Bloody Sunday (A John Stone Western--Book 11) Page 7

  Stone closed one eye and tried to focus his other on the room clerk. “Let me tell you a story. Once I stopped at a hotel, and the room clerk wouldn’t give me the room I wanted. A few days later the hotel burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. The room clerk was never found.”

  The room clerk measured Stone, then read his name more carefully. A bell went off in his mind. “I just found something on the second floor, Mr. Stone. The bridal suite. A few dollars more, but worth every penny.”

  Stone opened his mouth to protest, but Leticia said, “We’ll take it.”

  The room clerk handed her the key. She took Stone’s arm and led him to the stairs, while the room clerk read the name again.

  Leticia unlocked the door, stepped inside the room, and gasped. One empty bed rested on bare unpainted wooden planks, and moth-eaten bolts of unhemmed red cloth covered the windows. Stone dropped his bedroll on the floor, then peered cautiously out the window at sheds, privies, piles of firewood, children playing cowboys and injuns in the backyard.

  ‘Turn around,” she said. “I’ve got to change clothes.”

  He sat on a wooden chair and lit another cigarette. He heard her undress, then she poured water into the basin and washed. He imagined her pristine nakedness, like a ripe apple. An artery in his throat throbbed insistently.

  Leticia put on a clean dress and combed her hair. “You can look now.”

  A prim young lady put on her coat and gazed at herself in the mirror. Stone was impressed by her dramatic transformation. Tanned, brimming with confidence, she didn’t look like a kid anymore.

  “I’m going to see the mayor’s wife about a schoolmarm job. You should clean up and look for work too. The money you have left won’t get you to the Black Hills.”

  “How do you know how much money I have left?”

  “Simple subtraction.”

  The door closed behind her, and silky women’s things were spread upon the bed. He wondered if she left them there to drive him mad. He placed his rifle beneath the mattress, threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, and descended the stairs to the lobby.

  “A bath,” he told the room clerk.

  “Next door, Mr. Stone.”

  Stone leaned toward him and winked. “Don’t say my name so loud, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But the room clerk loved gossip, and when Stone was out of sight, he began spreading the word. Within an hour, everyone knew the fastest gun alive was in town.

  ~*~

  At the Manusco Bath and Shave a man with a black beard sat next to the door, reading an Italian newspaper. “Twenny-five cents.”

  A metal tub sat in the corner, and a young man filled it with hot water. Stone undressed, hung his clothes on the hook, slipped into the tub.

  “Many ranches around here?” he asked the boy.

  “Two big ones.”

  “Hear of any jobs?”

  “Depends what you want to do.”

  “I’m a cowboy.”

  “You should be able to find somethin’, if’n you don’t mind gunplay.”

  Silence came over the room. Stone raised his head, and the elder Manusco stood in the doorway. “I thought I tell you, keepa yer mouth shut.”

  The boy fled the room as his father strolled toward Stone’s tub. “Do not listen to the boy. His mind …” The man fluttered his fingers in the air. “This is a good town. The railroad come in a few years. Big Army post we got. You got money to invest, put it in Woodlawn.”

  Stone soaked for a half hour, then climbed out of the bathtub and dried himself. The boy brought more hot water, and Stone shaved in a cracked mirror. He put on his last remaining clean shirt and pants. “Where can I find a laundry?”

  “Next block.”

  Stone tossed the boy a coin and strolled out of the bathhouse, feeling fresh and clean. He found the sign: FAST LAUNDRY – We Fix Pants

  Wo Hop ironed somebody’s shirt, and behind him, on a shelf, sat a black stone statue of the Buddha. Stone piled filthy clothing on the counter. “Heard there’s trouble in this town.”

  “Me not hear nothing.”

  Wo Hop handed Stone a receipt for the clothes, and Stone headed for the sheriff’s office. Barnes sat behind his desk, leafing through wanted posters, smoking a corncob pipe.

  “Ever see this woman?” Stone asked, showing the picture of Marie.

  “What’s she done?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “You got a pretty friend.” Sheriff Barnes gazed at him calmly. “I know who you are, Mr. John Stone. You’d better not step out of line in this town, because I ain’t afraid of you. You shoot somebody, you’ll hang like any other outlaw, get my meaning?”

  “All I want is a job for the winter, and I’ll move on in the spring.”

  “Might be better off if you moved on now. In case you haven’t heard, we got us a little range war here. Half the people’re scared shitless, and the rest’re carry in’ guns fer one side or t’other. You sayin’ you ain’t been hired by Mulgrave?”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.”

  Barnes spat into his cuspidor. “If you’re the John Stone I heard about, you’ll be in the middle of it afore long.”

  ~*~

  Screams of children pierced the walls of the house, while through a window, Leticia saw them chasing each other around a living room. She knocked on the door, and a child with freckles opened it.

  “I’d like to see Mrs. Blodgett.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Mrs. Leticia Stone.”

  The child ran off, and after a while a stout, white-haired woman wearing a wimple appeared. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been told this town needs a schoolmarm. My name’s Leticia Stone.”

  “Please come this way,” the harried woman said. “Would you like a cup of coffee? How about a piece of pie?” Something crashed in the next room. “Children can be a trial. I feel like strangling them all.”

  “That’s why you need a good schoolmarm.”

  “Schoolmarm?” said a short, stout, white-haired man, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Mrs. Blodgett. “Did someone say something about a schoolmarm?”

  Mrs. Blodgett cleared her throat. “This young lady is a schoolmarm. May I present my husband, Mayor Chester Blodgett.”

  Leticia curtsied. “I was just explaining to your wife how important a schoolmarm can be to the growth of a community.”

  Mayor Blodgett raised his finger in the air. “I couldn’t agree more. Are you looking for a job? We can’t pay much, I warn you in advance.”

  “If education for your children is as important as you say, surely a reasonable amount of money can be raised. All I’d need is about forty dollars a month.”

  Five children ran through the living room, screaming, pulling each other’s hair, kicking, knocking furniture over. Mrs. Blodgett grumbled as she picked up behind them. Her husband turned to Leticia. “It’s important for a good schoolmarm to control her students. I’d like to have a demonstration of your competence in that regard right now, if you don’t mind.”

  Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Leticia flew after the children, shrieking at the top of her lungs. The ferocity of her attack took them by surprise. They turned to see her approach, fire burning in her eyes.

  “Stop that foolishness, and line up right here!” she ordered.

  “Make me,” said a freckle-faced, tow-headed boy.

  Leticia whacked him across the face, and the kid went flying across the room. She grabbed a girl by her hair and pushed her into line. Then she picked up the tow-headed boy and placed him beside her. The other children took their positions, glancing fearfully at the harridan who’d descended so unmercifully upon them.

  “My name is Mrs. Stone,” she said, “and I’m your new schoolmarm. From here on you’ll do as I say, otherwise I’ll punish you severely, but on the other hand, if you’re good children, and study hard, you’ll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Mrs. Blodgett, do you
have any cookies or cake in the house?”

  “I happen to have a cherry pie.”

  “The children told me they’re hungry. Do you think we might have some?”

  Mayor Blodgett stood in the doorway, watching the amazing transformation. The children sat quietly, eating cherry pie. The new schoolmarm turned toward him.

  “We’ll need a proper schoolhouse, with a yard for exercise.”

  “Nothing available,” the mayor replied. “That’s why we use my house.”

  “There must be space going to waste in all these buildings. I’m sure you can think of something, otherwise I’ll have to move to the next town, where the role of education might be better appreciated.”

  Mrs. Blodgett shot a glance at her husband. They’d been married forty years, and he read her meaning instantly. “Mrs. Stone, I’m certain a place can be found that would meet your specifications.”

  ~*~

  Woodlawn wasn’t near anyplace significant. A stage came once a month, bringing old newspapers and magazines. Cut off from mainstream America, Woodlawn serviced the Army post and ranches in the area. Forward-looking citizens hoped it’d become the next Denver.

  Every day was the same, and everybody knew everybody. The entire county didn’t hold three hundred souls, and the bar, while the man in the apron poured whiskey. Covered with dust, darkened by sun and wind, the troopers poured firewater down their throats. In the corner, the piano player pounded his keys.

  Stone observed the grizzled soldiers desperate for a few moments of pleasure in a life of unrelenting toil, hardship, and danger. Stone knew they were brothers under the skin. He’d lived the soldier’s life too, and the end of the war hadn’t changed anything. He spat into the nearby cuspidor, but missed.

  A pear-shaped blonde emerged from the smoke and sat opposite him. He gazed at her cleavage, a tiny blue heart tattooed on her right breast. “Heard you don’t have no money, Mr. Stone. You come with me, you can pay later. I love to fuck gunfighters.”

  He reached for his glass of whiskey. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah out here, everything’s twisted, corrupt, grotesque.

  “I take it,” she said, “you don’t want to go with me. Guess you’re used to a higher class of whore.”

  Stone removed the photograph of Marie from his shirt pocket. “Ever see this woman?”

  She held the picture to the light streaming through the window. “So that’s the kind you like, eh? Wa’al, it sure as hell ain’t me, but you cain’t blame a gal fer tryin’.”

  Noisy soldiers hollered at each other as if they were half-deaf, and probably most were, the result of too many artillery bombardments. Stone thought of the range war. Wherever I turn, there’s trouble. He wished he could return to the days before the Rebellion. I was an officer and a gentleman, and now I’m just another saloon rat.

  He wondered what went wrong, but couldn’t find serious mistakes. He felt like a victim of circumstance, born at the wrong place at the wrong time. The filth and stench of the world closed around him. I have no peace, I’ve found no justice, and folks’re meaner than ever.

  Whenever Stone became frustrated, he became angry. He wished there was somebody to blame, so he could beat the shit out of him. But nobody was to blame. It’s God and Satan playing chess, and we’re the pawns. The old wild combat feeling came over him, but he had no enemies. He wanted to rip the saloon apart and throw tables out the window. He smashed his glass with the back of his hand, and it flew across the room, splattering the uniform of a sergeant at the bar. The sergeant had a red mustache and looked like an old war dog. He narrowed one eye as he gazed at Stone. The bartender said in a low voice, “Wouldn’t mess with him, I was you. That there’s John Stone.”

  “Who the hell’s John Stone?”

  “They say he’s the fastest gun alive.”

  The soldiers stared at Stone, and he stared back, his mood turning rotten. They wore blue uniforms and looked like Yankees. The disappointment and confusion of his life boiled over. “Somethin’ wrong, boys?” he asked the soldiers.

  The sergeant with red mustaches had fought injuns all over the frontier. He wasn’t afraid, but didn’t look for trouble either. Squaring his shoulders, he swaggered toward Stone, stopped in front of the table, rested his fists upon it, peered into Stone’s eyes, and said, “Next time you want to get rid of some whiskey, just call Sergeant Nichols. I’ll take real good care of it fer you.” He winked.

  “I’d buy you a drink, Sarge, but don’t have much money left.”

  “Let me buy you one, Mr. Stone.”

  “I won’t argue with you.”

  The sergeant returned to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and brought it to Stone. “Happy trails.”

  They tossed whiskey down their throats, and their eyes bulged out of their heads. Nichols burped, and a bit of drool escaped his lips. “Guess you’re a-workin’ fer Mulgrave, eh, Mr. Stone?”

  “I’m not working for anybody.”

  Nichols made a skeptical face.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re just passin’ through? Come on, you can’t bullshit me. There’s a range war, and Mulgrave brung you in.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “And I’m the King of England.”

  A tall sultry whore drifted toward the table. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Sergeant Nichols made no movement to rise, and neither did Stone. She dropped to the chair, and Stone’s eyes roved over her figure. Now this one isn’t bad.

  “Meet Mattie,” Sergeant Nichols said. “She’s the best whore in the joint. And this feller here is—”

  “I know who he is,” Mattie said, brown eyes glowing in the dusk. “He’s John Stone. Welcome to the asshole of the world.”

  “If you don’t like it here,” Stone said, “why don’t you get out?”

  “You think any other town’ll be different?”

  Stone was getting drunk, and his tongue wagged freely. “I’m going to live with the Sioux in the Black Hills, soon as I get some money.”

  Sergeant Nichols grinned. “He’s a-funnin’ you, Mattie. John Stone’s got more sense than that.”

  “They’re a great people,” Stone continued, getting carried away, “with an interesting culture.”

  ‘They’ll cut yer head off, if’n they get the chance. I guess you don’t know much about injuns.”

  “If they cut my head off, I hope they have more luck with it than I did.”

  “Mr. Stone, it’s been good knowin’ you.” Sergeant Nichols tossed a half-ass military salute and returned to the bar.

  “Guess I said the wrong thing,” Stone reflected.

  “He spends his life dodgin’ arrows, and you tell him injuns’re great people? You’d better watch yer ass in Woodlawn. This ain’t a town that loves injuns.”

  “What’s the range war about?”

  “Money, what else? Wanna come upstairs?”

  She had a melancholy beauty that appealed to the perversity of his mind. It wasn’t love, but might soothe his troubled soul anyway. “Let’s go.”

  The other whores watched jealously as Mattie took John Stone’s arm and led him to the dark corridor at the rear of the saloon. Sergeant Nichols said, “Guess even John Stone needs to git laid onc’t in a while. Hope she gives ’m a canker.”

  The soldiers, surprised to hear their sergeant talk that way about the fastest gun alive, crowded around to hear his reasoning.

  “He’s an injun lover,” Nichols explained, spitting into the cuspidor, but hitting the boot of Private Slater, whose best friend had been killed by Utes yesterday. “Says they’re a great people.”

  The only people Private Slater hated worse than injuns were those who stuck up for them. “I ought to kick his ass,” the mourning trooper uttered.

  Nichols pressed his hand against Slater’s chest. “That’s John Stone. You hear what I’m a-sayin’? You don’t want to mess with a fast gun.”

  “I ain’t afraid of him.”

>   “You’d better stop drinkin’, Private. And that’s an order.”

  “Shove yer order up yer ass!” Slater peered into his glass and saw Private Kirk covered with blood, disfigured and mutilated. Slater’s pain and vengefulness focused on the man walking toward the corridor with Mattie the whore. I’ll fix his wagon a-fore this night’s over.

  ~*~

  Drapes covered the window of a small room with a worn rug on the uneven floor. Mattie lit the lamp on the dresser. A small iron stove pumped heat in the corner.

  “Two dollars,” she said.

  “Don’t have much money right now.” Stone hung his hat on the peg. “Pay when I start working.”

  “Don’t run a credit business.”

  “The other lady said I can pay later.”

  “She ain’t the top whore in this saloon.”

  Stone returned his hat to the back of his head. “See you when I get paid.”

  He stepped into the corridor and bumped into another customer. Lamplight fell on the man’s face, their eyes met, Stone continued toward the bar.

  “Captain?”

  The ex-cavalry officer spun around, hands dropping toward his guns. The man he’d just bumped stood before him, blond hair curling beneath his black cowboy hat.

  “You don’t recognize me, sir?”

  “What’s your name?”

  The young man drew himself to attention and threw a snappy salute. “Lieutenant Robert Spruance, sir. I was one of Jeb Stuart’s aides. We saw each other often at headquarters.”

  Stone’s mind flew back over the years to old Jeb’s command post tent, and the faceless young men, all from the best families of Virginia, who ran errands for the cavalier general. “I’ll be damned,” Stone expostulated. “Of course I remember you.” Stone returned the salute, then they shook hands. Stone hadn’t known Spruance well, but they’d both fought for the same lost cause.

  “Never thought I’d run into you in a whorehouse, sir. What brings you to these parts?”

  “I’m headed for the Black Hills.”

  “In the mining business?”

  “Meeting some friends there. What’re you doing in Wood-lawn?”