"You stole money from the kitty back there," said Dunford.
Jolly was nonplussed for a moment. Then he said, "Mister, you're mistaken."
Dunford replied, "Are you calling me a liar?"
Jolly said, "I'm calling you mistaken."
Dunford stepped back three paces, folding the hem of his coat back from his holstered six-iron.
People gathered on the sidewalks to watch, though some sensibly stepped into doorways or behind sturdy objects in case of stray bullets.
"Mister," said Jolly, "I don't have a gun."
Dunford, having planned for that possibility—or perhaps counted on it—threw a pistol at Jolly's feet.
"Pick it up," said Dunford.
"How do I know that it's even loaded?" said Jolly.
"Now you're calling me a cheat?" demanded Dunford.
"At this point, your hurt feelings are not my main concern," said Jolly, "but I'm still saying that you seem to be easily mistaken."
"I'll check whether it's loaded," said Carrie, stepping off the sidewalk and into the danger zone on the street. Dunford said nothing but stared at Jolly.
Carrie picked up the pistol and checked it rather expertly. Jolly wondered how many other hidden talents this woman might have. "It's loaded," she said. She began to hand it to Jolly.
"Throw it back on the ground, lady," said Dunford.
"That isn't fair," Carrie said.
"Nevertheless," Dunford said.
When Jolly Norton arrived in Santa Fe by stage coach, five days after leaving St Louis, it was a hot, dry July day in 1852. His gray suit and black bowler hat had been new when he left but were now wilted and dusty from travel. He had managed to take a bath at the last station, but he was now in need of a change of clothes, and he didn't even have another suit. Jolly didn't have a cent, either, but he was hopeful.
An old buddy from the Mexican War, name of Jack Norwalk, now living in Santa Fe, had offered him a job, not particularly well specified, but it was enough to lure Jolly from his job at the St. Louis Dispatch, writing obituaries for the town's worthies and, sometimes, not so worthies. The lure of Jack's offer had not been the pay, which was unspecified, too, but it had to be better than the little the Dispatch offered. Besides, it was his good old friend Jack, who had always thrown him a choice bone and always had an angle, whether it was when they were growing up in St. Louis where Jack taught Jolly how to ditch school—and get away with it—or when they were in the army and Jack wangled them extra food or added leave. Or like the time in New Orleans when Jack found a back way out of a gambling den—when they really needed it—that Jolly didn't know Jack had ever been in before. Jack never needed anyone to show him the ropes. He was born with an instinct for finding ropes to pull that even the veteran never seemed to know were there.
Standing outside the New Orleans Hotel, where Jack had given his address, was a maid named Bijou. She gave Jolly his first shock by telling him that his friend had died in an accident two days ago.
"That's right, mister," said Bijou. "He got run down by a buckboard. Killed dead in an instant." Bijou had given no surname when he asked her name. She was a black woman of indeterminate age with a curious accent, which was definitely New Orleanean, but difficult for Jolly to pin down, it being a city that had so many local dialects among its French and English speakers. Whether or not she was a slave now, Jolly guessed that she was probably born into slavery. Her clothes suggested a maid's uniform, although not a new one. She was a bit plump and, over the years, had undoubtedly let out as well as mended her uniform, doubtless with a sewing kit she kept in an old box at the foot of her cot in a back wing of the hotel. So Jolly pictured her existence.
"Did you see it happen?" he asked.
Her large, clear brown eyes grew thoughtful but distant. "Well sir, I was upstairs, cleaning that room right there"—she pointed from where they were standing toward a window right in the middle of the second floor—"when I heard a wagon rumble by, and then horses neighing, panicky like. I looked out and seen a wagon riding away on Main Street and, uh, two men carryin' a body across to the other side."
"And the body," said Jolly, "did you know it was Jack Norwalk?"
"I know'd Mr. Jack, but I couldn't see. Later on, though, everybody said that's who it was."
Jolly contemplated Jack's and his own mortality for a moment before he continued his questioning. "Did he suffer?"
"I don't know for certain, but, meaning no disrespect to your friend, mister, he looked about as lively as a sack o' potatoes. No, sir, I 'spect he was already dead 'tween the time I heard the ruckus and when I looked out the window."
That was a mercy, thought Jolly, but he was still distressed and disbelieving that things had turned out this way. "Who were the two men who carried him?"
"Señor Behar and Mr. Reddeck."
"Who are they?"
"Oh, they good friends of Mr. Jack. Maybe business partners."
"Maybe?"
"I don't butt into other people's business."
"Did the police look into it?"
"Police?" Bijou pondered. "Oh, you mean Sheriff Cobb. Sure, he looked into it. The coroner had an inquest and all. Wasn't much to it, though. Doc Pepperidge is the coroner, and he's also everybody's doc. He even came along right after the accident."
"You mean, two of his friends and his doctor—who happens to be the coroner—were all there when he died?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you give evidence?"
"Me? No, sir. There was enough witnesses, includin' Doc hisself. Besides, nobody wants to hear nothin' from the likes of me."
Jolly was taken aback. He knew full well what the majority of white people thought about black people, but he did not share in the prevailing prejudice. He was something of an abolitionist, in fact. Most of the time he hid his true opinions in a kind of mental closet, but he was leaning toward some of the radical new political parties, especially the Free Soil and Liberty parties, many of whose members fervently wished to stop the spread of slavery in the short run and end it altogether in the long. In this case, however, he was bothered that society's damnable prejudice had prevented the sheriff and coroner from getting all of the facts. He began to wonder whether there had been other oversights that had kept from the authorities the whole truth about Jack's demise.
"Has he been buried yet?" he asked the maid, who was already turning to go back into the hotel.
"Not sure, mister," she said, turning toward him again. "If you want to see your friend while he's still above ground, you better get to the cemetery. They was supposed to bury him this morning, but the funeral may still be under way."
"Where is the cemetery?"
Just then, a woman who was at least ten years younger than Bijou—although that did not make either woman young—came out of the swinging half-door to the hotel saloon and called, "Bijou, get back to your chores! Unless that man is a guest of the hotel, you got no business yakking all the while there's still work to be done."
"Yes, Madame Beauregard," said Bijou loudly. She looked at Jolly sorrowfully but said nothing more to him before she lifted her skirt and swept past Madame Beauregard and into the saloon. Madame was well proportioned and attractive despite her age. Her skin was white but her hair was piled in a jet black pompadour. She wore a green satin dress with a prominent bustle. There were many flourishes of fabric including blue ribbons and white lace, as well as some suggestively exposed cleavage. She held a little black dog close to her breast. She eyed Jolly, and for a moment they sized each other up.
"Madame, my name is Jolly Norton. I am new in town. I was just asking your maid for directions to the cemetery."
Madame Beauregard developed an amused smile that was almost a smirk. She seemed to share this pleasure with the dog by gleefully rubbing its head. "You just arrived in town, and already you're headed for the cemetery. Some strangers in Santa Fe get there eventually. I have to hand it to you. You don't waste time."
Jolly heard the sound of New Orleans in her voice, but it was more readily identifiable to him than Bijou's blend. Jolly and Jack had spent several furloughs in New Orleans during their service and knew the town fairly well. He guessed that Madame was from the stock of old French settlers who formed a near aristocracy in the city. If she came from old money, he guessed, too, she was probably now living off of her own wiles, but living pretty well by the looks of her hotel.
Jolly got directions to the cemetery from Madame Beauregard. The coffin was just about to be lowered into the ground when he arrived. The preacher was a black-suited man with white side whiskers. He droned some Bible verses from the book he held in front of him. Jolly only heard, "I am the resurrection and the life," and then he tuned out the rest. There were two workmen standing by in sweat-stained shirtsleeves whom Jolly took to be the grave diggers.
The sparse gathering of mourners standing about seemed strangely disconnected from one another. Two serious-looking, well-dressed men stood together at one side. One of them was probably Mexican while the other might have been either a Mexican or an Indian. Jolly almost didn't consider the possibility that he was an Indian because he wasn't used to seeing one of them in such a fine suit. He almost didn't notice that the possible Indian changed expression when he saw Jolly and pointed out the newcomer to his Mexican companion.
At the edge of the little graveyard, as Jolly entered, was a grizzled, middle-aged white man in a threadbare but once fashionable dark jacket. He stood next to a younger, bigger man who was dressed like a cowboy just in from the range. Their backs were to Jolly as he approached. Both of them looked as if they hadn't even bothered to dust their clothes for the occasion. Their only gesture of respect was that they, like the grave diggers and the two possibly Mexican gentlemen, held their hats over their hearts. The older of the two outsiders turned as Jolly passed them, revealing the fact that he wore a tin star pinned to his dusty dark coat.
Closer to the grave site, but also with her back to Jolly was a woman in a dark blue gingham dress and a matching bonnet. She stood very still, facing the grave. When the preacher finished his piece, the grave diggers put the coffin in the hole and began filling it in, while the gathering slowly dispersed. The woman walked past Jolly and the Sheriff without a hint that she knew they were there. But for a moment Jolly glimpsed her face and was surprised to see someone so fresh and beautiful in this hard, dry land. Her olive skin was contrasted with blonde hair beneath her hat. A tell-tale white hairpin poked out from under the bonnet.
"Did you walk from town?" the Sheriff asked Jolly. "Would you like a ride back?"
"Sure. You must be Sheriff Cobb," said Jolly.
"And you are?"
"Jolly Norton. St. Louis Dispatch." As soon as he said it, Jolly rebuked himself. He was no longer with the newspaper, but it had become a habit, especially when he sniffed a story.
"Saint Louie Dispatch!" cried the big man. "I read that paper. Did you write the one about the gunfight between Flats Pittman and the Douglas Brothers?"
"I can't say that I did, but I read it just the same as you."
"Forgive Deputy Provost's manners, Mr. Norton," said Cobb. "Living on the frontier has not cured Mike of his romantic ideas about prospectors, gunfighters and mountain men."
"An' Injuns!" said Mike. "I like everything about 'em."
"That's only because he's yet to meet an uncivilized one," said Cobb. He inclined his head toward the two well-dressed men who were riding back to town on their horses, evidently with some meaning intended. There was a dark carriage that apparently belonged to the preacher, and one stationery buckboard seemed to belong to the grave diggers who had almost certainly used it to convey the coffin to the cemetery. A second buckboard near the edge of the cemetery turned out to belong to Cobb and Mike.
"Who's the girl?" asked Jolly, watching the now receding figure of the woman in deep blue. She was on foot while everyone else was leaving by horse, carriage or buckboard. Neither Cobb nor his deputy answered. The three of them climbed onto the wide bench. Mike shook the reins, clicked his tongue and said, "Gidyup!" The two mares started pulling the wagon.
"You knew the deceased?" the Sheriff asked.
"Jack and I grew up together in St. Louis. Then we enlisted together during the Mexican War. I just got into town. I was on my way to see Jack when I found out he was about to be buried."
"I'm sorry you lost your friend," said the Sheriff. He fell silent.
They rumbled past the young woman. She looked straight ahead. Never looked their way. Jolly turned and watched until she became a speck on the road behind them.
"How long did you know Jack?" asked Cobb.
"Twenty years."
"When did you see him last?"
"Not since we were mustered out."
"So you don't know much about his business these past five years or so."
"We haven't been in touch. I don't even know how he found me to ask me out here. I guess I was easy to find because, since the war, I've never wandered far from our old stomping grounds."
"You look like you could do with a drink, Mr. Norton."
"Call me Jolly. Everybody does."
"That a fact?" said Cobb.
"As to the drink," Jolly said, swallowing his pride, "I'm plumb broke."
"Don't worry about it," said Cobb. "I'm buying."
About ten whiskeys later, Jolly and Cobb were settled in at the saloon of the Silver Slipper Hotel. Jolly drank too much as a rule, and usually had a hollow leg where the stuff settled in reserve until he was good and ready for a stupor, but Sheriff Cobb still seemed sober, and Jolly knew that he had already said too much, even letting Cobb in on some of his and Jack's wartime antics, not that the statutes of limitations hadn't expired on most of them.
Deputy Mike didn't drink. He just strolled around the bar nonchalantly, occasionally looking out the big plate glass window with its wide view of the Plaza.
"It's a damn tragedy," said Jolly.
"What is?" asked Cobb.
"Jack being run down like a dog in the street."
"Best thing that ever happened to him," said Cobb.
Jolly suddenly bristled. "Whadaya mean?"
"I mean your friend Jack was a low-down crook."
Jolly took umbrage at this—and then a poke at Cobb. It was not much of a poke, though. For a big galoot, Deputy Mike moved fast as he had Jolly in a hammerlock practically before the newspaperman could cock his fist.
"You just want to ignore the fact that there's something funny about Jack's accident!" Jolly reproached Cobb.
"You got evidence there was something funny about it?" He waved his hand and Mike let go of Jolly's arm.
"Not yet," allowed Jolly, "but I'm going to get to the bottom of it."
"You're leaving town on tomorrow morning's stage. You can get to the bottom of things provided you do it from St. Louis."
"You think that just 'cause he may have cut a few corners, sold a bottle of hooch to some Indian, that you can wash your hands of him?" Jolly slurred.
"He did a lot more than sell a bottle of hooch," said Cobb.
"Why don't you catch some thieves or murderers?" demanded Jolly.
"What makes you think your friend wasn't both of those things?" said Cobb.
This time, when Jolly went to punch Cobb, he leaned into it and would have at least bruised the lawman's nose if Deputy Mike hadn't spun Jolly around and delivered a short, powerful jab to his mouth. He fell hard on the floor.
"Pick him up, Mike," said Cobb, heading for the door. "Give him a room in the Silver Slipper, get him a ticket back to St. Louis, and put him on tomorrow's stage."
"Yes, sir, Sheriff Cobb," Mike said as he hoisted Jolly off the floor.
"And, Mike, if he behaves himself, don't hit him again."
"Yes, boss."
After nursing his swollen lip in his room for a half hour, Jolly washed his face from a bowl and pitcher, changed into some clean clothes and came down to the lobby. He resumed drinking, but also began studying the hotel. The Silver Slipper, unlike the New Orleans, catered exclusively to respectable businessmen and government officials. A no-less moneyed but less savory sort stayed at the New Orleans, he was told. He asked the desk clerk how much he owed for his room and was told that, as a guest of Sheriff Cobb, he owed nothing. Cobb, it turned out, was half owner of the Silver Slipper. It further turned out not to be unusual in this town for its leading citizens to wear several hats. For example, he learned, there were only two doctors, and the one called Pepperidge was not only the coroner but also the owner of several small mines in some nearby hills, and the other doctor was known to treat horses as well as men.
Jolly asked where he could get a meal. Although the hotel dining room didn't open until after five, fortunately, Sheriff Cobb had left Jolly two dollars spending money. He got directions to a place nearby that served breakfast most of the day, and he was sitting there, nursing a cup of coffee and a pair of eggs, when he noticed that the Mexican who had been at the funeral was staring at him from across the room. The fellow picked up his coffee mug and crossed over.
"Excuse me, señor," he said, setting his mug on Jolly's table. "I saw you at the funeral, and I believe we have in common the friendship of the late Señor Jack Norwalk. I am Luis Behar." He offered his hand.
"Jolly Norton," Jolly said as he rose and shook the hand. "Mucho gusto," he added, nearly exhausting what little Spanish he remembered from his service in Mexico.
"La placer es mio," said Señor Behar with a curt bow.
"Have a seat," said Jolly.
"Thank you. You know, I must apologize for not meeting you when you arrived, but you came during the funeral."
"Oh, that's all right."
"I admire your ability to forgive, Jolly. I may call you that? Jack told us all about you, and his last words were that we should take good care of you."
"Last words? I was told that he was dead almost immediately."
"Who told you that?"
"The maid at the New Orleans."
"She saw the, the accident?"
"No, but she looked out the window immediately afterward and saw two men carrying a lifeless body across the street."
"Well, she was at a distance, no doubt, and she is mistaken. I was there."
"Who else was there? That Indian who was with you this morning?"
"Who? Oh, that is Señor Juan Reddeck. He is not a full-blooded Indian, you know. He is half Apache and half Mexican."
"I'd like to talk to him."
"This is not possible, I am afraid. He had to leave town right after the funeral."
"Oh? Where did he go?"
"He had urgent business in the San Cristobal Mountains. He has silver mines there."
"I see. I thought that Doc Pepperidge has mines out that way, too."
Behar became slightly uncomfortable and tried to pretend that his coffee was the problem. "It has become too cold," he complained. Then he asked, "Would you care to take a walk?"
"Actually, I'd like to walk with you to the New Orleans Hotel," said Jolly. He pushed aside his half-finished eggs and stood up.
"Why, yes, that would be quite acceptable," said Behar. "I am going that way in any case."
They walked outside and crossed the Plaza.
"By the way," said Behar. "Who told you that Doc has mines in the same area that we do?"
"I believe that you just told me," said Jolly.
"Oh, ho,ho, ho!" said Behar, breaking into a nervous smile. "You are very clever, Jolly. Yes, in fact, Juan and Doc and I all own some mines—mostly silver, gold, and some lead—in the hills."
"Was Jack a mine owner, too?"
"Yes, he was, in fact. He even mentioned that he would like you to have a share in his mines."
"He did?" said Jolly. "That is unexpected. Did he have a will?"
"A will? Oh, no, I am afraid he did not put this wish in writing, but Juan and I both heard him say before he died that he wanted Juan and I to have his mines so long as we share them with you."
"I'm just about speechless," said Jolly. "You know, Sheriff Cobb wants me to go back to St. Louis. I wonder how he'll react when I tell him I'm now a landed resident of Santa Fe."
"Yes, well, perhaps it would be best for you to return to St. Louis, after all. If you could just give me your address…"
"I don't have an address anymore," Jolly interposed. "I left everything behind to come and join Jack."
"I see," said Behar, considering this wrinkle. "In that case, if I give you my address, you could send me your new address when you get resettled."
"Gosh, everybody seems to want me to leave town."
"It is not that, Jolly. It is just that Jack left no other instructions regarding you."
"You mean you have no idea why he sent for me?"
"None, I am afraid." They stopped in front of the New Orleans. Jolly noticed Bijou watching them from the second storey. She was wiping the window of the same room she said she had been in two days ago when she witnessed the accident.
"Can you show me how it happened?" Jolly asked.
"Certainly. Juan and I were on the other side of the street when we saw Jack in front of the hotel right where you and I are standing now. Juan waved to him and stepped into the street. Jack began to cross the street to meet us when, suddenly, the wagon came down from that direction. The horses reared and whinnied. Then it was too late. They trampled poor Jack. We carried him across the street and set him on the opposite side walk. He died within minutes."
"Why didn't you take him into the hotel?"
"I do not know. It was an awful event, so perhaps we were not thinking."
"Who was driving the wagon?"
"Oh, nobody blames Estaban. He is a good driver. Jack always said so."
"Jack knew the driver?"
"Estaban worked for Jack."
"I'd like to meet this Estaban."
"He has gone to the San Cristobals with Juan, I am afraid."
"It just seems odd that he died surrounded by his friends, his doctor, one of his employees."
"It is strange but true."
