July, 2010

Issue #10

By the time Hap Gilson and his men rode into Sweetwater, the town was in a festive mood. Wagons and buggies, carrying folks from miles in all directions, lined both sides of the street. Tinny piano music and raucous laughter collided with the four riders as they passed the Lucky Lady Saloon.

Wedging their mounts into the crowded rail, they dismounted, hitched their horses and strode across the boardwalk into the hotel.

Tables were scattered around the lobby, doubling as the hotel bar. The clink of dishes and glasses from the dining room emanated from the curtained doorway to the left of the small bar.

Walking through the lobby, Hap Gilson trudged up the staircase followed in single file by Gil Jennings, Arch Wilkes and Paco Sanchez. Walking to the end of the hall, Hap Gilson knocked three times on the door of room 210.

After some shuffling in the room, Turk Ainsley cracked open the door. Seeing Gilson, Ainsley unchained the door, opening it to admit his four companions. Tap Willis lay snoring on the bed.

"Where's the hangman?" asked Gilson.

"Down the hall in 214," replied Ainsley.

"Is he there now?"

"Been there since he left the dining room."

"Come on," said Gilson, motioning to Jennings as he slid back through the door.

Stepping lightly, Gilson led Jennings down the hall to room 214. Motioning Jennings to the other side of the door, Gilson drew his Colt, knocking on the door three times.

Harlan Hancock sat at the small table near the window inspecting the noose he'd just tied in the rope.

"Who is it?" asked Hancock, continuing his inspection.

Gilson knocked three more times. Sighing, Hancock rose from his chair and went to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Deputy Marshal," said Hap Gilson, moving in front of the door when he heard the key turn in the lock.

When the door cracked open, Gilson kicked it as hard as he could, snapping the door chain, sending Hancock tumbling backwards to the floor. Looking up from the floor, Hancock saw the barrel of Gilson's cocked Colt.

"Howdy, hangman, glad to make your acquaintance," said Gilson, smiling.

Hap Gilson and Gil Jennings went out the back door of the hotel and down the stairs to the moonlit alley. Ducking between the hotel and the General Store, they stopped at the street, looking toward the dark jail. Scampering across the deserted street, they ducked in beside the jail, hugging the wall. After a moment, Gilson led Jennings down the side of the jail, counting barred windows as they went.

Scooping up a handful of pebbles, Gilson started tossing them, one by one, up through the bars of the window in front of him. When the first pebble came through the window, Charlie Gilson lifted his head from the pillow, looking around the cell. Feeling the second pebble land in his bed, he looked up to see the third pebble come through the window. Jumping up, he pulled the end of the bed to the window.

"That you, Hap?" whispered Charlie through the bars.

"Charlie boy," said Hap, seeing his brother's head in the window.

"You come to get me, Hap?"

"No, not tonight, Charlie, but we got a plan. Just sit tight 'til tomorrow," whispered Hap.

"Easy for you to say, they ain't stretchin' your neck tomorrow."

"And they ain't gonna stretch yours, neither," said Hap. "We wanted to let you know we're here and gonna git you out. Now be quiet and go back to sleep before you wake up that marshal and his deputy."

Charlie watched Jennings and his brother walk back toward the front of the jail. When he lost sight of them, he pushed his bed back against the wall, crawling under the blanket. A big smile spread across Charlie's face and he rolled over pulling the blanket up over his shoulders.

Seeing the street still deserted, Gilson and Jennings scampered back the way they'd come. What they didn't see was Otis Fuller looking through the shuttered window of the office, watching them disappear across the street.

Sipping steaming mugs of coffee, Cooper Smith and Otis Fuller looked up from the desk when Roy Hickman and Early Grimes walked through the cellblock door.

"Sure am glad I'm a law abiding citizen," said Hickman, stretching his back, "I couldn't sleep on those beds too many nights."

Hickman and Grimes wandered over to the stove, taking mugs from the rack on the wall, filling them from the coffee pot on the stove.

"When's all this supposed to happen?' asked Grimes, going to the window.

"Noon," said Cooper Smith.

"Ol' Becker sure didn't do you boys no favor, did he? Makin' you wait a week to hang Gilson at high noon," said Hickman.

"Folks is already started to line up outside," said Grimes, from the window.

"You boys hear anythin' last night?" asked Otis Fuller.

Hickman and Grimes looked at each other, shaking their heads.

"Not that I recollect," said Roy Hickman.

"Gilson had a coupla visitors last night," said Cooper Smith.

"Hap?" asked Grimes.

"And his sidekick," added Fuller.

"Think they'll try somethin?" asked Hickman.

"I'm sure of it," said Cooper, "only they'll wait until we take him outside."

Early Grimes stood at the window looking at the gallows across the street.

"You know, it sure seems funny Ol' Hancock ain't out testin' his rope. Here it is, four hours 'til the hangin' and he ain't been out there once. Usually 'bout this time he's trying to wear out that trap door."

Roy Hickman went over to the window and stood beside Grimes.

"You know, Early's right," said Hickman, "he ain't even got a noose hangin' up there. Ain't like Hancock not to be ready."

"Maybe he thought, after seein' Gilson, he figgered to just add a little extry weight," said Otis. Hickman shook his head.

"Ain't the way Hancock works, especially with a brand new gallows. He should be out there."

Cooper Smith rose from behind his desk and went to the gun rack, grabbing a Winchester. "Otis, maybe we ought to go check on Hancock."

Otis rose from his chair, picking up the shotgun leaning against the desk, following Cooper Smith out the door.

Sorting mail, Lester Hasgood turned from the pigeonholes behind the registration desk when Otis Fuller and Cooper Smith walked into the lobby.

"Mornin' Lester," said Cooper.

"Marshal, Otis, what can I do for you this morning?"

"You seen Harlan Hancock today?"

Lester thought for a moment, shaking his head.

"No sir, I don't believe I have."

"What room is he in?"

"Two fourteen," said Hasgood, grabbing a ring of keys from the desk. "I'll go with you."

Cooper Smith and Otis Fuller followed Lester Hasgood up the stairs to Hancock's room.

"Mister Hancock," said Hasgood, knocking on the door.

Not receiving an answer, Hasgood tried the doorknob, opening the door. Giving a surprised look to Cooper and Otis, Hasgood pushed the door open. Hancock's carpetbag lay on the bed unpacked.

"It appears Mister Hancock is not here," said Hasgood.

"We can see that, Lester," said Otis, "but, where is he?"

Roy Hickman and Early Grimes watched Cooper and Otis Fuller step off the boardwalk and come back to the jail.

"Hancock's gone," said Cooper.

"Gone where?" asked Hickman. Cooper shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head.

"Beats me."

"Bet if we find Hap Gilson, we'll find Harlan Hancock," said Otis.

Hap Gilson put his ear to the door of Ainsley's room when he heard Hasgood knocking on Hancock's door. He looked at Harlan Hancock who sat bound and gagged in a corner of the room.

"They're lookin' for you, hangman," said Gilson after Smith and Fuller went back down the stairs. "Maybe, it's time we give 'em what they're lookin' for."

Gil Jennings stuck his arm through the coiled rope, sliding it up to his shoulder. Grabbing Harlan Hancock under the arm, he helped the bound hangman to his feet.

"You know what you gotta do?" asked Hap Gilson.

"Hap, we been over it so many times, a danged retard could do it. Relax, your little brother will be in the saddle before you know it."

Jennings led Hancock from the room, out the back door of the hotel and down the flight of stairs to the alley.

"Make sure you wait for me to call out," said Hap Gilson from the top of the stairs. Jennings waved at Gilson, leading the hangman down the alley. Arch Wilkes, Paco Sanchez, Turk Ainsley and Tap Willis were waiting for Gilson when he came back to the room.

"Willis, I want you on the balcony with that Henry of yours. Ainsley, you, Sanchez and Wilkes come with me. If any shootin' starts, you just make sure Charlie don't get hit."

Tap Willis went out the door to the balcony, as the remaining gunmen followed Gilson down the stairs, through the lobby and out to the boardwalk.

The gathering crowd paid no attention to the gunmen as they stepped into the street. On the balcony, Willis hunkered down behind the hotel sign, maneuvering to get the best view of the jail. Ainsley, Wilkes and Sanchez spread out behind Gilson as they stopped in front of the Marshal's Office.

"Marshal Cooper Smith," shouted Hap Gilson.

Gil Jennings guided Harlan Hancock to the back of the livery, pushing him through the open barn door. Stopping at the ladder to the loft, Jennings motioned Hancock up the ladder with his thumb.

"Start climbin'."

"You expect me to climb a ladder when you've tied my hands?" objected Hancock.

"Your feet ain't tied and your hands are in front of you, start climbin'," replied Jennings, pulling his Colt, waggling it at the hangman.

Taking a long look toward the loft, Hancock slowly climbed the ladder, one rung at a time, stopping below the edge of the loft.

"Climb," said Jennings, reaching Hancock.

Hooking his hands around the top rung of the ladder, Hancock took a step up. When Jennings followed him up, Hancock held tight to the top rung of the ladder, kicking downward with both feet. Striking Jennings in the head, the outlaw lost his balance, falling from the ladder to the dirt floor amid a cloud of dust. Climbing into the loft, Hancock looked down at his motionless captor.

Attacking the knot of rope with his teeth, Hancock worked to free his bound wrists. Dropping the rope to the floor of the loft, he saw movement from Jennings on the floor of the barn. The outlaw was reaching for his Colt, while trying to get to his knees.

Harlan Hancock quickly surveyed the loft, finding a pitchfork stuck in a pile of hay in a corner. Pulling the pitchfork from the hay, the hangman held it up in one hand like a spear, moving his hand along the shaft for the right balance.

"Hancock," shouted Jennings, swaying on his feet, struggling to keep his balance.

Harlan Hancock knew he was only going to get one chance, so he'd better make it good. He had to show himself to make a good throw.

Looking through the floorboards, he caught a glimpse of Jennings. He bounced the pitchfork in his hand to test the balance. Taking a deep breath, he rushed to the edge of the loft, making his throw at the first glimpse of Jennings.

The outlaw fired a wild shot at Hancock, an instant before the hangman launched the pitchfork. It found its mark in Jennings' chest, sending him onto the floor of the empty stall behind him, his gun sliding under the rail of the neighboring stall.

Jennings raised his head, looking at the tines of the pitchfork buried in his chest. He made a feeble attempt to remove the pitchfork, before dropping his head back to the floor. Looking around the stall, coughing once, a bloody forth appeared on his lips. Watching Hancock climb down the ladder, he let out a gurgled breath and fell silent.

Walking into the stall, Hancock looked down into Jennings' lifeless eyes. Removing the pitchfork, he tossed it on the floor, looking around for the outlaw's gun. Finding the Colt in the next stall, he went out the back door of the barn and ran down the alley toward the hotel.

"We got company," said Early Grimes, standing at the window when Hap Gilson called out.

"Gilson?" asked Cooper Smith, getting a nod from Grimes in return.

"Who's with 'im?" asked Otis Fuller.

"I see three," said Grimes, taking a quick look at the buildings directly across from the jail.

Roy Hickman went to the window on the other side of the door, concentrating his search on the balconies and second floor windows of the buildings across the street.

"Marshal Smith, I want to talk to you," shouted Gilson again.

"I got movement on the hotel balcony," said Hickman, "hunkered down behind the sign."

"That leaves one unaccounted for," said Otis.

"I'm listening, Gilson," said Cooper, from the partially open door.

"I want to make a deal for my brother."

"Can't do that, Gilson, your brother's gonna hang for what he done."

"I can't let that happen, Marshal. Besides, your hangman seems to have disappeared."

Just then, a gunshot rang out from the direction of the livery stable.

"Go see what that was," said Gilson, turning to Ainsley who jogged toward the livery.

"Sounds like we just found out where the hangman was," said Cooper Smith. Otis Fuller checked the load of his scattergun, snapping it shut.

"Hancock might need some help," said Otis and slipped out the back door of the jail.

Turk Ainsley drew his Colt when he reached the door of the livery. Slipping inside the barn, Ainsley listened for moment.

"Jennings," shouted Ainsley, listening intently for any sound.

Ainsley stepped around the corner of the end stall, moving cautiously down the length of the barn, looking in every stall as he went. Spotting Jennings, he took a quick look around before kneeling in the stall next to the outlaw's body. The four bloody holes in Jennings' shirt and the pitchfork lying nearby told Ainsley all he needed to know.

"I guess the hangman had more sand than we thought," said Ainsley, rising and turning to leave the stall.

"Hold it right there and drop the hogleg."

Ainsley stopped and looked at Otis Fuller who was looking at him down the barrel of his scattergun.

"I'll cut you in two if you even think about it," said Otis when Ainsley hesitated.

"I ain't goin' to sit in no prison cell," said Ainsley.

"Then you best make your move," replied Otis, still looking down the barrel of the scattergun.

Suddenly, the outlaw swung his Colt around and Otis Fuller cut loose with both barrels of his scattergun, propelling Ainsley backwards, into the dirt of the barn floor. The deputy drew his pistol as he walked up to the fallen outlaw, kicking his gun across the floor. Otis holstered his Colt when he saw the outlaw's lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"Now to find Hancock," said Otis, reloading the scattergun.

Hearing the scattergun, Hap Gilson looked toward the livery, wanting to see Ainsley, but realizing his plan to rescue his brother was falling apart.

"Watch the balcony," said Cooper Smith to Early Grimes. "Roy, watch the two behind Gilson." He opened the door, stepping out onto the boardwalk.

"It's over, Gilson, drop your iron in the dirt," said Cooper Smith. Hap Gilson looked back around to see the Marshal standing on the boardwalk.

"It ain't over 'til I get my brother," said Gilson.

Cooper Smith glanced up at the balcony seeing movement behind the sign. He hoped Grimes was a good shot, his life might depend on it. He stepped off the boardwalk into the street.

Harlan Hancock crept up the back steps of the hotel and into the back door on the second floor. With Jennings' pistol at the ready, he stepped lightly down the long hallway. Hearing the shotgun blast, he hesitated slightly, continuing down the hallway to the double doors of the front balcony.

Seeing Tap Willis bring the rifle to his shoulder, Harlan Hancock pulled open the balcony doors. Caught by surprise, Willis wheeled, triggering a shot as he rose from behind the sign. Hancock felt the sting of the bullet tugging at his sleeve as he returned the outlaw's fire, hitting Willis in the shoulder. As the outlaw levered his rifle, Hancock fired a second time, hitting Willis in the upper chest sending him over the balcony rail to the street.

Hearing the commotion, Hap Gilson turned in time to see Willis raise a cloud of dust as he hit the ground. Seeing Hancock peer over the rail, Gilson drew his Colt.

"Gilson," shouted Cooper Smith, drawing his Colt as Gilson wheeled around.

Two gunshots sounded as one. Gilson's shot was wide, but the Marshal's hit its mark. The outlaw folded up as Cooper Smith's bullet caught him in the stomach. Falling to his knees, Gilson looked up at his foe in disbelief, his Colt slipping from his fingers. After a teetering moment, Gilson fell face first to the street. Without firing a shot, Arch Wilkes and Paco Sanchez dropped their guns in the street and threw their hands up in the air.

Cooper walked to the dead outlaw, turning him over with the toe of his boot. The spreading stain on Gilson's shirt told Smith the fight was over. Thumbing the spent shell from his Colt, he replaced it from his gunbelt. Looking up, he watched Otis Fuller walk toward him from the livery.

"There's two more in the barn," said Otis. "I got one of 'em and I guess Hancock got the other."

"He got that one too," said Cooper, pointing to Willis, the outlaw's corpse lying at an unnatural angle.

Both lawmen shifted their gaze when they heard footsteps on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. Holding the six-gun at his side, Harlan Hancock stepped into the street; stopping in front of Cooper Smith and Otis Fuller, offering the weapon, butt first, to the Marshal.

"I think we can go on with our appointed duty now, Marshal" said Hancock. Pulling a watch from the small pocket in his pants, he glanced at the time.

"I'll have just enough time to freshen up a bit."

"I think you should see Doc first," said Cooper, noticing the bloody tear in Hancock's sleeve.

"It's just a scratch, Marshal, nothing to worry about. Although, I've ruined a shirt and will have to buy another before I leave town." Hancock started to leave, but turned back to the lawmen. "I'll be back within the hour. I have a lot to get ready."

Walking back to the hotel, Hancock disappeared into the lobby.

Roy Hickman and Early Grimes greeted Cooper Smith and Otis Fuller when they returned to the office with the two remaining outlaws and deposited them in a waiting cell.

"What now?" asked Hickman.

"I believe Charlie Gilson has an appointment with the hangman," replied Cooper.

Emil Dessler brought the stagecoach thundering down the street as the four lawmen stepped out onto the boardwalk from the Marshal's office.

"Maybe you boys can get your town back to normal now," said Hickman, as he and Grimes shook hands with first, Cooper Smith, then Otis Fuller.

With the much talked about event of the previous day finally over, the once crowded street was finally returning to its normal routine.

"Make sure you let Judge Becker know what a grand time we've had around here over the past week," said Otis Fuller, watching Hickman and Grimes unhitch and mount their horses.

"We'll surely do that," said Early Grimes, waving as he and Roy Hickman turned their mounts and rode out of town.

Harlan Hancock was standing outside the stage depot watching Emil Dessler load the luggage when Cooper and Otis stepped onto the platform.

"Hear you boys had a little excitement, yestiddy. Sorry, I missed it," said Dessler, sending a stream of tobacco onto the street.

"Yeah, it just made our day, Emil," said Otis, as the grizzled stage driver buckled up the luggage boot.

Harlan Hancock walked up to the two lawmen.

"Gentlemen, it has definitely been an experience," he said, tipping his derby. Turning, he stepped up into the stagecoach.

Emil Dessler climbed atop the stagecoach, threading the ribbons through his fingers. Cursing the horses and slapping the reins, Dessler started the stage forward, rocking on its thoroughbraces.

Looking out the window as they passed the cemetery on the edge of town, Hancock saw the five fresh graves. Leaning back in his seat, he tipped his derby over his eyes.

Yes, I Immanuel Copland, was Billy the Kid's tailor. Perhaps this is my only claim to fame. You laugh, but would be surprised how many people are impressed by the fact. Particularly since Billy was gunned down. Since he is not alive and therefore could not be possibly offended by it, I can go into more detail when the curious — especially the young ones — ask me all sorts of questions about Billy. If Billy was touchy with other people, he was always polite to me. Why? I think it was because I was fond of quoting wisdom from the Bible. Billy was partial to impressive speech. Or maybe it was because I came from Europe and treated my customers, regardless of station in life, with Old World courtesy. There was a touch of class about Billy which surprised those meeting him, given his being a 'kid' and also his reputation, and Billy appreciated class in others.

Speaking of the Bible, I once mentioned to Billy its commandment to the children of Israel to set up cities of refuge for fleeing murderers.

"Should have them in America — might come in handy sometime," he said, followed by his hip-slapping laugh.

I explained that cities of refuge were not for escaped murderers — only for those who killed someone by accident.

"Accident?" He seemed disappointed. "Ain't many killings hereabouts by accident."

Billy always called me "Mr. Copland" and said on his very first visit that I should call him "Billy." I could hardly call him "Mr. the Kid" (my little joke). When he told me to call him "Billy", I told him to call me "Manny", but he insisted on "Mr. Copland."

One time, another customer in the shop called me "Copland" in his presence.

"Mr. Copland," Billy corrected him.

The man blanched, said "Mr. Copland" most respectfully, and thereafter continued to do so, even when alone with me in the shop.

Billy usually came to me to purchase a pair of pants.

"No pair of pants in the saddle lasts like yours, Mr. Copland."

Take that, Levi Strauss. Occasionally he purchased a jacket — he liked to dress up for special occasions.

"Hangings and such", he joked.

Billy was fond of humorous, if somewhat macabre, comments.

I would make the side of the jacket on his gun side wider and with a bulge to cover the pistol (let's see your Eastern tailors match that!) so that when he entered a place where it was required to check your gun, the "cover" allowed the proprietor a pretext (out of sight, out of mind) to make him an exception to the rule.

When I measured Billy for a pair of pants or a jacket ("Careful, I'm ticklish under the arms" invariably accompanied the latter task), he nonchalantly took off his gun and gunbelt and handed them to me "for safekeeping" before he went behind the screen to try on the "possible purchase" (his words).

"You're one of the few hombres I would trust with my gun, Mr. Copland," then adding lightly, "Now don't go target practicing on any of the good citizens passing your emporium." Sometimes he would say, "There's a price on my head, but don't go getting any ideas."

I usually rejoined, "I'd lose in the long run — you're a good customer."

Billy was a neat dresser (I like to think I had a hand in that!), fastidious in his choice of color and design, even to requesting clothes to match the color of the Mexican sombrero he often wore. I think the sombrero was to give him height (he was five feet eight inches tall) in keeping with his confiding to me on one occasion that he liked his attire to make him appear taller to "justify my reputation." I wasn't sure of he meant the notorious outlaw reputation — falsely applied — or the beloved folk hero he was already becoming in his, alas, too short lifetime.

Singing came naturally to Billy, in keeping with his generally cheerful disposition. He had a fine tenor voice. Once, after he sang a bit from 'Red River Valley', as I was measuring him, I told him that he would make a first class cantor.

"Canter?" he asked, referring to the horse's gait that is faster than a trot but slower than a gallop. When I explained that the word — with an "o" in place of the "e" — meant "a kind of singing rabbi", he replied, "I'm available, if not otherwise employed."

Billy was articulate, which never failed to surprise people who didn't expect it from someone who "spoke with his gun", a favorite localism.

Sometimes I think I am one of the few people who miss Billy. As a person, not a legend. But then he was something of a legend while still 'in the fullness of life' as the Bible puts it. Which is why having been "Billy the Kid's tailor" impresses people more than if I had been "Napoleon's tailor." A young writer named Samuel Clemens who was passing through the territory at the time seemed fascinated by the fact.

"Will your will specify that 'Billy the Kid's tailor' be inscribed on your tombstone?" he asked me.

"It is not Jewish custom to put such epitaphs on our graves," I said.

"A pity," he said. "I rather take to it."

"So do I, but I prefer the title while I'm still around to enjoy it."

He roared with approval. He ordered a pair of pants "in the style that Billy favored." He declined my offer of a Billy the Kid style jacket with a bulge to cover a pistol.

"I'm roughing it, but not to that extent."

Billy was buried in a suit I made for him — ordered post mortem by the "burial detail" composed of the men responsible for his death or who went along with it. I was indeed sorry he had been shot, though there were others who said, "good riddance", and similar. Those given the task of burying Billy chose a suit from material I considered not sufficiently worthy of him. I stood on my choice — what I thought Billy would have wanted. I owed him that.

"Oh, have it your way," they gave in in the end, in a hurry to finish "the business", as they put it, not before I had to listen to irreverent comments of the "You should have made him a suit with a lead lining" type. Western humor tends to the rough and there were people Billy rubbed the wrong way. Some were envious of the affection and awe many felt toward him, especially the downtrodden. When people said such things, I said that it is forbidden to speak evil of the dead.

Once, Billy, amusedly, gave me "something to remember him by" — a bullet taken from his leg after "a fracas." I put it on his grave instead of a small stone which, according to Jewish custom, is placed on the grave as a mark of respect by a mourner.

I stood there idly wiping clean glasses with a dirty bar rag and watching my only customer shovel food down his maw like a hungry grizzly bear after a long winter nap. Bottomless Bartlett they called him and the man could pack enough grub away in one day to feed Kearny's Army of the West for a week. He ate all the time and never seemed to get enough. No doubt he was a big fellow, at least a head taller than anyone in San Francisco and not an ounce of fat on him. Bartlett was as fit as a fiddle and proud of it.

Six eggs scrambled together with hot chili peppers, four pork chops each half as thick as your little finger is long, a loaf of fresh bread smothered in a pound of butter, three plates of refried Mexican beans, all washed down with a pot of coffee and five pints of beer. Now, if all that wasn't enough, he hollered for my cook to bring him dessert. Right away Rafael burst out the kitchen door with a plate full of apple pan dowdy and Bartlett dug right in like he hadn't seen food in a month.

"Bartlett, why don't you find a good woman and settle down? You could save a small fortune just eating at home," I said, knowing as soon as the words passed my lips that I had stepped in a deep pile of fresh horse leavings.

"Aw, Willie, you know there no ain't woman around gonna marry me. Heck, I just ain't good looking enough for any of the gals I know."

There it was. The south end of a northbound mule looked better than Bartlett and had more brains to boot. His ears were too big, his nose too small, his muddy brown hair had never met a brush or a comb and lay on his head like a rat's nest on top of the gnarly stump of a broken down pine tree. Bartlett was as homely as they come.

But I'd already stepped in it. I had to keep going no matter how much it stank. "You spent two years in the gold country, Bartlett. Can't you cook for yourself?"

"Never got much past bacon and flapjacks," he mumbled, his mouth full of pie.

"Well, there ought to be one woman in this town you'd take a fancy to," I said before I'd thought. There must be ten or twenty men for every gal in town. If any one of them wanted to get married, and most didn't, they had their choice—and ugly Bottomless Bartlett wouldn't be at the top of any girl's wish list.

"Aw, Willie, them women is always talking at me, ordering me around. Even when I was a kid, with my Ma and three older sisters, it was Bartlett do this, Barlett don't do that. Day after day they'd nag at me, run me ragged—dang near drove me batty. Finally I packed up and left for California. Ain't met no woman here who didn't want to boss me around like an old plow horse either."

I couldn't help but think that was because he was dumber than that old plow horse but thankfully had the good sense not to say so. "Surely there must be one—"

"No, Willie, not that I've met. Heck, having a wife who could cook and who loved me without having to yap all the time would make me as happy as a honey bee in clover. I'd give a hundred dollars—no, I'd give two hundred dollars—to anyone who found the right gal for me. But it ain't no use. There's no woman living who'd go for a guy like me." He stuffed the last of the pie down his throat, swilled a whole glass of beer in one swallow, belched loud then pushed his chair back from the table with a screech.

"Wait up, Bartlettt. Two hundred dollars you say?" I asked, never one to let easy money pass me by with the seeds of an idea already rattling around in my head.

"Yeah, Willie, two hundred dollars—in gold," he said as he burped again.

"Consider yourself married then," I vowed without the foggiest notion that I could pull off the hare-brained scheme that lurked in the dark corners of my greedy brain. But two hundred in gold was a pretty fair reward for what I had in mind—even if I had to split it with someone else.

"Rafael," I yelled and the kitchen door swung open quickly. Rafael had been listening to my conversation with Bartlett, as usual.

"Si, Senor," he said, a knowing smile lifting the corners of his bushy moustache.

"Take care of the bar for me. I got to run down to Pike Street. I'll be back before the noon time crowd gets in."

"Pike Street, Senor? It is too early for the ladies, no?"

"This is business, Rafael, not pleasure."

"Oh, si, si, funny business with the ladies, I comprendez. Rafael will tend the bar." His smug grin said that he hadn't believed a word I said about doing business on Pike. I ignored him and hurried out the door. After all, two hundred dollars was two hundred dollars.

I walked west on Clay Street for a block and a half then turned south into a small alley lined with Chinese push carts selling vegetables and fruit. Halfway to Sacramento Street I knocked loud at the door of a two-story wood frame house where all the windows were shuttered tight. When no one answered I pounded on it again, louder, and hollered. "Open up, Jasper. I ain't got all day."

In the blink of a gnat's eye the heavy oak door creaked opened and a tall man in a checkered vest peered out, his face as black as a lump of coal. "Mistah Willie, it's way too early fo' th' ladies. Cain't ya wait till noon?" he said.

I pushed my way inside and he closed the door behind me. "I ain't here for a gal, Jasper. I need to see to see the boss lady toot sweet. I reckon she's up and about."

"Why yessah, Mistah Willie. She up but she don't see customers no mo'."

"I know that. But this is business. I got a deal she can't pass on. Go tell her it's Wildcat Willie Wingett and I got a hundred dollars in gold for her."

"Yessah, Mistah Willie. I'll sees if she decent." Jasper left for the back of the house while I nosed about in the parlor wondering why the Madame of one of the biggest bordellos in San Francisco would worry about being decent.

Then the wide double doors to the dining room swung open and the lady of the house swept into the room. Standing all of four foot something from the tips of her dainty toes to the top of her ink black hair piled up high on her head and held together with an ivory comb and a couple of those sticks the Chinese use instead of forks, she looked stunning, as usual, her face powdered as white as the parson's soul, her lips as red as a fresh strawberry. Clad only in a floor-length robe that looked like somebody's calico quilt outfitted with fancy braids and big ivory buttons, Madame Ah Hoi carried a mighty punch in a tiny package.

"You, why you here? Too early. No lookee. No feelee. No—"

"That ain't why I come, Ah Hoi." I interjected before she bit my head off. "I got a deal for you."

"No! No deal. Last time you try pay me brass—no gold. Go way!"

Clearly she hadn't forgotten my little accident, but . . . I smile innocently.

"Now that was just a big mistake." I explained. "Besides you got your gold. We're square now. Let's let bygones be bygones."

"You be gone, chop chop!" She waved a dismissive hand at me. From the nasty scowl on her face I felt lucky she didn't have a knife.

"Hold on now. Just listen. You got a gal here that ain't working out." I scratched my head. What did Jasper tell me that girls name was? Hadn't seemed important last week. Oh yeah. "Her name's Sue something—"

"Su Li," she said, suddenly interested. "Why you want Su Li. She not happy here. No good for business. She ugly—feet too big. Men no like. Now all she do cook."

Yes! I thought, one down one to go. "Can she speak English," I ask, eyes wide.

"Su Li Chinee. Why you care?"

"Because Su Li is perfect. Listen, I can marry her off and you and me can get a hundred dollars each in pure gold. Whatta ya say?"

Now Ah Hoi's eyes were sparkling. She leaned in closer. She was interested. "One hundred dollar, real gold—no funny money?" She sure didn't want to let that little thing with the brass filings go.

"No! No funny money. Real gold. One hundred dollars." I assured her.

"Hokay, I listen. What I do for gold?"

It took me the better part of that morning to explain the whole thing to Ah Hoi. She kept saying that Su Li was too ugly and no man would want her because of her big feet, but I finally got it through that thick pile of black hair that must have been plugging her ears that Bottomless Bartlett didn't care one fig about Su Li's feet. He was interested in other things, like her cooking and that she couldn't nag him half to death speaking only Chinese. Finally Jasper jumped in and helped me explain, but only after I had promised him a bottle of my best liquor. Still it was worth it if everything worked out.

The next day I got to the saloon earlier than I had in years. From the incredible aroma that swept in from the kitchen everything was going exactly as planned. I walked behind the bar, popped a cork and poured myself a tumbler full of rye. It looked like a real profitable day coming.

The front door swung open at exactly five after eight and Bottomless Bartlett breezed in looking as dumb as ever, rainwater dripping from his India rubber overcoat.

"Morning Bartlett," I said, trying to act nonchalant and not spill the beans.

"Howdy Willie. Fine day ain't it?" Bartlett went on.

"As fine as we've had in a while, except for this cold rain and that nasty north wind," I answered and poured him a glass of beer.

He sat at his usual table just as the kitchen door popped open and Rafael appeared, a tray balanced over his head. With a flourish he plopped the platter on a table and whipped off a plate of dumplings and stuck it in front of Bartlett. I could see the big oaf's smile bust out across his ugly mug from way behind the bar.

"You gotta new cook, Willie?" he asked, eyes bulging.

"Sorta," I answered. "You like Chinese?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Bartlett nodded greedily then stuck a fork full of dumplings in his face.

I drained the rest of my rye. "That smells good," I said, but Bartlett ain't listening.

He had the plate clean faster than a good hound dog can tree a coon but Rafael was ready with a jumbo bowl of soup. Bartlett didn't even drop his fork. He just grabbed a spoon in his left hand and had at it. Next came a simmering serving of fresh bay shellfish over a bed of steamed rice smothered in oyster sauce. Poor Bartlett couldn't get enough and shoveled it into his mouth first with the fork and then with the spoon.

The kitchen door blew open and Su Li padded into the room with tiny steps from her oversized feet. Black hair piled high, face powered white, lips bright red and smiling; she looked exactly like a Chinese porcelain doll, so fetching that I almost didn't notice the roast goose sizzling tantalizingly from the tray she carried.

To my great surprise Bartlett didn't notice the goose either. Instead the big lug leaped to his feet so fast his chair flew halfway across the barroom. He ripped his beat up black hat from the rat's nest atop his head and stood there with his jaw scraping the floor, staring at Su Li as if he'd seen a ghost, and holding the hat over his privates like a man caught with his pants down.

Su Li must have been scared out of her lily white rice powdered skin by the sight of such an ugly awkward ogre looming over her looking about as stupid as he really was. The tray with the roast goose began to teeter and would have toppled to the floor had Rafael not had the good sense to grab it and put it safely on the table.

I was sure that all my good intentions were to go up in smoke. Clearly terrified at the pathetic creature standing before her and fully aware of our plan to have her marry the poor rube as a way to escape her life at the cathouse, Su Li would no doubt turn and bolt for the door as soon as she recovered her senses.

Then, to my utter amazement, she cracked a small smile, stuck her hands together inside the spacious sleeves of her quilted bathrobe, bowed low in front of Bartlett and said something so soft and sweet in Chinese that even a hard nosed former three-card monte dealer like me had to sniffle back a tear or two. She looked up at the big dope and blessed him with a smile so warm it would have melted all the snow at the top of the highest mountain in the Sierra Nevada.

Suddenly it dawned on me that Su Li just might actually like Bartlett. Why I couldn't fathom but what man can comprehend the wilds of a woman's mind. "Bartlett," I cried. "She's the one. I found her for you. Don't be a coward. Ask her to marry you before she changes her mind."

His head swung toward me, eyes wild. "Me, marry her?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"Yeah, you!" I yelled. "Ask her quick before it's too late."

A weird, lopsided smile crept across his kisser, his wide eyes rolled dreamily around his head. "Yeah," he whispered mostly to himself as he dropped to his knees and took the poor girl's teensy hand in his gigantic paw just as gently as a mother would when powdering her baby's bottom. "Will you marry me?" he mumbled, looking for all the world like a man who'd had too much punch at a Saturday night dance.

Her ruby red lips beamed back at him as her alabaster face bobbed up and down in answer. I, for one, stood totally stunned that such a beautiful, fragile thing could ever agree to enter into holy matrimony with a galoot as homely as Bottomless Bartlett.

"Bartlett," I yelled. "My two hundred dollars!"

He never took his eyes from her, just reached into his pocket, pulled out a leather bag and tossed it in my direction. Luckily I managed to snag it before it crashed into the cut glass mirror behind the bar. Then he swept her into his arms like a man does when he carries his new bride over the threshold and headed for the door.

"Where you going, Bartlett?" I yelled.

"Find a preacher," he said, his eyes still glued on Su Li.

"But its storming like blue blazes out there," I reminded him.

"Yeah," he said, then ducked out the door with Su Li still in his arms and disappeared into the muddy mess of Clay Street.

The kitchen door banged open and Jasper strode up to the bar and held out his hand. "I be takin' Ah Hoi's hundred dollars an' da' rye whiskey ya owes me, Willie."

I popped a new bottle of Buzzards Breath Rye onto the bar and pushed the leather pouch over to him. "Split it up yourself, Jasper. Ah Hoi don't trust me no how," I mumbled, still stunned that a fellow like Bottomless Bartlett could win himself such a beautiful bride so easy. It made me think there just might be a slim chance for an old rotten-hearted barkeep like me.

"Senor, what do we do with the goose?" Rafael asked, a carving knife in hand.

I looked up. That goose sure smelled inviting. "Ain't no use to let Su Li's good cooking go to waste." I said.

"Su Li?" Jasper blurted. "Why dat gal cain't boil water what she don't burn some. All dis stuff fixed up by Miss Ah Hoi's private cook, Wang Chow."

"Wang Chow," I mutter. "You mean—"

"Yessah, Mistah Willie. She cain't cook a lick."

"Oh Lord! Next you'll tell me Su Li talks English." I said, sure that was a total impossibility.

"Oh, yessah. She yammers away at all dah customers 'bout mendin' they sinning ways. Miss Ah Hoi so mad at her she made her cook, just to keep her out da way."

"You mean—"

"Yessah, Mistah Willie. Ya done been had again. Dat gal went to a Mission School in China. Cain't cook a'tall but she talks bettah'n I does."

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. What about poor Bartlett?" I moan.

"Oh, Senor Bartlett will be fine, I think," Rafael opined then sliced off a healthy chunk of goose and popped it into his mouth.

"Yeah! After all he's the one that got the gal." I pulled out another bottle of Buzzards Breath and filled three glasses on the bar. "Bring that bird over here, Rafael. We may as well celebrate. Our good friend Bartlett is getting married today." I raise my glass in a toast. "Here's to Bottomless Bartlett and his beautiful bride," I proclaimed.

"Si si," cried Rafael

"Yessah, Mistah Willie," Jasper agreed.

"Drink up and dig into the goose, friends. I reckon we've seen the last of those two for a while."

And truer words were rarely spoken. Right after the honeymoon Bartlett shelled out the lion's share of the gold he'd mined for a restaurant along the waterfront. But with Su Li's warm smile to greet the customers and Bartlett's brand new brother-in-law Wang Chow cooking, the place straightaway became the tastiest and most popular eatery around. It just goes to show ya. You never can tell about folks these days.

Molby was an old cowboy, an ornery, cranky, stove up old cowboy who, although he hadn't sold his saddle, didn't ride any more. And now Molby's the cook. In less than a minute around Molby you would know all of that, and more. He did his job as he always had, with pride, and he was a fair man. The "cook and eat" area of the bunkhouse was Molby's and you went by his rules when you were there. According to Molby he was not paid to look after or clean up after any of the cowboys other than to clean off the table when the current meal was finished and the dishes were washed.

Most evenings some of the ranch hands and cowboys would sit on their bunks or around the eating table and play cards and read, if they could read, or write a letter for themselves or someone else. Some of them would make repairs to their equipment or make some new piece of gear to trade to someone else for whatever they were good at making.

Molby always kept the big gray speckled enamel coffee pot full of coffee on the back of the cook stove so it was hot after supper and through the evening. The men had to help themselves and it was appreciated that they didn't make a mess, no matter what they were doing.

Some other unwritten rules were, if a man was coming in the bunkhouse with empty hands he should haul in an armload of wood for the stove. If the water bucket was empty someone should fill it. And the winner of the poker game always left a two-bit piece on the table for Molby. This was because he emptied the tin cans used for ashtrays and washed the coffee cups again before breakfast.

"Remember boys." Molby would say. "I'm getting up there in years and one of these days I'll have to hang up my feed sack apron and then I'll be against the wall, so every little bit helps." The cowboys chuckled and often someone would throw another two bits or a peso on the table and then they would laugh.

Molby was also the barber for those men who did not go to town for a haircut and he had the needles and thread to mend clothes but the men did the sewing. Molby never put a price on these things, just gave a sad shake of his head and said, "Remember, I'm getting old boys."

Payday was the first Saturday of the month and everyone was paid at the ranch. Molby collected his pay like the rest of the cowboys and ranch hands, but he seldom went to town. Instead, he sent his pay to the bank with the foreman or one of the older cowboys who he was sure wouldn't drink it up or lose it in a card game. They also brought him back tobacco for his pipe and every couple of month's a fifth of whiskey, and Molby always gave the person doing his errands enough extra money so they could buy a drink or two. A couple times a year Molby made a trip to town driving the chuck wagon to pick up supplies. The first thing he did when he arrived in town would be go to the bank. Then he left his list of supplies at the general store and while they filled the order, Molby had lunch and a couple of beers at the saloon. When the supplies were loaded he headed back to the ranch. The only time Molby stayed overnight in town was for the Fourth of July fireworks and dance, but he slept in the livery stable hayloft or in the buckboard, if there wasn't any chance of rain, so he didn't have to pay for a room at the hotel. Molby didn't spend his money unless he had to.

Molby's bunk was in the corner of the bunkhouse along the walls between the fireplace, where he did some of the cooking, and the wood stove where he cooked in fair weather when the fireplace wasn't being used. The length of the bunk was against the fireplace wall and Molby had nailed some boards on the wall with a shelf at the top. Hanging from hooks in the boards was his 30-30 Winchester and below it were a couple shirts and his vest when he wasn't wearing it. On the shelf along with his old everyday spurs was a fancy silver inlaid pair from Mexico that Molby had won bronc riding at a rodeo when he was much younger. Beside his shirts hung the calendar from the dry-goods store in town where he purchased all the supplies for the ranch and everyday when he got out of bed to start breakfast Molby crossed off the square for the day before. Feeding the ranch hands and cowboys and keeping track of the days on the calendar was what Molby did. Plus worry about what he was going to do in his old age.

"Remember boys," he would mutter under his breath as he put the food on the table. "I'm going to be up against the wall one of these days." Then he'd shake his head slowly as he limped back to the stove or fireplace.

Molby had asked at breakfast if anyone needed anything from town to write it down on his list because he was making a trip to town that day. A couple of the men joked about bringing back one of the gals from the saloon and a barrel of beer, laughing as they left the bunkhouse to get started on the day's work.

That warm summer evening the cowboys and ranch hands were headed to the bunkhouse after the day's work was done when they noticed that no smoke was coming from the cook stove chimney. A couple of them were joking that maybe Molby had gone on strike for more money so he wouldn't have to worry about going "against the wall."

When they walked around the corner of the bunkhouse they all stopped and stood speechless, staring at a brand new buggy. Hitched to the buggy was the number one horse from the livery in town. He was a sorrel gelding with a flaxen mane and tail and he had a way of picking up his hoofs when he trotted that made him look like he was floating and prancing at the same time. The men had never seen anyone driving him except the man who owned the livery, and the liveryman had the only new buggy. The owner of the livery had many offers to sell the horse to one of the well to do businessmen in town or one of the rich ranchers in the area, but had turned them all down, which made the gelding even more desirable.

"What's he doing here?" A couple of them wondered out loud. Then they all noticed Molby's saddle in the buggy. Just then Molby came out the door of the bunkhouse with his bedroll and threw it in the back of the buggy beside his saddle.

"Evening, boys." Molby tipped his hat to the men "I'll rustle up some grub as soon as I'm packed. If some of you give me a hand I'll get done quicker and then you'll get to eat."

There was some pushing and shoving as the cowboys and ranch hands tried to get inside the bunkhouse first. All of them had puzzled looks on their faces as they stopped to stare at the corner of the bunkhouse where Molby's bunk was, or had been.

Molby had made a big hollow in the wall behind the boards that made one heck of a big hide out for his money. The boards that had been nailed to the walls as well as the boards that had been the bunk were in a pile on the floor beside two water buckets full of coins that gleamed in the shaft of sunlight coming through the only window in the bunkhouse. They made the men think of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Molby was a grinning and humming and the men could tell he was happy as a lark.

"Now, boys," Molby stopped long enough to give some orders. "I'm going to get supper going if a couple of you would carry those buckets out to the buggy. Then put my old Winchester on the seat so I can reach it quick and by damn I'll be ready to high tail it out of here soon as I feed you all."

It took two men to pick up each bucket and get it loaded in the buggy. The rest of Molby's clothes and personal items he had already rolled up in a flour sack and they went in the back of the buggy with everything else. None of the cowboys or ranch hands had said a word and most of them just sat on their bunks with a "what is this all about" looks on their faces.

"Now I know all you fellow's are wondering what's going on." Molby said to them once he got supper started. "Well, it's no mystery. All the years I've been the cook here I've told you fellows that I was getting old and one day I'd be against the wall. Well this is the day. I got right up against that wall with a crow bar and opened up my other bank account. Yes sir, this is the account that you boys have been making deposits in for all them years. You boys and all the ones before you and now I'm making a final withdrawal and heading south where there ain't no snow." Molby stopped talking and made a sound that was half chuckle and half cackle as he looked at the men with a grin from ear to ear. "Oh yeah, that fancy gelding out there with the buggy. I offered the liveryman five hundred dollars for that horse and two hundred for the buggy and he said no, like he always does. So I just made him a better offer, double or nothing on the flip of a coin. Don't ya know I won using one of those Mexican pesos you boys was leaving me and laughing about when you were done playing poker instead of a two-bit piece." Molby held the coin up so all could see it. " Now come and get it while it's hot cause the new cook I hear has been fired from the last ten ranches he's cooked at and had his life threatened at a couple other places." Molby was chuckling again as he limped back to the cook stove. "Yes sir, I'm going where I can spend these pesos and I'll never have to worry about the wall again."

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