Chapter 9: The Ivory Sickle
The main headquarters of the so-called "Bunkhouse Boys" was not at all difficult to find. A tavern of ill repute on the harbor's edge called "The Ivory Sickle." I was loath to admit it, but it wasn't too terribly far-removed from the Mission St. Antoine. The key difference was not found in the clientele, who were of a uniform coarseness in appearance and demeanor. Rather the key difference between the two establishments was that Mr. Carson's tavern did not have rooms to let. The Ivory Sickle had several rooms on the second floor, and one permanent resident.
He went by the obvious alias of "Bill Black" and served as the de facto leader of the unruly mob known as the 'bunkhouse boys.' No doubt at some time in the distant past, he had been a resident of the gang's namesake bunkhouse. It struck me as odd that a former cattleman, or "cow-boy" as we now refer to them, would sink to such depths of depravity, to robbery and violence and extortion. True, members of that profession were not known for their civility, but they were to a man trustworthy enough to be left in charge of a herd of livestock in the open desert for days on end.
Of course, not everyone who had lived in a bunkhouse was a cattleman, and perhaps I had romanticized the profession in my mind. If I had, I was certainly in good company. In any case, the Ivory Sickle seemed as good a place as any to begin our search for Mr. Bill Black.
Negotiation was not a strong suit of mine, nor, I suspected, a strong suit of Mr. Carson's. However, in light of the current circumstances, if Bill Black refused to put the considerable manpower at his disposal to use in cleaning up the city, he was even less of a man than I thought he was.
A racket like Mr. Black's required civilization in order to function. That's why there were no 'protection rackets' in the untamed reaches of the West. Only here in San Francisco where civilization had taken hold. But its grasp on the American West was tenuous at best, and after this night of reckoning, San Francisco may well have fallen beyond repair. If there were any semblance of a soul within Mr. Black, he would recognize that helping the city was the right thing to do. And if there weren't, surely he would realize that it was good for business.
The trip over was eventful to say the least. The last vestiges of law and order had been burned away by the fire. At every street corner we rounded, a gang of ravenous looters claimed what they could from the smoldering remains of San Francisco.
I drove as fast as I could, over the roads that weren't damaged. However, the debris and crowds that cluttered the streets slowed our pace enough to make us vulnerable. For a moment I considered gunning the accelerator and running over the thronging crowds. It would certainly make for a funny obituary, a man trampled by a horseless carriage. Still, my conscience prevented me from doing anything that extreme.
After all, there people were just afraid, trying to escape the fires and the tremors in any way they could. Mostly, they parted in front of our Silver Ghost, and left a clear path. The sight of Mr. Carson riding shotgun was enough to deter most of them from trying anything funny. I must say, Mr. Carson is the only man I've ever known who could "ride shotgun" with a pistol.
At one point, as we careened down Battery Street, a crowd of angry, desperate men blocked out path. The fact that we were in an automobile made it clear we were among the city's elite, and like always, that made us the target for the people's aggression. As if any person could be blamed for an act of God.
The men were unarmed, but had no intention of moving. One of them stepped to the front. He seemed to speak for the whole crowd. He recognized Mr. Carson, and apparently had some sort of enmity for him. He'd managed to rile the crowd enough to go along with him. Apparently the man was a resident of one of Mr. Carson's substandard apartment buildings, and somehow blamed him for the fire.
The point was that there men had no intention of moving, and they were halting our progress. I suggested that Mr. Carson attempt to negotiate with them, but he had other ideas. He pulled out his piecemeal pistol and fired into the crowd five times. After a brief pause, he fired once more.
The crowd scattered, and to my amazement, there were no bodies left on the ground, nor any trace of blood. Mr. Carson aim had to be supernaturally bad in order to fire at such close range and miss. I made a comment to that effect and Mr. Carson trained his gun on me.
"Don't laugh, Blondie." He said with a snarl. "When I miss I miss very good. And I don't kill anybody who owes me rent."
With that, he pulled the trigger one more time. I supposed I should have realized the gun was empty, but I still flinched. That was enough to get a laugh out of him.
"You mean, you shot directly at a crowd that thick and hit nothing? That's amazing!"
"Eh, it's nothing." Mr. Carson replied. "I know one guy, he can shoot through a rope at 500 feet."
"500 feet? That impossible." I said with a laugh.
"Eh, maybe so." Mr. Carson shrugged. "So are we going or not?"
I stared up the Silver Ghost again and we headed directly for the Ivory Sickle. Usually driving around the city at night, even by gas lamp, was an unpleasant ordeal. However, the fire that night would put any gaffer to shame. Sand Francisco was as bright at one o'clock in the morning as it had ever been during the day.
As if to prove that there was no justice in the world, The Ivory Sickle was one of the few buildings in the city that seemed absolutely untouched. Neither the earthquake nor the fire had left any visible mark on the façade.
Mr. Carson wasted no time. He walked in, drew his pistol, and shot the first person he saw. Five then one, like before.
"There are two kinds of people in the world!" He bellowed at the bars remaining patrons. "Those who work for me, and those who got holes in their head." He waved his gun around the bar. I, for my part, kept my rifle at the ready.
"You the bunkhouse boys?" He demanded. It was so like him to ask this question only after he had killed a man. Most of the members of the crowd nodded. "Well now you're Tuco's boys, understand?" The crowd nodded again. "The city's on fire, and you boys are gonna put it out."
"Why should we listen to you, old man?" One of the boy's asked incredulously. He was dead before he hit the floor.
"That's why!" Mr. Carson roared. "Any man doesn't do what I say, I send him to hell! Go and tell Bill Black that!"
One of the former Bunkhouse Boys, no doubt fearing for his life, explained to use that Bill Black was no longer there. He'd seen the two of us approaching from his upstairs window, and fled.
That was, perhaps, the worst thing Bill Black could have done. Now his men knew he was afraid of us, and their diminishing respect for him became an increasing respect for us. I won't bore you with the details of our other late night raids that evening, but suffice to say that the remainder of the Bunkhouse Boys switched allegiance fairly easily. Of course, we didn't merely take the underling's word that Bill Black had fled. Tuco insisted on checking himself.
After some gentle prodding with my rifle, the concierge informed us that Black was in "Room four, senor." Of course, we checked rooms one through three along the way, and upon finding them to be deserted, Mr. Carson and I broke into room four.
The window was open, showing signs of Mr. Black's recent departure, and lying on the bed was a hastily scrawled note from the man, only three words long. It read: See you soon.
