Here by the Bloods (7 page)

“Christ in heaven,” Big Jack says, not realizing that he has removed his hat.

Elbert glances back, his felt bowler similarly pressed against his overalls. “I never seen her kind . . . even in Santa Fe.”

I let my eyes drift momentarily from the angel to the assembled crowd of bareheaded men and newly concerned women. Elbert's words had said what we were all thinking: that the choice of ostentatious carriage and accoutrement was less about transporting a wealthy man than it was about being a worthy conveyance for the likes of
her
. No reasonable mind would toss this fair beauty into the back of a hay cart any more than it would a Swiss clock or a pallet of quail eggs.

A man's shoulder jabs me hard, shattering the peace. “Move it, half-breed.” I turn to see Jed Barnes trudging down the boardwalk, hell-bent for the Jewel. The weight of the pearl-handled Colts tugs reassuringly from my hips as I reach for his shoulder.

“Call me that again.” I slap the greasy nap of his shirt, feeling the acrid, boozy sweat that no doubt coats the rest of him. Jed Barnes explodes at the touch, spinning back at me with a vicious, slashing arm stroke. I hitch backward. The tip of his blade grazes the loose flap of my jacket.

“Get the fuck off me!” Jed snarls, more concerned at the assault than by who committed it. Then his eyes fall on me, focusing, despite the tremors that ravage him.

“Jesus, Jed.” Elbert says. “Get ahold a' yourself.”

“I am sick, dammit,” the drunk hisses. “I have not had my drink yet.” The razor trembles in his grip as his eyes dart from face to face, assessing threat like a cornered tomcat. I finger the fresh cut in the fabric beneath the buttonhole. I look back at him. Jed sees something in my face that propels his feet backward. “Any fool know better than to interfere with a man and his drink. Now you just leave me be!”

Drawing my Colt, I step toward him. Then I feel something thick and sturdy press against my rib cage.

“There a problem here?” I look down and see the truncheon, clutched in the firm, uncompromising fist of the Pinkerton captain. His eyes fix solely on me, keenly aware which man more requires his authoritative gaze. “Or maybe the two of you want to bunk up with the Snowman for the night?”

I let the Colt fall back into its resting place. “No problem at all, Captain,” I hear Big Jack say. “Just a little misunderstanding among the locals, is all.”

“Locals? Is that what we call them now?” Jed says. “As a God-fearing white man, I think—”

“—that you should be getting on to the Jewel now,” Big Jack sternly completes Jed's thought.

The captain considers Jed, then me, then Jed again. “Best be on your way then.”

Jed tips his hat to the captain. “Good day to you, sir,” he says, letting his eye linger on me for a moment longer before shuffling off down the street.

The captain stows his truncheon and adds in a calm but foreboding tone, “Next time, I bash skulls and we sort it out after. Let there be no misunderstanding on that.” He nods, turning away slowly, like a man who need not hurry for anyone.

“Forget old Jed. He is not worth your time,” Big Jack says.

I turn back toward the hotel—throbbing with rage—to see the two newest arrivals locked in a stare right at me. Her eyes, little saucers of cornflower blue, melt the anger from me in a watery instant. I want to climb inside them and soothe the faint ripples of fear that, even from this distance, emanate from her, telling me that I have caused her discomfort. Even under the parasol of another man's protection, she is my guest and I have dishonored her. She breaks the gaze, removing from my sight the fairest sprig of color that I have ever seen and may never have the privilege of beholding again.

A shielding caress from the gentleman turns her away from me and ushers her toward the hotel porch, where the full staff has assembled. The Bend, in its unworthy entirety, watches the couple disappear through the door.

A flicker of familiar raven hair catches the breeze from a window to my left, mingling with the sheer white curtains that flutter from it. Tears leak from Maria's eyes, tears she wants me to see.

Hezekiah Fay inspects the tear in my coat and brings it over to his worktable where the light is better. “Gave his name as one Avery Willis of Chattanooga, Tennessee. A professional gambler, by his own admission, and very particular about his clothes.” The tailor points to a rack of starched white shirts hanging in the corner, each with identical lettering monogrammed above the right breast—a large W, flanked by a smaller A and D. I know my letters that much.

“He come in here already?” I ask.

“Oh, I believe I was his first order of business after his arrival yesterday. Four shirts of the finest cotton I have seen in some time, laundered and pressed, extra powder. I guess visible perspiration is a liability in the poker business. I informed the gentleman that the hotel would have gladly sent his garments to me, thus saving him the trouble of visiting my shop directly, but he said he did not trust that the specifics of his instructions would survive such a third-party conveyance. I cannot say he is wrong in that assumption.” Hezekiah Fay weaves Jed Barnes's handiwork through his fingers, eyeing the sliced fabric skeptically. “You say you caught this on a fence post?”

“Barbed wire.”

“Must have been the sharpest barbed wire in the territory. That is good, though. Allows for a cleaner mend.” The tailor eyes me delicately, adding, “You know, perhaps a new shirt would be in order as well.”

I look down at the gray flannel clinging to my frame. It is my favorite—cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and soft like a baby's diaper. “I just got this broke in. Sheriff give it to me.”

“You think I do not recognize my own craftsmanship?” he says, coming around the counter to me. “I made that shirt for Sheriff Pardell nearly twenty years ago. Yes, it is a fine garment—I stand by it. But weaves tend to rub thin over time. Understandably, the sweat of a working man.” Hezekiah Fay takes a step back, looks me up and down, and smiles. “Perhaps something a little more reflective of the current fashion. I cut that shirt for his shape, not yours, what with the way you have filled out and all. Nothing makes a man feel whole more than a smart white shirt and a crisp white collar. Why, I think I might even have one or two ready to wear out of here.”

“Thank you, but I believe the coat is all.”

“Very well. I will have it for you by noon tomorrow.”

“I had hoped to wait for it.”

“Oh, now son, I am swamped today. Two suits await my altering and I have the gentleman's shirts to return.”

“Thought your boy did that.”

“At home with a touch of cough. How his mother coddles him.”

What I say next comes out of me before I even think of forming the words. “I could run them shirts over for you.” Something about the way I say it brings a little smile to the tailor's face.

“Ah, and you would not by chance be offering your services in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the gentleman's fair, young companion, would you?” That was the word he used too.
Companion
. Not “wife,” not “betrothed.” I find that most interesting.

Hezekiah Fay fixes on me, expecting a response to a question he never asked. I hold steady, offering no evidence of the butterfly that feels right ready to bust from my ribs. “Very well,” the tailor says, taking the shirts from their hanging place. “I would be much obliged for the favor, Harlan.” He wraps the shirts in brown paper and hands them to me.

“I convey these over, we are square on the mending?” I ask. Hezekiah Fay puffs a tired sigh from his lips.

“You have your mother's flair for negotiation.” He keeps me waiting for a few moments and then flashes another smile. “Room twelve, if you please.”

 

 

The coarse strap of the Spencer chafes unfamiliarly against my paper-thin layer of flannel. Foot traffic has grown since yesterday. Beleaguered pedestrians negotiate the crisscrossing trajectories of errant horses and creaking wagons that now crowd the street. A cigar drummer has set up his stand just outside the hotel, unpacking his wares and displaying them on a small folding table. “Direct from Havana, Cuba, gentlemen! Ten cents apiece, a dollar a box. The finest in hand-rolled tobacco.”

Trunks and traveling cases clutter the receiving room of the hotel. I have to step over some as I enter. Cookie hurries about the luggage, trying to match the piles with their corresponding guests, most of whom—if the line of new and grumpy faces ten-deep at reception is to be believed—have yet to be assigned rooms.

Behind the counter, Mr. Brunson Stone, the silver-haired proprietor, records the names of his new guests into a ledger book, all the while offering sharply whispered commands to any staff member bustling within earshot.

Cookie looks up, the gears of recognition slowed by the swirl of overlapping thoughts taxing his brain. To be fair, I am not a familiar sight inside the hotel. And in my shirtsleeves, with the Spencer slung over my shoulder and a bundle of expensive finery cradled in my free hand, I must look altogether foreign. That makes two of us. More accustomed to laboring near the stoves and woodsheds out back than with demanding customers front-of-house, Cookie finds himself equally out of place in both location and uniform. The ill-fitting bellman's tunic, gaudily appointed with stripes of red and gold to complement the jaunty blue pillbox hat, still holds the dust and awkward creases, having been hastily retrieved from some cabinet. But a flash of yellowed teeth tells me he welcomes the recent course of events. “Lawd, Mister Harlan, these white folks sure tip good. I made six dollars already and only been cussed at twice.”

“Better than hauling firewood,” I say.

“Sho' is. All this fussin'. Hell, when a Negro swings, ain't nobody paying attention but the vultures.” He dabs his sweated brow with a chuckle as I duck up the stairway.

For all the commotion downstairs, the upper floors are eerily quiet, almost funereal. I instinctively silence my walk, floating up the steps without the slightest creak escaping the warped floorboards beneath my feet. I pause at every landing, count the doors in the hallways—four on the first floor, five on the second, four on the third.

The stairwell continues up past the third floor landing to a small half-door, ringed at the top and bottom with a slash of golden light. The roof. I think about the two Pinkerton sharpshooters just on the other side of it who probably do not like surprises. So I ease back down to the landing. An open window sweetens the air made sour by the stretch of musty wool carpet that lines the corridor and the boiled lye soap that infrequently cleans it.

I move down the hall, checking the numbers—1-0, 1-1. I see the approaching 1 and 2 together and hope I am right. Numbers vex me more than letters. My pulse quickens at the thought of knocking on the wrong door, or worse, confirming, by my own negligence, the gentleman's doubts as he expressed them to the tailor of ever being reunited successfully with his property now in my charge. Then the woman laughs, and my heartbeat leaps.

The door after number 12 stands partially open. Soft voices within that room betray the presence of a man and a woman who believe they are alone. Keep your nose where it belongs, Mamma told me. And here I am, inching down a hallway in a hotel where I am neither staff nor lodger, compelled by a bubbling, dangerous curiosity.

Her front is to me, in three-quarter view, but her attention lies with the unseen man in the room's interior. She brushes the hair from her face, freeing an unguarded smile not meant for my eyes, but one I will cherish forever as if it were. A swallow comes to her delicate throat, expectantly. Words will soon follow.

“You shouldn't have,” she says. Her voice lays softly on the ears, like a piper's song.

“The pleasure is mine entirely,” says the man, in a voice I recognize. My spine stiffens. He crosses to her, his familiar black suit obscuring all but her eyes. I quell the shock of the discovery, save for a fleeting twitch of my bicep, which clinks the stiff brown paper tucked under my arm. Her eyes fall on me and she gasps. Boone turns his head in response.

“Sorry.” The word finds its way out of me as I turn away. I fumble toward the door of number twelve, sensing the two of them closing the distance to the doorway.

“Harlan,” the mayor says.

I touch the door at number 12. “I was just . . . I have the shirts for the gentleman.”

“There is no trouble, Harlan. Please, I would like to introduce you.”

When I turn back, and find the courage to lay my eyes on her, the top button of her hastily fastened collar has returned her dress to full modesty. “Harlan Two-Trees, may I present Miss Genevieve Bichard?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Two-Trees.”

“Ma'am.” My left hand somehow finds my hat, which I remove completely. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

“Nothing of the kind, son,” Boone starts in. “Miss Bichard's father is an old business associate of mine. Back in New Orleans. I was just reminding Miss Bichard that when last I saw her, she was this high and cradling a rag doll.” Boone flattens his hand aside his thigh, indicating a child's stature. “It is only by complete coincidence that she finds herself here in our little corner of the world.”

“If there is profit to be made at the poker tables, no corner of the world is too remote for Mister Willis,” she begins the statement fixed on Boone. But then, at the mention of her lover's name, her eyes break away and land on me. God knows how many men have withered under such sapphire radiance. But my strength stays with me. I stand tall, returning her gaze in equal measure—a tactic she finds neither expected nor comforting. She fusses her fingers nervously over her dress, smoothing away some nonexistent wrinkle. An air of superiority overcomes her. “You may leave those with me,” she says, in a tone normally aimed at domestic help or unruly children.

Plucking the shirts from me, her soft skin brushes my bare forearm. She jerks back, foundered by a charge of electricity that rocks us both, only I mask my reaction far better than she. Flustered, and caught without a response befitting her station, she settles on indignation. I see the ire rising—directed at me—fixing to explode from her. She intakes the air for the volley that will befall me, but Boone, of all people, intervenes.

“Harlan, here, is the cause of all this hoopla. Without his bravery, there might not be a hanging day.” The words kick her anger off course a bit, causing her to reconsider her line. I was rather looking forward to seeing her scrunch her face up red and try to look ugly, but that will have to wait.

She takes a stare at me top to bottom, lingering a moment too long on my shirt. All at once I forget the comfort of it and see only the frayed cuffs, the odd splatters of coffee and bacon grease from too many hastily consumed breakfasts. The confidence that had kept my head high deserts me faster than rats fleeing a burning barn, leaving in its wake the country bumpkin that I am.

“Yes, I heard about you,” she says. “Clearly the outdoors suits you.” She gives a little nod and heads back into her room. “Good day to you both.”

“Ma'am,” I say, to a door that is already shut. Who am I to think I can stand in her gravity? Then again, she makes fools for a living.

Boone puts his hand on my shoulder. “A fine and proper young woman, Miss Bichard. Hence the separate quarters from her companion.” He walks with me down the stairs. “I would hate to have folks get the wrong idea. As you saw, her door remained open as we conversed. Even so, best not to let a rumor fester. The town has enough to deal with, what with stages pulling in by the hour. We can let this stay between you and me.” He goes on, his voice drifting to some far-off place that my ears ignore. I think only about the two ten-dollar pieces rubbing against one another in my pocket and how quickly I will be rid of them.

We reach the door of the hotel and step out into the street, which has increased its population even in the few minutes since last I negotiated it. Boone says something about having me out for Sunday dinner when all this foolishness has passed, or some such. I mutter a word of gratitude, unbothered by how effortlessly the false sentiment comes out of me. It is easier to lie a second time, just like it is to aim a gun at a living soul after you've already shot your first.
It gets easier
. Foreign voices curse my passage as I sprint through the fray of clacking, dust-churning wagons that clog the thoroughfare. I bound through Hezekiah's door and slap my silver on the counter.

“Let me see them new shirts.”