Northfield (5 page)

“Hold your tongue, Stiles,” Preacher Wood said, and nobody was laughing any more.

“Well, I think it’s his daddy,” I said, breaking the silence. “But, like I said, I know farming, not banking.”

Preacher Wood’s grin returned. “I don’t know, Joe,” he told me, tossing me a new plug of Navy tobaccy “Were we to stay much longer, paying our way as the Lord sees fit, you might have to start your own savings and loan.”

“Wouldn’t that be something!” I slapped my knee.

“Then we might bring our business to yours,” Gus—Howard he was—said, and the laughing fit erupted one more time.

Nice fellows, like I said. Plumb sorry I was when they announced the next morning that they had to be on their way, had to make their way north to see if that timberland was as glorious as they had been led to believe. They left behind a stack of silver coin and a couple of pouches of tobaccy which I wouldn’t find till they had ridden off.

Even Matilda was sad to see them saddling their horses and hitching the team to the spring wagon, complaining that, had she known they was gonna leave, she would have made up some victuals for them to eat along the trail.

“‘He that soweth the good seed is the Son of Man,’ Christ said,” Preacher Wood told us as he mounted his dun horse. “You have a fine farm, Mister Brown, ma’am, and we have been blessed by your generosity. You loveth the stranger, you gave him food and raiment. And we feel we are strangers no more. May the Lord bless you.”

They rode north. Never saw a one of them again.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE
M
OLLIE
E
LLSWORTH

If you whore long enough, nothing surprises you, and I have worked the tenderloin a long, long time.

Jesse, he surprised me. Christ, he scared the shit out of me. He always did.

With evening’s approach, I had retired to my upstairs room to get dressed, and, while pulling up black stockings, a loose floorboard squeaked. Looking up, I made out the form in the shadows, the form of a man, spying on me, in my room, in my bagnio.

“Listen, mister,” I said, tying my kimono over what my mother would modestly have called “unmentionables”—but my modest days remained a far distant memory, much like Mother. “I entertain gentlemen, and gentleman do not spy on a woman in her bedroom. So get the hell out of here before I whistle for Fish and have him stove in your skull. Or fork over fifty cents for the peek show.”

The shadowy figure barely moved, as if enjoying this, but I am not one to make empty threats, and not until I stuck finger and thumb to whistle for my bouncer, did the man speak. The accent was soft, Missouri, and his words chilled me.

“Didn’t you run a house in Saint Louis, where you were called Kitty Traverse?”

That took my breath away, and, as he stepped into the light, grinning, I uncontrollably stepped back against my dresser.

“Jesse!”

Jesse Woodson James was handsome—no woman could ever deny that—and I have never seen blue eyes so mesmerizing. Tall, usually smiling, quick with a joke and laugh, I might have looked forward to pleasing a man like him, per chance having him please me, but I had known Jesse for thirteen years. Silently, like a cat, he approached me, smiling his sweet smile, shaking his head at the irony of meeting me up here, after, by my tally, five years.

At first he had been just some green kid riding with men, a bushwhacker perhaps, but still nothing more than a boy—shy, silly, devoutly religious, but equally insecure. After the war, or maybe during it, he had changed, and, when I looked into those penetrating eyes, I no longer saw beauty, only death.

“Guess I should call you Mollie, and you should call me W.G. Huddleson.”

“All right, W.G.” Now, this is my house, and I had worked hard to secure a reputation and a foothold, and no bushwhacker, not even Jesse James, would ever see fear in Mollie Ellsworth’s eyes. Let a man see that, he shall trample you, sure as spit. So I turned, found the decanter and glasses, poured him a brandy, and myself a larger one, over shaking hands.

“You frightened of me, Mollie?”

His breath warmed my neck, and his long, smooth fingers topped my trembling hand, and he helped me set the decanter on the dresser, guiding me around to face him, rubbing my hand, tracing my fingers until our hands—his hands were so small and pasty with long, probing fingers— interlocked and he pulled me close to him.

“Why would I be afraid of you, Mister Huddleson?” I said at last. “Hattie Floyd wasn’t.”

He let go, taking his brandy, and laughed. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” He drank, trying hard to suppress that boyish cough because Jesse had never been much of a drinker.

Years ago, perhaps shortly after the war, Hattie had worked for me in St. Louis, and Jesse had been sweet on her. At least, Hattie was sweet on him. Oh, sure, Jesse was a devout Baptist, son of a preacher, practically betrothed to his cousin and his cause, and his mother would have whipped the bitter hell out of him had she known he consorted with lewd women. But, hell, he was a man, a man often away from his home and lover. No different than any other gent I have known. Hattie did not have much experience, as a demimonde or anything else for that matter. Her man had been killed in the war, leaving her with two kids to feed, and, since her man had been a bushwhacker with Quantrill, and St. Louis was far more Union than Rebel, well, she did what she had to do. But she loved Jesse James, and, at the time, I thought maybe this young, good-looking Missouri boy and she would escape the bowels together, but I did not really know Jesse well, not then.

He came in one night, gave her this shawl, and not just something his mother had made. This was fancy, as fancy as they come, and, when she wore it on the street a couple days later, proud, pretending, dreaming, to be some refined lady, the constable arrested her. It had been stolen, worth a veritable fortune, and they demanded she tell who had given it to her. Poor love-struck Hattie would never consider selling Jesse up the river, and they put her in prison. For five years! For wearing a stolen shawl.

“Whatever happened to Hattie” I asked.

He turned the empty glass over with a flourish. “She died years ago, Mollie. You open for business?”

Without waiting for my answer, he removed his coat and unbuckled a belt that holstered three large revolvers. That I had not expected. This was Minneapolis, not Missouri.

“Jesse,” I said. “You are not on some case here, are you?”

“I’m about to be on your case, Mollie.”

I gulped down my brandy and hurriedly closed the door, found my courage, and came back to him, putting my hand firmly on the butt of his Schofield. Eyes blazing, he pressed his hand on top of mine, pressed hard until I thought my fingers would break against the walnut butt, but I refused to cry out.

“I run a good place. And if you think you can pull something like you did in Saint Louis….”

He let go. “If you ever touch my revolver again, Mollie….”

We let our threats go unsaid, and he unbuttoned his pants while I remembered another one of his cases, five years back in St. Louis.

One of my girls and I had been drinking with a big banker before leading him upstairs. I think that man had more interest in forty-rod than fornication, and he had loved showing off his money more than his manhood. He kept flashing his big stocking around. Try and figure that one out. This banker, chief teller at one of the largest institutions in St. Louis, carried his money around in a silk stocking. Likely skimmed it off the books, I figured. Contemptuous bastard, but we doves can never be choosy.

Jesse had been there, and I recognized that look in Jesse’s eyes. He had left the bar, put his arm around me, and whispered: “Stand aside, while I drop into that.”

Next thing I knew, he and the banker were fighting, and Jesse had clubbed the buffoon, grabbed the stocking, and made a beeline for the door. I had started to stop him, but again those blue eyes unnerved me, so I had let Jesse flee into the darkness.

That’s really why I left St. Louis. When that teller, thief though I am certain, complained that Kitty Traverse’s house was not safe for rich gentlemen, those fool men listened to him. When word, even a lie, like that gets out, you might as well be running a hog ranch than a parlor house. So I sold out, moved north. Whoring is a gamble. I am certain of that, as sure as I am that had I remained in Jesse’s way, tried to stop his case, block his retreat, and protect my own investment, he would have killed me.

He lay quiet when he had finished, rolled over, and curled up in a ball. A few minutes later, I heard him whispering a prayer, and I knew I had better leave, figured he was thinking about that new wife of his, how he had betrayed her, how he had failed sweet Jesus. Quickly I dressed and went downstairs, glad to be free of Jesse James for a while.

His brother sat on a corner sofa, debating Shakespeare with a Minneapolis butcher and an Eagan apothecary. Always the gentleman, Frank rose when he saw me, swept off his hat, and bowed.

“The man at the Nicollet House said the women at Madam Mollie’s have no equal. I am John Wood, of Virginia, have seen much of the world, yet the man at the Nicollet House did not prepare me for your beauty.” He kissed my hand, while the butcher and apothecary applauded his bravado.

“Nicollet House,” I said. “The best in the city.”

“We would have it no other way.”

“May I buy you a glass of champagne, Mister Wood? At the bar?”

“To be seen in your company is an offer I cannot refuse.” He excused himself and escorted me to the farthest, quietest corner of the parlor, where Fish brought our flutes of champagne.

“How long have you been in town?” I asked when Fish had left.

“But a short while. Trying to buy good horses.”

“Saint Paul’s safer than Minneapolis,” I told him.

“Are you desiring we take our leave, Mollie?” He smirked, something his kid brother never could do. “We paid a hack to transport us from the Nicollet in style, and young Bob Younger’s upstairs now partaking of some horizontal refreshments with that plump redhead.”

Bob Younger. God, this might be worse than I ever figured. If Bob had tagged along with the James brothers, that meant Cole had to be with them, and who knew how many others.

“All I am saying is Saint Paul is safe for men of…of your…particular breed, Mister Wood.”

I could easily picture Frank, Jesse, and Cole in St. Paul. That was Jack Chinn’s town. Chinn had ridden with Quantrill and Morgan during the war, now ran a gambling den, pretty much controlled all of St. Paul’s gambling parlors, and St. Paul did not have much law, as long as you never raised much hell. On the other hand, my bordello was about as ill-reputed as Minneapolis allowed. The city had a new Farmers’ Market, which had opened up only that year. We had the Nicollet House just a few blocks from my place, we had the Pence Opera House, and an exploding population. All I could think of was Lawrence, and Centralia, Liberty, Gallatin, and Lexington—all those towns stained with blood. I dreaded the sight of Minneapolis turned into some battleground.

“Yes, well, Bob has lauded Saint Paul since his arrival. Stiles took him to a baseball game at Red Cap Park, and he seems fascinated with that damyankee game. I fear Stiles may have corrupted the poor lad.”

Stiles. Bill Stiles. I knew, detested that name, recalling Bill Stiles, a petty criminal and horse thief who had frequented my parlor years ago. That would explain why they came north to explore Minneapolis and St. Paul.

“I would rather be corrupted by baseball than.…” I shook my head. “The Red Caps have a good team.” I winked and finished my champagne. “And some of my best customers.” I let him drain his flute before turning serious. “I told, uh, Mister Huddleson, that I hope he has no designs on dropping in on any cases here.”

Frank slid the empty flute down the bar, shaking his head. “Miss Ellsworth, we are simply taking in the sights, enjoying ourselves. Poker. Horse trading. Not exactly the kinds of cases you seem to be laying on our doorstep. Lord knows, we haven’t had much time to enjoy ourselves of late, and we have been rather quiet, don’t you think?”

I doubted that. You hear a lot in my line of work, and I had heard much over the past few days, rumors and bits of stories that did not concern me until seeing Jesse, and now Frank.

A First National Bank gentleman I entertained had mentioned how he happened upon two men sleeping at Sibley and Fifth, well-dressed men, not saddle tramps, but wearing so much iron it frightened him. Another story, out of one of Chinn’s gambling dens, went that two men, before sitting down to play five-card stud, had removed their coats and gun belts, placing revolvers on the table while one of them announced—“Just want to make sure you sharpers don’t play us for fools.”—and I could hear Cole Younger’s voice. Some stranger had bought a black horse off a farmer right in front of a mercantile for $110, then raced his new purchase up and down Wabasha Street. I heard of flashy men in dusters tipping far too much at the Nicollet House and Merchant’s Hotel. I heard of men dropping fifty-cent and dollar coins from their balcony at the Nicollet on passers-by, simply to amuse themselves.

Quiet? Not Jesse and Frank. Not hardly.

“Did I tell you I have married?” Frank suddenly blurted out.

“No.” Of course, many of my customers had wed, but Frank seemed overly proud of his accomplishment, and I have to give him credit, for he remained downstairs, enjoying showing off with his wit, not his wick.

“Yes, a lovely lass from Jackson County…used to teach school…though her father despises me. We eloped.”

“My best wishes for happiness to the both of you. Sometimes marriage tames the wildest, though it never turned out that way for me.”

“Nor for my brother,” Frank said, and I detected a trace of sadness in his voice, though he tried to hide it with his grin.

And here is something you might find peculiar, especially if you read below of what happened later that evening, but, as I headed back upstairs, I realized Frank unnerved me more than Jesse. Jesse I could never predict. He would be laughing one minute, then exploding, but Frank, he always seemed so calm, and that scared me. Jesse could not hide his emotions for long, but Frank, he bottled everything up, and I feared I would be in his path when the cauldron finally boiled over.

As soon as I closed the door, Jesse’s small hands felt like iron as he struck me in the back, and the air rushed from my lungs as I fell.

“Whore!” he shouted. “Whore of Babylon!”

He picked me up and threw me on the bed, straddling me, slapping me left and right. I tasted blood.

“You tell anyone we’re here, whore, and you’ll be deader than Hattie Floyd, you miserable whoring bitch.”

“I would never….”

He hit me again. Blood rushed from both nostrils.

Someone pounded on the door, and I heard Fish’s concerned voice. “Mollie! Mollie! You all right?”

I also heard the click of one of Jesse’s revolvers.

“I am fine, Fish!” I called back.

“Open the door!” he yelled, unconvinced.

“He is a paying gentleman, Fish. Go away. Everything is all right.”

Then I started laughing. Hard to explain. Maybe I went a tad crazy, but, with a man-killer beating hell out of you on your own bed, I imagine most women would lose control of their faculties. Jesse stared at me, bewildered, but I just laughed till my ribs hurt, looking at the little sampler on the wall, the one I had packed with me from brothel to brothel from Missouri to Minnesota: