Incident at Twenty-Mile Read online

  It was this singing and applause that had caused the four sitting in the dark, across the street in the Mercantile, to wonder what was going on over in the Traveller's Welcome.

  As he made his way back to his table, drawing the thoroughly drunk Queeny along by her wrist, Tiny passed behind the deacons' bench. He snatched off Mr. Murphy's wig and with this trophy he crowned Bobby-My-Boy, who let it remain there, cocked forward over one eye, as he continued trying to force whiskey on Chinky, but she turned her face from side to side to avoid drinking from the glass that clicked against her teeth. Lieder advanced on the table and asked what was wrong. Did this yellow-skinned sperm-spittoon think she was too high-and-mighty to drink with one of his apostles? Without raising her eyes, Chinky answered in a voice so low that she was obliged to repeat twice that she didn't like whiskey. It made her sick. "O-o-o-h, now that's too bad," Lieder said in a tone dripping with compassion. "She doesn't like whiskey! Well, now." He turned and announced to the assembly that once his American Freedom Militia had crushed the combined forces of the immigrants and the Wall Street barons, freedom of choice would become a basic constitutional right… even for slanty-eyed spunk buckets. And, by God, he was going to grant her freedom of choice right now! "Peggy, bring us a glass. Tiny, I want you to fill this glass with piss." When Tiny had accomplished this task, the wincing barber being obliged to hold the receptacle while straining his face away in an effort to avoid the effects of Tiny's unsteady aim-this to the general amusement of his fellow deacons-Lieder set the glass of cloudy liquid beside Chinky's glass of clear whiskey and said, "There you are, my dear. You're free to choose which one you drink. But you are going to drink one of them, you hear me?"

  She gagged down the whiskey. Then a second glass. And a third.

  While the fourth glass was being filled, she suddenly rose and stumbled out through the kitchen into the back yard, where she vomited onto the railroad tracks. The deacons' bench rocked with laughter; the loudest was Reverend Hibbard, who had by then thoroughly drowned the demon within him.

  When Chinky returned, pale and fragile, her vulnerability must have touched some cord of feeling within Bobby-My-Boy, for he grasped her wrist and led her back into the kitchen, where he bent her over the drain board and used her, as she twisted her neck to keep her face out of the dirty water. When he was done, he called for Tiny, who came and took his turn.

  They brought her back into the bar, and she slumped into her chair, where she sat shivering, her eyes riveted to the tabletop, while beside her Queeny smiled with dazed, slack-lipped benevolence upon the world.

  Eager to provide fun for his guests, Lieder's eyes next settled on Frenchy, who glared back with narrowed menace. He snorted derisively, but nevertheless he decided to choose Queeny for their further amusement. "Does that player piano yonder work?" he asked.

  "Sure does!" Jeff Calder said eagerly. "But somebody's got to pump the pedals. I'd be glad to do it, but what with me having only one leg, the piano only plays every other note!" He cackled at his oft-repeated joke and looked around for appreciation.

  "Then you pump the pedals for us, Professor. Unless being bald hampers a man's pumping, too."

  Murphy sat at the ornate if battered player piano. "What do you want to hear?"

  "What you offering?"

  "Well… " He reached into one of the storage slots. "… ah… what about 'Silver Threads Among the Gold'?"

  "Well now, ain't that a coincidence? Silver! Like the silver that comes down your railroad track every week. I take that to be a good omen. But it's a rotten song all the same. What else you got?"

  "Ah… here's There'll Be a Hot Time in the Ol' Town Tonight. ' The Rough Riders' song. No? Well, let's see… ah… here's 'She's Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.' "

  "There you go! Something sentimental to soften our hearts and mist our eyes. You thread that on and start pumping. And you, old woman! You'll sing for us. Together we shall make a joyful noise unto the Lord… as Paul enjoined us to do in Seminoles: 7: 13."

  "Me?" Queeny pressed splayed fingers against her chest. "You want me to sing? Well, I ain't no Jenny Lind, but when I was a young girl on the stage-"

  "That must have been a fair piece back," Lieder interrupted. "Judging from appearances, I'd guess you were already well past your prime when you were selling ass to the pharaoh's soldiers! Now start singing! And, deacons? I want you to accompany her!"

  The choir members struggled to find a compromise key. She's only a bird… beautiful sight… gilded bird… in a gilded cage, a byoo-tee-fill sight to see-e-e-e… Their combined volume was topped by Queeny's wobbly soprano…. for her love was so-o-o-o-old! For an o-o-o-ol' man's go-o-o-old, she's a bird in a gilded- "Whoa!" Lieder shouted, and there was sudden silence. "Now that, ladies and gentlemen." He shook his head and laughed helplessly. "That, folks, is what I would call… terrible! And I can't permit myself to embarrass an old woman any further by making her sing when she's got a voice that would shatter a spittoon at fifty yards. So instead, I'll tell you what. You can dance for us, grandma. Tiny, give her some more whiskey. And to make it more interesting, grandma, I think I'm going to have you dance… naked. I cannot wait to see all that tallow a-wobbling and a-jiggling! A sight to make a man swear off woman-meat forever! Gentlemen of the choir! Give this little lady a big welcoming hand! Professor Murphy? Music, if you please."

  The choir applauded, and Jeff Calder put two fingers into his mouth and whistled an ear-splitting note.

  "Take it off!"

  "Let's see what you got!"

  Queeny's pudgy fingers hesitated at the ties of her wrap. Drunk though she was, she was loath to reveal the not-excessively-clean underwear she wore during the week, when there were no customers. But Tiny overcame her show of reluctance by ripping the wrap off her, snatching her drawers down, and pushing her out onto the dance floor. Her feet got tangled in her drawers, and she stumbled against Bobby-My-Boy, who pushed her back into the center of the room, where she stood beneath the big overhead oil lamp, her crossed arms scooping in her breasts, her drawers puddled around one ankle. Professor Murphy pumped away at the player piano, his head glistening with sweat, and she began to shuffle from foot to foot, at first awkwardly, miserably, ashamed of her age and weight. But… but every eye was on her! She was the focus of all attention! She was on stage again! A sultry grimace creased her cheeks as the whiskey transported her back to happier times. Responding to her public's whistles and slurred suggestions, she began a grotesque imitation of her old Dance of the Seven Veils, using her hands to conceal, then coyly reveal, tantalizing glimpses of her bulbous nipples and her shaggy pudenda. Rivulets of sweat lacquered the rolls of fat beneath her underarms. Her pendulous breasts swayed and jiggled. Each time a pelvic bump made her audience hoot and whistle, she shook a finger at them, and her mouth made an o-o-o of naughty admonition.

  Show business!

  Only slowly… and with growing bewilderment… did she become aware that they weren't cheering. They were saying cruel, wounding things about her body. Why, they were passing personal remarks!

  Queeny stopped jiggling from foot to foot and stood beneath the big kerosene lamp, sobbing into the hands that now concealed only her face. The ballad ended with a crescendo of chords; the piano roll flapped within the mechanism; and the room was silent.

  Suddenly Queeny's head snapped up, and her eyes flashed within their tear-smeared sockets. A string of snarled abuse poured out of her. She called them every nasty thing that came to mind, while tears worked their way down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth, and the overhead light caught patches of slippery wet on her naked flesh.

  Lieder laughed and told Tiny to pour the old gal a drink. She'd earned it! But Queeny snatched the bottle from Tiny and hurled it at Lieder, who ducked as it shattered against the wall near his head. His eyes suddenly emptied, and his lips curled back from his teeth. "Get your fat ass out of here before I kill you," he snarled. "Get out!" Then his voice dropped to a tense, breathy timbre. "
And if you come back, old lady, I'll arrange a little romantic encounter between you and a broken bottle. It'll be a night of love you'll never forget. Bobby-My-Boy, stop grinning and show the lady out."

  Bobby-My-Boy grabbed Queeny by her hair, slapped her face, and propelled her through the bar doors, which flapped against the walls as she stumbled out into the darkness and fell to her knees, skinning them on the rough boardwalk. She tried to stand, but whiskey sloshed through her senses, and she sprawled across the steps.

  Across the street in the darkened Mercantile, Mr. Kane crossed to the window and looked down the street to where lamplight spilled from the door of the Traveller's Welcome. "My God, she's-" He returned to the table and sat heavily. "They've stripped her naked and thrown her out into the street."

  In the Traveller's Welcome, Lieder stood beneath the big oil lamp, his eyes lost in the shadow of his brows. He searched the faces of the silent deacons, seeking the slightest sign of amusement at his having been obliged to duck the bottle. There was none. "Everybody sing! Pump that goddamned piano, Curly! Fill up those glasses, Peggy!" He punctuated his orders by pulling out his pistol and firing into the ceiling, which caused Mr. Delanny to twitch and crimp the card he was laying out. Notes gushed from the player piano, lush and syrupy, and everyone sang, heads thrown back, mouths open wide… for her love was so-o-o-old, for an o-o-old man's go-o-o-old….

  After obliging them to down two more glasses of rye "for the road," Lieder escorted his guests out. "And mind you get plenty of sleep, 'cause we'll be fetching you tomorrow night for more jollity and fellowship. Whoa, there, Professor. I want you to stoke up your boiler and fill us three tubs. Up to the brim and steaming!"

  "Tonight?" The bleary-eyed, nauseated barber looked wistfully after his fellow deacons, who were stumbling home along the moonlit street.

  "Yes, tonight! We ain't none of us had an all-over bath since I don't know when. And do you wonder if we're going to have a wallow? We're going to have a long, long wallow. And I want that water hot enough to melt the marrow out of our bones!" He told Tiny to collect their "arsenal" and take it over to the barbershop, so they could keep an eye on it while they were soaking in their tubs. "We mustn't leave temptation in the way of these good people. They're too weak to fight against it. Ain't that right, Mr. Delanny?"

  Delanny did not look at him.

  "Of course we all know the urge to do something brave and dangerous isn't very strong amongst pimps, but just to be on the safe side… Peggy, you go cut some of that clothesline in the kitchen and tie Mr. Delanny into his chair." He walked to the table on which Mr. Delanny was laying out solitaire with ostentatious lassitude. "I don't think Mr. Tone-of-Voice would mind being tied into his chair… just to help strengthen his resolve to be a coward. What do you say, Peggy?"

  "No, sir. I mean… yes, sir." To cover his confusion, Jeff Calder went quickly into the kitchen, where he snatched down the wet underwear and cut off a length of clothesline.

  "And I'd cinch that rope down real tight if I was you, Peggy," Lieder said, "because if I come back from my bath and find this pimp's got away…" He let the bartender imagine the consequences.

  Calder snatched the rope tight and tied it off. Delanny smiled thinly to cover the pain in his skinned wrists.

  As she looked from the window to Lieder's face, Frenchy's glance fell to Delanny's right boot. If the chance came to get at his gun…

  Tiny returned from carrying the "arsenal" over to the barbershop, where he left Bobby-My-Boy guarding it. "You know what I saw?" he asked Lieder.

  "What?"

  "That kid was helping the old whore into his place, the one who tried to bash you with that bottle."

  "Let him be. He's just what you call your good Samaritan. Generous to a fault. He's like me in that way. Now, I want you ladies to take off your shoes and give them to Tiny. That's so you won't take it into your heads to run off up to the mine or down to Destiny." Frenchy kicked off her shoes as Tiny approached her, but he had to twist the shoes off Chinky's unresisting feet.

  "Go upstairs and collect all the shoes," Lieder said. "We'll stuff 'em into the barber's boiler to help heat up our bathwater. That way they'll serve a useful purpose."

  As Tiny disappeared up the stairs, Lieder looked at Frenchy, who returned his gaze with her eyebrows arched over half-closed eyes. "What do they call you, girl?"

  When she didn't answer, Jeff Calder volunteered, "Frenchy's her name."

  "Frenchy, eh? I suppose that means you used to sell ass down New Orleans way, right?" Frenchy didn't answer. Lieder smiled and shook his head. "You have got real sassy eyes, girl. Real sassy. But I'll get you. Don't worry, Frenchy. I'll get you. That's a promise." He grinned, then he turned, to Jeff Calder. "Peggy, I'm putting you in charge of these good people. You can handle that responsibility, can't you?"

  Calder squared his narrow shoulders. "Yes, sir."

  "And to show how much I trust you, I'm going to leave your army rifle and one round… so you can enforce your will on these folk. But…" He held up his finger. "But if anything goes wrong while I'm off enjoying my nice long bath, guess who I'm going to gut-shoot first."

  Jeff Calder swallowed.

  Lieder nodded, "That's right." He left the barroom.

  A moment later, Tiny came clumping down the stairs carrying a pillow slip lumpy with shoes.

  The bat-winged doors were still oscillating behind him when Frenchy stepped toward Mr. Delanny to get…

  Lieder pushed the doors open again and stood on the threshold, smiling and shaking his head. "Did you really think I was just going to leave like that, girl? Come on now! I've known all along that Delanny probably had some sort of sneak-gun up his sleeve or in his boot. His kind usually do. I've been watching him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he'd go for it. But I was pretty sure he wouldn't have the guts to draw down on me. But you, girl…? O-o-oh, you're a different kettle of fish. Peggy, go find Mr. Delanny's gun. Feel around until you come up with it. Yes indeed, you are a different kettle of fish altogether. You're the sort that could do a man real harm-and I don't just mean by giving him the clap or scaring him to death with that ugly face of yours. " He accepted the over-and-under derringer that Calder had found in a small holster stitched into the lining of Mr. Delanny's boot. "Well now, look at this. A. 41 Remington double. Isn't that just the kind of shooter you'd expect a pimp to pack? A healthy man can piss further'n that thing can shoot, but its slug starts tumbling as soon as it leaves that dinky barrel, so it can tear an awful hole in a fella. Tell me the truth, Frenchy. When you thought I'd left you within reach of your pimp's gun, didn't a little thrill of hope tingle down deep in that black heart of yours? Come on, fess up! And when you saw me walk back in here, didn't that black heart just shrivel up? Admit it! Your hopes were lifted, then they were crushed. That's what they call the Torture of Hope, and it's the worst torture of all, because tantalizing hope keeps you from taking the easy way out and killing yourself. It's hope that holds your face down in the mud. It's hope that keeps you nailed to the cross. It's hope that turns the knife in the wound." He shook a finger at her and said in a singsong tone, "I told you I'd get you, Frenchy. I told you." He left to have his bath.

  MATTHEW JOLTED AWAKE, HIS heart beating, the base of his spine sore from the hard chair. The whiskey stench coming from Queeny had filtered into his nightmare about some spongy red stuff… no, it was about his pa's face, all bloated with anger… no, about a roaring gun and… no, something about damaged boys and apostles and… no, he couldn't remember. The dream elements were rapidly dispersing and disguising themselves.

  From out in the street came the sounds of laughter and splashing and shouting and…

  … Splashing?

  He heard a loud whoop and another splash, then a snort, then a high-pitched yap. Someone had poured cold water on someone. Those men must be having baths in the wooden tubs behind the barbershop. And there was something repugnant about the thought of those men sitting up to their necks in
wooden tubs of skin-scummy bathwater, splashing and horseplaying like kids in a swimming hole.

  Matthew decided to read until the clinging fragments of his nightmare withered and dropped from his mind. So as not to waken Queeny, he drew the lucifer slowly along the bottom of his table until it hissed into a flat, puffing flame, then he lit his lamp.

  Just before dawn, his chin dropped into the collar of his jacket, and The Ringo Kid Plays His Last Ace slipped from his numb fingers into the pool of lamplight on the floor.

  HE WOKE TO FIND his book on the floor, but the pool of lamplight had been diluted by, then absorbed into, the wan light of dawn seeping in through the window. He blew the lamp out and dragged his fingers through his hair, then he tiptoed out to avoid waking Queeny. It was not until he was standing in the chill of the empty street that he realized his jacket was still on backward. As he was taking it off and putting it on right, he noticed that the spreading dawn light was strange… greenish and oily. And there was a dirty smell to the unnaturally still air. Back in Nebraska those signs would have meant that a big storm was on its way in. But the sky was bell-clear and the far foothills were gold-crusted by the first rays of an autumn sunrise. If there was a storm brewing, it was hidden behind the mountain that loomed over Twenty-Mile. He thought of Ruth Lillian, who must have gone up to the Livery before dawn, then started climbing the trail toward Coots as soon as it was light enough to find her footing. He could picture B. J. at his back window, watching for Coots to appear around Shinbone Cut, a pot of coffee simmering on the stove to greet him.