Chapter 16: LeMat

The Cravens checked into the Bighorn Hotel on Monday afternoon. The next morning they confronted me — Marina, Mercury, Marco.

I was making my first rounds of the day when the three of them, dressed in black, burst out of Clare’s Cafe. They’d been waiting for me. Clare and her colored man, Hubert Greene, peeked out at us from the front window. Cayuse was back at the jail.

One of the twins, Marco or Mercury, fast-stepped out into Market Street, about twenty feet to my left as I faced north. The other one stood in Clare’s doorway. Both had old Colt Dragoon Revolvers in their right-hand holsters. They were relaxed, not at all tensed up. Some experience there.

Marina stood between them, a few feet back, in the center of the little triangle. Her voice carried easily — husky, sexy, and somehow impersonal at the same time, “You’re a nosy one, Murdock.”

I held my eight-gauge at waist level, left hand on the barrel, right index finger on the right-side trigger. I had cocked the scattergun as soon as the two men started to separate.

I looked at Marina, but was talking to the twins, “Check your guns at the jail. Get ‘em back when you leave town.”

Time had slowed down. It was a cloudy day, overcast, but I could see the trio like they were standing in bright sunshine. Everything else faded into the background. My heart rate seemed to quiet, a calmness settled over me. There were three of them, but I focused on the leader, made it between Marina and me.

She said, “You can get one of them, not both.”

I spoke softly, “I’ll shoot you first, Marina.”

She tried to keep her face still, “I’m not even armed.”

“You first.”

I could hear a stray dog barking off to the east, a buckboard coming up behind me a few blocks back. Background. I’d kill Marina, then the one to my left, the one in the street.

I continued looking at Marina, but saw both of her brothers at the same time. If either one made a move, two of the Cravens would die.

She gave a little shrug and sighed. The sound was part resignation, part exasperation. She jerked her head back toward the hotel, “Bighorn.”

I said, “Guns.”

The twins looked at her; she stared at me. Then gave a brisk nod. Marco and Mercury undid their gun belts, held them out. I said, “Street,” keeping Marina in my sights.

They laid their guns down.

Out of Venerable’s hearing, I briefed Cayuse on the Cravens dustup. He just nodded. I hadn’t bothered to tell him to stay alert. That was his normal state anyway. He continued sharpening his Bowie knife.

Next I walked up to the Bighorn, found Mrs. Chambers in her office. The influenza epidemic had passed, one more fatality — old man Russell — bringing it up to twelve for Little River. But the business with her sporting ladies was back up and running; Rosie was just handing over Monday night’s cash when I walked in.

Judging from the amount, it looked like the boys were making up for lost time. Rosie winked at me and patted my butt as she left to head for school.

Mrs. Chambers nodded to the guest chair, but I remained standing and brought her up to date.

“Would they have drawn on you? Broad daylight? Market Street?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, straightened the bills and coins. Entered something in her ledger. Looked up at me, “Marina made Ollie a similar offer. He’d own a fourth of their bordello.”

She gave me a fierce grin. “He knew better, tempted as he probably was. Then Marina approached me again. Right here.” She nodded at the guest chair.

“I turned her down again. And it was a pleasure to see her face when I told her I’d bought all that No-Name land.”

“Why is she still here?”

“She hasn’t given up. May look for another property. Like the Holy Redemption site. Prime location.”

“Venerable still owns it?”

“Yes. I was hoping you would have taken him to Billings before the Cravens came back. Now I may have to offer to buy him out.”

“Cayuse and I leave before dawn on the 21st. That’s a Monday.”

She opened a desk drawer, took out her calendar, “A little over two weeks. If the Cravens are still here...”

I knew what she was thinking. That Marina complicated the picture. She could bid for the Holy Redemption property, driving the price up. But if she left town, there wouldn’t be any need for Mrs. Chambers to even make an offer. I didn’t know what the local regulations were, but if a convicted murderer was executed ... well, I guess the town could just take back that 4th and Market parcel. For all his talk of eternity, Venerable didn’t seem the type to make out a will.

That night in bed, Rosie sat up, faced her mother and me. The bedding puddled at her waist, leaving her perky breasts exposed.

“Cayuse. It’s getting better. Don’t hurt that much anymore.” She glanced at Rebecca, “I don’t love it like you...”

Rebecca leaned across me and patted Rosie’s shoulder, “It takes time. You and Cayuse ... well, you’ll find your way.”

Rosie grinned and held her palms a few inches apart, “He’s not like Flint, but the girls say it’s just fine, that size.”

“Enjoy what you have, baby. Cayuse is our hero.”

I wasn’t looking forward to it, but that didn’t mean I’d delay talking with Helen Maple. The Gilmore Girls had instilled that pretty deeply — don’t put unpleasant tasks off, not when they needed doing.

I watched from across 5th street as school let out. Rosie waved; she walked the two youngest girls — the Blaine sisters — home every afternoon.

Inside the classroom there was that familiar smell — chalk, erasers, ink. For a moment I was back in Indianapolis.

Helen smiled, “Sheriff Blue-Eyes. Let me guess — the Connovers or the Blaines?”

I smiled back, “Randy Connover came by. His wife is...”

“On the warpath? She’s a nice woman actually. An education champion. Compared with a lot of parents anyway.”

“And the Blaines?”

“Those two little girls are sweethearts. Little crumpets.” Wider smile, “Oh, Warren? He is my sexy little dreamboat. Along with Randy of course.”

“Of course.”

Helen made two little fists and held her arms out, “Going to arrest me, Flint? I’m usually the one who cuffs the men. And boys.”

I laughed, “I’d hope to find another solution. Does Mrs. Chambers know about... ?”

“My little peccadillos? Of course. She didn’t actually encourage me, but she did mention that I’m grooming future customers for her ... establishment.”

We talked it over and came to a sort of compromise. She’d leave Randy alone for a while after reminding him, again, “To keep his fucking mouth shut.”

And I’d tell his father the truth. Also, Helen agreed that any future activities would be more discreet.

She had a sort of twinkle in her eye, “I still have Warren. And I’ve been considering Marty O’Donahue. We’ll see.”

And there were a few younger boys coming up as well.

As I turned to leave, I saw a flash of black move around the corner to my left, to the west. It wasn’t even a glimpse, more of a sense of movement, of a dark color.

I brought my scattergun down from resting on my shoulder, cocked both hammers, thinking, “At least the kids are gone.”

Then I backed into the schoolroom, closing the door behind me. I held a finger to my lips; Helen nodded.

The brief image I had seen was across 5th, on the north side of the street. He ... it ... they ... had been on Washington, just to my left. Three blocks east of Market, running parallel to our main drag.

That meant, if it was the Cravens twins, they would be to my right as I headed back to the jail. Or, maybe one of them would. Smart move would be to separate, one of them north of 5th, one south.

I moved to the back wall of the schoolroom, opened the one window and climbed down. Being careful not to discharge my scattergun.

The little alley ran west to Washington, east to the edge of town. I walked backwards, away from Washington, watching, watching, watching. Then I turned right. If one of the Cravens was on the south side of 5th, I’d be coming up behind him. Of course his brother would be facing both of us.

Once I was out of sight, I trotted down to 4th, turned right again. Over to Washington, peered around the corner. Yep. There he was, back to me, a shotgun held loosely in both hands, aimed down at the street. I took off my boots — my socks were instantly soaked from the remaining drifts of slowly melting snow.

I took a breath to calm myself, to remind myself. If I had to shoot, one trigger only. There were two Cravens out there, maybe three.

I looked up Washington again, could still see only the one with his back to me. I raced silently toward him and was only about twenty feet away when his brother yelled “Hey!” from across 5th.

My guy whirled around and I shot from the hip, not bothering, not needing, to aim. The blast tore him almost in half, flinging the torso and bloody pieces into the air and into the street.

I was prepared for the thunderous blast, the sheer volume of noise, and I kept running north, my finger on the other trigger. Scanning right and left. I slipped a little, skidding through a pool of almost-black blood as I leaped over the body.

There. The other one, also dressed in black, his shotgun at his shoulder, bringing it up to aim at me across 5th.

Time almost stopped for me; the scattergun was at my shoulder effortlessly as I slowed, then came to a complete halt. We were maybe forty, forty-five feet from each other. I could hear his labored breath.

Then Marina, that distinctive voice, “No.”

She was somewhere ahead of me, off to my left, out of sight.

Her brother let out his breath, lowered his shotgun. I motioned with my double-barreled and he laid it gently across two frozen ruts in Washington Street.

I kept my aim on him, waiting for Marina to show herself.

I had come to admire the way Mrs. Chambers operated, her style. She was always moving toward a goal, but wasn’t in a hurry, certainly wasn’t frantic about it. Steady, sort of quietly relentless.

Like with Willowdean Sherrill.

Mrs. Chambers wanted her for a whore. The girl wasn’t that pretty, had a kind of permanent pout. Unhappy life. But she was young — 14 — plump, and a new face in Little River.

At first, it was only quiet conversations, just the two of them. Mrs. Chambers keeping the topic alive, but never pushing, never pushing.

When Ollie bought the church organ from Venerable, Mrs. Chambers immediately installed Willowdean as the house entertainer in the Bighorn. She was not only good at it, especially compared with Domino, but she enjoyed it immensely. Even started smiling.

She liked to play, liked the attention from all of the men, enjoyed the support and friendship from the sporting ladies. Mrs. Chambers continued talking with her, just the two of them.

Marco Cravens had been the one I’d killed. His name — Marco Elvis Cravens — had been branded onto his wallet; Marina confirmed it as well.

There was a letdown after a shooting, at least for me. Hyper alertness gave way to some sort of ... not fatigue, not exactly, but kind of in that neighborhood.

Any killing also brought forth a blizzard of follow-up details, big and small.

> Marina Cravens wanted no part of burying her brother. I’d killed him; Little River could dispose of whatever was left of him. Ruthless in a way, but I could sort of understand her attitude. Being involved in a funeral, or in any ceremonial event, would be an ongoing reminder of all that had gone wrong.

> Helen Maple brought me my boots, retracing my route. She insisted I throw away my socks, one bloody, both sodden, before she handed them over.

> I kept Mercury Cravens in jail for five days until Marshal Autry made it back to Little River. He consulted with Mrs. Chambers and agreed with our recommendation. We’d let Mercury and Marina go free so long as they never returned to Little River. I added a twenty-mile zone around the town.

> Marina stayed in the Bighorn Hotel, eating in the dining room three times a day. Mrs. Chambers had required a twenty-dollar deposit. Marina and her brothers had slept in the same bed Monday night, the last time for the three of them.

> Marina and Mercury Cravens left in that same fancy six-mule carriage they’d first come into town on. This time it was just the two of them — no driver, no bodyguard, no Marco.

> It was dawn on Sunday when Marina came by the jail to collect her brother. Venerable watched from the other cell. Marina and Mercury didn’t even bother to ask me to return the Colt Dragoons. She just gave me a cool look and her parting words were, “You’re a marked man, Murdock.”

I wouldn’t say that the No-Name Bar was respectable these days. Not unless you compared it with the way it had been. But it was certainly a step up. And, slowly, several Little River drinkers were testing it out.

Cheapest booze in town. Cheapest poke too — twenty-five cents. Nickel to watch.

I imagine Mrs. Chambers didn’t mind seeing some business from the other saloons drift north. She got a percentage of the No-Name take, including, I had no doubt, the income from Mrs. Hogg’s two daughters.

A couple of minor things occurred while Cayuse and I were waiting to escort Venerable to Billings. For a moment I longed for my old whorehouse protection days, back before I was an official lawman.

But only for a moment. The Gilmore Girls had drilled Duty into me so I faced the unpleasant, the often irritating, the sometimes silly, just as if they were important matters.

North Platte Sherrill sought me out for a private word. Cayuse left to make his rounds.

Sherrill was subdued, somber. “Can you do anything about my wife, Sheriff?”

Willowdean had moved out of their upstairs room over the Clarion office. She was now living on the second floor of the Bighorn with the other sporting ladies who worked for Mrs. Chambers.

And, Willowdean seemed quite pleased with the arrangement. She still played the organ every night, but now went upstairs whenever a gent paid Rosie or Rebecca for the pleasure of her company.

North Platte had stopped frequenting the Bighorn once his wife became the organ player. And he certainly wouldn’t go in there now. But, Little River was a small, gossipy town, like most places I guess, and he had to know she was turning tricks.

There wasn’t much I could do, not legally. And there wasn’t much I wanted to do in any case. But I explained the facts of life as gently as I could; he was a wounded man. Even though he’d been a counterfeiter back in South Carolina and tried to be part of the vacant-lot swindle here, he was still a man, still hurting. And I didn’t want to make him feel any worse. Partly because Willowdean told Mrs. Chambers that, despite all those yelling matches, he never had hit her, not once.

Besides, everyone enjoyed reading the Little River Clarion on Wednesdays. Especially the Letters to the Editor.

The second minor issue came from a woman born and raised in Little River. I knew Jane Compton as someone to say hello to, maybe talk with while I was on my rounds. Her husband, Saul, was the second-shift foreman at Hank Mosby’s Sawmill, had been there over twenty years. They had two sons, both in school with Helen Maples.

So far as I knew, Darryl and Dennis were a little young for Helen, so I was surprised when Jane brought the boys up.

Turns out she was more puzzled than upset. A sturdy woman whose ruddy face indicated she spent a lot of time in her garden and corral. In her early 30s, large calloused hands.

She got right to it, “Sheriff, Darryl and Dennis are sneaking off to that No-Name Bar.”

I sat up, “Mrs. Hogg is selling them drinks?”

Jane shook her head, “No, no, nothing like that.” She was fighting a smile, “Did you know she lets you watch her daughters ... in an intimate setting for a nickel?”

“I had heard that, yes. So Darryl and Dennis...”

Then she did grin, “Little savages. Actually, we breed horses, so they already knew the basics. And I don’t mind all that much about the No-Name. But where are they getting all those nickels?”

I had an idea on that one.

She shook her head again, “Saul makes good money supervising the line. But we don’t leave it lying around. The boys know they can earn a little doing this and that for me around the house, working in the stable. But...”

“Want me to talk with them?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. They’d be mortified if they thought anyone in town knew their little secret. I’m just puzzled about the money, that’s it.”

We left it that I’d look into the matter. Which would involve another chat with Helen Maple.

While he was in town on the Cravens matter, I asked Marshal George Autry if he’d heard of The EagleLeague.

He looked at me sharply. Frowned, “Yeah, I have. Why?”

I told him what little I knew. Supposedly a secret society, something like the Freemasons. But made up of criminals. Including, maybe, coloreds and women.

We were in Mrs. Chambers’ office; they were sitting on opposite sides of the desk, I was standing. He looked at her. She said, “I want to know too, George.”

He took his time. “All right, I’ll tell you what I know. And what I’ve heard, but don’t know for sure.”

She nodded, gave him an encouraging smile. Yep, something between the two of them.

“The EagleLeague started back in Philadelphia. Two of the crime organizations — mainly the members of two families — worked out a truce. They split up the territory they were warring over, joined forces.”

She said, “Against the police?”

“At first, yeah, a common enemy. Then they reached out to lower level thugs, street level. Whores, pimps, strong-arm punks. Crooks behind bars. Put together a kind of criminal cooperative.”

“Okay.”

“Next they wised up. Went up instead of down. Started bribing politicians, which they learned wasn’t that hard to do. Got a judge or two in their pocket.” He paused and groomed that gunfighter mustache with his short, stubby fingers.

“Word got around and The EagleLeague, or people calling themselves that, spread out from Philadelphia. Headed south, some of them, but mostly west. More open, less law. The movement’s been heading our way for the past couple of years, like influenza.”

I said, “The Cravens?”

“Most likely, that’s the rumor anyway. Another one is they infiltrated the Army. Mostly deserters and renegades.”

The Fitzes.

“And are using churches as a cover in some places.”

Venerable.

Mrs. Chambers said, “Any more rumors we should know about?”

“They’re a vicious lot, sworn to take vengeance on anyone who does harm to a fellow Eagle. Some sort of fucked up code of honor.”

Helen Maple sometimes stopped by the office after school had let out. Nothing official, just to chat. I didn’t know for sure, but maybe Helen and I were the only ones in town to have had some college. Not counting Doc Gimble of course.

I enjoyed her visits; it was usually an interesting conversation. And a relief not to be discussing sex with young boys.

One snowy afternoon as I was feeding the fire, she asked me, “Flint, what is the difference between a frontier and a border?”

Huh.

Not something I’d ever thought about. I guess the frontier, the one in my mind anyway, was my personal trek westward. Toward something new, something different.

A border? Well, as the frontier became civilized, or at least settled, I guess the border kept changing. Or borders — as statehood came to different places, maps had to be redrawn.

But I suspected that Helen had something more ... profound in mind. Not lines drawn on paper, but lives changed. Tribes uprooted, settlers always pushing further and further. Families like the Robinsons altered forever.

Something to think about — frontiers and borders.

One night in bed, a Friday, Rebecca and Rosie each had a hand around me, under the covers. Rosie squeezed and said, “Miss Maple asked Marty O’Donahue to stay after school today.”

Rebecca laughed, “Pussy.”

Rosie said, “She winked at me when I left to walk the Blaine girls home.”

Marshal Autry left the next morning. Not sure where he had spent the night. I mean he was in the Bighorn, but where, in whose room, I didn’t know.

After he rode out, I asked Mrs. Chambers about Helen Maple. The two boys she had been taking to bed, Randy and Warren. And the Compton boys, Darryl and Dennis.

Mrs. Chambers laughed out loud, “Helen is giving them nickels to watch the Hogg girls get poked! Ha! She’s grooming those lads, wait and see.”

She got a thoughtful look on her face for a moment, then shook her head. “No, it might be fun to start letting schoolboys watch Penelope and Miss Melanie, but ... not worth the trouble.”

“What about Helen?”

“I don’t see that as a law enforcement issue.”

Neither did I.

Monday morning, November 21.

Cayuse and I tied Reverend Garth Higgins Venerable tightly to the saddle. Even strapped his ankles together under the belly of the horse. Cayuse secured the lead of the rented gelding to his own saddle horn. We’d travel down to the Cottonwood Bend spur line single file — Cayuse, Venerable, me. I trailed two horses behind me. They and Venerable’s mount would be waiting at the little station when we took the train back from Billings with the Gilmore Girls.

It was still dark, the sun about an hour away. Rebecca and Rosie, bundled up, came down to Livery Lou’s to see us off. They were still sleepy-eyed, but excited too. Mrs. Chambers had reserved the three Bighorn rooms next to ours for Molly, Riley, and Emma.

The Gilmore Girls should have arrived in Billings by now. We’d turn Venerable over to the sheriff and spend the night in town. Ride the late morning spur back to Cottonwood Bend, then an hour or so back up to Little River.

It was still spitting snow, but the visibility was decent from a three-quarter moon. Not much wind, which was a blessing for the first leg of our trip. A few gas lanterns were flickering on; Little River was starting to stir to life as we headed south on Market, south past Lord Sidcup’s camp, south past the plots abandoned by the homesteaders.

We left Venerable’s gelding and the other two horses with the Cottonwood Bend station master. Rawley said, “Otis will feed them tonight and in the morning.”

I handed him a dollar, “For your son.”

Cayuse led Scarface and Sugar up the ramp into a boxcar behind the single passenger car. I settled Venerable into the last row of seats; sat down beside him. He was handcuffed. Cayuse joined us a couple of minutes later, sitting opposite, facing the rear. With the caboose and the engine, it was a four-car train.

Conductor came by, collected three dollars, punched out a receipt for me. Cornbread Red, black uniform, string tie, nodded at Venerable, “Just the two of you coming back tomorrow?”

“Cayuse and me plus three visitors from Indianapolis.”

He nodded and moved ahead toward the engine. He’d also shovel coal.

Cayuse had the butt of his Sharps buffalo rifle resting on the floor of the train. Like my Parker eight-gauge. Venerable hadn’t spoken since I’d unlocked his cell door earlier that morning.

There wasn’t much to see out the window to the left, mostly just white. Ground, trees, hills. Mountains in the distance. The sound of the steam engine seemed muffled by the heavy winter air.

Cayuse noticed it before I did.