Ironhorse

44

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.

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.