Paradise Sky

I thought about it more and more when I had to knock heads over at the Gem Theater and on long days when I was emptying stinky spittoons. I had to keep stashing enough money back for me and Win to light out from Deadwood, set our sights on something better. The better thing seemed to me Mr. Loving’s money he had left me, provided it hadn’t all been stolen from me. I tried to keep in mind that Mr. Loving had a lot of faith in his cousin, but when it come to taking advantage of the money or giving it to a colored man with big ears, I feared he might lose some of his loyalty. But if the money was there, it was a good nest egg, and I was thinking of having my own farm, which was something I knew how to do.

Plans was one thing, life was another.

As a rainy spring moved on and summer limped in, and the muddy streets dried and became spotted with holes deep enough to lose a leg in, I was feeling at the top of my game, having stuffed myself tight with plans and ambition.

One night, working at the Gem, a big man came in. And when I say big, I mean big. You will think I exaggerate when I say he was about seven feet tall. It is your privilege to doubt me. I didn’t wrestle him to the ground and put a ruler to him, but I am a fair judge of height and weight from my time with livestock, and that was my figure. He was broad-shouldered, had a chest like a nail keg and legs like tree trunks. I reckoned him for three hundred pounds, thereabouts, and I might add we’re talking lots of muscle and trim on the fat. His hat seemed to sit on top of his head and was in danger of falling off at any moment. His feet was so big his boots looked like rowboats to me.

What struck me as most interesting, though, was he came in with the fellow that had been scalped, cut, and burned. The busted fellow still had a limp, but as I said before he had abandoned the cane. There was also with him a little man with a sunken chin and a dimple in it like a bullet strike. This man was thin of shoulder and chest. His eyes were always darting about the room, which made me think of a weasel, which was the name he was known by. When he sauntered in he had on a set of guns and a belt full of cartridges.

Like a lot of cowboys and miners, there was them that didn’t like to check their weapons, their manhood being tied so closely to them. This often meant I’d have to beat them about the head and ears with my own pistol, since as bouncer I was allowed to carry mine.

Weasel and Big Boy was among them that wanted to hang on to their goods. They grumbled when I asked for their weapons and promised them a claim check in my best handwriting. I pointed to a sign right by the door that said CHECK YOUR GODDAMN GUNS. AND WE MEAN IT.

“A man’s guns ought to stay on him,” Weasel said.

Like a lot of the others, I believed my manhood was tied to my weapons, too; it was easier to prove it with a pistol than it was with an idea, cause that took brain work and consideration and someone on the other end of it that was willing to listen. Problem with trying to be rational all the time is the other fellow ain’t always concerned with how logical your argument is.

What I said next hit Weasel solid as a brick. “Your johnson stays on you, your guns go behind this counter.”

Weasel leaned over the counter, got close to my face, letting me get the full measure of his breath, which was already wet with alcohol and onions and something that came from deep down inside of him like a mating skunk. His clothes smelled, too, mildewed and musky. Sweat was dripping down from under his hat and onto his forehead.

“I fought for the Confederacy, and now I got a nigger telling me I got to give up my guns?”

“I’m telling you to check them,” I said. “I don’t plan to auction them.”

“You getting smart with me, boy?” said Weasel.

“I’m telling you the rules,” I said.

Big Boy stepped up and loomed over me, even though I was standing behind that counter. He was so tall I felt like I was sitting down. The look on his face was frightening, not because he looked mad but because he didn’t. There was some kind of mark in the center of his forehead made with what looked like fresh chicken shit.

“Fellows,” said Burned Man, and his voice seemed to come from some dark mine shaft in which there had been a cave-in. “This man has rules to follow. Like all servants, he knows his job and his place, don’t you, boy?”

Here I had been feeling sorry for this fellow, burned to a cracker, scalped, and pretty much shit on by life, and now he was making those kind of remarks with his tu

“It’s my job,” I said.

“Very well,” said Burned Man, and he reached under his very shiny black suit coat into the inside pocket, came out with a lady’s pistol, and laid it on the counter. This led to Big Man pulling his hog leg and smacking it on the counter alongside it, along with a bowie knife about the size of Saint George’s sword, which he thrust into the wood point first, so that it stood up. Weasel just looked at me. He was breathing heavy, and his oily face shone in the lights. As his lips curled back, his twisted yellow teeth came out of his mouth like a groundhog checking for sun. For a moment I thought he was going to pull his pistols. I determined if he should make that motion, I would beat him to it. I laid a hand on the LeMat and watched him, tried to keep one eye on the other two, cause from time to time not all the weapons got corralled; now and again a few got through. I figured Big Man, however, could just fall on me and kill me.

“Now,” Burned Man said, laying a hand on Weasel’s shoulder. “It’s for everyone, and we want to be cooperative.” He was smiling wide enough I could see his gapped and snagged teeth, and he was speaking in that voice I told you about. I sensed deep down inside that tu

Weasel slowly removed his gun belt and placed it on the counter. I gave them all a claim check with a number on it, tied off a tag to the weapons with the same number, and put them under the counter. All the time I’m doing this they gave me their full attention, and Big Man loomed over me like a cloud. Burned Man had a way of holding back, being behind them, letting them be the first line of defense. All that money he had come into had made him powerful.

They wandered off, Weasel the most unhappy of the three, and took a table where a card game was starting. Wild Bill appeared, laid an elbow on the counter, said, “I watched you deal with them fellows. Right nice job.”

“Frankly, Bill, I was a little nervous.”

“Ought to be,” he said. He pulled his revolvers from his pants pockets, laid them on the counter. I knew he had a hideout gun, but thought it prudent not to ask about it. “I was near, though, and I would have come into the fray had the situation called for it.”

“I know that,” I said. “I seen you over to the side, and that gave me comfort.”

I hadn’t really seen him, but I thought it was a nice thing to say. I wanted him to know I trusted him, and in my mind the respect I had lost for him earlier had been regained.

“They were about the business of picking a fight, Nat. I should know; I’ve had many a one picked with me.”

“Suppose you have,” I said.

It had gotten noisy in the Gem. The cigar, pipe, and cigarette smoke had started to fill the air and drift across the room in little gray clouds. The piano player was really loud that night, and no more in tune or aware of what tune he was playing than he was any other time. There was a new girl singing, and she couldn’t hit a note any better than the piano player’s wife—not if she had had a boat paddle and the note was tied to a string just over her head. I put my hands behind the counter so Bill couldn’t see them shake.