Robert Parker - Ironhorse

We walked on up the street, and the next building we came to was a small church on the south side nestled between two big tents. A large woman opened the door as we walked by and threw out a basin of water. She turned to go back inside but stopped when she saw Virgil and me.

“Well, hey there, boys. How ’bout getting a piece of Heaven with Betty Jean?”

Virgil looked up to the steeple. He glanced at me and looked back to Betty Jean. Betty Jean was no church lady, and obviously this church was no church. It had been converted into a brothel, and Betty Jean was most likely a member of the congregation.

“Come on in,” Betty Jean said. “You can ring the bell.”

Betty Jean’s face was thick with face paint. She looked kind of like a harlequin queen on a deck of French playing cards, with wide, dark eyebrows and red lipstick that exceeded the borders of her lips. We could smell her strong perfume from where we were standing. If it were not for her behemoth breasts that were nearly falling out of the low-cut dress she was wearing, I would have thought she was a man.

“What kind of law is in this town, Betty Jean?” Virgil said.

She leaned on the doorjamb sort of manly-like and smiled, showing her big teeth smudged with lipstick.

“You’re looking at it,” Betty Jean said.

Another whore poked her head out the door from behind Betty Jean. She was a skinny woman with a large nose.

“Y’all with them others that come off that train that got all busted ’n burnt up?” She looked at Betty Jean. “Are they?”

“We got some whiskey,” Betty Jean said. “Why don’t y’all come on in and let me and Laskowski here take good care of you.”

“Where are the others that came off the busted train you’re talking about,” I said.

“A couple of ’em come in for service, but they done left,” Laskowski, the skinny whore, said. “So why don’t y’all come on in and confess with me and Betty Jean here.”

Virgil tipped his hat and was already walking away when he said, “Evenin’.”

I tipped my hat.

“Some other time, ladies,” I said, and followed Virgil.

“Won’t find no better,” Betty Jean said as we moved on.

I caught up, getting in step with Virgil.

“There is something wrong there,” I said.

“There is.”

“Not being a religious person, but that just does not seem right.”

“No,” Virgil said. “It does not.”

“If there is a trap door to hell,” I said. “I reckon that might be it.”

“No need to find out.”

“I’m not sure I could even do it under those conditions.”

“Not sure any conditions you’d even ever want to do it.”

Pete’s place was a small open-air saloon with a thick board spread across two barrels. A nicely painted sign in front let us know this was Pete’s Place. Virgil and I stepped up. Pete’s Place was empty except for an elderly bartender who was cleaning an old single-shot twenty-gauge and two Indians dressed in white men’s clothes. The Indians were drunk. One Indian was sitting on the floor, asleep, with his head to the wall. The other Indian was sitting in a chair, glassy-eyed and staring straight ahead like he’d been hypnotized.

The old fellow smiled and slid two small glasses in front of us and was pouring before I could say “Whiskey.”

The old fellow poured us two generous portions.

We drank, and he poured two more.

“You two with the group that got stranded?”

“No,” Virgil said.

“We are not, but we are looking for them,” I said. “Some of them, anyway.”

I slid back my coat and showed him the badge on my vest. Pete’s eyes shifted back and forth between Virgil and me.

“You Pete?” I said.

“I am.”

Virgil and I drank our second shot and Pete poured two more drinks.

“Hell of a thing that happened with the train,” Pete said. “I looked up and them folks came traipsing through town like a bunch of tuckered cattle.”

“You see any of them on horseback?” Virgil said.

“No, they was all on foot.”

“Where are they now?” I said.

“I think some of them caught the last D and WV back to Denison, but I’m not for certain. There’s three hotels here; some of ’em might be there. This joint was full of black coal faces for a few hours, and I was busy for a while with the shift change, so I don’t rightly know.”

“Who’s in charge of this place, Pete?”

“I am.”

“The town, Pete,” I said. “Who’s in charge of this town?”

“Oh. Officially, that’d be the Choctaw Nation,” Pete said. “But Burton Berkeley is the constable-elect. I think he’s a quarter Choctaw, but he don’t look it.”

“Where’s the jail?” I asked.

“Just up the street, but he ain’t never there, really. He’s got a few deputies that might be there if they got somebody locked up. Only on rare occasions do they lock somebody up. Most everybody here in Half Moon is pretty scared of big Burton, and therefore they don’t do much to get themselves arrested. Burton is tough, and miners for the most part are a hardworking, harmless sort.”

“Where can we find him,” Virgil said. “The constable, Burton Berkeley?”

“The Hotel Ark.”

“And where might that be?” I asked.

“On Half Moon here.” Pete pointed east. “Go past Quarter Moon Street, the next street you get to is Full Moon, turn right, and you’ll come to Three Quarter Moon Street. That’s this town: Quarter, Half, Three Quarter and Full, those are the streets. On the corner there of Full and Three Quarter is Hotel Ark and Saloon. That’s his place. Most evenings that’s where he is.”

“He owns the place?” I asked.

“He does. He owns damn near the whole of Half Moon Junction.”

We left Pete’s place and walked up the south side of Half Moon Street past a busy card house, a bathhouse, and a grungy miners saloon where a bare-chested wrestling match was under way. We crossed to the north side at Quarter Moon Street and walked past dark alley passages between storefronts, with upstairs rooms where working women were practicing their trade. We turned right on Full Moon and made our way toward what was obviously the main part of town, passing a pool hall saloon with a sign advertising Chuck-a-Luck, Faro, Roulette and Bowling .

“Big place,” I said.

“Is.”

“Lot of people.”

A bit farther ahead was a double-decker lavishly painted brothel, aptly named Over the Moon. A few ladies tried to sell us a piece on the walk just before we got to Three Quarter Moon Street, but we declined and moved on.

“Whip was right,” I said.

“’Bout?”

“This town does seem like a place written about in the Bible where God got mad.”

“Not shy of whores,” Virgil said.

“Nope,” I said, “it’s not.”

“They ain’t a bit shy, neither.”

“No, they’re not.”

We stopped on the corner under a lamp, where a swarm of bugs circled around the light as a mule team passed by, slowly pulling a long flatbed loaded with pipe. Staggering along following the flatbed was a short, round swamper. He was talking to himself.

“Half Moon Junction seems like an appropriate name for this wallow,” I said.

“Does,” Virgil said.

We crossed the street to the Hotel Ark on the corner of Full and Three Quarter. Hotel Ark was a big hotel, bigger than the Boston House in Appaloosa. From the outside it resembled its title; it was oddly constructed to look like a big ship, and the whole structure was without an inch of paint. The porch wrapped both sides of the building facing Full and Three Quarter Moon Street. It had crooked oak supports for porch posts and a thick rope for railing.