mean?”
When Big Bess looked back down at my brother, her face wasn’t so much changed as unveiled. The anger and contempt etched deep into her blubber had been there all along, just underneath the grins and winks.
“It means Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock wouldn’t wipe their asses on three hundred dollars, let alone kill a good earner like Adeline for it. She could hump up more money than that in a month.”
Old Red stiffened, his jaw clenched tight.
“Oh…you didn’t know that about her, did you?” Big Bess went on. “That she was popular with the boys? Well, she was. Real popular. I tell you, that bird-with-a-wounded-wing act of hers sure worked. She must’ve had twenty dumb drovers on her string, all of ’em thinkin’ they was her one and only. You want the truth about your sweet Adeline, well, there it is: You didn’t mean any more to her than any other horny ranch hand plunkin’ down his dollar.”
Gustav just stood there, utterly still, utterly silent. Lot’s wife in a Stetson and blue jeans.
“Oh, hon…I’m sorry,” Big Bess said, her tone suddenly turning tender, remorseful, sickly sweet. “I should’ve told you nicer. But the important thing is now you know, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble. Adeline always said you was thick, but I never believed it. You’re smart, I can tell. And a smart man wouldn’t tangle with Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock. Not for her . You don’t owe that lyin’ bitch a thing. Just go. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Old Red made no move to go, though. He made no move—no sound—of any kind.
“Brother,” I began. I’m not even sure I had more to say than that. I was just reminding him I was there. That he wasn’t as alone as Big Bess’s words might make him feel.
Then words finally came to him again, slow and low.
“Tell me again…who sent Adeline to the Star that night?”
“Mr. Bock.”
“Hmm.” Gustav turned away, head bowed, and began pacing around the room with heavy, deliberate steps. “And who was it told you about the stranger?”
Big Bess hesitated, like this was some kind of trick question.
“Mr. Ragsdale.”
“Uh-huh.”
As Old Red was passing the picture of Lincoln, he stopped, then pivoted again and leaned back against the wall next to it. His face and gloomy old Abe’s were perfectly even, and it was like there were two men staring at Big Bess now.
“Just one more question, Bess,” Gustav said. “Why are you still callin’ both them bastards ‘mister’ when ain’t neither of ’em around to even hear it?”
“Oh. Huh. I don’t know.” Big Bess’s wide mouth twitched into an overcooked smile of the sort she’d been serving up for the customers. “Habit, I suppose. It’s like you said a minute ago—them macks of mine get awful persnickety if us gals get too familiar.”
My brother shook his head sadly. “Oh, Bess…”
And he swung up his right hand, the index and middle fingers stuck out in a V , and poked Abe Lincoln right in the eyes.
Even more shocking than that, the Great Emancipator spoke —though the Gettysburg Address it was not.
“Fudge!” he screeched. “Ow ow ow! Oh, that fudgin’ motherfudger!”
Lincoln’s eyes took on a dull glow—light shining through from a room on the other side of the portrait.
The eyes were empty slits, I now saw, the canvas cut away to make two wee peepholes. And the man who’d been doing the peeping was staggering around on the other side shouting, “Get in there and fudgin’ kill that little fudger!”
“Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Is that Ragsdale?”
My brother’s only answer was “Run run run!”
This seemed like sensible advice indeed, and as I was closer to the door I reached it first and jerked it open—and found myself facing Stonewall, a Peacemaker looking puny in his huge sausage-fingered fist.
“Remember, now,” I said to him. “Your boss told you to kill the little fudger.”
Stonewall wasn’t the sort to let such niggling details
When Big Bess looked back down at my brother, her face wasn’t so much changed as unveiled. The anger and contempt etched deep into her blubber had been there all along, just underneath the grins and winks.
“It means Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock wouldn’t wipe their asses on three hundred dollars, let alone kill a good earner like Adeline for it. She could hump up more money than that in a month.”
Old Red stiffened, his jaw clenched tight.
“Oh…you didn’t know that about her, did you?” Big Bess went on. “That she was popular with the boys? Well, she was. Real popular. I tell you, that bird-with-a-wounded-wing act of hers sure worked. She must’ve had twenty dumb drovers on her string, all of ’em thinkin’ they was her one and only. You want the truth about your sweet Adeline, well, there it is: You didn’t mean any more to her than any other horny ranch hand plunkin’ down his dollar.”
Gustav just stood there, utterly still, utterly silent. Lot’s wife in a Stetson and blue jeans.
“Oh, hon…I’m sorry,” Big Bess said, her tone suddenly turning tender, remorseful, sickly sweet. “I should’ve told you nicer. But the important thing is now you know, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble. Adeline always said you was thick, but I never believed it. You’re smart, I can tell. And a smart man wouldn’t tangle with Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Bock. Not for her . You don’t owe that lyin’ bitch a thing. Just go. Now. Before it’s too late.”
Old Red made no move to go, though. He made no move—no sound—of any kind.
“Brother,” I began. I’m not even sure I had more to say than that. I was just reminding him I was there. That he wasn’t as alone as Big Bess’s words might make him feel.
Then words finally came to him again, slow and low.
“Tell me again…who sent Adeline to the Star that night?”
“Mr. Bock.”
“Hmm.” Gustav turned away, head bowed, and began pacing around the room with heavy, deliberate steps. “And who was it told you about the stranger?”
Big Bess hesitated, like this was some kind of trick question.
“Mr. Ragsdale.”
“Uh-huh.”
As Old Red was passing the picture of Lincoln, he stopped, then pivoted again and leaned back against the wall next to it. His face and gloomy old Abe’s were perfectly even, and it was like there were two men staring at Big Bess now.
“Just one more question, Bess,” Gustav said. “Why are you still callin’ both them bastards ‘mister’ when ain’t neither of ’em around to even hear it?”
“Oh. Huh. I don’t know.” Big Bess’s wide mouth twitched into an overcooked smile of the sort she’d been serving up for the customers. “Habit, I suppose. It’s like you said a minute ago—them macks of mine get awful persnickety if us gals get too familiar.”
My brother shook his head sadly. “Oh, Bess…”
And he swung up his right hand, the index and middle fingers stuck out in a V , and poked Abe Lincoln right in the eyes.
Even more shocking than that, the Great Emancipator spoke —though the Gettysburg Address it was not.
“Fudge!” he screeched. “Ow ow ow! Oh, that fudgin’ motherfudger!”
Lincoln’s eyes took on a dull glow—light shining through from a room on the other side of the portrait.
The eyes were empty slits, I now saw, the canvas cut away to make two wee peepholes. And the man who’d been doing the peeping was staggering around on the other side shouting, “Get in there and fudgin’ kill that little fudger!”
“Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Is that Ragsdale?”
My brother’s only answer was “Run run run!”
This seemed like sensible advice indeed, and as I was closer to the door I reached it first and jerked it open—and found myself facing Stonewall, a Peacemaker looking puny in his huge sausage-fingered fist.
“Remember, now,” I said to him. “Your boss told you to kill the little fudger.”
Stonewall wasn’t the sort to let such niggling details
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