Chapter 7: Desecration

My room on the third floor — our room, I guess — had a rocking chair, a handsome walnut job that Rebecca had comforted up with a thick pillow filled with goose down and a red cover she stitched together herself.

I liked to sit on it of an evening and sip a sip or two of Jameson. Rebecca had taken to undressing and then straddling me when she was in a certain mood. We put that chair through some pretty fast paces. Sometimes, when we’d finished, she’d squeeze me, keeping me corralled until all that squeezing had the desired effect. And we set off on a trot, get up to a canter, and finish again in a gallop.

Warm evenings we’d move that rocker out onto the little balcony. That seemed to get Rebecca pretty het up. Got a little loud some nights.

But now ... Rosie.

I still liked to sit there in the dark, sipping, looking out on Market Street. The merchants turn off their outdoor lanterns when they close for the night. There’d been some talk about putting up gaslights, but no one was sure what all was involved, or how much it might cost.

But there’s usually light spilling out from the saloons and you could often hear Domino pounding away at the Bighorn or Buffalo piano across the street. After the No-Name incident, Mrs. Chambers cancelled Domino’s organ-playing duties at Holy Redemption.

As long as the saloons were still open, I’d go back outside, make the rounds. Just being seen. My size and my eight-gauge had a settling down effect on most of the late night drinkers. Cayuse was just as effective —- quiet, but something about him commanded respect.

Rosie was still skittish, still wouldn’t leave her mother’s sight, but lately she’d been ... thawing, I guess that might be the word. She and Rebecca spent considerable time with the Bighorn whores, gossiping and giggling. Well, Rosie just listened, but I doubt that she missed much.

Last few evenings, after I got back from my night rounds, after the saloons had closed up, Rosie had taken to slipping out of bed and snuggling with me on my rocker out on the balcony. She sat sideways on my lap so she could lean her right cheek on my chest. It wasn’t talking, but it was a way of saying something, I did believe that.

Rosie would let her legs dangle down over the side of my thighs and under the arm of the chair. Wriggled around until she was just right. Rebecca refreshed my drink and sometimes Rosie took a little sip, like a baby bird.

Thing was, with that soft rump on my lap, and her right breast kind of resting on my chest ... well I don’t apologize. Nature and all of that.

Even in the soft moonlight, Rebecca recognized the look on my face. She whispered, “Rosie, is Mr. Murdock in that state again?”

Rosie nodded her head alongside my chest.

Rebecca giggled, “Up you go, baby girl.”

Rosie watched as her mother brought out the basin. Pulled down my trousers and bathed me in that soft light. Rebecca whispered, “You think you can go find one of the girls still up?”

Rosie nodded.

“By yourself?”

Another nod.

“You sure?”

Firmer nod.

Little steps. Tiny little steps, but in the right direction.

Cayuse Valdez cut some sort of arrangement with the Chinks. The Lees all lived a little south and a little east of town. Small homes, sheds almost. But Cayuse moved into one of them. I had offered to see if Mrs. Chambers would rent a room to a breed, but he wasn’t interested.

Over time, though, he began joining us for breakfast in the Bighorn. Rosie still didn’t say a word, but she glanced at him every once in a while. The first morning, Rebecca had said, “Cayuse, I thank you, Rosie thanks you. She’s alive only because you found her.”

Cayuse just nodded, “Chiquita’s home.”

Rebecca started slowly, but was gradually getting Rosie out and about. First, a little trip next door to Ollie’s Emporium. Then a few days back here in the Bighorn before the next venture. Over time, they would stroll, arm in arm, from one end of Market Street to the other.

They didn’t glance at the Deacons who were usually hanging around Holy Redemption, just looked straight ahead and kept walking.

Then, it was a small breakthrough, Rosie ventured out on her own. Quick little walks that probably cost her something, but she seemed determined to ... improve I guess is the word. Maybe recover. Although the reason she needed to get better had nothing to do with anything she’d done wrong.

Then one afternoon, she walked all the way down to the jail by herself. Carrying a picnic basket for Cayuse and me. She didn’t eat anything, but sat there while we did.

It didn’t become an everyday thing, picnic lunches, but maybe once a week or so. Then, doing what Rebecca had suggested, I said, “Rosie, “I’m going to make the rounds, you be okay with Cayuse here?”

Her face got a little flushed; she looked down, but nodded.

Cayuse said, “Chiquita be fine.” A regular stem-winder for him.

Rebecca had been right. Rosie felt something for Cayuse. Besides gratitude. From her point of view, he was her savior. A nice-looking one at that, with those large coffee-colored eyes. To me, Cayuse was becoming a partner, maybe a friend. A dab hand in a tight spot no matter what.

Someone, almost certainly from No-Name, had painted a black “FUCK YOU” on the white siding of Holy Redemption. On the front wall, facing Market Street. Sometime before the sun came up on Sunday morning. He got the ‘F’ backwards, but it wasn’t hard to work out the sentiment.

These days, Reverend Venerable usually had a full house on Sunday morning. The new church was too solid to shake, but you could feel the Hallelujah vibrations when you walked past.

I stopped by before the service began. Two Deacons were painting over the blasphemy. I looked at Venerable, “Care to file a complaint?”

That odd, high-pitched sound, “We take care of our own at Holy Redemption.”

“No trouble, Reverend, no violence.”

“We take care of our own.”


Monday morning after the church desecration, Cayuse said, “Told Chiquita. Chippewas.” That he’d killed the three braves who had burned out the Robinson homestead, killed her father, and stolen her.

“Reaction?”

“Listened.”

Even though Cayuse was half Mexican, half Kiowa, some Little River women were paying attention. Good-looking guy, quiet, nice, easy way about him. Plus, he’d found Rosie. And there were those missing Chippewas that some people still whispered about.

But there was a spark between Cayuse and Rosie. Neither one said anything. Cayuse didn’t have much in the way of palaver and Rosie ... well, Rosie whispered to me sometimes, that was about it.

The picnic itself was Rebecca’s idea. She was a Cayuse-Rosie fan. Hell, if a Chinaman had rescued her daughter, she’d be plotting Lee things.

Anyway, Cayuse came calling. Rebecca had secured the Bighorn buckboard, packed the lunch herself. Including a special treat — dried apricot pie. She hugged Rosie and grinned, “Take as long as you want, Mr. Murdock and I are going to make up for lost time.”

That maybe-smile and then Rosie and Cayuse were off. Heading north on Market, past No-Name, the shacks that hadn’t been torn down. Past the Mosby Sawmill, past Harlan Goodwin’s copper mine. The opposite direction from the Robinson homestead.

I was as eager as when Aunt Emma first slipped me a dollar back in Indianapolis. She and Aunt Molly and my mother had giggled as I scurried off.

But this morning, all that hunger didn’t do me much more good than it had back when I was a boy. Rebecca said, “I’m flattered, Mr. Murdock, truly. And don’t worry, I’ll have you right back in the saddle again.”

I waited until Marshal Autry passed through Little River to make a move on Reverend Venerable and the Deacons. He had personally asked me to hold up until he came by on his circuit. This time he had two deputies, Hoover and a small, quick-looking man named Hoss.

The three of them and me and Cayuse made for a pretty formidable looking group. But Venerable had those twelve Deacons.

The shops and saloons were open for business, but no one was out walking around. And if word was out, then Venerable would also have heard that we were coming for his guns.

Five of us, all wearing stars, entered through the front door. I had my Parker side-by-side in my left hand, my Peacemaker revolver was in my righthand holster.

As usual, time slowed down. I didn’t ask it to, it just did. I saw the twelve Deacons, six on each wall just like that time Rebecca and I attended services. Reverend Venerable stood behind the pulpit, both hands on the sides, just like he had a congregation to preach to.

I stood in the middle; my scattergun could go either way. The other four spread out. We weren’t exactly expecting trouble, but we weren’t not expecting it either.

Autry spoke quietly, “You know why we’re here.”

Venerable nodded.

Autry, “No trouble.”

Venerable nodded again.

“Where are they?”

Venerable looked to his left, “Deacon Tom.”

One of the six on the south wall reached over to a pew and lifted a heavy wooden box. He walked it over to Cayuse who said, “Floor.”

Autry and I, hell the five of us knew, it had been too easy. They had, or could easily get, more guns. But, for whatever reason, Venerable hadn’t wanted a confrontation. Not that day.

But the two LeMat shotgun/revolvers that the Fitzes usually carried weren’t in the box that Venerable had turned over.

It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but whenever Rosie leaned across the breakfast table, cupped her hands, and whispered, “Lunch,” I knew. She’d carry a basket down to Cayuse and stay long enough for her mother and me to catch up on our business.

Which we did. Two, sometimes three times.

“Mr. Murdock, you are something.”

“So are you, Mrs. Robinson, so are you.”

One morning, I remember the Sunday church bells ringing, the three of us were still in bed. Rebecca nudged her daughter, “I’m felling lazy, darlin’” She handed Rosie a fresh washcloth.

Rebecca turned to me, “Wash-up time, Mr. Murdock.”

Rosie stood solemnly by the washbasin, that maybe-smile. The surprise didn’t stop me from stirring right up to life. Rebecca flipped the sheet off and giggled, “Have you no shame, sir?”

I was pretty sure they’d talked this one over.

As Rosie started her ministrations, her mother said, “More soap, honey. Nice and slippery.”

Rosie, one hand soapy, the other with the washcloth, frowned in concentration. She shook her head, dropped the cloth into the basin and used both of her small hands on me. I was pointed up to the ceiling and Rosie stroked me, up and down, up and down.

I said, “Um.”

Rebecca giggled again, “Don’t stop, hon.” Was she talking to me or to Rosie? Maybe both.

My breath caught and then I was past the point of no return. Rosie, both hands, pulled me down, aimed me straight at herself. I’d been a little taller, I’d have splashed her face instead of her nightgown.