Storm's Thunder (10 page)

“Aye, Seamus, you don't have to get downright nasty about it,” Kep Wilder turning upon his stool to offer Seamus his affronted backside.

“You see what I'm dealing with, here?” Seamus says, pocketing the coins.

The piano slides back into a final chorus as the dancing girl spins to the front of the riser, one of her hair barrettes having given up entirely. She exhales deep to shoot the offending strand of hair from her sweated brow, and with a coquettish sneer, flashes a biscuit of bare ankle flesh to the indifferent crowd before vanishing behind the curtain as the music pounds to a stop. A ripple of applause seems to convey more gratitude that she is finished than genuine appreciation at being entertained. Had this been the amusement-starved Bend, every unwashed poke in attendance would've clawed that curtain to shreds and caved in the skull of his own brother to get to that woman. But here in the city, an uninspiring female is bottom-of-the-bill. The piano player tips his straw hat and tells the tables closest to him that he'll return after a short break. That wouldn't play in the Bend either. Merle once tried a fiddler player down at the Jewel. When the fella attempted to go out for a smoke, a couple of toe-tapping gamblers—itchy triggers, both of them—got him to rethink his position. The fiddling start up again straight away. Finally after about eight hours, Merle had to escort the man out back under shotgun protection before his bladder exploded.

I pour another whiskey and feel the closeness of bodies tightening around me. In the absence of music, a handful of patrons who had been seated near the stage find cause to descend on the bar. Seamus fields the onslaught with unruffled grace, collecting two or three orders at a time and then completing them all at once. He places a glass beneath the tap and pulls the handle, letting the glass fill unattended as he works down the row, making change for one customer and topping off another before returning to the rising beer just as the foamy head draws even with the rim—all without spilling a drop. The artistry of the town burns bright, even within her over-lighted halls of debauchery.

A hand comes down on my shoulder and the thirty-two is out of my waistband and halfway into my palm before I turn, meeting the eyes of an older white man. His clever gaze rings familiar, but I am unable to place it at first. Sensing his overstep, he follows straight away with a mellifluous declaration that recalls our meeting this very day upon my exit from the madam's. “It would appear, since our previous interaction, you and I both have scrubbed up into what might pass as gentlemen.” I return the pistol to its hiding place and reply to the overture with as few words as possible.

“Evening.”

“And a fine good evening to you, sir,” the man enveloping the stool next to mine, his sturdy frame bedecked neck-to-ankle in a tailored suit of brilliant white. “You will forgive my impertinence in addressing you so forward, but as you may have gathered, I am not native species to frontier country. Hence I find myself underserved on both custom and camaraderie.”

“Well, for starters, most fellas 'round here don't much care for being touched, least of all by strangers.”

“Yes, point taken, sir. By and large the men of this territory have exuded about as much warmth as a stone at the bottom of a river. But allow me to remove the word ‘stranger' from your appraisal. Shelby J. Ballentine, Esquire, at your service.”

“Name's Harlan. Good to meet you, Mister Squire.” I take the hand offered to me beneath his blank stare. Then he shakes his head, and I know I have said something foolish.

“No, es-quire, I'm an attorney. We needn't fuss with titles. My friends back home call me Spooner.”

“Spooner?”

“That's the South for you, Mister Harlan. A name gets to sticking and folks don't much dwell on the origin.”

“All right, then. Spooner it is.”

“Except in matters of jurisprudence, mind you. Then propriety requires ‘Mister Ballentine' to make himself known. But I can't say I see any judges in this establishment.”

“No, different kind of law out here.”

“My observation as well, Mister Harlan. Such creative application of the law would not hold in the Commonwealth of Virginia. But I must say, for every perilous lapse in legality I have encountered on the frontier there are a dozen more I will admit to enjoying. Although it took half an hour to scrub a red ring of Chinese lip rouge off my John Thomas.” And right then I know the madam had laid the painted-up laundress on him and he had not complained.

I flash a deuce with two fingers toward the Irishman. A second little glass appears in an instant. “It's the good stuff. Keep it quiet,” I say, pouring a proper slug for the Southern gentleman. Any man who would confide what he just shared can drink from my bottle anytime.

“A well-met accommodation.” I watch him slide the liquor down his throat, the quality of it registering in his eyes as he swallows. “Sweet mother Mary. My heartiest gratitude, dear friend.”

Somehow his overstating our acquaintance does not bother me. In truth, I have found friends in short supply these last few months, and how better to begin anew than with one who only knows what he sees in front of him. I pour us two more. “To Santa Fe,” he says, touching glass. “May we escape in one piece.”

“Sound about right.” The soft warmth of the whiskey settles my brain as the piano begins up again, less urgent than before, as if to offer a setting of conversational mood in the calm before the next wiggling songbird returns attention to the stage. The throng of patrons, now laden with fresh drinks, filters back to previous tables and benches along the far wall.

“Ah, Owens!” Spooner says, flagging a new arrival at the door. The stranger removes his bowler, and I recognize Owens as the very gentleman I witnessed dining with his family at the hotel restaurant. He finds Spooner's eye and proceeds toward us. “You'll like Owens,” the lawyer tells me. “A mining man, but dry-witted like a shot of vermouth, and his wife is a vision.”

“I've seen her.”

“Owens, this here is Harlan,” Spooner says as the arriving man extends his hand. “Come join our contingent of the washed.”

“An elite group in this locality,” Owens's tense upper lip barely moving. “I saw you at the El Dorado,” his eyes landing on me. “That Rawlings got a heavy pen for arithmetic, don't he?”

“Tends to lighten when he knows you're looking,” I say.

“You can bet your ass I'm looking.”

“There's no getting one past Owens,” Spooner says. “Man does figures for a living. Then he packs it with TNT and blows it all to hell. He's an engineer, you see, with particular emphasis on explosives.”

“I put that together,” I say.

“Well, ain't the Southerner the dull knife in this drawer,” Spooner says.

“You lawyering types ought to be used to that,” Owens says. A snort busts out of me and I make no effort to conceal it. Spooner laughs so hard he nearly pops a button.

“That earns a drink,” raising my finger for the Irishman to bring a glass. I start pouring for Spooner and me and the third glass appears without breaking the stream.

“Obliged,” Owens clicking his into mine before killing it in a single go.

“Savor it, Owens,” admonishes the lawyer. “You're drinking like you left a kettle boiling.”

“What I left, squire, is a wife and two smalls in a backwater hotel suite.” Owens taps a metal key onto the bar. “Provided the city does not burn to the ground in the next ten minutes, they should be right where I left them. And anyone tries getting in that door besides me's gonna get a belly full of lead courtesy of Clara May.” Here is a man who, even with beautiful children and pretty wife waiting in her bedclothes, needed a breath, and a drink, in the company of other men. Unburdened by children myself, I can understand his motive entirely. But he is no fool about it. A locked door in the best hotel in town offers protection for only so long on the frontier. He taps out every last drop of nectar and upturns the empty onto the bar.

“Well, friend, that's a finer whiskey than I'll find aboard that bag of bolts, I'm sure. But you'll have to forgive me for not sticking around to return the hospitality.”

“A man don't need to explain his business,” I say. “Good to know you.”

“At least let me buy you a beer chaser, as that bottle is nearly killed and I helped kill it.”

“You save your money. I'm plenty drunk as is.”

“Well, when our paths cross again, then. Although I believe three days in Santa Fe has been one too many for me, and three too many for my wife.”

“Owens and his family migrate westward, on to the golden hills and fortunes of California, as do I,” Spooner twirling his glass in reflection. “Astonishing how quickly two nomads learn one another's story when watering from the same brook.”

“Company needs me out California, what see if there's any gold left in those hills at all. And if there ain't, I'll turn them inside out and shake out any other colors they got,” Owens pushing back from the bar now. “All right, then. Ballentine, I'll see you in the palace car. G'night, gentlemen.” Owens doffs his hat and heads out, unaware our paths will cross in the palace car as well, where I hope to take him up on that drink. I think of telling the lawyer that I'm on the train too, but even with the liquor, I check myself, remembering my resolve to keep my private details just that.

I notice the Irishman fix his gaze out toward the street, where a patch of Appaloosa hindquarter has come to be parked just outside the door. Seamus nods thoughtful to himself and starts two mugs of beer beneath the tap. The doors swing open and in walks the army captain and his regular, the same pair who stood witness to my fracas in the street this morning. The Irishman sets the two mugs on the counter and waits to receive the soldiers, clearing a spot for their easy approach. The officer takes a step toward the bar, but then stops and surveys the room, his eyes scanning, first at the far corner and then working slowly, face by face, until he has clocked all in attendance. His gaze falls upon me, blank, and then moves on, only to snap straight back with doubled intensity. I do not turn away, but hold his gaze and offer a slight dip of the hat brim—careful to temper the act not as a challenge, but a simple act of respect for the stars and bars represented by his station. A thin wrinkle of bemusement crosses his eye and then vanishes quick as it came, along with his attention. Whomever the object of his search, I am grateful to not be it. All I know in this moment is that the captain's earlier suggestion that I leave town had not been open to interpretation, the least of which would entail—not only defying his order—but dressing up in the White Man's clothes, taking a room at his best hotel and ingesting his finest liquor in the presence of underdressed White Women. I have no indication from the officer's inscrutable stare if he simply does not believe me to be the same person, or if more pressing matters supersede, such that he cannot be bothered to care one way or the other. A third scenario, flashing through my mind like a thunder crack, figures that he knows damn well who I am, and having given me a fair warning to vacate, washes his hands of the foolhardy Indian who thought this all a game.

“Those boys appear to be on the hunt.” An uneasiness in the lawyer's voice sends it low. “You're not a deserter, are you?”

“Can't say I've had much use for the U.S. Army.”

“I can assure you, I've had far less use for it.” Looking over at Spooner, sweat now beads on his neck where there was only redness. He breathing grows shallow.

“You all right?”

“Let's just say there's a particular shade of blue I shall never find welcoming.” Spooner leaves it at that. I reckon even twenty-odd years on from the War's end, his distaste at the sight of uniformed Yankee aggression burns as hot as it does for the Diné, the Inde and all the displaced peoples of the plains. The officer utters something short to Seamus, who brings his mouth up to the captain's ear and offers some length of explanation. Through all of it, the officer's eyes never stop their investigation of the room.

“Right in front of you!” a voice calling out from some darkened corner, barely distinguishable over the general din of piano and revelry. I question if the liquor is playing tricks on me. The captain appears not to have heard it at all, what with Seamus yarning his ear. Behind him, the grim-faced army regular grips his rifle, keeping an eye on the patrons, but never allowing his commander to stray from his periphery. Then the piano kick up, the player's clear voice demanding attention as he introduces the next girl. I turn toward the back corner just as the sodium light flares bright again and I am unable to discern any faces beyond the stage.

“That's the one you want, Cap'n!” This time I have no doubt I hear it, the voice more brazen in its drunkenness. The Irishman finishes his piece, his hands open in apology and the captain nods, accepting whatever accommodation has been offered.

The graybeard, Kep Wilder, seated, by pure coincidence, in nearest proximity to the conference, blurts out his own unsolicited appraisal. “No Dazers in here, Captain. Beer's too pricey.”

“And if the gentleman needs your opinion he'll seek it out, you wet-brained bastard,” Seamus spanking him down quick. The officer glances in the general direction of Kep and grimaces like a fly just landed in his coffee. He picks up one of the beers, takes a short sip and then replaces the glass on the bar. The second drink sits untouched. Then he tosses down a gold piece to pay for both and heads out the exit, the regular not budging until his officer has cleared the door.

“You missed one, Cap'n!” the voice drunker now, but unmistakable in its clarity—a high, screechy tenor drenched in churlish entitlement. I pivot in my seat and make out through the glare a silhouette of a man's face—dark, greasy hair framing a scraggly attempt at whiskers. Offsetting the shadowed figure, behind the right ear, sits a white square—a bandage—and I make him as the one called Lem, his neck no doubt smarting and in need of the dulling effects of liquor, thanks to Storm's well-placed bite. Lem sits with his chair tilted back, his shoulders resting against the wall. Two men flank him on either side. One strikes a resemblance to my assailant, Kirby, but that would be impossible. I saw that leg break sure as the sun will rise. And the red-bearded Kirby at this moment lies in a bed somewhere cursing my name and immobile, without the aide of cast or crutch. Yet this man's fiery coloring and broad shoulders ring even more recent in my memory. Then the new girl on stage, prettier than the last, but of poorer voice—a trend I am sure will continue as the evening progresses—removes a silk glove and steps out into the audience, to the approving whistles of men. The sodium light follows her, killing my view of the heckler and them seated with him.