CHAPTER FOUR - Dove On The Train Tracks
Frank jumped awake as a pair of old, spiny hands settled on his shoulders and his hand immediately went for his gun, dropping the whiskey bottle with a loud shatter onto the floor, sending a considerable less whiskey spilling across the floor in an exploded yellow rose stain, which means he had drunken more of it then he remembered.
But the stiff fingers gave a squeeze, to reconcile that they weren't a threat and he turned his head to see Madame Aleksanderia Hannabeth Belle. She stood stiff behind his shoulder, the only way her old body would stand.
Her silvering-black hair was mostly done up and clipped beneath a tiny women's derby hat, although a few ringlets were allowed to fall around her old face. She wore thick layers of makeup, the powder creeping into every crease and crack in her old, pale face. Her lips painted blood red while she wore her pink blush across her sharp cheekbones, all the way up to her temples. Her small, angular head was held high with a white lace-fringed, vase-necked black collar that contrasted between the bright yellow velvet jacket/corset with black frilled and laced sleeves at her elbows. Her long, busseled skirt with a long yellow petticoat tail shifted silently across the floor, commanded by her clicking, iron-soled high heel boots that clipped up to her ankles. She was the Madame of "The Ivory Terrace", having long since passed her extent of time being a brothel girl.
"How're you doing sweetheart?" her old cracked voice was coated gently with the sound of sugar, painted lips curled up into a smile. He rubbed at his face with his large palms, turning over towards Jesse as he watched him sigh and turn onto his side, one arm hanging over the side of the bed with a slight cringe on his face before the pain settled.
Then Frank cringed as the brunt of his hangover hit him square in the head, melting in the chair, groaning and grabbing at his head.
Madame Hannabeth Belle patted his shoulder gently, then raised her hand as he felt stiffness beneath her fingers, noticing the dried blood that was spread beneath the shoulder and down the chest of his shirt, staining it dark. "Are you alright?"
He thanked the quietness that her voice was and thought the better of shaking his hung-over head, raising a hand to point out at Jesse.
"No ma'am - he bled on me..." Turning, Frank turned the ground and leaned over to begin picking up the pieces of glass from the floor with his thick fingers, almost to fall completely out of the chair.
Madame Hannabeth Belle caught him quickly and righted him, laughing in wispy breaths before leaning down close to his ear. "Why don't you let me draw you up a nice, hot bath and get a Prairie Oyster in your belly to cure you, hm?" Her hand was down the collar of his shirt as he leaned back into the back of the chair once again, her fingernails running along his collarbone.
He just let out a breath as she patted him again and left the room with the clean click of her heels with her, returning sometime later with a pile of folded linens and towels in her hands.
"You think you're right enough to lift him up so's we can get him out of those wet sheets?" She asked, and Frank rubbed at his head again before getting up, steadying himself against the wall momentarily.
Letting out a long, slow breath that stank of alcohol, he bent and gathered Jesse up into his arms, folding his brother around his forearms and against his chest as Madame Hannabeth Belle quickly went to strip the wet bed sheets, flip the small, straw mattress over, and briskly tuck the new ones into place, unfolding a corner to slip Jesse back into.
As Frank did so, he finally noticed the large, fastened square of cloth over the back of Jesse's hip, and curious, lifted the edge. His eyebrows curved as he saw the raw, swollen brand that was black and crusted at the top, the skin inflamed and blistered.
Anger churned suddenly in Frank as his finger accidentally brushed the brand and Jesse turned out from his hands with a slight plaint. Then, there was the gentle, thin pair of hands at his arms again, urging down his rage.
"C'mon darling," she spoke softly, "I'll get Velvet in here to watch him and clean up the bottle. Meanwhile, I want you to go get yourself cleaned up and relax, you've been watching him too long."
Nodding in agreement, Frank allowed her to lead him out of the room.
~
Frank drew the brim of his hat down over his eyes, sliding deeper into the warm, metal tub with his lit pipe in one hand and an empty glass of nasty Prairie Fire sitting on the floor beside him. The warm, sweet-smelling water rippled around his stomach and thighs as his limbs birthed from the tub, too long, but comfortably so.
He closed his eyes, letting the silence of the room and the muddled noises from outside seep into his ears and quiet his mind, taking it off of his hangover and for split moments, his brother.
He could hear the mumbled yelling and conversations from downstairs in the smoky saloon, and he could have sworn he heard Bob's voice yelling above them all.
Then, as the calming stillness was always disturbed there, there came a knock at the door and a red-haired, painted up girl came in, wearing a satin red provocative dress and brandishing a sponge in her hand. Not a bad intruder as far as Frank was concerned, no doubt sent by Madame Hanna-Belle, and he commended the effort.
Frank looked over then turned back and bowed his chin against his chest as she came in without admittance, settling down on her knees behind him with a rustle of her dress and dipped the sponge into the water near his side, bringing it up to rub it across his shoulders, her other hand working at his other shoulder, giving him a massage, making him melt.
~
He lay curled in the bed, the red-satin dressed girl now lay dressless and twisted in his arms, her red hair tangled and splayed about his chest as she slept silently. But Frank couldn't sleep.
He was bent between the wall and the bed, the girl's head on his chest and his arm around her naked waist, his eyes watching the wall blankly.
Raising his pipe to his lips, Frank puffed at it habitually, blowing the smoke downward through his nose, feeling it curl around his beard hairs and lips in playful, dancing spirals, only to rise up and haze his vision.
Cocking his head to crack his neck, he turned to the red head as she sighed and rolled off of him, landing on her other side on the other side of the bed, the blankets curving her shapely body.
He decided that he'd had fun, but the night's fun had left his throat mighty parched.
Making his escape, Frank kicked off the side of the bed, found his pants, and put them on. He then pulled on a new shirt that Madame Hanna-Belle had kindly given him, though upon his request she had left the other uncleaned and folded beneath his holstered guns. Hesitating to grab for his rifle that lay propped in the corner, he opted instead for his revolvers and put them around his waist, feeling their comfortable weight at his hips once again. He then palmed on his boots as quietly as he could and stepped out the door and closed it softly behind him, beginning his way down the stairs.
As he cleared the bottom, he saw most of the gang gathered about the door, slapping each other's backs and such as the other patrons of the saloon went about their card games and drinks, uninterested. Straightening his collar and rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Frank came over and laid a heavy hand on Cole's back, Cole immediately turning around.
"Frank!" But then his face fell. "How's cousin doing?" Frank just shrugged at him, changing the subject. "What's going on?" He waved his hands towards the group, some occasionally turning about to greet Frank before turning back outside.
"We got drunker than shit and bet Bob that he couldn't get a drink with the fat dame standing out there on the other side of the street." Cole informed, before turning back out with a laugh.
Interested, Frank turned and began back up the stairs, not turning as Cole called to him. "Where you going Frank?"
"I got a better view up here..." Frank smiled as he heard mumbling then the hurry of cowboy boots up the stairs behind him. He palmed open the door to see the red-head still twisted in the curtains and paid no mind to her, walking straight past to the window that he forced open and pushed himself out of. But as he heard the men following him, he heard the woman give out a cry at the passing, gawking men, some losing interest in the window and gaining some in the girl, who immediately indulged in it.
Frank leaned up against the railing, crossing his ankles as he marked Bob down across the street, womanizing the big broad in the large white dress with his many Younger charms, the best he had.
He smiled slightly as he watched Bob pull at the woman's elbow gently, trying to steer her towards the saloon, only upon her realization of what it really was he was leading her to and getting a swift smack from her parasol on his broad-rimmed hat.
The men rolled with laughter at the vaudeville; and as if to top off a great show, a great shower of dirty bath water came from a bucket thrown from the window above Bob as he began back across the street, rubbing at the swat. He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard the entire saloon before him howl with laughter, straightening up his wet shoulders and gaining back as much of the little pride he could as he made his way back across the street, getting an apology from the woman who'd thrown the water and giving a derogatory hand gesture in return without a look back.
Frank thumbed his bottom lip as the men began to clear the catwalk, pushing back inside and wandering down to meet the wet traveler and jostle him about some more for his endeavors. But Frank stayed, looking out into the sky as it glowed like golden blood from the setting sun.
"What is so funny?" Frank turned to see Velvet's black head peeking out from the window frame, her naked shoulders caressed softly in the light, her eyes shining.
"Nothing...How's Jesse?"
His face fell and his heart sunk as she turned towards the ground, running a finger across the wood planks.
He came forward worried, only to stop as she turned back up to him, smiling widely. "Kidding you Frank, he's doing fine. He hasn't moaned or groaned for a long while, Madame Hanna-Belle says that once the doctor comes by again to check up on him, he may even be able to start walking again."
"Well, that's good." Frank said, coming closer to the window, stooping down with his hand holding onto the top part of the frame, looking into her face.
"You want to come in and see him?" She stepped back from the window and he looked to his brother, tucked comfortably beneath a pile of blankets and a red quilt, a wet, folded towel across his head. His eyes were closed and his re-bandaged hands were resting across his torso and side.
Breathing silently, Frank shook his head, tapping his knuckles against the wood a moment before coming to a decision.
"I think I'm gonna go downstairs...how long have we been here?" He asked, not remembering.
"It's been nearly three weeks now Frank," Velvet smiled, putting out her hand to bring down his face, kissing him gently on the lips. "It's time for you to quit worrying." And with that, she turned away from the window and went back into the room.
~
Frank watched from the back of the bar next to the wet, brooding Bob as a skinny, bald-headed man wearing a nice gray suit and pocket watch, carrying a rose wood box and large book stumbled into the doors, completely out of place. The whole saloon seemed to draw silent and turn to him as he pushed his gold spectacles up on his hooked nose, pursing his old lips and licking at his gums with a slopping sound.
"Where might I find a Mr. James? I was told he was in need of attendance by a Madame Hannabeth Belle." the doctor spoke to the gang in a fluttery, British accent, his fear-filled eyes roving over the guns brandished on every member's belts, their jacket flaps pulled back to reveal them.
"Who's asking?" Frank said from the back, reaching up to flip his gun around the table and point it at the man, his palm on the top, ready for anything.
"Dr. Peyton Abrose F. Bierce, sir. The third."
"That's a mighty long name you got. You a Pinkerton?" One of the boys called out. "Sound's like a Pinkerton name."
"What, pray tell," the man squirmed, "is a Pinkerton?"
"A horse's ass!" Another member chimed in, and some of the boys laughed.
"Then, I'm afraid I'm not. I come from New York sir, and I'm here to see a Mr. James. Now if you don't mind..." The man smiled and shuffled, trying to get out of being the butt of the joke.
"Well excuse the shit out o' me!" The man said mockingly, thumbing his suspenders and bowing overly gracious towards the doctor, who licked at his gums once more in contempt.
Frank had his feet up on the table and a beer in his hand, sitting in his lap and after scrutinizing the man for a while, filled him in in general. "He's up the stairs, first door on the left. Knock before you go in."
"Very well sir, thank you." The man turned and began up the stairs.
Soon after, a rowdier member mocked the man, taunting the man's stiff walk to get a laugh from the gang. But the doctor, never turning, continued up the steps.
He knocked twice and waited for admittance, then pushed himself inside, closing the door behind him.
Frank jumped awake as a pair of old, spiny hands settled on his shoulders and his hand immediately went for his gun, dropping the whiskey bottle with a loud shatter onto the floor, sending a considerable less whiskey spilling across the floor in an exploded yellow rose stain, which means he had drunken more of it then he remembered.
But the stiff fingers gave a squeeze, to reconcile that they weren't a threat and he turned his head to see Madame Aleksanderia Hannabeth Belle. She stood stiff behind his shoulder, the only way her old body would stand.
Her silvering-black hair was mostly done up and clipped beneath a tiny women's derby hat, although a few ringlets were allowed to fall around her old face. She wore thick layers of makeup, the powder creeping into every crease and crack in her old, pale face. Her lips painted blood red while she wore her pink blush across her sharp cheekbones, all the way up to her temples. Her small, angular head was held high with a white lace-fringed, vase-necked black collar that contrasted between the bright yellow velvet jacket/corset with black frilled and laced sleeves at her elbows. Her long, busseled skirt with a long yellow petticoat tail shifted silently across the floor, commanded by her clicking, iron-soled high heel boots that clipped up to her ankles. She was the Madame of "The Ivory Terrace", having long since passed her extent of time being a brothel girl.
"How're you doing sweetheart?" her old cracked voice was coated gently with the sound of sugar, painted lips curled up into a smile. He rubbed at his face with his large palms, turning over towards Jesse as he watched him sigh and turn onto his side, one arm hanging over the side of the bed with a slight cringe on his face before the pain settled.
Then Frank cringed as the brunt of his hangover hit him square in the head, melting in the chair, groaning and grabbing at his head.
Madame Hannabeth Belle patted his shoulder gently, then raised her hand as he felt stiffness beneath her fingers, noticing the dried blood that was spread beneath the shoulder and down the chest of his shirt, staining it dark. "Are you alright?"
He thanked the quietness that her voice was and thought the better of shaking his hung-over head, raising a hand to point out at Jesse.
"No ma'am - he bled on me..." Turning, Frank turned the ground and leaned over to begin picking up the pieces of glass from the floor with his thick fingers, almost to fall completely out of the chair.
Madame Hannabeth Belle caught him quickly and righted him, laughing in wispy breaths before leaning down close to his ear. "Why don't you let me draw you up a nice, hot bath and get a Prairie Oyster in your belly to cure you, hm?" Her hand was down the collar of his shirt as he leaned back into the back of the chair once again, her fingernails running along his collarbone.
He just let out a breath as she patted him again and left the room with the clean click of her heels with her, returning sometime later with a pile of folded linens and towels in her hands.
"You think you're right enough to lift him up so's we can get him out of those wet sheets?" She asked, and Frank rubbed at his head again before getting up, steadying himself against the wall momentarily.
Letting out a long, slow breath that stank of alcohol, he bent and gathered Jesse up into his arms, folding his brother around his forearms and against his chest as Madame Hannabeth Belle quickly went to strip the wet bed sheets, flip the small, straw mattress over, and briskly tuck the new ones into place, unfolding a corner to slip Jesse back into.
As Frank did so, he finally noticed the large, fastened square of cloth over the back of Jesse's hip, and curious, lifted the edge. His eyebrows curved as he saw the raw, swollen brand that was black and crusted at the top, the skin inflamed and blistered.
Anger churned suddenly in Frank as his finger accidentally brushed the brand and Jesse turned out from his hands with a slight plaint. Then, there was the gentle, thin pair of hands at his arms again, urging down his rage.
"C'mon darling," she spoke softly, "I'll get Velvet in here to watch him and clean up the bottle. Meanwhile, I want you to go get yourself cleaned up and relax, you've been watching him too long."
Nodding in agreement, Frank allowed her to lead him out of the room.
~
Frank drew the brim of his hat down over his eyes, sliding deeper into the warm, metal tub with his lit pipe in one hand and an empty glass of nasty Prairie Fire sitting on the floor beside him. The warm, sweet-smelling water rippled around his stomach and thighs as his limbs birthed from the tub, too long, but comfortably so.
He closed his eyes, letting the silence of the room and the muddled noises from outside seep into his ears and quiet his mind, taking it off of his hangover and for split moments, his brother.
He could hear the mumbled yelling and conversations from downstairs in the smoky saloon, and he could have sworn he heard Bob's voice yelling above them all.
Then, as the calming stillness was always disturbed there, there came a knock at the door and a red-haired, painted up girl came in, wearing a satin red provocative dress and brandishing a sponge in her hand. Not a bad intruder as far as Frank was concerned, no doubt sent by Madame Hanna-Belle, and he commended the effort.
Frank looked over then turned back and bowed his chin against his chest as she came in without admittance, settling down on her knees behind him with a rustle of her dress and dipped the sponge into the water near his side, bringing it up to rub it across his shoulders, her other hand working at his other shoulder, giving him a massage, making him melt.
~
He lay curled in the bed, the red-satin dressed girl now lay dressless and twisted in his arms, her red hair tangled and splayed about his chest as she slept silently. But Frank couldn't sleep.
He was bent between the wall and the bed, the girl's head on his chest and his arm around her naked waist, his eyes watching the wall blankly.
Raising his pipe to his lips, Frank puffed at it habitually, blowing the smoke downward through his nose, feeling it curl around his beard hairs and lips in playful, dancing spirals, only to rise up and haze his vision.
Cocking his head to crack his neck, he turned to the red head as she sighed and rolled off of him, landing on her other side on the other side of the bed, the blankets curving her shapely body.
He decided that he'd had fun, but the night's fun had left his throat mighty parched.
Making his escape, Frank kicked off the side of the bed, found his pants, and put them on. He then pulled on a new shirt that Madame Hanna-Belle had kindly given him, though upon his request she had left the other uncleaned and folded beneath his holstered guns. Hesitating to grab for his rifle that lay propped in the corner, he opted instead for his revolvers and put them around his waist, feeling their comfortable weight at his hips once again. He then palmed on his boots as quietly as he could and stepped out the door and closed it softly behind him, beginning his way down the stairs.
As he cleared the bottom, he saw most of the gang gathered about the door, slapping each other's backs and such as the other patrons of the saloon went about their card games and drinks, uninterested. Straightening his collar and rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Frank came over and laid a heavy hand on Cole's back, Cole immediately turning around.
"Frank!" But then his face fell. "How's cousin doing?" Frank just shrugged at him, changing the subject. "What's going on?" He waved his hands towards the group, some occasionally turning about to greet Frank before turning back outside.
"We got drunker than shit and bet Bob that he couldn't get a drink with the fat dame standing out there on the other side of the street." Cole informed, before turning back out with a laugh.
Interested, Frank turned and began back up the stairs, not turning as Cole called to him. "Where you going Frank?"
"I got a better view up here..." Frank smiled as he heard mumbling then the hurry of cowboy boots up the stairs behind him. He palmed open the door to see the red-head still twisted in the curtains and paid no mind to her, walking straight past to the window that he forced open and pushed himself out of. But as he heard the men following him, he heard the woman give out a cry at the passing, gawking men, some losing interest in the window and gaining some in the girl, who immediately indulged in it.
Frank leaned up against the railing, crossing his ankles as he marked Bob down across the street, womanizing the big broad in the large white dress with his many Younger charms, the best he had.
He smiled slightly as he watched Bob pull at the woman's elbow gently, trying to steer her towards the saloon, only upon her realization of what it really was he was leading her to and getting a swift smack from her parasol on his broad-rimmed hat.
The men rolled with laughter at the vaudeville; and as if to top off a great show, a great shower of dirty bath water came from a bucket thrown from the window above Bob as he began back across the street, rubbing at the swat. He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard the entire saloon before him howl with laughter, straightening up his wet shoulders and gaining back as much of the little pride he could as he made his way back across the street, getting an apology from the woman who'd thrown the water and giving a derogatory hand gesture in return without a look back.
Frank thumbed his bottom lip as the men began to clear the catwalk, pushing back inside and wandering down to meet the wet traveler and jostle him about some more for his endeavors. But Frank stayed, looking out into the sky as it glowed like golden blood from the setting sun.
"What is so funny?" Frank turned to see Velvet's black head peeking out from the window frame, her naked shoulders caressed softly in the light, her eyes shining.
"Nothing...How's Jesse?"
His face fell and his heart sunk as she turned towards the ground, running a finger across the wood planks.
He came forward worried, only to stop as she turned back up to him, smiling widely. "Kidding you Frank, he's doing fine. He hasn't moaned or groaned for a long while, Madame Hanna-Belle says that once the doctor comes by again to check up on him, he may even be able to start walking again."
"Well, that's good." Frank said, coming closer to the window, stooping down with his hand holding onto the top part of the frame, looking into her face.
"You want to come in and see him?" She stepped back from the window and he looked to his brother, tucked comfortably beneath a pile of blankets and a red quilt, a wet, folded towel across his head. His eyes were closed and his re-bandaged hands were resting across his torso and side.
Breathing silently, Frank shook his head, tapping his knuckles against the wood a moment before coming to a decision.
"I think I'm gonna go downstairs...how long have we been here?" He asked, not remembering.
"It's been nearly three weeks now Frank," Velvet smiled, putting out her hand to bring down his face, kissing him gently on the lips. "It's time for you to quit worrying." And with that, she turned away from the window and went back into the room.
~
Frank watched from the back of the bar next to the wet, brooding Bob as a skinny, bald-headed man wearing a nice gray suit and pocket watch, carrying a rose wood box and large book stumbled into the doors, completely out of place. The whole saloon seemed to draw silent and turn to him as he pushed his gold spectacles up on his hooked nose, pursing his old lips and licking at his gums with a slopping sound.
"Where might I find a Mr. James? I was told he was in need of attendance by a Madame Hannabeth Belle." the doctor spoke to the gang in a fluttery, British accent, his fear-filled eyes roving over the guns brandished on every member's belts, their jacket flaps pulled back to reveal them.
"Who's asking?" Frank said from the back, reaching up to flip his gun around the table and point it at the man, his palm on the top, ready for anything.
"Dr. Peyton Abrose F. Bierce, sir. The third."
"That's a mighty long name you got. You a Pinkerton?" One of the boys called out. "Sound's like a Pinkerton name."
"What, pray tell," the man squirmed, "is a Pinkerton?"
"A horse's ass!" Another member chimed in, and some of the boys laughed.
"Then, I'm afraid I'm not. I come from New York sir, and I'm here to see a Mr. James. Now if you don't mind..." The man smiled and shuffled, trying to get out of being the butt of the joke.
"Well excuse the shit out o' me!" The man said mockingly, thumbing his suspenders and bowing overly gracious towards the doctor, who licked at his gums once more in contempt.
Frank had his feet up on the table and a beer in his hand, sitting in his lap and after scrutinizing the man for a while, filled him in in general. "He's up the stairs, first door on the left. Knock before you go in."
"Very well sir, thank you." The man turned and began up the stairs.
Soon after, a rowdier member mocked the man, taunting the man's stiff walk to get a laugh from the gang. But the doctor, never turning, continued up the steps.
He knocked twice and waited for admittance, then pushed himself inside, closing the door behind him.