been made. The assembled crowd filed out of the hall and into the Denver avenues, gossiping and carrying on and complaining that not enough excitement had happened.
In the streets Balum asked Ross Buckling again about the girl from the courtroom and her family.
‘What do you mean by Eastern money?’ he asked.
‘I mean they come out here from Kansas City and they got money. At least, that’s what it looks like to me. He floats around with the business crowd. Bankers and such. Not sure exactly what his trade is.’
‘That’s hardly the East.’
‘Close enough.’
‘How long have they been out here?’
‘A few months is all. And she’s caught about every man’s eye in the state. Johnny Freed’s included.’
‘Is that right?’
‘That boy is smitten. Talks about her like she’s his bride-to-be. But the kid’s a fool, anyone can see that. She don’t pay him no mind. Looks at him like he’s a dog with mange, but he keeps after her anyway.’
Balum didn’t respond. He scanned the crowd, seeking her out, and when he saw the blue dress down the street entering a restaurant he gave the Sheriff a slap on the arm.
‘Care for lunch?’
‘It’s what the recess is for.’
Balum led the way to the dining hall. When Ross Buckling saw where they were headed he hesitated.
‘A little pricey for me, Balum.’
But Balum had a mission. He pulled the Sheriff in, insisting lunch was on him, and they were soon seated at a table covered in white linen and topped with place settings numerous enough to confuse the both of them. They ordered off the menu and when Ross saw where Balum’s focus had drifted, he followed the line of sight then turned and rolled his eyes.
‘Now I see why we’re here,’ he said dryly.
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘You sound like a schoolboy.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well,’ said Ross, ‘you gonna go talk to her or sit here staring like Johnny would do?’
‘We’ll eat first. I figure I’ll try some manners and not barge in on their meal. Is that Aston Sanderson there with her?’
Ross looked over. ‘That’s him. And Mrs. Sanderson.’
‘He doesn’t look like a banker. Looks a bit rough.’
‘I didn’t say he was. Just who he floats around with.’
They ate their meal and when they were finished Balum had still not made a move to introduce himself to the Sanderson’s table.
‘Cold feet, Balum?’ Ross egged him on. ‘Thought you was a ladies’ man.’
‘The trial’s on my mind.’
‘No it ain’t. Ain’t nothing on your mind but that gal there.’
The Sanderson table rose to leave and when they did Sara looked his way. Her eyes locked onto his again, and by her reaction he realized she had known he was there all along. At the door a blue kerchief matching her dress fell from her purse and landed softly on the floor. She left without it, and he jumped from the table and snatched it from the ground. Outside he jogged after her, and called out when he had nearly reached her.
‘Ma’am,’ he said.
She turned, her face composed as if she had been expecting him. Balum held out the kerchief.
‘I believe you dropped this.’
‘Why thank you,’ she smiled and took it with a glove-covered hand.
‘I saw you at the trial,’ he said. ‘The name’s Balum.’
‘I believe I saw you too,’ she replied. ‘I’m Sara Sanderson.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. It was an unexpected surprise to see a woman such as yourself there.’
‘It’s a fascinating trial. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.’
‘Perhaps you will. You’ll have to invite me out first, and I won’t be dropping anymore kerchiefs to give you the easy opportunity.’
She turned sharply and left him standing dumbfounded in the street and feeling like a fool.
He returned to the restaurant and paid his bill while Ross Buckling picked at his teeth.
‘That weren’t no accident she dropped that kerchief,’ he prodded. ‘That gal knew you was watching her.’
‘Maybe,’ admitted Balum.
‘Long line of muchachos waiting to court her. Maybe you just jumped to the front of it.’
They battled their way back through the throngs gathered at the courthouse doors and reclaimed their seats behind the District Attorney's bench. Judge Vanderloop entered, the attendants rose, and when seated again he thumped the gavel and brought
the court to session.
After another stretch of time was wasted in legal speak, throughout which Balum could scarce put attention due to the overwhelming awareness of Sara Sanderson seated on the other side of the aisle. Saul Farro sat not far from her, throwing the occasional glare in Balum’s direction, and Frederick Nelson leaned back in his chair alongside Crenshaw with a smug grin plastered over his face.
Through all of it the hint of a question arose in Balum’s mind. Why were the Sandersons seated in the aisle behind the defense? But he shook it off. This wasn’t a wedding ceremony. People took seats wherever they found them, and no one sitting behind the defense, aside from Saul Farro, put their endorsement there.
The District Attorney rose and gave his opening statement. He spoke in succinct phrases, framing the case through dry and logical parameters. He gave a summary of the facts, the evidence, the case that the defense would be assumed to make. Each possible argument he rebutted before Crenshaw had a chance to articulate it.
When he’d finished he took his seat. Murmurs rose from the hall. Ross glanced at Balum and gave him a nod with his head, suggesting a vote of confidence in what they had just witnessed. Judge Vanderloop opened the floor to the defense.
Douglas Crenshaw lifted his fat body from the defense bench and sauntered into the open floor before the judge’s chair, then turned to face the jury.
‘Distinguished members of the jury,’ he began. ‘A crime has been committed, and it is your responsibility to find its perpetrator. But it is not the crime you think. Far from it. Let us consider. You have been told a massacre has happened. You have been led to believe that this poor man sitting in chains before you is a crazed murderer of innocent people. Yet where is the evidence? Where are these supposed bodies lying dead in the mountains? All we have is the word from a known drunkard, a gambler, and a prolific womanizer, appointed U.S. Deputy Marshal under suspicious pretenses, and not an ounce of shame does he carry with him before God. He abused my client, starving him and bringing him to custody replete with bodily injury. He’s given over sheets of paper claiming to be affidavits from members of the Oregon Expedition, yet it is more than likely they have been forged by his own hand. His own deposition has been found to be full of lies and false innuendoes. That man, the real criminal here, sits in this courtroom today. His name is Balum, and he should be hung.’
For the Love of a Woman Page 5