Chapter 4: Black & White

Three axe murders. One in each of the three whorehouses. Two in one night — The Red Light Saloon and the Castle. The third one in the Osgood Palace. All three after the ladies were finished for the night, the customers had gone home, and the establishments were closed.

Cayuse and I, and occasionally Marshal Autry, did most of our patrolling during the killing hours. We worked until the sun started coming up. Well, it was more clouds and snow than sunshine.

Cayuse and me ... it wasn’t our job to solve the mystery. We weren’t trained investigators — Autry was. But he was also feeling the pressure from Governor Leslie and his team.

All in all, it was a puzzle. The three saloons, each made out of brick, were locked up after hours. Of course that didn’t mean that extra keys couldn’t be floating around. Or, perhaps a window was left unlocked.

Well, Cayuse and I would concentrate on prevention. We’d had some experience in that area.

One evening Cayuse and I were walking Rebecca and Rosie to the brothels. Of course technically the Red Light, the Castle, and the Palace were saloons, but everyone knew about the upstairs business.

Marshal Autry was walking in the same direction and caught up with us as we maintained a fairly brisk pace through the swirling snow.

Then Rosie shrieked and grabbed Cayuse’s arm. Rebecca hopped over closer to me.

Autry laughed and said, “It’s just to alert people that the critter was found in the neighborhood.” The ‘critter’ was a rattlesnake with about eight or ten buttons on its tail, nailed high up on a wooden post for everyone to see.

He said, “We don’t usually see them in winter. Maybe a raccoon pestered him out of hibernation. In any case it’s a holdover from when Helena was mostly just tents and shacks. We don’t get many snake bites anymore.”

Autry looked thoughtful, “Although when they go into hibernation, it’s usually a bunch of them. Like a thousand all curled up together.”

The Robinsons, mother and daughter, shuddered and made a wide berth around the display. A bit of a verse, from some distant classroom, popped into my mind. Something about nature being red in tooth and claw. Odd, isn’t it, the things that we recall.

In a move that surprised and pleased the Gilmore Girls, Marshal Autry invited one of them to join him in interviewing Rawhide Calhoun’s hands. The seven men who had been in either the Red Light Saloon or the Castle or the Palace during the two nights when the murders took place.

Molly volunteered, and Autry was open about his thinking, “You’ll notice things that I won’t. Maybe a change of tone. Maybe a sideways glance.”

Emma smiled, “Two heads are better than one, Georgie.”

Maybe so, but nothing much came of the conversations. The ranch hands hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious. Molly said, “They weren’t shifty, weren’t trying to hold anything back. They just didn’t know anything that would help us.”

Us. Typical Gilmore Girls. They placed themselves right in the middle of the Helena mystery and would stay involved until everything was resolved. One way or another.

Molly grinned, “And one poor sprout lost all of his money — two months’ wages — playing poker. Couldn’t even go upstairs for a poke.”

Like it had been back in Little River, whorehouse patrolling was pretty routine, pretty quiet. Oh, there was an occasional problem with a belligerent drunk. Usually it wasn’t a regular customer; just a drummer, or a cowboy, or a gambler passing through.

One night at the Red Light Saloon, a little before midnight, I was downstairs talking idly with the bartender. In a way, Louie ‘Scooter’ Libby reminded me of Ollie Chambers. Not physically — Ollie was plump, and Scooter was skinny. But both were pampered and polished and practically gleamed from pomade and talcum powder and close razor-shaves.

Scooter was reminiscing about his childhood back in St. Louis when I heard a strangled scream from upstairs.

I grabbed my scattergun and raced up, looking both ways for trouble. A plump whore named Wanda-Wanda pointed to my right, “Katie Bly.”

I slammed the door open and saw a fat man with his hands around Katie’s neck. She was purple-faced and was frantically trying to claw his fingers open.

He was naked from the waist up and flushed with excitement. He was just turning to see who had burst in the room when I reached between his legs from behind and grabbed him by the balls.

Some big men aren’t all that strong. I am. And I squeezed him as a quiet rage coursed through me. I’d always despised a bully. He gasped and let loose of Katie and then started shrieking in a high-pitched, almost girlish way. He didn’t have any more success in prying my fingers away than Katie had with his.

I squeezed harder, not thinking, not caring about how much damage I was inflicting. Katie stumbled naked out into the hallway and was gathered in the arms of three other sporting ladies.

I wanted to pitch the guy out of that second-story window, but reined myself in. He was finished for the night. Maybe finished for a good long time. I let him go and he groaned — a kind of sickly sound — and curled up on the floor.

Chicago Joe bustled in and I tossed her the man’s billfold. She took out all of his cash and handed it to Katie without even bothering to count it.

I dragged the gentleman by his wrists down the bumpy steps and out through the back door. It was still snowing, and he was still naked from the waist up, and I still didn’t care.

One morning at breakfast, Riles grinned around the table and said, “Guess who Patcheye’s biggest earner is?”

Rebecca said, “Who?”

“Stumpy.”

Rosie said, “A dwarf! Really? Why would a man...” She broke off and looked at Cayuse. Rebecca was studying me.

Emma grinned, “You ever been with a dwarf, Flint? No, don’t answer that! Better to maintain the family tranquility.”

Molly and Riles laughed. Rebecca and Rosie continued to stare at the male contingent.

Stumpy’s real name was Delores Gundy. Like Patcheye, she came up here from Denver. Even standing up, she barely came to my waist. She had the sweetest face, like a little girl. Although I’d heard she was close to 30 years old. Sweet disposition too.

Riles grinned said, “Word is that Stumpy has amazing lower body strength.”

Rebecca made an open-and-closed gesture with her palms pressed together, “You mean... ?”

Riles just winked.

Once again, Cayuse told me, “Be back.”

And off he went. I wondered if he told Rosie what he was up to. Probably not. I asked Molly to bunk in with Rosie.

The days, well, nights mostly, began to feel routine. Which can lead to letting your guard down, to becoming less alert. I began to wonder if the axe murderer had left town. Or was simply waiting for Cayuse and me to move on. We couldn’t station ourselves here indefinitely.

Then one morning after breakfast, Autry walked with Cayuse and me down to that second-floor meeting room. “This is Allan J. Varner. He’s from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency out of Chicago.”

Varner was a florid, barrel-chested man, hard looking, not soft, not at all. He was dressed in a dark suit with a vest and a black bow tie. Polished boots too. And, when he went out, a black Homburg with a black band.

I never saw him wear anything else and always thought of him as ‘the man in black’.

He shook hands with us, “I’m in Helena on railroad business, but stopped by to see Autry as a matter of professional courtesy.”

I said, “Oh?”

“There’s a lot of talk, up and down the line, about the EagleLeague. They haven’t started robbing trains yet, and the railroad owners want to make sure they don’t. But there’s one rumor in particular, Murdock, that concerns you. A vendetta rumor.”

I nodded, “The Cravens? Out of Memphis?”

“Them, yeah. And a lowlife minister you arrested.”

“Venerable.”

“Yep. The EagleLeague is made up of scum. But some of them are dangerous. And the worst ones are smart. You humiliated some of their fellow Eagles so you’ll have to pay.”

Autry shook his head, “Fucked up code of honor.”

“Fucked up or not, don’t underestimate them.”

I nodded at Varner’s holster, at the gun inside it, “What is that? I don’t think I’ve seen one.”

He took it out, handling the gun carefully, “It’s German, precision-made. Reichsrevolver. The Model 1883.”

It had a curved handle and a 5-inch barrel. Efficient looking. Like Varner himself.

The EagleLeague certainly wasn’t new news, but it felt more real now. Coming from such a respected organization as the Pinkertons.

Varner said, “I’ll be in town a few more days — my men are tracking down a couple of thugs who were plotting to rob the train from Bozeman. Since I’m here anyway, Autry asked me to look into the whore killings. Quiet and unofficial like.”