Chapter 3: Dirt Floor

The first time I borrowed the hotel’s one-horse buckboard from the Bighorn so Rebecca could ride down to see her family, I followed her on Scarface. Stayed just out of sight, but she wasn’t checking her flank. I got my spyglass out and could see Chet and Rosie standing in front of the house.

If he tried anything, I’d fire both barrels of my scattergun up into the air. The sound would carry easy, even this far away.

But he just stood off to the side as she hugged her daughter, held her as they talked for a long time, their arms tight around each other.

I’d had the Bighorn pack a picnic lunch for her take to her family. Including the husband, I guess.

The three of them moved over by the water pump and Rosie helped Rebecca spread a blanket; then they began laying out the food. Sliced ham, chunks of venison, some buffalo and potatoes in a stew. Plus a huckleberry pie. Enough for several meals.

Rosie seemed suddenly shy, although it was hard to judge from a distance. They sat quietly staring at the food until the little family joined hands and bowed their heads.

I turned Scarface around and headed back to town.

The Holy Redemption Church of the Resurrected had gone up pretty fast. Reverend Venerable had brought along about a dozen men, Deacon Roy, Deacon Bob, like that. And, Mosby’s people had cut the lumber to Venerable’s specifications. So once the foundation was dug, the framing went right up.

I first saw the Reverend in person when he was straddling the peak of the roof, nailing in cedar shingles to finish it off. Big fella, thick, I’d say around 40. Totally bald. Competent looking, up there on the roofline. Confident.

When he finished the roof, had nailed down the last shingle, there wasn’t any topping out ceremony, no moment of silence. He just put his hammer in his tool belt and climbed down the ladder. All business.

Looked to be a right nice church. Only problem I had with it was that I recognized two of the Deacons. The Fitzes, that’s what they were known as when they got their dishonorable discharges from the Cavalry just as I was signing up.

Deacon Pat and Deacon Hugh. Pat Fitzhugh, Hugh Fitzroy.

The Fitzes still carried their LeMat revolvers — a .42 caliber with a second barrel that served as a short 20-gauge shotgun, firing buckshot. Quite a few of the Confederate soldiers had carried LeMats.

The Fitzes.

I saw Rebecca ride back into town the first afternoon she came back from the homestead. I didn’t know how to think of that little ranch — ‘their’ homestead? ‘His’?

But she grinned and waved merrily at me. Unhitched the gray gelding and took him back to Livery Lou by herself.

She held my hand as we walked up to the third floor. She seemed in a good mood. A quiet good mood. She poured water into the washbasin and hummed to herself as she undressed. She seemed kind of lost in thought as she bathed herself thoroughly like she does. Then she turned to me and said, “God, do I miss her.”

She reached for my buckle, “And Rosie ain’t the only thing I miss. Been thinking on this the whole ride back.” She shook her head, “Chet don’t begin...” and didn’t finish the thought.

The Reverend Garth Venerable, credit due, knew how to make an entrance. The new church bell in the little tower on top of his church began tolling for the first time on Sunday morning exactly at eight.

It was startling; we’d never heard a church bell in Little River.

Rebecca and I were looking out at Market Street from our balcony — she had her hand down the front of my trousers. Not exactly what the good Reverend probably had in mind for a Sunday.

Then we turned our heads to the left. Twelve Deacons, dressed head to toe in black, were rhythmically clapping and chanting in unison. They walked slowly, in lockstep just like on a parade ground. They marched south toward Fourth Street, toward the Holy Redemption Church of the Resurrected.

The Reverend Garth Venerable, wearing a white robe that came down to his ankles was walking behind them. The robe was tied at his waist with a braided rope, also white, with some kind of fancy knot.

But what caught everyone’s eye was the long black cross he was dragging behind him. We learned later that it was 12 feet in length with a crossbar measuring six feet. The tail end was on top of a low-slung contraption with eight little wheels. Made cross-hauling a lot easier.

As he drew closer to the Bighorn, Rebecca gasped, “Oh God.”

The Reverend had a crown of thorns on his forehead and drops of blood trailing down.

We watched silently as the Deacons, still chanting and clapping rhythmically, still in lockstep, marched slowly by. An escort for the Reverend and his black-lacquered cross.

I’d been ruminating on the Fitzes. The two dishonorably discharged soldiers. There hadn’t been any witnesses, so it was mostly rumor and speculation. But enough to get them kicked out of the Army.

They were always together, two short, thick, strong men. Massive shoulders and arms. Sometimes they were called the Pig Fitzes because of their small, mean eyes. But names like that went across the grain of what I’d learned from the Gilmore Girls. Aunt Molly said, “People are born looking like they look. No choice.”

Right before I joined up, Fitzhugh and Fitzroy had been seen riding toward the tiny River Cree encampment by three cavalry scouts heading back to Fort Laramie. Then when the Army started its investigation, two merchants from Billings, independent of each other, remembered seeing the two soldiers riding away from the creekside site of the rape and murder.

Two squaws and four children. The women had been raped over two days and nights, then all six had been bludgeoned to death.

The Fitzes.

Mrs. Robinson wasn’t wearing me out, not exactly, but she sure was getting everything I had to give. Now I’ve always enjoyed the company of women, and out West whores were usually plentiful. So I’ve picked up some practices and techniques and pleasure-knowledge over the years.

One thing my family always stressed was to show an interest in others, especially women. Aunt Molly said, “Once you get them talking about themselves, no telling what you’ll learn.”

My mother, Riley, and Aunt Emma looked at each other and laughed. There was always a lot of good-natured giggling and teasing in our home. I miss that.

Aunt Emma said, “Once you learn what they like, just give it to them.” More giggling.

I was young then.

But the Gilmore Girls had given me good advice. Whether in school, in the Army, at a job, I often learned something just by listening. And showing an interest in others.

And that applied to the Indianapolis whores too. Especially, in some cases, to the whores. At first, I was like most kids, all fire and hurry and no idea what I was doing. But by 14, 15, around in there, I remembered the advice from the Gilmore Girls. And started asking, “What do you like?”

Most whores were startled — most of their customers wanted one thing and wanted it right away. But after a while, I learned to steer the conversation in a meaningful way.

“What gets you going? I really enjoy it when a pretty girl does too.”

So, I picked up a little of this, a little of that along the way. All of which Mrs. Robinson was happy to put into practice.

She balked a couple of times, “Um ... no.”

Then a night or two later, “You know, what we was talking about...”

And Rebecca had a ... I don’t know what to call it ... a curiosity about her, I guess. Some adventure too. She’d always been friendly with the Bighorn whores, but she started hanging out with them more between customers.

Talking, giggling, getting her own education.

“Flint.”

“Yeah.”

She whispered in my ear.

I looked at her. Stared. “Really?”

Naughty grin, “Really.” Her hand trailed down.

The No-Name settlement was outside of the twelve north-south blocks that made up Little River. And that was fine with the majority of the citizens. We didn’t have train tracks to be on the wrong side of, but that little pocket north and west of town was repugnant to many of the town’s residents.

Several small huts in deplorable shape. Goats and hogs and chickens and one milk cow wandered around, leaving droppings and stink all over. The entire area was known, simply, as No-Name.

Hands down, the No-Name Bar itself was the worst of a bad lot. Constructed of random boards, tin, stones, oilcloth, whatever had been handy at the time.

Dirt floor, a coal-burning stove that belched out black smoke. Smoke that drifted over into town. Failed muleskinners, whiskey traders, prospectors. Fist fights, knife fights, rapes, assaults. Most Little River residents gave the settlement a wide berth.

The previous owner of the No-Name Bar, Walleye Perkins had been gut-stabbed and left to bleed to death outside the bar.

His common-law widow, a hatchet-faced shrew named Mrs. Hogg, always wore a big, black-handled Colt in a Huckleberry. The shoulder holster rode on the rope she used as a belt and bandoleer combination.

Mrs. Hogg and her two young daughters were often the only females in the No-Name Bar. All three dipped snuff.

The two daughters, so far as was known, never spoke a word. Hogg worked behind the plank that served as a bar, her daughters circulated, collecting coins before pouring another glass of rotgut.

There was a corner of the barroom that had a ratty blanket stretched across it. A stained, corn shuck mattress on the dirt floor. When one of the No-Name drinkers was in the mood, and had twenty-five cents, he’d pay Hogg and take one of the daughters to bed. She’d just slip off her feed-sack dress and lie down.