Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
Easy Pickings (27 page)
“Then?”
“He called one of them Texians, gent named Clay Allison, a son of a whore.”
“And?”
“He took umbrage. Can't say as I blame him. But Brown should know better. Allison isn't one to call any name but mister. Anyhow, I'm gonna sort of put Brown under your care. He's not going anywhere for a few days. Hope you don't need a coffin before then.”
“I can put the deceased on ice.”
I concluded it was just a quirk. Barcelona Brown would soon be back at his bench, cutting and joining precious hardwoods into fine coffins, or making chairs when the body business was slack.
It took a week. Then one day Barcelona was back in his shop, sporting some purple-and-yellow bruises and bandaged hands, but at least he was working again. I didn't bring up the issue, thinking that whatever had planted the bur under his saddle had long since vanished.
But I was wrong.
About the time the purple-and-yellow began to fade from his hands and face, Barcelona decided to do some gambling. Now the man had never gambled in his life, as far as I know. But gamble he did, one memorable evening, in the Lady Gay. Naïf that he was, he settled down at the green baize table that hid the south half of Ben Thompson, who was not only a ruthless gambler but also renowned for his ability to conclude arguments by perforation.
I was counting on Thompson to supply me with the major part of my trade that summer, but I guess Marshal Larry Deger or Assistant Marshal Ed Masterson or maybe even Earp warned him that he would be disinvited from Dodge if he got too fractious. And so far, he had behaved himself, much to my sorrow, as it was a slow summer and I had anticipated much more custom.
At any rate, Barcelona Brown bought into a five-card stud poker game, lost steadily, fidgeted in his chair, imbibed ardent spirits, eyed the comely serving wenches, and surrendered a considerable sum. According to witnesses, Brown suddenly sat upright in his chair and called Thompson a cheat.
I've heard it from a dozen sources. They all agreed that the Lady Gay turned so silent that they could hear Dora Hand singing sweetly in the Comique at the rear, and everyone agreed that half the habitues of that spa began termiting through the cracks, including four other sports at that table.
And all agree that Thompson pushed back the rim of his bowler, his gestures catlike and dangerous, and then laughed shortly, baring yellow teeth.
“Beat it, farmer,” he said softly. Farmer was the worst epithet in the sporting vocabulary.
“I called you a cheat.” Brown sat there, rigid.
“Vamoose.”
About then Ed Masterson got wind of it, clapped his dainty paw on Barcelona, lifted him bodily from his chair, and propelled him through the batwing doors.
It was a wonder. Never before had dapper Ben Thompson shown forbearance under such circumstances. The town talked of nothing else for three days.
But I had begun to fathom what lay behind this sudden shift in Barcelona's conduct. Could it be? Yes, it had to be. I resolved to talk the young man out of such ghastly nonsense, and if need be, provide such company as a man adrift needs to anchor himself back in the world.
I braced him most sincerely the very next day, my black stovepipe hat in hand. He was serenely planing a walnut plank as I addressed him.
“Barcelona, my friend, how could you? Your motive is perfectly transparent. But you ignore certain realities. It is not sleep that transpires in a coffin, but eternal nothingness. You may indeed fashion a perfect bed for someone suffering lumbago, but it avails naught the person whose soul has fled.
“You may indeed wish to be buried in the finest casket ever fashioned, but do it in good time, after a life well spent. Not now. The world needs the finest cabinetmaker and coffin builder alive, and if you go, your gifts go with you.
“Plainly you are suffering the melancholia, and I intend to shepherd you until this season has passed. It is a sacrifice, of course, because I would otherwise have your custom, or that of your estate, but I am setting all that aside for the sake of friendship. Let me hear no more of these trips to the edge of the River Styx.”
He smiled and nodded, and I supposed that my little lecture had its intended effect. At least I heard no more of reckless conduct on the part of my coffinmaker. He settled back into his routine, shaping and shaving wood, and yielding up masterworks of furniture, cabinets, and coffins.
All this while, that magnificent coffin lay atop two sawhorses in his shop, waiting to swallow bones. He never talked about it, and as far as I could tell, never thought to do anything more about it. I presumed that whatever had seized him had passed, and eventually it would sell just as the rest of his coffins had sold, but for a premium. Indeed, when I was making certain arrangements with Rose Dwyer, who lay in fatal decline on her four-poster surrounded by her nymphs of the prairie, I confided to her that I knew of a coffin that would surpass any other on earth, and that for a considerable sum I thought its maker might part with it.
She took the matter under advisement, but died before coming to any decision, and I buried her in a mahogany box with gold-plated handles, having supplied a bugle corps and honor guard from Fort Dodge. She said she had been in the service of her country and wanted a military burial. I knew she had at least been in the service of Fort Dodge, but didn't wish to dispute the issue. That was a particularly profitable occasion.
I did not neglect my commitment to Brown, and took him out on occasion. We went to see Fanny Garretson at the Comique, and Barcelona allowed as how her flesh resembled good birch. And we saw Eddy Foy at Ham Bell's Varieties, and Barcelona opined that the comic's flaying arms reminded him of a drop-leaf table.
“I think you should cultivate a woman,” I said one night.
“That would be nice,” he replied.
“You might find a proper one at the Union Church.”
“I've noticed one there, shiny as an oak pew,” he said.
I took that for progress.
Then one day, when the cattle shipping season was fading, Barcelona delivered a small box while I was rouging the lips of departed child. He stared at the small still body and sighed.
“I've been thinking, it's time to bring that coffin over to put in your window for a public viewing,” he said.
“Well, fine. I'll get my equipage harnessed up, and maybe we can empty out the Alamo Saloon to help lift it.”
“You won't need the hearse. I've calculated the weight very carefully. Just bring ten men and we'll carry it. Meet me at six.”
I took him at his word, and at a quarter to the hour, I entered the Alamo and announced that there would be free lagers for ten gents who would help carry an empty coffin from Brown's shop to my establishment.
That won a cadre, and in due course we converged on the shop, lifted the coffin under the watchful eye of Barcelona, and carried it through the streets of Dodge to its next resting place, behind the plate glass window of my establishment, which I had prepared by draping two sawhorses in black velvet.
“That's some coffin. Heavy as sin. Who's it for?” one of the Alamo's barflies asked.
“It's not for sale,” Barcelona replied loftily. “It is the culmination of my art.”
“Me, all I need is a winding sheet, a wake, and a bottle in me hand,” the gent said.
The remark was distasteful. I paid off the pallbearers with a silver dollar, which could be tendered for ten draft beers, thanked them, and determined to deduct the dollar from Barcelona's next invoice.
We watched the gents troop back to the Alamo. It was late and I wished to close up for the night.
“That coffin will attract attention tomorrow,” I said. “It is a phenomenon.”
“I brought a sign,” Barcelona said.
He handed me a hand-printed placard that explained the coffin to passers-by. I read it swiftly in the dying light, just to make sure its dignity was in keeping with my standards. It was. It simply announced that this coffin, made of three varieties of ebony, was the masterwork of Barcelona Brown. It had a quilted navy blue silk interior, lead lining, and was absolutely water and airtight when the lid was screwed down. And it was not for sale.
“You really should put a price on it, Barcelona,” I said. “Even a fancy price. Maybe three thousand. Who knows?”
He shook his head. “Not for sale, not ever.”
“Well, what will we do with it?”
“Just display it. And keep it closed.”
I agreed, and he walked off into the darkness of my meeting hall. I heard the front door click. He probably wanted his supper. I turned down the wick until the lamp blued out, returned the lamp to my workbench, and abandoned the establishment, locking the door with my skeleton key.
The next day was routine. Several people did stop by and admire the coffin, and all of them wanted to know the price.
“Ask Brown,” I said. “I'd put a two-thousand-dollar tag on it myself.”
“Two thousand? That's a fortune!”
“There'll never be another like it,” I replied.
Two days later I walked over to Brown's shop, intending to order a coffin for a drover who had been decapitated falling off a wagon and under a wheel.
The place was dark and cold. “Barcelona, where are you?” I yelled, but I was just talking to myself.
I tried three more times, but the man was elsewhere. I knew he wouldn't go far, not with his prized coffin two blocks away.
I tried again the next day, and found him not at his bench. Uneasily I tried his room above the Odd Fellows Hall and found no one present. I finally realized that the constables ought to be told, so I alerted the city marshal, Larry Deger, and mentioned it to Ed Masterson, too. They looked the town over, even peering into the vault of the outhouse behind his shop, and could not find Brown.
Then, over oysters that night, it came to me. I summoned the marshals and we headed for my establishment, where I lit a kerosene lamp and carried it to the front window.
“I think he's in there,” I said.
Deger looked at Masterson, and both looked at me. None of us wanted to open that lid. But finally I did, slowly. A fetid odor smacked me at once.
Barcelona was in there, all right, still intact but a bit ripe.
Masterson sighed. “It figures,” he muttered.
“I'll have the coroner look him over,” Deger said. “After that, he's yours.”
“I'll bill the estate,” I said.
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from Tom Doherty Associates
Aftershocks
The Buffalo Commons
Cashbox
The Exile
The Fields of Eden
Fool's Coach
Goldfield
Masterson
Montana Hitch
An Obituary for Major Reno
Second Lives
Sierra
Sun Mountain: A Comstock Memoir
Where the River Runs
SKYE'S WEST
Bitterroot
Sundance
SAM FLINT
Flint's Gift
Flint's Truth
Flint's Honor
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RICHARD S. WHEELER
is the author of more than fifty novels of the American West. He holds six Spur Awards and the Owen Wister Award for lifetime contributions to the literature of the West. He makes his home in Livingston, Montana, near Yellowstone National Park. You can sign up for email updates
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