Ironhorse

33

“Queen of Storyville was where Widow Callico worked when she was the Countess.”

“Queen of Storyville?” Virgil said.

“Yep, that’s where Widow Callico worked before she was Mrs. Callico,” I said. “I was drinking a beer with Chauncey Teagarden in the Rabbit Saloon. He told me Widow Callico was the Countess at the Queen of Storyville, a big whore palace in New Orleans.”

“Countess?”

“That’s what Chauncey said. Said she wore fancy dresses with nothing underneath. No pants on her queen.”

“She called herself the Countess?” Virgil said.

“Chauncey used to visit her, he said, before he was old enough to shave. Said she was a busy Countess. Said that was where she met Amos Callico. Amos took away the title of Countess and gave her the title of Mrs. Callico before you took away the title of Mrs. Callico and gave her the title of Widow Callico.”

The coach slowed up some; I turned the wheel and released some of the friction I had on the brakes so we would not slow up too much.

“So, are Allie and Widow Callico selling pieces, too, or are they just running the business side of things?”

“I’m not real sure of the particulars about that,” Virgil said. “But with Widow Callico’s background as the Countess and Allie’s history of whoring, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Pony didn’t say?”

“No,” Virgil said. “He did say she was living there.”

“Living there?”

“Yep.”

“You mean she moved into Callico’s place?”

“According to Pony’s telegram, she did,” Virgil said. “She moved in after our house burnt down.”

“What? Damn, Virgil, your house burnt down?”

“Allie was cooking some fat belly, pan caught on fire, the curtains took to burning, and the whole place went up.”

I looked at Virgil. Virgil was looking down the track, and he did not look at me.

“Damn, Virgil. Appaloosa burnt up something good after our fight with those renegade Chiricahuas, and it took a long while and a lot of money to put the town back together. Your house was one of the few places that did not get burnt and now this?”

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“And all because Allie was cooking fat belly?”

Virgil nodded.

“Allie’s never been much of a cook, you know that, Everett.”

“Fat belly?” I said. “Pony said she was cooking fat belly?”

“According to the telegram,” Virgil said. “Fat belly.”

I turned the wheel ever so slightly, keeping us from slowing some more.

“Allie doesn’t eat fat belly,” I said.

“I know,” Virgil said. “She don’t like it.”

“So who was she cooking the fat belly for?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Virgil said.

A gust of wind swirled the rain around a bit more. We were on a wide, fairly flattened curve, and the coach slowed. I thought we might stop, but there was no sign of the back end of the train cars with the bandits that had drifted away from us. I knew there would not be a possibility of stopping as we slowly rolled on.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“It what?” Virgil said.

“Is that the all of the telegram?”

“Yes,” Virgil said. “That’s all the telegram said.”

“Damn,” I said. “That’s one helluva telegram.”

“Yep, Pony wrote the code himself. He wrote it after the telegrapher left the office, on account he didn’t want to spread the news around town any more than the news was already spreading,” Virgil said. “I imagine it took him all night. Pony’s coding wasn’t really up to snuff. Western Union fellow in Nuevo Laredo deciphered it the best he could. I picked up a copy of the World-Wide Travellers’ Cipher Code book at the Western Union office there when we crossed the border and went through the whole thing myself just to make sure the telegram was deciphered correctly.”

Virgil stopped talking.