Chapter 8: Amen!

The Territory came through with the prison construction money — $85. It wouldn’t be much of a town jail, two cells big enough to hold four or five miscreants each if Little River had a sudden crime wave. But it made the growing town proud, our new jail.

The builder had to knock out part of the back wall of our office and build a 10 by 15 addition. I ended up sort of job foreman and passed on Hank Mosby’s ‘sale’ lumber.

It wasn’t part of the Territory contract, but Cayuse and I ended up doing most of the carpentry ourselves. It was preferable to sitting around and watching Buster and George Crabtree do shoddy work.

Marshal Autry’s civilian representative sent two fellas all the way up from Billings to pour the concrete floor and settle in the iron bars across the front and in both back windows. The jail wouldn’t stop a bunch of armed desperadoes from burning down the wooden walls in back, but there you go. You do what you can, but you can’t do everything.

Marshal Autry’s agent set up a public ceremony for the unveiling or grand opening or whatever it’s called when a town celebrates its first jail.

There were banners and ribbons and a three-piece band; the tuba sort of dominating the clarinet and bugle. The Honorable Mayor Oliver B. Chambers introduced the Marshal, who stood on a chair on the wooden sidewalk outside the jail. Not too tall, Marshal Autry.

“This jail mean progress for Little River. It’s a symbol of a civilized society. You good folks have built a hamlet from the wilderness, a town from a hamlet. Next stop ... the City of Little River in the great state of Montana!”

The tuba blatted out some noise and there was some polite applause.

Reverend Venerable and his twelve Deacons looked on from across the street.

After the Territory speechifying, Marshal Autry talked to me and Cayuse about the importance of appearances when facing down the criminal element. “It’s not enough to just put them in jail; you got to look right to the voters. I mean, citizens. When the next budget is passed, I’ll be sending over some uniforms for the two of you.”

I said, “Hmm.”

Cayuse crossed his arms.

The three of us, Autry’s invitation, moseyed up to the Bighorn Saloon. Autry smiled and tipped his hat to everyone. Cayuse looked straight ahead.

We stood at the bar, Cayuse and me with our backs to it, keeping watch, just keeping watch. Autry glanced in the mirror behind the backbar and smiled. Downed his Jameson, shook hands with Cayuse, then me. “Gentlemen.”

We watched him, walking a little stiff in built-up boots, enter the side passage to the dining room and take off his Stetson. He made a little bow to Mrs. Chambers. I looked around; Ollie was nowhere to be seen. Cheney was polishing glasses, minding his own business.

Cayuse said, “Buffalo Cut, jefe.”

Interesting. Ollie had made himself scarce.

Mrs. Chambers joined Rebecca and Rosie and Cayuse and me for breakfast. She did that sometimes. She sat upright, but had a friendly smile for us. A casual air, but I knew she saw everything going on in her dining room, her hotel. With her whores too.

She smiled at me, “Cravens Day.”

“Okay.”

“They reserved two rooms, one for Marco and Mercury. The other for their older sister, Marina. I get the sense she’s the brains. The leader, anyway.”

Rebecca and Rosie were listening intently, but trying not to show it. Cayuse wouldn’t miss much. Wouldn’t miss anything.

“They’re welcome to stay here for the rest of the month. Even longer if they want. But we will disabuse them of that bordello idea.”

Mrs. Chambers, voice even, said, “Abagail tells me that the brothers sleep with Marina every night. Don’t try to hide it, don’t bother to muss up their own beds.”

Rosie went still, thinking about what the hotel housekeeper had said.

“I don’t care who fucks who, I really don’t.” She poured each of us another cup of coffee. Steady hand. My Parker eight-gauge was leaning against the wall by my right shoulder.

She looked at me, “Martha overheard them talking about something called The EagleLeague. Pronounced like it was one word. They shut up as soon as they saw her.”

“What is The EagleLeague?”


“I don’t know, Flint, never heard of it myself. Let’s go.”

I looked at Rebecca, “You and Rosie stay down here with Cayuse. This shouldn’t take long.” Then I turned back, “No, better wait upstairs.”

Rosie glanced at Cayuse. He nodded, just slightly. Mrs. Chambers and I waited until Rebecca and Rosie had climbed the stairs to the third floor.

Well, the Cravens’ weren’t in Marina’s room. Another battle plan fucked from the start. But they had heard my knock and one of the brothers stuck his head out from the other room. “Mrs. Chambers. And the largest man I’ve ever seen.”

Mrs. Chambers, “May we come in?”

“Of course.”

Tall and willowy and elegantly dressed, all in black. I thought ‘New York’. Not that I’d ever been there, but that was how I thought of The East.

All three had glossy black hair; Marina’s not much longer than her brothers’.

She said, “It is time we talked, thank you for stopping by.” As if she’d extended the invitation. No one mentioned my double-barreled.

Marina motioned to a comfortable looking chair, the kind that has buttons all over it. Chesterfield, I believe I’ve heard it called. Gilmore Fine Furniture.

Mrs. Chambers smiled, “Thank you,” and sat down. I leaned back against the door. Marco and Mercury sat down gracefully on a small sofa that matched the chair.

Marina Cravens said, “I have a proposition for you.”

Mrs. Chambers folded her hands in her lap, feet flat on the floor, knees a little off to one side. Just like the Gilmore Girls back in Indianapolis.

Marina said, “Little River is thriving. And will grow even faster when Montana becomes a state.”

Mrs. Chambers nodded politely. We three men were already spectators.

“As you’ve no doubt heard, we plan to open a bordello. High class. Chandelier from St. Louis. Bar shipped all the way from Boston. And, we plan to build from scratch. Just outside of town, north, where that No-Name settlement is.”

Mrs. Chambers turned her head slightly to the side. indicating she was listening.

“I have a builder from Cheyenne — I’ve worked with him before. I’m close to an agreement with Mr. Mosby on the lumber. Two stories high. First floor will be the bar, entertainment area, the ... socialization zone ... a respite from the rigors of frontier life and a gateway to the pleasures of our upstairs hostesses.”

Marina Cravens had some sand. And a husky, whiskey voice. One I could have fallen for. Had fallen for in the past. A pleasant, almost friendly tone. But steel.

Unless they were playing a con, the Cravens had money. Or had money behind them.

Marina unfurled a large sheet of paper, smoothed it out on the walnut table in front of Mrs. Chambers. Marina pointed with her long cigarette holder, “Downstairs.” Pointed to the other side, “Bedrooms.”

Mrs. Chambers studied the drawings as if politely interested.

Marina said, “We want you to manage the entire operation. You’ll own one-fourth.”

Mrs. Chambers smiled, stood, shook her head, “No. I’ll send Timmy to help with your luggage.”

Cayuse and I sat outside the Bighorn, tipped back in our wooden chairs. Market Street was bustling this morning. Two buckboards — a rough ride, but usually better than walking. Three men on horseback, three women shoppers with twine bags bulging with packages. The sound of a hammer clanging on the anvil from Livery Lou’s. The steam saw operating out there east of Market.

An elegant carriage with leather seats and a canvas canopy pulled up in front of the hotel. It was a six-mule rig, didn’t see many of them. One man in a black suit with a bowler hat held the reins; the second one had his left hand around a shotgun that was pointed straight up.

A minute later, Hotel Timmy, with that limp, lugged three suitcases and a steamer trunk out and loaded them onto the back. One of the twins flipped him a dollar.

Marco and Mercury Cravens helped their sister in first. The driver flicked the reins. Cayuse and I watched them heading south on Market, south out of Little River.

I said, “Be back.”

“Yep.”

Mrs. Chambers alternated whores — sending two at a time to Holy Redemption. Smart woman. To me it was like the Fort Laramie Cavalry sending scouts out to Indian Territory. Keeping tabs on your enemy.

Reverend Venerable was smart enough to ignore the sporting ladies sitting in his pews. He’d preach against whoring, but not the individual women. For one thing, he realized the whore business wasn’t hated by everyone in his congregation. Some of the men were still occasional customers. I wondered if their wives knew they snuck around. Probably so. I thought back to my mother and aunts. Strong, smart women who didn’t miss much. When I got away with something, it was usually because they let me.

The Sunday morning after Venerable and his Deacons had destroyed the No-Name Bar, it was the subject of both of his sermons. ‘The First Step To Righteousness.’ Followed by, after some enthusiastic hymn singing, ‘The Recovery Of Souls.’

“That abomination is gone, gone forever!”

“AMEN!”

I tried to write back home, back to Indianapolis, once every month or so. They were pretty accurate letters; I didn’t usually try to sugarcoat the rigors of life out here.

For one thing, the Gilmore Girls usually had a way of sniffing out stuff I tried to hide. For another, I figured they had a right to know what was going on in my life.