Slocum and the Glitter Girls at Gravel Gulch (9781101619513) (7 page)

“Never met him,” Slocum said.

Hornaday’s eyes widened. He was dazed by all that had happened to him and couldn’t quite believe that he was a free man.

He couldn’t quite believe that he wasn’t going to the gallows over a trumped-up crime.

He felt as if he were dreaming, in fact, and the man in the black clothes made all of it seem even more unreal.

He shook his head and pinched himself on the cheek to see if he was actually awake and still alive.

Laurie met them at the door and whisked the two men inside.

Her eyes glowed with an intense light and Slocum felt a warm stirring in his loins. He looked back at the edge of the valley in the direction of where the town ended.

He saw no one.

Laurie closed the door and dropped the latch.

Hornaday appeared to be in a stupor and just blinked his eyes at her, dumbfounded.

She patted Slocum on the arm.

“Any trouble?” she asked.

“Not a bit,” Slocum said, and her warm smile was his reward for what he had done.

Orson Canby sat at the table in the hotel dining room with Walt Bozeman and Rufus Hackberry, a lit cigar poking from his flabby lips. The waiter had just cleared away their plates and poured fresh coffee into their cups.

Walt, whom they called “Boze,” the taller of the two gunmen, rolled a quirly and lit it. Like his cohort, Hack, he was lean and trim, with neat sideburns, a slightly wattled neck with a bandanna tied loosely around it. He wore a Colt .44 on his hip and saw to it that the bullets in his cartridge belt were always shining with a light film of oil.

Hack struck a match and lit Boze’s cigarette. He did not smoke, but worried a cut plug of tobacco from cheek to cheek. He slid a spittoon closer to him with the toe of his worn boot. He had a thin mustache and his sideburns flared on the upper edge of his cheek, a rust red, as was the color of his spiky hair.

“What do you boys make of that Slocum feller?” Canby asked as he drew on his chubby cigar.

Boze chuckled under his breath.

“He’s a head taller than Hack and me, Orson, but he don’t look like much.”

“Hack, what do you think of the man who sold me those horses?”

Hack squirmed in his chair and stopped chewing his small cud of tobacco for a moment.

“Like Boze said, he’s a tall drink of water and seems to know horseflesh. I didn’t like the way he looked at that old flea-bit gelding tied up outside the livery.”

“How did he look at it?” Canby asked.

“Like he pitied it,” Hackberry said.

Boze nodded in agreement.

“Is he movin’ on, you think?” Canby asked.

“Hard to tell,” Boze said. “He was talkin’ to that Taylor gal when we left. Laurie.”

“Hmmm,” Canby said. “Maybe he has an eye for the ladies.”

“He can eye all he wants,” Boze said. “It won’t get him much in Deadfall.”

Hack laughed and slid his chaw over to the left side of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

“I sent Whit over to the saloon to fetch Marlene over here,” Canby said. “Told her to take a look at them two gals Obie drug in here this morning.”

“What you got in mind, Orson?” Boze asked.

“Well, seein’ as how they neither one got their man, I thought Marlene might put ’em to work at the saloon, give ’em both cribs so’s they can spread their legs for them thirsty prospectors.”

“Haw,” Hack laughed. “Good idea, Orson. We could all use some fresh meat in town.”

Boze laughed, too. “They looked mighty appealing to me,” he said.

“Well, Marlene’s just the one who can turn them two
gals into greenbacks on their backs,” Orson said. He blew a plume of gray-blue smoke into the air above the other two men’s heads.

They all looked toward the double-wide doors leading to the lobby of the hotel as Marlene Vanders flounced into the dining room swinging a small clutch bag embroidered with Navajo designs. She looked to be twenty years old, but was pushing thirty. Her dress clung to her slender, curvaceous body as she walked toward the table where Orson and his men sat, as jaunty as if she were even younger than twenty. Her long black hair glistened with the sheen of a crow’s velvety wing, and her blue eyes with their long lashes seemed to brighten as she glided toward them on high-heeled patent leather shoes. Her breasts rose and fell with her movements, ample and pert beneath her bright yellow blouse.

“Good morning, fellers,” she said, her tone bright as the sun that now streamed through the front windows of the dining salon.

“Get Marlene a chair, Hack,” Orson said, and Hackberry rose and grabbed a chair from a nearby table and swung it to an empty spot next to Orson.

“God, it’s early,” Marlene said as she sat down. None of the men pulled out her chair for her. She reached over to Boze and slipped out his bag of makings and papers. She rolled a cigarette with deft delicate fingers.

When she finished, she dumped the bag of makings on the table and leaned over toward Hackberry.

“You going to light me, Hack?” she said. Her voice was musical with a slight rasp to it. She batted her long eyelashes at the gunman and smiled without parting her lips.

“Sure, Marlene,” Hack said. He struck a match as she leaned forward and lit the end of her cigarette.

“Thanks,” she said. Then she looked at Orson and the smile vanished.

“You get a girl up early, Orson,” she said.

“I get up early and expect the world to follow my example,” he said. He drew smoke into his mouth and blew a plume over all their heads.

“Well, I went over to see Carrie at her boardinghouse. Saw the new gals.”

“And what did you think?” Orson asked. He raised his coffee cup and sipped from it.

“Both wet behind the ears. But young enough to train. Fair figures. Mad as a couple of wet hens when I talked to them.”

“About what?” Orson asked.

“The one named Bonnie saw her mail-order groom hanging from the gallows. The other one, Renata, knows her man is locked up to be hanged this afternoon.”

“Perfect,” Orson said. “They have no ties here or anywhere else.”

“I think they feel stood up,” Marlene said and this time her teeth showed when she smiled.

The men at the table chuckled.

“That’s a good one, Marlene,” Orson said. “They were stood up by a couple of horse thieves.”

Marlene seemed to wince at this outright lie. But she knew Orson believed what he was saying and she wasn’t going to argue with him.

“The good thing is that they’re both flat broke, and when I offered them jobs at the Wild Horse, they seemed interested.”

“Did they ask what their chores would be?” Orson asked.

Marlene laughed.

“They did, but I didn’t tell them. I just said I needed help serving drinks and sweeping up. Bonnie used to work as a scullery maid in some little town and Renata did laundry for a lumber camp in Missouri or somewhere.”

“How far will they go to please these galoots in Deadfall?” Orson asked.

“Once I dress them up and turn them into glitter girls, I think they’ll tumble into bed with anyone who wears pants. They’ll like the extra money I’ll pay them.”

“All you got now are a couple of Mex gals that look saddle-sore and tired,” Boze said.

“That’s right. Maria and Teresa. They have about as much fire as a burned-out match.”

Marlene crossed her legs and pulled on her cigarette.

“So you think these two gals can rake in some silver up in their cribs,” Orson said.

She looked at her boss and grinned.

“You want to break them in, Orson? They’re not virgins, but they’re dumb as monkeys. About the world, I mean.”

“No, I’ll let the boys take on that job,” Orson said. “Maybe Cassaway and Nehring would like to wet their whistles and dip their wicks when you got those gals all dressed up.”

“Maria and Teresa are going to fit them out this afternoon. They can do any sewing needs to be done.”

“You’re a good woman, Marlene,” Orson said. “Smart in business and tough as nails. Too bad you never found a man.”

Orson didn’t think he was being condescending, but Marlene’s eyes seemed to change color from deep brown to a pale tan as if she had been slapped across the face with a wet hide.

“Let’s say I’ve had a good look at the lives of glitter girls, Orson, and it’s not something I’d do myself. I’d rather run a business and I don’t like strings. I’m not a puppet.”

“No, you’re not, Marlene,” Orson said. “That’s what I like about you. You don’t take any shit off of anyone and you run your business the way I like to run mine. So you think those gals will work out at the Wild Horse?”

“I’d bet on it, Orson,” Marlene said. “Once they see themselves in the mirror with black mesh stockings, red garters, and short silk skirts with low bodices, they’ll fall in love with themselves, and if they don’t know how to flirt, I’ll teach them.”

Hack and Boze laughed.

Orson squinted down at his cigar and took a couple of short puffs. Then he lifted his coffee cup again and drank from it.

“You do know how to flirt, Marline,” Orson said.

“And I know how far to go, Orson.”

“That you do,” Orson admitted.

Marlene smoked and uncrossed her legs. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“Whit said to tell you he’s going over to talk to Butterbean.”

“What for?” Orson asked.

“He wonders if he has to feed that prisoner you’re going to hang this afternoon. What’s his name? Hornaday?”

“Wallace Hornaday,” Orson said. He slipped a gold watch from his pocket and looked at the time, then stuffed it back, leaving the chain loop dangling.

“Whit said sometimes Butterbean doesn’t want to feed a man he’s going to hang,” Marlene said.

“Yeah, too messy,” Boze said.

“You make my stomach turn, Boze,” Marlene said.

“Sorry, Marlene,” Boze said.

Orson stubbed out the remainder of his cigar and patted his ample belly.

He took another swallow of coffee.

“All right, Marlene. You can go see after those new gals. Good luck.”

Marlene mashed her cigarette in the ashtray next to the cigar stub. She stood up.

“I’ll get the word out,” she said, “that we have some new glitter girls in Gravel Gulch.”

“We’ll spread the word, too,” Hack said.

Orson nodded in approval.

The three men stood up as Marlene rose from her chair. They watched her walk out of the dining room, her hips swaying slightly, her poise unmistakable.

“Boy, I’d like a taste of that,” Boze said.

“She’d knee you square in the balls if you laid a hand on her, Boze,” Hack said.

Orson said nothing.

He thought of the time when he met Marlene. She was running a saloon in a Texas cow town and was restless. He told her about Deadfall and offered to help set her up in business with a saloon that she could manage and just pay him a percentage of her income. She jumped at the chance. But when he tried to get her into his bed, he was rebuffed and she laid down the law to him in no uncertain terms.

For that, Orson respected her, and since then, their relationship had been strictly business. He liked the money she brought in and she helped make the town habitable. Men needed diversion from the hard work of panning and digging in hard rock, and she provided them with whiskey and women. And the little settlement was growing into a town.

Orson was becoming rich and, he suspected, he would become even richer as men came and went, doing all the hard work and spending their gold in Deadfall.

“I’ll see you boys later,” Orson said. “Keep your eyes open and let me know what that Slocum feller does while he’s here.”

“Sure will, boss,” Boze said.

“Thanks for the grub,” Hack said.

The men parted company in the lobby of the hotel.

Orson walked out and headed for Butterbean’s cabin, beyond the boardinghouse.

He wanted to be sure the hanging went off without a hitch.

Whit sat on a crude chair in Wilferd Butterbean’s small front room. Wil was handling a large stout rope as if it were a snake, twirling it around and wrapping a length of it in tight spirals around the neck of the bitter end.

“Wil, you do that knot real good,” Whit said.

“It’s an art.”

“Gives me the willies,” Whit said.

“You got to make the loops strong enough and tight enough to hold as the knot under the criminal’s ear snaps the neck. Just like a twig.”

Whit shivered with a cold chill up his spine.

Butterbean, a burly, thick-necked man in his mid-forties, pulled the loops tight from end to end. He made sure the loop could be tightened around the neck of the man to be hanged. He wore a gray shirt with no collar and thin duck pants, a pair of lace-up work boots. He sweated profusely.

Whit, in his twenties, was a wan-faced youth with freckles on his face, towheaded, with sprigs of hair that
stuck out form his scalp at all angles. He had small tight lips and a button nose that made him look like a boy in his teens.

Butterbean finished the hangman’s knot and dropped the rope to the floor. He patted the balding spot in the center of his skull, then fluffed the blond hair that grew long on both sides of his head.

“What you want anyways, Whit?”

“Oh, I darn near forgot, Wil,” Whit said. “Do you want me to feed the prisoner any grub before you hang him this afternoon?”

Butterbean thought about it for a second or two.

“No need,” he said. “But as long as you’re here, you can help me take down that one I hanged yesterday. He’s probably startin’ to get ripe.”

“Jesus,” Whit said. “What are you going to do with him?”

“We got to load his corpse in a cart and haul him outside of town.”

“Then what?” Whit asked.

“We’ll find a butte some distance and pile talus atop him. Ground’s too damned hard to dig him a hole.”

“I reckon I can help you since I don’t have to take any grub over to the jail for Hornaday.”

“They’s a cart out back, like one of them Japanese rickshaws. You step into the braces and pull it. I’ll push if need be.”

“You ready now, Wil?” Whit asked.

“Yep. I want to keep that rope I hung around Devlin’s neck yesterday. No use a-wastin’ it.”