Chapter 14: Organ

Evening didn’t take long to reach Little River, but the town never got all that quiet. Saloon laughter and arguments, a lone coyote off howling about something important to him, the wind whipping through. Sometimes I felt the night was talking to me, trying to tell me something.

Word had come from Cleveland, via Kansas City, to pull in their murder suspect. Hold Venerable until further instructions arrived. It was a law enforcement request, not an order, but I was more than ready to oblige.

Since Marshal Autry and Hoss were in town, it seemed like a good time to arrest Reverend Venerable. Keep him in a cell for eventual extradition to Cleveland. Or until it could be figured out what else to do with him.

The unknown factor was the Deacons. I told Cayuse, “We got to figure they’re armed again.”

Cayuse nodded.

George Autry studied the copy of the Wanted poster from Cleveland that Sheriff Jennings had sent us via The West Mountain Express. He nodded, “Let’s do it. Good to cooperate with other law enforcement agencies.” He probably meant that it would also be good for him, for whatever his political ambitions were.

I knew from Mrs. Chambers that Autry was spending time in Helena. And that he was advising on law enforcement matters to the Secretary of the Territory. Gentleman named Webb, I believe. Both Webb and Governor Leslie had been appointed by President Cleveland, so they were probably useful men to know. If you were politically minded, which I wasn’t.

But politics had stopped that new-town fraud and if it could assist me in bringing Venerable to justice ... well, fine.

It was Marshal’s Autry’s idea to arrest Reverend Garth Venerable during one of his Sunday sermons. More publicity, more chatter.

I went along for a couple of different reasons. I figured there was less chance of gunplay from the Deacons with a house full of the faithful. And because of Venerable squealing out “Squaw Whore!” to Rosie. That still gnawed at me.

Rebecca and Rosie seemed unusually solemn. We were in our room, town business finished for the night. The sporting ladies were asleep and the taverns closed. Rebecca placed that night’s whore money in a cigar box. She’d pay Mrs. Chambers first thing in the morning and then the girls after they woke up.

Rosie said, “It’s just a rumor, Flint.”

Rebecca shook her head, “It isn’t even that, honey.” She turned to me, “Penny isn’t sure she heard right.”

Rosie said, speaking so softly, “But Lord Sidcup slapped Miss Melanie so hard he broke her nose. Penny screamed.”

I sat up. Penelope had been Mrs. Chambers’ gift to the visiting Royalty. To encourage Lord Sidcup to stay longer at the Bighorn. And to pass along Sidcup intel on to Mrs. Chambers. Turned out His Lordship was fond of the French Show that Penelope and Miss Melanie put on for him every night.

“Why did he slap Miss Melanie?”

Rebecca gathered her thoughts, wanting to get it, whatever it was, right. “Lord Sidcup was bragging about all the big game he killed. A Black Bear, buffalo, antelope.”

Rosie said, “He saved the heads, some old guy mounted them back in his camp. Did the entire bear, supposed to be taller than you, Flint.”

Rebecca, “Then Penny thought she heard Miss Melanie say something about the scariest trophies were giving her nightmares.”

Rosie, “That’s when he hit her.”

Marshal Autry, the quick-looking deputy — Hoss, Cayuse, and I waited outside until the hymns had stopped, until Willowdean brought the organ to rest. We waited until Reverend Venerable’s squeaky voice came through the front doors, “Holy Redemption is only a way station on the Road to Salvation! Prayer is the only answer! You can’t fall far if you’re already on your knees!”

I banged open the doors, sweeping my Parker eight-gauge from right to left, then back to the right, to the south wall where the Fitzes stood. Black suits, white shirts. No sign of hardware on any of the eight Deacons.

Venerable was truly shocked. Stunned into silence.

As planned, Cayuse aimed his Smith & Wesson Model 3 in the general direction of the four deacons on the right side of the church. Hoss held his lever-action .44 caliber Winchester steady, focused on the north side. I had my scattergun against my right shoulder, sweeping it back and forth.

We’d later learn the Deacons were unarmed, but the element of surprise had been enough to freeze them in place.

Autry, center stage, marched down the middle isle and put his Navy Colt revolver under Venerable’s chin, pressing deep.

For a short man, Autry had a booming voice when he wanted to, “Garth Higgins Venerable, you are under arrest for the murder of Hiram Hitchcock in Cleveland, Ohio. July 4, 1884.”

The shocked congregation was starting to stir, starting to murmur among themselves. I yelled, “Shut up!” My voice far louder than Autry’s.

Venerable was gasping, his mouth opening and closing like a fish fresh out of water. Autry handcuffed him smoothly, obviously not his first time. He frog-marched Venerable back down the center aisle, his Colt pressing the bottom of the prisoner’s spine.

Venerable shook his head, like waking up from a dream. He looked at Hugh Fitzroy, “Fix it.” Fitzroy didn’t acknowledge the command.

Cayuse and Hoss, weapons still pointed, backed away, trailing Autry and the prisoner. I waited two minutes, still sweeping my scattergun back and forth, back and forth. Then I backed out, the eight Deacons staring at me.

We secured Venerable in the south cell, having already cleared the O’Brien twins out. He had regained some composure, taken off his white robe. He folded it carefully and laid the knotted belt on top. Shot out his cuffs, making sure they were even under his black suit.

Autry posed for a picture, arms crossed, the Colt still in his right fist. North Platte Sherrill insisted on taking several shots, different angles. All with Autry front and center, Venerable in the background. Autry didn’t object.

Sherrill patted the camera, “Eastman Interchangeable View. Valuable beyond compare.”

I’d never seen one until Sherrill came into town with his printing press. The camera itself was an interesting looking contraption. The lens panel could be moved up and down and the whole thing could sort of fold into itself.

Hoss had seen enough, he shook hands with Cayuse, with me, and left for his post. Our jail’s vulnerability came from the back end. The east side where a wooden addition had been built out to accommodate the two cells. Hoss, Cayuse, and I would take turns guarding our flank through the night. Nights. Autry had authorized Hoss to stay in Little River until it was decided what to do with the Reverend Garth Higgins Venerable.

Marshal George Autry wanted nothing to do with my Lord Sidcup plan. First, he was uncertain about the conclusions I had drawn. Hell, I was uncertain. But I also wasn’t going to ignore the quiet voice nagging at the back of my mind.

In addition, Autry wanted no part, no political part, of any confrontation with a Viscount.

Doc Gimble had reset Miss Melanie’s nose; she claimed she tripped and banged into a door. He nodded, “Hmm.”

When I told Cayuse what I suspected, he was, as always, stoic. Did his left eyelid twitch once? Couldn’t tell for sure.

With Venerable locked up, and with Hoss and I taking turns watching the jail from the back, Cayuse took to long-distance trailing the Fitzes. In one sense, it was easy — they were always together. But they were watchful bastards and Cayuse had to hang back whenever they left town.

Later, he filled me in on his foray. What the Army would call an after-action report.

Three nights after we had arrested Venerable, Cayuse followed the two ex-cavalrymen north, past No-Name, past the copper mine, past the sawmill. They veered off to the left, to the west, a mile or so from the valley where Rebecca, Rosie, and I had watched the family of Appaloosas.

It was just a fingernail moon, but Cayuse could tell that the Fitzes crossed paths with four or five or maybe six other riders. When he could hear voices, he dismounted and, holding Sugar’s reins, followed on foot.

He saw a campfire in the distance and tethered Sugar. He took his Sharps buffalo rifle and eased closer. It was a gathering of the Deacons — the six remaining ones plus the Fitzes. Eight bedrolls ringed the fire.

The men were mostly shadows in the night, doing some quasi-military exercises. Crouching, sneaking, some belly-crawling, pantomime rifle and then handgun shooting.

He continued watching silently as they broke out two jugs of corn whiskey and began drinking.

Cayuse had waited until just before dawn, when the Deacons were in their deepest sleep. He’d crept into the little camp; the fire had died out. The men were sprawled out, some snoring. No one stood guard.

There were eight rifles, butts in the dirt, arranged so the barrels rested against each other forming a little pyramid. Cayuse carefully laid them on the ground, then carrying four at a time, slipped into the woods. With two trips, he had hidden their cache of long weapons.

I had to smile.

Cayuse and I were walking our first rounds of the afternoon as he filled me in on his surveillance foray. As usual, not many words, a few gestures, one scene etched in the mud with a stick.

Toward the end of his raid on the Deacons — the sun was just about to start peeking over the horizon — he silently gentled four of the eight horses out of their tethers and mounted Sugar to lead them away. Cayuse, typical understatement, told me, “Darkness. Old friend.”

Sam sent my telegram to Sheriff Dave Jennings in Kansas City: “Venerable arrested, please advise. Flint Murdock.”

After Cayuse’s raid, three more Deacons wandered off, leaving five — the Fitzes and three others. I believed the departures were partly based on concern — how the fuck could someone sneak into their secret campsite, steal eight rifles and four horses? And partly humiliation — having to ride back to Little River, two to a horse. No one had seen them return — again, it had to have been embarrassing to double up like kids.

Holy Redemption services were over, bible studies finished, baptisms terminated. The church bell no longer rang on Sunday mornings.

Cayuse and I resumed our regular patrols, taking the keys to the cells with us. The iron bars set in cement were enough to prevent a breakout. Or break-in. And the cement floor would make tunneling impossible. The back wall was the only vulnerability I could think of. Maybe the roof, but that was pretty visible. And Hoss, Cayuse, and I could cover the roofline while we watched from our second story perch overlooking the back of the jail. We set up above Mason’s Hardware; Dave used it mostly for storage and was happy to cooperate. No charge.

But someday, I’d have to address that back wall. Maybe put bars on the sides and back, making a sort of cage within the building.

We rarely had any overnight prisoners in our little jail. I didn’t count the O’Brien twins — they were more like guests, often letting themselves in for what was left of the night.

So Cayuse and I had to arrange meals for Venerable. Even though she wasn’t pleased on missing out on the per diem from the Territory, Mrs. Chambers agreed that this particular inmate didn’t deserve Bighorn vittles.

I went with Clare’s Cafe — Clare Spacey could use the money, especially with winter setting in.

Venerable was showing signs of wear. It’s hard to maintain your swagger when your roommate is a chamber pot. I did allow Deacon Fred to bring him fresh clothes. And the Chinks, one of them, or maybe different ones, did a wash every couple of weeks.

He had stopped preaching, screeching really, at Cayuse and me. Maybe figured it was a lost cause. Or, more probably, he just ran out of steam.

Ollie Chambers came by, offered him five dollars for the church organ. Venerable spat out, “Fuck you.” Then the next day told me he’d take it. Ollie came back, “Four dollars, final offer.”

Venerable nodded.

Hoss, Cayuse, and I traded night shifts, watching the back of the jail from Mason’s Hardware.

Cayuse and I were just finishing our Bighorn coffee and we were getting ready to make our first rounds of the day. He’d take Market Street this time; I’d walk the side streets.

Domino, the piano-playing sporting lady, burst in, “Sheriff! Trouble at the school. Rosie says come quick.”

I grabbed my scattergun; Cayuse was already out the door racing north to Fifth Street. I caught up easily with my long strides and we skidded around the corner and raced three blocks east to Washington Street.

Rosie was huddled with two young girls, the Blaine sisters. Hugging them tightly, they were sobbing. Helen Maple stood in front of the school doorway, frowning, arms crossed. I mouthed, “Guns?” She shook her head.

I eased the door open, Cayuse right behind me. Three dead men, lying on their backs in a neatly-arranged row. Faces blown off. They wore the black suits and white shirts of the Deacons.

I could tell from the lack of blood that they’d been shotgunned somewhere else and left here to be found, to be seen. I heard Helen yell, “Keep away!” to someone running toward us on Fifth. Cayuse went out and spoke quietly to North Platte Sherrill, “No.”

The three dead men were tall and skinny; definitely not the Fitzes. Who, I was pretty sure, had killed these Deacons with their LeMat revolvers. The ones with a 20-gauge smooth-bore barrel firing buckshot.

I looked more closely, the three men had abrasions around their wrists; they’d been executed at close range.

Cayuse and I rode out of Little River, heading south to Lord Sidcup’s camp, around six in the morning. Still dark. Before I had left the Bighorn, I confirmed that Sidcup and Miss Melanie were still in their suite on the third floor. Penelope too.

Early as it was, Mrs. Chambers joined Rebecca and Rosie to see us off. She said, “I hope it isn’t true.”

“Me too.”

I suppose it’s this way a lot of places. That church organ replaced the Bighorn piano. Which Ollie sold to the Buffalo Cut. Martin Bisbee sold his own beat up piano, to Matty’s Bar. Who sold his piano, missing part of one front leg to Pat’s Irish Pub. The O’Brien twins would enjoy that.

Over her husband’s strong objections, Willowdean Sherrill became a regular performer at the Bighorn Saloon. A considerable improvement over Domino, who didn’t seem to mind giving up her musical career.

As was his custom, North Platte Sherrill started drinking every evening at six. In the newspaper office where he and Willowdean lived on the second floor. These days, she didn’t leave the Bighorn until around midnight, enjoying the organ, joshing with the customers, being the center of attention. I saw Mrs. Chambers talking with Willowdean a couple of times. Not difficult to decipher the nature of those conversations.