Robert Parker - Ironhorse

We entered the front door, and inside the foyer there was a stuffed pair of snarling black bears to greet us. The foyer set the stage for the main room. Inside, the place looked more like a hunting lodge than a hotel; the walls were covered with animal hides and taxidermy mounts, with as many male/female couplings of animal species as could be pulled together. There was a set of narrow stairs rising up behind the front desk with a mezzanine overlooking the main room. Behind a set of saloon doors next to the front desk, a piano was playing a snappy rendition of “Camptown Races.” A woman’s voice was doing a pretty good job of singing along with the piano. I thought about Widow Callico and Allie and their nightly mus-A-cal duo and was quite certain they did not sound near as good as the Hotel Ark duo. A big bald fellow was behind the front desk, folding pillow covers. He was young and had big bulging biceps.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said.

“How do,” Virgil said.

“Fine, just fine,” the big fellow said. “You from the train?”

“We are not,” Virgil said.

“Need a room?” the big fellow said as he moved to the registry book sitting on the front desk next to a hen and drake mallard.

“No,” Virgil said. “Looking for Constable Berkeley?”

“He’s in the saloon, but unless you’re a member or a guest of the hotel, that’s off-limits, I’m afraid.”

“What’s your name, son?” Virgil said.

“Burns.”

“Well, there’s no reason to be afraid, Burns,” Virgil said. “We’re here on marshal business.”

Virgil pulled back his lapel so the big fellow could see his silver star.

“Oh,” Burns said. “Um... well. I suppose then it’d be okay for you to go right ahead on, Marshal.”

“S’pose we will,” Virgil said. “Much obliged.”

Burns grinned a lopsided grin. Then he resumed folding pillow covers.

We walked across the wide room toward the saloon, where a pair of bobcats stood side by side on a twisting sweep of bleached-out juniper. Their backs were arched, and they looked ready to attack.

“Look damn near alive,” I said.

“Odds are they’re not,” Virgil said as we pushed through the doors and into the saloon.

The saloon was small and cozy compared to the main room of the hotel. It was nicer, too, with velvet-covered chairs and paintings of ships and naked women. A big painting of Noah’s Ark covered at least six feet of the wall behind the bar. A bartender with a twenty-past-eight mustache and wearing black satin armbands was standing in front of the painting with his head down, reading a newspaper. The piano player and a heavyset chanteuse were set up in the center of the room, working the song louder than it needed to be worked, and somewhere, something smelled good.

“Food,” I said.

Virgil nodded as he looked around the room.

“Fancy place,” I said.

“It is.”

We could tell right away this place catered to a more exclusive clientele. There were two separate couples at the bar: one couple at one end, and another couple at the other. The whores were good-looking and acting like they were interested in what the men were saying. Sitting at a corner booth were two young men wearing expensive suits with bowlers and two older yet well-put-together whores.

“Members, I reckon.”

“Guests, maybe,” Virgil said.

For the moment, nobody in the place even paid us any attention.

“In respect to what we’ve seen of this town so far,” I said. “Seems kind of civilized.”

“Does,” Virgil said. “For a whoring facility, it most assuredly does.”

In the back, behind a set of half-closed curtains, we could see three women throwing darts, and behind them in the corner sat a few men at a card table, playing poker. One of the dart-throwing gals came from the back room and out to the bar. She was real pretty, and though she was a whore with a flower in her hair she could pass for someone proper, a teacher or a college student. She was young, straight-backed, with high cheekbones and pointed shoulders. She stopped when she saw Virgil and me.

“Oh!”

She walked over to us.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said.

Only then did the bartender look up from his newspaper.

“Evening,” we said.

“Have you two been helped?”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Just walked in the door,” I said.

“Well, nice of you to join us.”

She smiled. Her teeth were straight and white. She pointed.

“Handsome pouch you got there, handsome,” she said. “You’re no Indian with that blond hair.”

I followed her point to Bloody Bob’s pouch I forgot was hanging from my shoulder and resting on my hip.

“Allow me to get you gentlemen something,” she said.

She turned to the bar. Virgil interrupted her.

“We are looking for Burton,” Virgil said. “Burton Berkeley.”

She smiled sweetly.

“Um, okay, may I tell him who’s calling.”

“Sure. I’m Marshal Virgil Cole; this fellow here is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”

“Oh, well, okay. Just one moment, Marshal, Deputy.”

We watched as she walked back through the curtains and to the corner table where the men were playing poker. She leaned down and spoke to one of the men at the table. He turned and looked back at us. He looked to the others at the table, excused himself, and started walking toward Virgil and me. The piano player and the chanteuse started up another tune as Berkeley walked in our direction. Berkeley was a big man with big features, wearing an expensive suit. He had a thick head of curly hair slicked back with shiny oil. He came through the curtains and held out his hand.

“Burton Berkeley,” he said.

Virgil did not take his hand. I interceded and shook hands with Berkeley. I showed him my badge.

“I’m Deputy Everett Hitch; this is Marshal Virgil Cole.”

Virgil was looking through the curtains to the men at the poker table. They were looking at us.

“Well, this has been quite an evening here in Half Moon Junction,” Berkeley said. “Were you the lawmen on board?”

“We were,” I said.

He shook his head. “How, how in the hell did you get back to here?”

Virgil did not answer; he asked instead, “Where’s the governor?”

Berkeley looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“Well, he’s safe, Marshal.”

“He’s not one of the fellows back there at the table looking at us, is he?” Virgil said.

Berkeley turned, looking at the men in the back room who were looking at us, and then turned back to us, shaking his head.

“No,” Berkeley said.

“Did he leave on the Denison?” Virgil said.

“No,” Berkeley said. “He is here.”

“At this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“His wife with him?” Virgil asked.

Berkeley put his hands to his hips holding back his suit coat.

“Yes, they retired. This is terrible. They were obviously in shock and, well, with their daughters in peril. Do you know anything about them, their whereabouts?”

The piano player kicked into a loud section of his already noisy tune, which annoyed the hell out of Virgil but provided him the opportunity to ignore Berkeley’s question. Virgil was not accustomed to, nor interested in sharing, details about anything to anyone, especially someone he just met with a white flower in his lapel.

“What about the other passengers on the train?” Virgil asked.

“Some, most, we were able to get on the Denison train back to Texas. There are a few I believe at the other hotels, wishing to depart tomorrow.”

“What about the robbers,” I said. “They had the horses from the stock car. Any sign of them?”