The Fall of Abilene Page 9

  “Sounds reasonable.” Hardin lifted his glass. Hickok picked his up. They toasted.

  “Columbus Carroll is posted,” Hickok said. “A few others. But break the post, and I come killing. I don’t like Texans.”

  “I don’t like Yanks,” Hardin said.

  “That’s fine. As long as you don’t violate your posting.”

  Hardin nodded. “That I can do.”

  But I knew better. So did Wild Bill Hickok, I think.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Late the next afternoon, Hardin took me back to Abilene, not to roll tenpins but to count cards. By dark, Hardin had won a fair amount of money. I don’t recall the name of the establishment, but I do remember when Wild Bill Hickok pushed his way through the doors. He was slow, deliberate, and extremely cautious, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the smoke-filled light in the small building, looking left, right, and ahead, and then slipping through and sliding to the wall, away from the windows, still studying the men. His eyes settled on Hardin, then me, and eventually he moved past us without a word and found the bar.

  “Gin and bitters,” he said, and turned, hooking a shiny black boot on the brass railing and watching our table.

  “Boy,” a perturbed Hardin whispered.

  “Huh?” I had forgotten my job. I saw his cards, and signaled him to stay. The dealer took a card and busted.

  Grinning, Hardin smiled as the chips came his way.

  Holding a glass in his left hand, Hickok made his way over to our table, too.

  “Run of luck,” Hickok said.

  “Yeah.” Hardin glanced over his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Bill.”

  “Uh-huh. I’d call it a day.”

  Hardin’s smile faded. “Meaning?”

  “Find another place to drink. Find a whore. Just for tonight. And then when you decide to gamble, do it without your puppy dog.”

  “Are you calling me a cheat?”

  Hickok’s head shook. “I’d just hate to see the two of you cut down in the prime of life. This isn’t the place to count cards.”

  Hardin nodded at the gambler sitting across from us. “I can kill him before he ever gets that derringer out of his sleeve.”

  “Remember our agreement, Hardin,” Hickok said. “Besides, he’s not the one you two have to worry about.” He waved his tumbler behind him. “It’s Rafe, the bartender, with the Greener.” He shifted his drink to the right. “And Wilson, that big Negro in the corner over yonder.” He set the glass down next to a timid-looking man to Hardin’s left. “And Mr. McGonigle, who looks friendly but really doesn’t like to see Texans win while he loses,” he said, shifting his gaze. “That drink’s for you, Mac. And don’t forget, that firearms ordinance applies to local businessmen like yourself as well as drovers and tinhorns. Next time, leave that French-made pinfire at your office.”

  “You want to play, Marshal?” the gambler asked with a treacherous smile.

  “Not here,” Hickok said. “Life’s too short. Get up.” He stepped away. “Hardin walks in front of me. The boy walks behind me.” He raised his voice. “Once they’re standing, if a chair scrapes the floor before we’re outside, or if leather creaks or someone sneezes, I start shooting.”

  I’d never heard the inside of a gambling hall grow so quiet. We walked onto the street, grabbed the reins to our horses, quickly rounded the corner, and left the Devil’s Addition for the town proper—if you could find much about Texas Street to be proper.

  Hardin reined up at the Bull’s Head, and I started to follow, but Hickok cleared his throat and nodded. “Let’s ride a spell.”

  Hardin turned. “You plan on letting him count cards for you, Marshal?”

  “I count my own cards,” Hickok said. “Play my own game.”

  Hardin spit and disappeared inside the tavern.

  As Hickok and I rode down Texas Street, he said: “All right. What is thirty-seven … plus twenty-seven and …?” He stopped his black horse in front of a little, roughhewn groggery. “Divided by four?”

  That was easy. “Sixteen.”

  “Pretty good.” He swung down, tied his horse to the rail, and nodded for me to do the same. Reluctantly, I obeyed, and Hickok motioned for me to step inside the little saloon first.

  Immediately, Erastus McDougal greeted me. “Noah,” he said, “where the hell have you been?” He drew a sharp breath as Hickok came inside.

  “’Evening,” Hickok said.

  “M-marshal,” Erastus said, trying to swallow.

  “You trail boss?”

  “Cook,” Erastus managed.

  “I reckon that makes you trail boss.” Hickok grinned. “Nothing more important than a cook.”

  Erastus relaxed. “Try telling that to the crotchety vermin I feed.”

  “Well, you’ll do me and this strapping young lad a favor if you would keep him from counting cards for your man Hardin. Might keep him alive.”

  “Noah …” Erastus glared. I pouted. “I’ll tell his brother and …”

  “Don’t do that,” I pleaded.

  “If you want to gamble, boy,” Hickok said, “bowl. You’re good at that.”

  “I’m good at counting, too.”

  “How good?” The lawman’s eyes twinkled.

  “Well …”

  “Ladies and gents!” Hickok stepped aside and pushed back his long coattails. “This is the Abilene Kid, notorious master of numbers and arithmetic who needs no abacus.” He waved his left hand at a man in a striped sack suit sitting at a table with some other businessmen. “Mr. Mills, have you pencil and paper within reach?”

  It took him a while to find a pencil, and someone slid a newspaper across the table. When the bespectacled man nodded, Hickok repeated the equation he had asked me just moments ago on the street: “What is thirty-seven plus twenty-seven divided by four?” Then he whispered to me: “Answer. Loud enough for everyone to hear.”

  It had quieted inside the saloon, which wasn’t near the size of the Alamo, so I didn’t have to shout. “Sixteen.”

  A minute later, Mr. Mills looked up with a nod. “That’s what I get.”

  “Mills is a bank teller,” Hickok said. “I think he should know.”

  “What’s this all about, Bill?” a chirpy asked.

  “Ask the kid a math problem,” Hickok said.

  “A what?”

  After blowing her a kiss, Hickok smiled and looked at the teller, Mr. Mills. “Would you do me the honor?”

  The man tilted his silk hat back a bit and chewed on his pencil for a moment, then while writing on the paper, he said: “What is fifty-eight multiplied by thirty-three?” He went back to working his pencil while I figured it out in my head.

  “One thousand nine hundred and fourteen,” I stated loudly.

  Eyebrows arched. The chirpy squealed with delight even before the bank teller had finished calculating. Finally, after about ten seconds, he looked up, saying: “The answer is correct.”

  Wild Bill, who smoothed his mustache, looked around the room and said: “Here’s my proposal … we give this boy a mathematical problem. His answer is something that I must include in a literary recitation.”

  “Huh?” the chirpy said.

  “Well,” said the mustached bartender. “Nineteen hundred and fourteen, Bill.”

  “I killed one thousand nine hundred and fourteen bandits at Rock Creek. But only seven hundred and fifty of them were McCanlesses.”

  Everyone laughed, even me. Someone said: “What’s that from, Bill?”

  “My forthcoming autobiography,” he said.

  We laughed harder.

  “How about that first one, Bill?” the bank teller said. “Give us sixteen in your scripture.”

  “I was hoping for something harder,” Hickok said, chuckling. “‘The miller was a chap of sixteen st
one … A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone.’”

  The chirpy drew in a deep breath and said: “That’s amazing.”

  “Chaucer,” Hickok said. “The Canterbury Tales.”

  Erastus and I gave each other blank looks. When I looked up for some confirmation, a gambler with the red sleeve garters said: “I think Milt Parker has a copy of that book in his valise.”

  “No need to check,” said a man in a dark green coat trimmed in red velvet. “Mr. Hickok is correct.” And to prove his point, the man closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and recited: “‘He did well out of them, for he could go / And win the ram at any wrestling show.’”

  “I’ll be a suck-egg mule.” Erastus nodded at me. “Wild Bill’s good. Real good.”

  “So’s Noah.” Hickok bowed toward the smart man with the fancy coat. “I thank you, Professor.”

  The Professor gave a gracious smile.

  The bartender hollered out: “What’s the square root of seven?”

  Now, that was a tough one, but after a couple of minutes, I recalled Mr. Wiley’s teachings. “Why, seven’s a prime number. It’s square root can’t be … ummm … simplified. It’s what they call …” I had to think hard, so I closed my eyes. “It’s an irrational number.”

  Grinning, Hickok said: “Seven. ‘Fourscore and seven years ago …’”

  “We don’t need none of that, Yank,” Erastus said.

  Hickok’s smile widened, and he picked up a snifter the chirpy brought him, raised it toward our cook, and sipped.

  “One plus one,” said the drummer, well in his cups.

  “Two,” I cried out sharply, before he could add to this equation.

  Leaving his snifter on the table, Hickok slid his right hand through the opening in his vest, closed his eyes, and recited in that soft voice of his:

  High on her head she rears

  two twisted snakes,

  Her chains she rattles, and

  her whip she shakes;

  And, churning bloody foam,

  thus loudly speaks:

  “Behold whom time has

  made to dote, and tell

  Of arms imagin’d in her

  lonely cell!

  Behold the Fates’ infernal

  minister!

  War, death, destruction, in

  my hand I bear.”

  Then he sat down, looked at us, and said: “Virgil’s The Aeneid.”

  Everyone looked at the Professor, who shrugged, sipped his beer, and said: “One day this town might have a library.”

  “Maybe you’re calling me a liar,” Hickok suggested. I thought he was joking. I mean, I could see that glint in his eyes, but a few folks stepped back, and even Erastus started examining his fingernails, which were dirty and needed a good clipping.

  “Well,” the barkeep said, “if he made it up, he ought to be writing poetry.”

  Laughter again filled the saloon.

  “A hundred and forty-four divided by twelve,” a cowboy in the back shouted.

  “Twelve,” I said immediately. “That’s too easy.”

  Even before someone could confirm that my answer was correct, Hickok was reciting: “‘… and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel.’” He nodded at me. “It’s from the Book of Revelation. Can’t recall the exact chapter and verse.”

  “Chapter Twenty-one,” a man in black said. “Verse … Ten … no … Twelve. Somewhere around there.”

  The Professor nodded. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  The reverend bowed.

  The banker started talking while he wrote down the numbers and began working on the equation himself. “Nineteen … times … five … divided by five … plus two.”

  Eventually, I answered that, too. “Twenty-one.”

  “He’s right,” the teller said.

  Hickok smiled and said softly: “The Book of Revelation, chapter twenty-one. Verse twelve. Or maybe ten.”

  Over chuckles, back slaps, and the shaking of heads, the bartender refilled empty glasses.

  “Can we allow that?” the Professor said.

  “Yes,” Hickok said, and nobody argued.

  “What’s one multiplied by one?” the drunken cowboy drawled.

  “One,” I said.

  Hickok nodded, looked at the chirpy, saying: “‘I am one who loved not wisely but too well.’ Othello. Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, Bill,” the chirpy said.

  Nodding at me, Hickok said: “I fear we must close this contest and rule it a draw, for I have business to attend.” He extended his right hand while keeping his left on the butt of one of the Colts in his sash. “It has been a delight and an honor to spar with you.” We shook hands. He whispered: “Keep your counting fun, Abilene. You’d do me and yourself a favor if you kept Hardin at a distance.”

  With that, he moved to the chirpy. She slipped her arm through his, and they walked like royalty across the saloon floor, through the batwing doors, disappearing on the dusty boardwalk.

  Someone brought me a beer. I drank it. I drank another. And forgetting Hickok’s advice, and losing Erastus in the crowd that filled the saloon, I stumbled outside, mounted my horse, and rode over to the Bull’s Head, where I found Hardin and a number of Texans drinking whiskey.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My head throbbed. My stomach did flips and jumped fences. Eventually, my eyes opened only to close immediately from the infernal light. Sour sweat and stinking farts left me gagging. I begged God to kill me.

  “God didn’t pour that rotgut down your throat, did He?”

  “Erastus,” I moaned. “You’re a son of a bitch.”

  “And this son of a bitch has brought you coffee.”

  My eyes slowly opened. I found my hat, pulled it low, and slowly sat up in my sugans. My boots were still on. The tin mug of coffee in the cook’s right hand steamed.

  “What time did I ride in?” I asked.

  “You didn’t exactly ride …” Erastus sat back after I took the coffee carefully, blew on it, and sipped. It didn’t make me feel much better.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  He looked up at the sun. “By now … I suspect they’re blowing the last of their wages. Preparing to ride south.” He nodded at the Studebaker. “I’ll be going directly.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Closer to sunset than daybreak.”

  Groaning, I made myself drink more coffee. Two sips and I forgot about my head. Half a cup, my stomach finally settled. Two cups and I forgot about last night.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “In town. He’s got no more sense than the rest of you. You’ve got fewer brains than I thought you had. Only smart two of this bunch is Carlos and Clements.”

  I shoved the empty cup toward Erastus, who grunted, returned to the fire, and limped back with the cup refilled.

  “What?” I asked.

  The cook gave me a look that reminded me of my folks.

  “About …?” I had to think. The headache almost returned, but another sip of coffee sent it away. “Clements? And …?”

  “Carlos,” Erastus McDougal said. “You know. The little Mexican boy who kept our horses from going lame all the way from South Texas.”

  “What about him?”

  “He drew his pay, rode back south. So did Clements. Wes wasn’t happy, but Wes don’t give a hang about anybody … other than himself.”

  I’m not sure anything he said sunk in that afternoon. His words would sink in later, when the haze of beer, rye, and gin and bitters finally lifted and I could see things for what they really were.

  After finishing the coffee, I managed to stand and make my way to the wreck pan. “Where do you think Sam is?” The noise the cup
made when I dropped it rattled in my head, but I battled the hangover. “And Wes? Box Head? All the boys?”

  Erastus sighed. “Hardin tells me you’ll be staying with him. Till the herd sells. Is that right?”

  Swinging around caused a wave of dizziness and nausea. “What?”

  Erastus started emptying the coffee onto the fire. He didn’t bother repeating what he had just told me.

  “Wes … said that?”

  Erastus didn’t answer, saying instead: “I’ll be riding past your ma and pa’s place on the way home. Want me to tell her anything?” Now he turned around and looked at me. “Bring her anything?”

  My gaze moved to the remuda, which you could now barely even call a string. Just a few horses left. My string. Hardin’s. And our strings had been reduced to three each. The mules had already been hitched to the Studebaker.

  “Mr. Carroll had all the horses sold off today,” Erastus explained. “Most of them will be going to a glue factory, I suspect. The boys drove those in on the way to get paid off.”

  “Ummm.”

  “Your mother, Noah?”

  “Yes. Of course. Ma. And Pa.” I staggered toward the cook. “Sure.” I reached into my pants pocket, digging deep. Those thieving Kansas carpetbagging cheaters. No. My mind cleared as I pulled out some crumpled greenbacks and a few silver coins, and six or seven coppers.

  When McDougal cupped his hands, I dropped in all of the money I had left for him to bring my mother. But before he could move, I changed my mind, grabbed the paper money, and said: “You tell Ma, you tell her, that I’ll bring back more than she’s ever seen. Me and Sam. We’ll own Abilene in a week. A month. Be rich. I’m the Abilene Kid. And you should see me roll tenpins.”

  “I bet your mother would rather see you and Sam”—Erastus dropped the money into a coffee sack he fished out of his back pocket—“than all the money this cattle town could offer.”