Chapter 9: Western Union

Cayuse and I, feet up on opposite sides of the sheriff’s desk, were sipping after-breakfast coffee that Rosie had brought us from the Bighorn. He said, “Take a ride, jefe?”

Talkative this morning.

“Sure. Where?”

“Sodbusters.”

It was outside our jurisdiction, some miles south of town. But things from the outside often slopped over city boundaries. And if Cayuse suggested it...

We got our mounts from Livery Lou and wheeled them left, past the Holy Redemption, past Matty’s Bar, past the jail, and on the way to the onetime Robinson spread. Chet and Rebecca and Rose of Sharon.

Seemed like a long time ago, but things happen fast sometimes. And a lot can occur in just a few weeks. Especially out West.

Scarface and Cayuse’s gentle mare, Sugar, seemed pretty frisky at first. Glad to be out and about. We gave them their head, they’d calm down in a bit.

As we neared the former homesteads, we slowed to a trot, then a walk. There was the burned out Robinson cabin. And, off in the distance, we could see two others, both abandoned. But that wasn’t all.

Now I understood what Ollie and Harlan Goodwin had been up to. Why they’d conspired to drive the sodbusters out.

Building lots, maybe an acre each, were partitioned out. Red ribbons tied to the pointed stakes and tied to the strings that joined them to form little rectangular plots.

I was talking, mostly to myself, “Housing. Dozens of lots.”

Cayuse pointed off to the west. Different sized areas. I said, “Stores. Bars, hotels, another fucking town.”

And they’d own it, Ollie and Goodwin. And Mosby would sell them the lumber.

“Mr. Murdock.”

“Mrs. Robinson.”

“You probably don’t know Doris Kearney, but her husband is one of Masie’s regulars. Hiram Kearney.”

“I know Hiram. A little.” Nice enough guy, never been a troublemaker. Got himself promoted to assistant line foreman at Hank Mosby’s Sawmill.

“Masie told me and Rosie that he don’t like that Women’s Bible Study Group.”

“His wife is in it?”

“She is.”

“Why’s he care, Hiram?”

“Reverend Venerable keeps one woman behind when the study hour is over. Different woman every week.”

“Oh?”

“Keeps her for an hour, individual counseling.”

“Oh.”

It was just luck that I was walking my Market Street beat and happened to be near the north end of town. I heard a roar, angry roar, from No-Name. What was left of No-Name.

I drew my Army Peacemaker and fired a shot straight up. Cayuse would hear it, should hear it, and come running. I kept the revolver in my right hand, held my scattergun in the left.

One of Venerable’s Deacons, I didn’t know his name, crashed around a corner, and brushed his shoulder along my chest. Didn’t stop, just picked up speed.

I trotted forward and saw two men, each holding up a leg of another man who had been strung up from the branch of a sturdy Douglas-Fir. Hs face was red, he was choking to death.

I holstered my pistol and aimed my Parker up to where the rope had been looped over a thick branch. I was close enough that the shot wouldn’t spread enough to strike the frantic man who was desperately clawing at the noose.

Time slowed down and I braced myself, remembering how loud it would be, how hard it would kick. Enough of the buckshot hit the rope to mostly sever it. Splintered the branch up as well. One man stood on a stump, reached over the victim’s head and yanked on the rope. It gave and the two helpers lowered the victim onto his back. The crowd was angry, some women wailing, but they parted as Mrs. Hogg raced forward with a wicked-looking pigsticker.

Cayuse arrived, breathing fast, and we watched her slice the noose open. He’d live.

I said, “Holy Redemption. One of the Deacons.”

I reloaded my scattergun and the Peacemaker as we walked back to Market Street. No hurry now.

In the church, Venerable must have seen something in my face. He started to step back, caught himself. He said, “Deacon Andrew.”

Andrew’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue. Cayuse and I marched him down to the jail and put him in the right-hand cell, the one on the south side. Cayuse remembered to add a chamber pot and I headed back to No-Name.

Reverend Venerable came to see me the morning after we’d arrested Andrew Cummings. Who sat in his cell, hunched over, in his black suit.

“How long will you keep him?”

“Up to the district judge. I sent Marshal Autry a telegram, haven’t heard back.”

“That No-Name transgressor desecrated my church.”

I nodded, “String him up.”

“No, that was an overreaction. My Deacons are protective of ... our faith.”

I shrugged, “Up to Judge Dawkins, not my doings.”

The boy, Hotel Timmy, was the son of Mrs. Chambers’ most senior whore, Hannah. The most senior and the most knowledgeable. Doc Gimble, with Mrs. Chambers assisting, had delivered baby Timmy in Hannah’s room on the second floor. Hotel Timmy slept there every night of his life, toddler to teenager. He was born with his left leg a little withered so he had a slight limp that didn’t much slow him down. He never mentioned it, remained cheerful doing his hotel errands during the day.

The other sporting ladies watched out for him, coddled him. It was like having a dozen or so aunts; a feeling I could identify with. As for Hannah ... well, she and Hotel Timmy were closer than any two people I’d ever known. He took a basin of fresh water upstairs every time a customer finished his business with his mother. The two of them slept in her bed — he’d never slept anywhere else. And he was so proud of Hannah — her looks, her popularity, her style.

There was a freshness about him, an innocence. A sunny disposition, a smile for everyone. His face was smooth and unlined from life. And, as the girls told Rebecca and Rosie, Hotel Timmy had no interest in sex. Had no interest in sampling the merchandise he saw every day and every night. And there was certainly nothing sexual between him and his mother. It was just love, old fashioned and, somehow, almost pure. I guess about everyone in town knew about the two of them. And seemed to understand the relationship.

As he grew up in the Bighorn, reached the age of 16, two of the newer whores — Sarah and a girl called Sunshine — were a couple of years younger than he was. As they got used to his gentle ways, they became surrogate sisters. Younger sisters, but older, much older.

It was now an almost every-morning occurrence, one I didn’t protest about, not at all. Rebecca and I would do some toothbrushing, some face-washing, some body-washing. Then Rebecca or Rosie would grin and take me in both hands.

Rebecca was more efficient, had more experience I guess. Or confidence.

Rosie, it sounds crazy, but it was like her hands were a little shy. Bashful. But she didn’t hesitate, just smiled and soaped me up. Not that maybe-smile, not any more. She had her mother’s smile, full of fun and mischief and, sometimes, promise.

I enjoyed standing there, the morning sun still low in the sky, sending slanted beams into our hotel room. I was listening to Rebecca softly humming something that I sort of recognized.

But mainly I was concentrating on Rosie’s two little hands, soft and soapy, and loving. She was looking me straight in the eye as she massaged, up and down, up and down. When I got excited ... well, my business usually poked straight up.

I suddenly recognized the song — “Molly Malone” — Mike and Mickey O’Brien had been singing it outside of Matty’s Bar. At that same instance Rebecca stopped humming and stepped up beside Rosie. I knew without knowing how I knew what they had planned for me.

I looked from one to the other; they were both smiling at me, judging the exact moment. Rosie moved me from vertical to horizontal and Rebecca winked and took me into her mouth just as I exploded.

Rosie tightened her two-handed grip and squeezed toward the head. Rebecca said, ‘Hmm,” and closed her lips around me.

My heart rate settled down and I shook out the tension in my shoulders. Rosie made one last voyage from the base to the tip and Rebecca stood up straight. They both were still staring me in the eye and Rebecca used two fingers to scoop along the top of her tongue.

Rosie didn’t stop looking at me, just opened her own mouth and accepted those fingers. Echoed Rebecca’s, “Hmm.” Not talking out loud, not exactly. But sort of.

The sheriff’s contract I had with the Territory of Montana had been a three-way negotiation. Marshal George Autry, Mrs. Chambers, and me.

Mrs. Chambers because an important part of my compensation was room and board. Especially important now that I had two guests rooming and boarding with me.

But by the time it got to the hotel specifics, it was just Mrs. Chambers and the marshal. I imagine she came out just fine. I didn’t need to know the details, just so long as the three of us were taken care of. And so long as Cayuse had enough of a wage to be comfortable.

Cayuse Valdez continued his slow courtship of Rose of Sharon Robinson. It was conducted, whatever ‘it’ was on those out of town buckboard picnic rides. Which were continuing even as cold weather began setting in. I wondered, sort of hoped, they had someplace to relax, to be comfortable with each other.

They were also alone together for some lunches here in town. When Rosie brought food down to the jail and I went back to the hotel to spend some time sparking with her mother.

I also thought about, and was beginning to worry about, what was going on with Rosie and me. Early mornings and sometimes when she was still awake after the saloons closed. Well, I understood what was going on, but what did that mean so far as Rosie and Cayuse were concerned?