The Last Shootist (19 page)

“Come in and see me, cowboys! Two-for-one special tonight!”

Ease walked Gillom to the bitter end of the gulch to take it all in, the bright lights and the depravity, giving him a good look at bad Bisbee by night, but now he took his new friend by the elbow and turned him around on their evening constitutional.

“These tramps ain't for the likes of us. I'll show you the Red Light dance hall, back near the bend. Nicer, younger girls to talk to, dance with, and you don't have to fuck 'em to have some fun.”

Gillom grinned. “Sounds about all right.”

As they entered, Gillom saw the Red Light was a little bigger and better decorated than most of the Western dance halls of 1901, for this narrow frame building had a long bar on one side of the dance floor. It also featured a bandstand for music and no nude paintings on its walls of harlots posed in prostrate beauty common to frontier gambling establishments. Some of the Red Light's younger dancers were of foreign, European extraction or, this close to the border, Mexican. Gillom and Ease admired the flashier girls whirling about the wooden floor, trying not to bowl over their lead-footed partners.

“Howdy, Ease,” said the plump, mustachioed barkeep. “What'll you boys have?”

“I believe I'll have a Stone Fence, Fred, thank you.”

Gillom looked puzzled. “Whatever that is, make it two.”

“
That
is a shot of rye in a mug of hard cider with some ice and a dash of lemon. Couple of Stone Fences and you're ready to try buildin' your own,” Ease explained. The lads laughed. “Know whose favorite drink that is?”

Gillom shook his head.

“Buffalo Bill Cody's.”

Their drinks appeared and Ease paid and they clinked glasses.

“To
love,
wherever her pretty ass may be,” toasted Gillom.

“Maybe right in here!” chortled Ease, as up on the bandstand, Swart John bowed his plaintive fiddle, and Ramon and his kid brother their melodious guitar and guitaron, as another chili-flavored stomp commenced.

Gillom turned to admire the ladies spinning past them. “Are these girls whores?”

“Some of them are, sure, but not all,” advised Ease. “You've gotta know which ones do the deed. There's small rooms with beds in back up there. Three dollars a poke, plus tip. Ten dollars for the whole night, after hours. You hafta buy 'em a drink before each dance, see, but it's only cold tea, so they don't get too drunk to maneuver.” Ease pointed toward a wall sign.
DANCES AVAILABLE! ONE BUCK A SPASM!

“A dollar gets her tea and a dance with her. Whiskey, beer, or mixed drinks extra.”

His younger friend looked perplexed. “I thought all hurdy-gurdy girls were prostitutes?”

“In the cheaper joints, yes. There's those in Bisbee. But some of these dance hall queens are so popular they don't hafta make their money watchin' the ceiling. And they're insulted if you ask 'em to go upstairs, so be careful you don't get slapped.”

There was a disruption as one of the drunken miners tripped over his heavy boots and took his partner down to the floor with him. The fast music played right on, and except for a ripped stocking, the girl appeared to be okay as she stalked off from her clumsy partner while he rolled to his feet grinning loopily.

Then Gillom saw her, a heart-quickening eyeful in a dress of white satin as she whirled by with a better-dressed, older gentleman. Her lighter brown skin was clear and her coloring shone around the lipstick she had smeared across her warm prettiness. Many of these bar belles favored too much makeup, rouge and eye shadow, but the ones with the most face powder to cover their wrinkles were more likely to be “painted” ladies of the evening as well as dancing partners. This girl looked lighter-skinned than most Mexicans, so there had to have been a white European in her family's generational woodpile somewhere. Her long, black hair spun out as she swung from her partner on small, light feet. He was a skilled dancer and got her spinning faster so the bell shape of her knee-length skirt spun out, giving the attending men a good view of her ankles and calves and, more excitingly, her ruffled white bloomers.

“What about her? The beauty in the white dress?”

“Don't know 'er. New girls are always popular. You'll have to get in line to meet her.” Ease pointed to another sign on the wall—
NO DRINKS, NO DANCES.

So Gillom imbibed his liquor and inhaled the powerful odor of tobacco, stale drinks, cheap perfume, sweat, and stained clothing that a Western dance hall mixed in strong doses, while the patrons thrashed about the dance floor under the allure of yellowish lamplight. And it was often more thrashing than ballroom dancing with these clumsy miners, so some of the gals wore work boots just to keep their toes from getting mashed. When the five-minute song ended, he watched the enchanting girl return to her bench along the wall and her partner to refresh himself at the bar. Whistling and applause came from some of the watchers for this dancing gal's lingerie display, which would increase her tips this busy night in the Red Light. Gillom walked over to join her.

“May I have your next dance, ma'am?”

The
señorita
smiled, but pointed a slim finger at the sign nearby.

“Oh yes. What are you drinking, ma'am?”

She smiled coquettishly. “Sweet tea.”

Gillom now knew the gambit, and at least she was honest, not calling it liquor. He hurried to the end of the long counter, got a bartender's attention, and pointed back at who he was buying a phony drink for. There was a five-minute interlude between dances so business could be transacted. But now the music was starting up again and her missing partner was pulling her out onto the dance floor once more. Gillom shook his head, frustrated.
This is gonna be difficult,
he figured.
She's so damned popular
.

But he bought the glass of tea the bartender poured from a pitcher under the bar and watched as the man chalked a quick mark next to a name he couldn't read on a small blackboard he hadn't noticed behind the glassware. It was the Red Light's scoreboard for which girls had had how many drinks when it came time to split the proceeds at night's end, fifty-fifty. For an energetic evening of sweet tea and tips, a few of the prettier girls could make as much as fifty dollars, good money just for dancing their feet afire.

Gillom took his tea and mug of hard cider back to her empty seat, getting a high sign from Ease as he passed, and proffered it to the young lady as she waltzed off the dance floor again, out of breath. Her partner gave Gillom a cold stare as the beauty accepted his drink. The middle-aged gent started to protest, but the dancing queen cut him off by pointing at the no drinks sign once more. He knew the house rules. In a huff, the gentleman in the blue suit stomped off for more refreshments, as Gillom moved in.

“What's your name?”

“Anel.”

“What?”

“Ana Leticia.
Mi papá
put them together. So, Anel.”

“What's it mean? In Spanish?”

“Nothing. Is made up.”

“Ah. Pretty name, though, like you. I'm Gillom Rogers. From El Paso.”

“Ah.
Tejano
.” She presented him a bent wrist. He didn't know whether to kiss it or bow? So he tried to shake it instead. Then, a pause amidst the din, both of them looking away, then back at each other, sipping their drinks. The music commenced and they could put down their glasses, step out on the dance floor. This one was slower, a waltz almost, so they could converse as they danced.

“Where are you from?”

“Zacatecas. Where I was birthed. Then Minas Prietas, La Cananea, to Bis-bee. Mining towns.
Mi papá
, hees a miner.”

“Ah,
sí
. So your family is here?”

“No.
Mi familia
ees in Mexico. La Cananea. Work the mines.”

Gillom swung her around under his outstretched arm, even if it wasn't the proper move for this dance. Anel giggled but seemed to enjoy him. At least he wasn't tripping over his own feet, but following her lead. The whiskey, hard cider, and beer were rising from his gut to his head when he waltzed her off the dance floor as the music ended and back to her bench.

“Thank you, Mis-ter Vaquero.” She curtsied, having fun with him. They took up their glasses, thirsty from the exertion.

“No, no cowboy. I'm the new bank guard. Starting Monday.”

“Guard?”

“Bodyguard. Bank of Bisbee. For the customers. So they don't get robbed.”

“Ah,
sí
.” And then he was back, her first dance partner, bearing a fresh tea and a shit-eating grin. That was enough for this impatient teenager, this constant changing of partners.

“Okay. See you around.”

The cute Latina gave him a little wave as he walked away, then turned back to her work. He found another spot at the bar and ordered a last beer, watched Ease reel by in the arms of a muscular Amazon tossing about a mass of flaming red hair to match his own. His buddy was beaming as he thanked his Lorelei after this dance ended and panted back to his
companero
.

“Who's the big gal?” inquired Gillom.

“Red Jean. Tougher than a mesquite root, pard. Jean could grind my stem to pulp if she wanted to. I'd never cross her, but she's fun to dance with. How'd you do?”

“Anel's pretty, but she's getting play from the sports in here.”

“Yeah, it's Friday, crowded.” They watched Gillom's beauty dance by again with her older gentleman. “Older bucks just won't leave the new does alone.”

The young bucks rued their luck. But Mr. Bixler was still full of fire.

“C'mon! Finish your drink and let's go find some more fun!”

The lads stepped outside to clear their lungs of the smoky, stale smell of the dance hall.

“This place must rake in money.”

“You bet. Dancing miners just pour down the booze, and there's not as much overhead as with a gambling saloon or a parlor house. The noise is such a nuisance the neighbors complain, so the Red Light has to pay a higher tax to the city council for more deputies to patrol this action,” Ease explained. “You can't open up a dance hall just anywhere. Come back on a quieter week night, Gillom. If that's gal's workin', she'll have more time for you then. These girls make most of their money on weekends.”

“Figures.”

“Let's go have a toddy downtown. Joe Muheim's is where Bisbee's important men like to drink. No dancing girls there, though.”

“Lead the way, pard.”

And Mr. Bixler did, off the lighted porch. They were crossing a dirt alley between buildings when a voice hissed out of the darkness.

“Reach for Heaven, if you value your lives.”

The threat wasn't shouted but it got their attention, halted their stroll. A pistol poked from the black night, beckoned them back into the inkwell. The boys did as instructed, slowly.

“Hurry up. Hands against the wall. Your wallets, boys.” The pistol's owner wore a dark suit and a heavy black mustache. All they really noticed, though, were mean eyes glaring from beneath a slouch hat.

Ease wasn't armed, coming off his work shift, but he was in front and so was shoved against the wall first. Pulling up the tails of Ease's wool coat, the footpad spied the bulge in Bixler's back pocket and groped for it. Whether he didn't notice Gillom, still facing him, was packing iron covered by his coat, or the thrill of finding his first victim's money distracted him, but the moonlight bandit forgot to keep an eye on his second prey as he ripped Ease's wallet from his pants.

Gillom's hands brushed back his coat and dropped to his revolvers and yanked both from his holster and thumb-cocked them so fast the robber couldn't react as the Remingtons roared! One bullet to the upper chest! Another to the stomach, paralyzing the bandit as he was blasted backward from the concussions.

“
Aieee! Aieee!
” The footpad screamed in pain as he thrashed about in the alley, which quickly attracted a crowd of gawkers, heads poking around corners, men running into the alley from the street.

“
Jesus!
Gillom!”

“Let him die! He deserves to!”

The thief rolled onto his stomach so they couldn't see him bleeding, but they could smell him, the strange odors of bloody flesh, singed wool, and soiled trousers.

Ease Bixler was still worked up. “Bastard tried to rob us! He yanked my wallet!”

Someone brought a kerosene lamp to illuminate the downed man, and there was the bartender's horsehide wallet lying nearby. Ease picked up his money as a bystander rolled the moaning robber faceup. He was still breathing, but had two bloody holes in his midtorso.

“Somebody raise the sheriff!”

Another gawker trotted off to do so, and spread the hot news. Nobody called for a doctor.

“Jesus, Gillom, you're quick!” yelled the intended victim. “The guy had his gun on me, but you whipped out your pistols and were firing before this jasper even moved.”

Gillom reholstered and now buttoned his coat over his matched revolvers on his hips, not wishing to draw more attention to them.

“He was grabbin'
your
money, Ease. He forgot about me.”

“A fast draw artist,” somebody opined. Another bystander patted Gillom on the back.

“Mebbe so. But you're greased lightnin' with those six-shooters. Thank
you,
pal!”

*   *   *

The sheriff wasn't so complimentary. Gillom was taken before Scott White in his downtown office next to the jail soon after the shooting. The bandit had expired before anything could be done for him and was already being undertaken. White had just returned from viewing the corpse and making burial arrangements. The sheriff, a well-dressed, slightly overweight man, seemed more businessman than a tough law enforcer to Gillom. Certainly not the toughest hombre in what seemed to be a lively nest of thieves.