Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (5 page)

Longarm stepped onto the loading platform of Union Depot in Fort Worth. A hot, dust-and grit-filled wind blew up from the south. He dropped his fully packed canvas travel bag on a convenient bench, then propped his ever-present Winchester and Greener atop the leather-strapped sack. The Denver, Texas, and Fort Worth Railroad's Baldwin engine idly chuffed and puffed on the track a few feet away. Amidst a billowing cloud of vented steam, Longarm twisted and stretched tight shoulders, stiff legs, and a kinked spine, all derived from long hours in the less-than-comfortable passenger car.

A molten sun, pasted to a near-cloudless sky, had begun to settle in the west when a graybeard with a slightly gimpy leg hobbled up, touched the brim of his tattered Confederate cavalry officer's hat, then said, “Hack, mister? Quarter'll git you to the center of town. Fifty cents an' I'll take you anyplace you wanna go. Dollar and I'm yours for the entire afternoon.”

“Can you make more than one stop?”

“Sure thang. Till I deliver you to your final destination, my time is yers.” A fist-sized wad of tobacco bulged in the man's cheek. Juice leaked from the corners of a toothless mouth and stained his ragged chin hair.

Longram nodded, then attempted to carry his grip to the unkempt gent's flatbed spring wagon. But the limping driver wouldn't allow it. He shook his head, then eased the burden from Longarm's grasp.

“My pleasure, sir. Also my livin'. You take the rifle. Never attempt to handle other men's weapons, lest they disapprove. But I'll get the bag,” he said, and smiled.

Three blocks from the train station, a tired gray mare pulled the well-used wagon up Main Street past a joint called the Local Option Saloon. Swarms of people swept up and down the rutted dirt thoroughfare like waves on a rocky beach. Cowhands, gamblers, drummers, drunks, whores, pimps, and evangelizing Bible-thumpers, people of every kind, size, and stripe milled about in a seething mass of constantly moving humanity.

The hack driver nodded toward the Local Option's coarse edifice, then said, “We kin stop, if'n you've a need fer a drink. Built this place as close to the depot as they could, jus' fer the convenience of travelin' folk. Feller what slings the booze inside actually has cold beer fer a nickel a glass. Right fine stuff on a day like this'un.”

Longarm glanced at the cow-country cantina's broad false front. A brightly painted sign over the batwing doors proclaimed it the place where you could get the “worst liquor, poorest cigars, and most miserable pool tables” in Fort Worth. Hordes of noisy customers seethed in and out of the crowded doorway. He chuckled, then said, “Think I'll pass on that one, friend. Let's head on up toward the center of town, maybe it ain't so busy.”

The driver grinned. “Got several big trail herds bedded down on the north side of the Trinity. Pretty much every grog shop in town's swamped right now. You gonna be stickin' around long, mister?”

“Week, maybe two, if things work out the way I hope they do.”

“Be needin' a nice place to stay then, I'd imagine.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“El Paso Hotel's right fine. Caters to a better'n average clientele. Mosta these cowboys sleep with their herds. Cain't afford rooms in a swanky joint like the El Paso.”

“Must be some kind of mind reader, my friend. That's the very spot I'd decided on before stepping off the train.”

“You gotta reservation?”

“Reservation? No, don't have a reservation.”

“Well, if'n you'll allow it, when we arrive, let me tell the desk clerk I directed you to the place.”

Longarm hesitated, then said, “They pay you a bit for sendin' customers their way?”

“Yessir. They do at that. Ain't much, but everythang I can scratch up helps.”

“Fine by me.”

“Thanky, sir. Name's Willard Allred. Formerly of Lowndes County, Alabama.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Allred.”

“You can call me Tater. Most everybody else does.”

“Tater?”

“Yep. See, durin' Mr. Lincoln's War of Yankee Aggression again' the South, spent a good deal of the unpleasantness locked up in one of his nightmarish prisons for captive cavalry officers. Lived on taters for nigh on eighteen months. Them as survived with me started a-callin' me Tater. Unfortunately, the name stuck.”

“Tater might be a stretch for me, friend. But I'll try 'er ever' once in a while. Custis Long here. My distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure's all mine, sir. So, it's the El Paso we're a-wantin' to head fer, Mr. Long?”

“Well, not just yet. First, let's make a stop at the city marshal's office, Tater. Think it best I check in with local law enforcement. Usually a good idea when I'm in town.”

Tater Allred swiveled his deeply creased, stubble-covered face around and considered his passenger with a spark of renewed interest. He studied Longarm for several seconds, then turned back to his driving. “You a law bringer, Custis? Suffer under the man-killin' weight of a tin star?”

“Deputy U.S. marshal. Based outta the Federal District Court in Denver. But I'm not here on official business this time around. Takin' me a brief respite from the rigors of chasin' bad men and bad women into bad places.”

“Picked about as good a town as any in Texas fer recreatin'. Acre gets a-goin' like a steam calliope in a travelin' carnival, soon's the sun goes down.”

“You mean this crowd is just typical run of the mill for an average afternoon these days?”

“Yep. Place'll git right busy in two, maybe three hours.”

“Well, she's changed a bit since my last visit. Seems to me like Long Haired Jim Courtright was still ramroding the law around these parts when last I passed this way. 'Course my questionable recollection could suffer some. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Allred cut loose with a massive gob of tobacco juice, hocked into the dusty street, just as they passed in front of the Emerald Saloon. The crowd appeared not to have diminished by a single person. “Ole Long Hair enjoyed the affection and goodwill of nigh on the whole county, till he went and took to the bottle. Got ta actin' right peculiar toward the end of his last term. Made some mighty poor decisions. Never did seem too interested in actually enforcin' the law to start with. But then, he fell into drunkenness, bad behavior, and poorly considered acts of outright extortion, there at the end.”

“I'd heard the good citizens here'bouts had voted him out.”

“Yep. Feller name of Sam Farmer's in charge of the Fort Worth police force now.”

“What's Farmer like?”

“Bit more energetic at enforcin' city ordinances, I suppose. But to tell you the God's truth, Custis, he ain't much better'n the average town marshal you'd meet up with in any small Texas town. Some like him, some don't. Most of the Acre liked Long Haired Jim better, mainly 'cause he turned a blind eye to damn near anythang they chose to do.”

All along Main, on either side of the street, Longarm took note of thriving, busy parlor houses that appeared to have sprouted like Texas wildflowers. Peppered here and there, crib shacks and rough-looking dance halls popped up—usually as near to a convenient saloon as possible.

Wagon yards, mule barns, and stables were mixed in here and there. But the jam-packed, cheek-by-jowl building methods of most cities and towns didn't appear to apply to Fort Worth. Watering holes, dance halls, and sporting establishments were scattered along the streets, and large, open, unfilled gaps between them appeared fairly typical. Such construction methods gave the town that wide-open feel so often described in the penny dreadfuls so popular back East.

Most of the coarse-built structures they passed appeared not to have been in place for any length of time. The board-and-batten shacks were predominately constructed from rough-cut, unseasoned lumber that still oozed thick streams of gooey sap. And while the false fronts of every liquor locker and cantina sported garish paint jobs, few, if any, of the sporting houses, and none of the cribs, had yet been graced with the loving touch of a painter's brush.

Shameless women hawked their carnal wares from doorways and windows, and some walked boldly up and down the street in various states of dress and undress. A hard-eyed gal with hair the color of flame staggered along beside Longarm's hack and plucked at his sleeve. Wearing nothing more than open-crotched pantalets and a chemise that did nothing to cover her melon-sized breasts and dark nipples, she grabbed his hand and placed it on one of her swaying tits.

“Wanna ride the tiger, mister?” she yelled. “Jus' get your stringy ass down outta that wagon, big boy. You can fuck me right here in the street. Do the deed in the bed of your wagon. Won't cost but a dollar. A damned fine deal. I'm juicier'n a ripe melon. Jus' waitin' fer you to make up your mind. I get done and you'll swear you just fucked a Comanche squaw whose ass was on fire. Ask your driver, he knows me.”

“Git the hell away, Iris,” Allred snapped. “This gent don't need nothin' you're a-sellin'.”

In a halfhearted attempt to remain the gracious Southern gentleman, Longarm tipped his hat and said, “No thanks, miss. Perhaps at some later time.”

“How 'bout a nice blow job. Suck you till your head caves and your spurs start spinnin' like a Fourth of July whizbang. Do you for fifty cents. Ain't no other woman in Hell's Half Acre can suck your dick like me. I can lick the leather cover off a saddle horn.”

Longarm jerked his sleeve out of the unrelenting woman's grip. “Appreciate the offer, miss, but think I'll pass.”

Iris stopped dead in her tracks. She grabbed up a wad of something at her feet and threw it. The pile shattered against the spring wagon's side boards. “Well, then, you can go straight to hell, you penny-pinchin' son of a bitch,” she screeched. “Girl's gotta make a livin', for Christ's sake. Guess you figure I ain't good enough. High-toned bastard. Wouldn't suck your dick now for a hundred dollars, by God.”

Over his shoulder, Longarm glanced back at the angry girl. “Testy little thing, ain't she, Tater?”

“Yeah, they's a lot of 'em jes' like 'er workin' the streets. Rough ole gals. Most of 'em ain't seen twenty yet, but they're tougher'n a chewed boot heel. Come out here straight off Louisiana farms and Texas ranches. All of 'em young, big-eyed, mostly innocent, and lookin' fer adventure. Year or so sellin' themselves, and even the sweetest little country girl ever born gets harder'n a chunk of flint.”

“What're the borders of Hell's Half Acre these days, Tater?”

“Oh, from about Ninth Street south to the depot, and everything from Throckmorton on the west to Calhoun, or maybe Jones, on the east. Most everythang from about Fifth Street north is considered the better part of town. That's where the El Paso and the White Elephant are located.”

At Main and Fourth Street, Allred used his whip to point out the Mansion House Hotel, but immediately qualified his praise by saying, “But if'n I had the money, I'd stick with your original choice, Custis. El Paso's closer to Luke Short's White Elephant, and that's as nice a gamblin' and eatin' joint as you'll find in the entire West. Jus' a few steps 'cross Third Street and you're right at the front door.”

“I met Luke Short in Tombstone not long after he snuffed Charlie Storms's lamp. And we've run into one another a time or two since. 'Bout as nice a feller as you'd like to meet, as long as you don't piss him off.”

“Wouldn't know anythang 'bout that myself, but yours appears to be the prevailin' opinion on the subject. Lookin' the raggedy-assed way I do, ain't never had nerve enough to go inside the place. Stood at the door a time or two, though. Took a gander at the wonders they offer. Swanky stuff fer a frontier burg like Fort Worth. But that's jes' my opinion, and the opinions of fellers like me don' mean much.”

The farther north they traveled along Main Street, the cleaner and more pretentious the town became. Parlor houses, cribs, stables, wagon yards, and dance halls gave way to fancy eating establishments, like the Merchant's Restaurant, several theaters, and a number of classy hotels. In the distance, the street came to a dead end directly in front of the imposing, still new, but somewhat strange-looking Tarrant County Courthouse. Laid out somewhat like the spokes around the center hub of a wheel, the building was unlike any Longarm had ever seen before.

Allred eased his rickety wagon past the El Paso Hotel, the White Elephant, and Theatre Comique, turned right on Second Street, then headed for the city jail. He reined to a stop at the corner of Second and Rusk. In appearance, the coarse city marshal's office and jail didn't look all that different from the shabby cribs they'd passed along the way—it was simply a good bit larger and decorated with heavy iron bars on the windows and doors.

Longarm climbed down from Tater Allred's wagon, slipped a silver dollar into the old soldier's trembling hand, told him to wait, then hopped up on the jail's porch and pushed his way inside without knocking. Once over the threshold, he closed the door and hesitated long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the room's darker interior.