Chapter 12: Poke

Cayuse carried a Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver, .44 caliber. When he made his rounds in Little River, he usually left his Winchester rifle locked in the office. But he always carried that wicked-looking Bowie in his belt scabbard. Always.

Just like I took my eight-gauge with me when I walked the town. More habit than necessity.

The first time the Bighorn bartender, Cheney, saw it, he asked if I hunted locomotives. My first day in town. Well, we didn’t have any locomotives here, but my scattergun had served me pretty well as a deterrent. Never seen anyone yet who wanted to face off against it.

Sheriff Dave Jennings, Kansas City, sent me back a one-word telegram, “Who?”

Who were the bad guys working for Venerable?

I handed Sam my reply, “Pat Fitzhugh. Hugh Fitzroy. Dishonorable Discharge. Fort Laramie.”

The brief wording reminded me in a way of Cayuse Valdez. Like he was paying by the word to talk.

Rosie, once she had told me about her nightmare experiences — first with the Chippewas and then with the three brothers who bought her — started talking. First to her mother, then Cayuse.

She spoke softly, didn’t say a lot, but she was talking.

Rosie and Cayuse sometimes walked up and down Market Street, two quiet people. She held his arm. They’d go east and west off the main drag, looking in store windows, sometimes going inside.

Even though Cayuse was a breed, most of Little River seemed pretty accepting. He and I never said a word about the kidnappers, but everyone was aware that he had tracked down Rosie. And though it wasn’t known for sure, many people thought Cayuse was responsible for the disappearance of the three Chippewas. So far, no one had made the connection to the missing Riggers brothers.

No one but Rebecca, Cayuse, and me knew the details of what Rosie had been through. There was the usual barroom speculation, but that talk pretty much trailed off after a few weeks.

As Rosie began ... healing, I guess that’s the word, she became more active. Like her mother, she worked lunch and dinner in Mrs. Chambers’ restaurant. And she began helping Rebecca manage the sporting ladies. These days, a customer was just as likely to find Rosie sitting at the dining room table by the passageway to the saloon.

She’d listen politely to what the man wanted to do. And if he had a preference for a particular girl, Rosie would try to accommodate him. Like her mother, she was careful in collecting the money. Paying Mrs. Chambers every morning and then the whores as soon as they woke up.

Also like her mother, Rosie had to turn down several offers to accompany this customer or that one upstairs.

At night, in bed, Rebecca and Rosie still preferred having me in the middle. Three naked people can generate some considerable body heat under that comforter. Which was good with colder weather coming on.

Rebecca and Rosie would lie down facing me, heads nestled in my arms. One, sometimes both of their hands drifted down to hold me.

Rosie was drowsy, just drifting off, “Mama was right, them men don’t got much imagination.”

Rebecca said, “Just want to put their dingus in.”

Rosie, “Squirt their squirt.”

Rebecca, “Wet their carrot.”

Rosie yawned, “Root, root, root.”

Rebecca, drifting off, murmured, “Poke, poke, poke.”

Another telegram from Kansas City.

“Venerable may be wanted for murder in Cleveland. Waiting confirmation. Sheriff Dave Jennings.”

One night, Rosie and I got off work about the same time, near two in the morning. The Bighorn had been the last saloon to close which meant the last of the whore customers had gone home.

Rebecca was asleep on her side of the bed, which used to be my side. Rosie and I undressed and she rinsed us both off. She whispered, just to not wake her mother up, “Being a whore used to seem more glamorous to me, but it ain’t. Not really.”

Well, the sight of her, and the feel of those little hands ... nature.

She giggled, and patted the bed, “Just sit yourself down, Mr. Murdock. I’ll take care of your little problem.” Giggled again and kneeled down on the floor.

Rebecca said, “Rosie is a whole lot better’n me, Mr. Murdock.”

She showed me the bright cotton quilt Rosie’d been working on. Pointed to one end, “Look at how small her stitches are. That’s not just skill ... it’s like she’s ... an artist.”

The quilt was about six feet wide, maybe eight feet long. Large red squares turned on end to look sort of like diamonds. With hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny squares fitted in all around.

I said, “That’s the one in that magazine.” That Mrs. Chambers got from back East.

“That’s right. I’m telling you, Rosie’s got a real talent for this.”

Which gave me an idea. I’d write the Gilmore Girls, see what they thought of it.

Two of Reverend Venerable’s Deacons drifted off. Were here one day and then weren’t. With Andrew Cummings in jail, that meant there were nine Deacons left. That was still a lot of firepower.

I wouldn’t say that Little River was totally tamed. Civilized. It was growing and expansion meant new people. There were still saloon fights, usually just a couple of drunks. But if there was a serious threat out there, it would probably be from Holy Redemption. Reverend Venerable, the Fitzes, and the rest of the Deacons.

And the head guy was maybe wanted for murder in Cleveland.

It was typical of the Gilmore Girls. A kindness, a basic ... decency wasn’t the exact right word, but it seemed to kind of apply.

When Rebecca and Rosie received their first letter, addressed personally to them, from Indianapolis, well, there was more excitement than on Christmas.

Like they did with me, Riles and Emma and Molly each wrote an individual piece in the letter. They didn’t talk much about the goings-on in Indianapolis; it was more questions on how Rebecca and Rosie were doing. What their life was like in Little River.

A lot of questions that if I’d thought of them, I’d have asked too.

Rebecca wrote back that same day. Rosie had her own suggestions, but it was Rebecca who did the actual writing. Rosie could read some on her own. Writing, less so.

Rosie had been pulled out of school in Kansas City when her parents up and decided to homestead in Montana. Rebecca tried to help her with studying, but I guess there wasn’t that much free time. And probably not a lot of energy after working that little ranch all day.

But Rosie would start school when Helen Maple opened it up for business. All told, there would be 22, maybe 23, kids. Ages five or six up to fifteen or so. Once they reached a certain age, they’d be needed to work. Or, maybe some of the boys would do like I did — just leave to see what all the world had to offer.

It was a Sunday morning, I remember it accurately, since Rebecca and Rosie and I had decided to drop in on Holy Redemption, catch the sermon, listen to some hymns.

But there was another reason why I remembered that particular sunny morning. Cold out, but bright sunshine. Rebecca had decided I flat needed some pussy. Even with Rosie right there.

It was obvious they’d talked it over, the two of them. Rosie wasn’t the least surprised, had a big smile on her face. She kept smiling as she soaped me up. Dried me off, slapped my bottom right smart, “Time, Mr. Murdock.”

Rebecca had fluffed up a pillow and slid it under her butt like she liked to do when we were alone. That sight pretty much enflamed me every time. I glanced back at Rosie, but she just grinned and made a shoo-shoo gesture with the back of her hand.

I went slow right at the start, but it was easy to see that Rebecca was about as ready as I was. Then we caught our rhythm and I forgot about everything, everyone else. It wasn’t a world championship performance on my part, but I lasted a right long time. Hadn’t even been aware that Rosie had lain down beside us.

As she washed me later, Rebecca smiled at her daughter, “Do not think this is regular, Rosie-Posie. It ain’t, not by a long-shot.”

Rosie grinned, “That’s what all the girls say, Mama.”

Well, we still managed to get to Holy Redemption before the formalities began. Reverend Venerable had a new organ player up in the loft — Willowdean Sherrill. Young as she was, she was a sight better than Domino.

Her husband, North Platte Sherrill, went to a different church every Sunday. Lutheran, Baptist, Holy Redemption. But the girls told Mrs. Chambers that Willowdean was the regular organ player for Reverend Venerable. The girls had become pretty regular church attenders; they told Rebecca and Rosie, “Them sermons are good entertainment.”

Reverend Venerable had lost one more Deacon, another drifter. That left eight, all dressed in black, four on the south wall, four on the north. The Fitzes, side by side, stood on the south side.

Later I wrote the Gilmore Girls about what all happened. I hadn’t seen it coming, not a bit of it.

The hymns, the standing and sitting, the praying, the Deacons amening every once in a while ... it felt familiar even given the few times that I’d attended church services.

Sermon time. Reverend Venerable gripped the pulpit with both hands, glaring out at the congregation. The congregation and Rebecca and Rosie and me. The folks around us shifted a little, settling in for some righteous hellfire and damnation. Rosie had her hand on one thigh, Rebecca on the other. My eight-gauge was lying on the floor under the pew in front of us.

That high-pitched voice always surprised me, coming from such a barrel-chested man. Venerable pointed at Rosie and screamed out, “That Squaw-Whore has no place in Holy Redemption!”

Rebecca gasped; Rosie went stiff with shock.

Mrs. Chambers asked me, “What do you hear about that Women’s Bible Study group?”

She wasn’t a gossiper, Mrs. Chambers. But she was like me, she paid attention, kept track of what was going on in Little River. We were in our Monday morning meeting in her Bighorn office.

“Only thing I heard is Venerable keeps one woman for one-on-one counseling. Different one each week.”

“Sex?”

“I’d be surprised.” But I’d had the same thought when Rebecca first told me that Hiram Kearney was upset that his wife was a Wednesday regular at Holy Redemption.

Mrs. Chambers said, “He’s got twenty-two women in that group. He preaches to them on Sunday, educates them on Wednesday, then picks them off one at a time.”

I nodded; she had something on her mind.

“I treat my girls good because it’s good business. In the long run, they’re loyal to me.” She nodded to herself, “The money comes into me steady, and so does the flow of information. The girls talk to me, to Rebecca and Rosie, let us know what’s going on around town.”

That was a fact. Men, a lot of them, talked in bed. And whores, some of them, remembered and passed along the local intel. Like having cavalry scouts out in the Territory.

She said, “So Venerable may be gathering Little River information. Why, I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

I nodded, I didn’t like anything about Venerable’s operation. Particularly with those Deacons.

She said, “And there’s no telling what ideas he’s implanting in their heads. These aren’t the brightest women in the Territory.”

That one I hadn’t thought of.

Mrs. Chambers stood, “And that organ player, Willowdean Sherrill, is up there in the loft practicing every Wednesday morning.”

The Editor’s 14-year old bride. If she was even that old.

Rosie had been pretty upset when Venerable called her a Squaw-Whore. Well, more shocked than distressed. Rebecca was spitting mad, was already plotting revenge as we walked from Holy Redemption back to the Bighorn.