William W. Johnstone (11 page)

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Authors: Massacre Mountain

Tags: #Murder, #Western Stories, #Wyoming, #Westerns, #Fiction, #Sheriffs - Wyoming, #General, #Mountain Life

BOOK: William W. Johnstone
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C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
 
Before we headed back in there, I scouted around a little to see where Iceberg was, and I found him fast enough standing in deep shadow, along with that blocky deputy, in a rear corner trying to look invisible. That was a bad sign.
When we all got lassoed down, the orchestra whipped up a tune or two, and they started in on a chorus that had them gals dressed in pants. All the pretty gals in the show was wearing boiled white shirts and black tuxedos and top hats. I didn’t like that one bit. A woman is a woman and a man is a man, and they were pretty fast ruining my evening. I thought maybe I’d talk to Jardine about that one, saying it don’t go over very well with a mess of cowboys and other good folks.
Then that singer who nearly drove us out the door came back on stage, and began talking at us. He said that long ago in England there was an evil nobleman whose taxes were so heavy they were ruining his town, a place called Coventry, and driving the citizens into despair. The man’s wife, named Lady Godiva, took pity on the suffering people whose rents were much too high, and begged her husband to lower the rents. But he refused time after time. Finally, weary of her constant begging, he told her he would lower the rents if she would ride through Coventry wearing nothing at all.
Well, that story was getting real interesting, and all them cowboys in the audience was all perked up. This singer continued. Lady Godiva, he said, agreed to do it. And so the town of Coventry prepared for the ride, shutting all windows and doors, and hanging curtains. But there was one feller, a tailor named Tom, who drilled a little peephole in his door and watched as the beautiful woman rode by on her beautiful horse. But because God is good, the tailor was struck blind right then and there.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, Lady Godiva’s ride!” he said.
I could hear a horse stomping around back there, and sure enough a feller dressed like a knight was leading a nag onstage, and there she was, my redheaded friend, buck naked, her lithe body glowing in the footlights. I swear, it was real quiet in there. She was plumb pretty, sitting bare on a bare horse, walking slowly across the stage. There was a mess of heavy breathing in the audience. I’d never seen the like, and I was sort of hoping she’d take the reins and steer that horse into the aisle and out the front door so I could have a closer look. But all they did was stop in the middle of the stage, and she looked around some, and we could see more of her when she did that. Then a little door in the back of the stage creaked open, and some runt of a man peered out, and stared at her, and then someone in the orchestra hit a drum and there was a flash of light and the little peeper, he clasped his arm to his eyes and staggered back and then the redhead, she and her horse slowly walked across the stage and vanished.
It was real quiet in there, but then the clapping started, and we all wanted her to come out for an encore, but she didn’t. Instead, that little feller playing the peeper, he staggered around clutching his eyes, and then vanished.
That sure was the best scene I ever did see. I didn’t know what my ma would think of that one, but I sure liked it. And I’d pay to see it the next night, too.
It got real noisy in there for a while, and a few fellers whistled and plotted to get her and that horse and bring ’em out again, but in the end they didn’t.
Next they gave us the Royal Opera of Madrid, and some people came out and screeched a while until I wanted to vamoose, but I kept my seat, and Rusty stared at the floor, and pretty soon the screeching was over. It had to do with some old gal suffering consumption, and as she lay in bed screeching, everyone around her was sobbing away until she sort of gave up the ghost and the orchestra whined a little and the curtain came down.
The little feller with the big hat came scrambling out, and kept lifting that hat and lowering it, and pretty soon all them bored cowboys quieted down some.
“Now, esteemed ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we will celebrate the virtue and goodness of this new nation, this republic built on freedom. We will honor Lady Liberty, the Goddess of Freedom, the divine spark that has turned this republic into the bountiful and golden land of dreams. Now, my dear friends, let us applaud the Goddess of Liberty!”
Them curtains rolled back and there she was, up on a big box, standing there with a golden crown on her head, a scepter in her hand—I think that’s what them things are called, and not much else. There was some sort of gauzy, filmy stuff draped over her, but not much more, and she sure was pretty and there wasn’t no part of her we couldn’t see through that gauze. There she was, every inch of her celebrating Liberty and Freedom and all that stuff, and the cowboys sure cheered. There wasn’t nothing hid; from her bright red hair down to her pink toes, she was Freedom itself. That sure was a dandy moment, and we never loved our republic so much as we did then. She stood real still, like in a painting, and hardly moved an arm or turned her face, and we sure had a fine old time studying on Liberty. I was all for liberty and freedom, and now I could think of nothing else.
Well, all good things shut down, and pretty soon the curtain shut her off from us, and we soon were getting more choruses and that ballet outfit came back, and another round of the ostrich feather fans, and all that. It was a nice show, but that Goddess of Liberty was the standout.
I glanced around, and there was Iceberg staring at the stage, like he was ready to cause trouble, but he just stood there in the shadows. I knew something was up, but I didn’t really know what.
They had a tap dancer going next, some feller with shiny shoes that had metal on the soles and he thought it was pretty fine to make a racket, while the fiddles fiddled and the drums drummed. He sure rattled around too long, and I was ready to give him to the woodpeckers so they could all tap on tree bark, but finally he got off of there, and the next act was a chorus of pretty girls singing Stephen Foster. I’d never heard of that feller, but the little dude in the big hat told us he was America’s favorite songwriter.
Anyway, the gals singing those songs were all dolled up real nice. Those were lively airs, and I got to tapping my feet. They sang “Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair,” and sure enough, a real pretty gal with light brown hair came drifting through. She was dressed proper and we couldn’t see anything except a real pretty gal with a real pretty face.
They switched over to “Oh! Susanna,” and that was one I’d heard a couple of times, and it went just fine. And then came “Camptown Races” and how some fools bet on the wrong nags, so I didn’t like that one. And next was “My Old Kentucky Home,” and I feared this Foster feller might be a Southerner. I don’t like Southerners, and wish they’d all move to Argentina. But the song was pretty nice. And finally these gals sang “Old Folks at Home,” and that was real sweet, but it sounded pretty southern to me. I’m not sure where that Swanee River is, but it ain’t around Wyoming and I wouldn’t want to drink the water.
Them gals hustled off, and the little feller announced the Grand Finale.
The orchestra thundered up, and the gents were in tuxedos and the gals in long gowns, and they were doing a waltz. But up on that box behind them was three women, bare-ass naked, the Goddesses of Abundance, Joy, and Beauty, according to them signs. They just stood there wearing haloes on their heads and not a stitch, and I was all for Abundance, Joy, and Beauty for the rest of my life, Especially Joy, because she was the redhead that caught my eye. You can’t quarrel with Joy.
“I like Abundance,” Rusty said.
“Then don’t work as a peace officer,” I said.
He gave me an elbow.
But all too soon the curtain cut off the view, and the show was over. We sort of waited around for an encore, but that was it. And all the cowboys and such drifted out. The few women in the audience sort of stared straight ahead, not looking at any of the men around them, and pretended that hadn’t seen nothing unusual. I was so taken by the whole show, and Joy in particular, that I wasn’t paying much attention until Rusty elbowed me again.
Then I saw Iceberg and his beefy deputy make their way forward, as if to talk to the management, and I got up fast and followed. The little feller, Jardine, and Ralston wanted me on hand to slow down trouble if I could; that’s how we got in for free. So me and Rusty pushed forward, and followed Iceberg into the backstage area, just in time to see Iceberg throw manacles onto Jardine while the deputy cuffed Ralston.
“You’re under arrest,” Iceberg said to them.
“For what?” Ralston asked.
“Violating public decency.”
“What statute is that?” Ralston asked. “I don’t know of any. Show it to me.”
For an answer, Iceberg cuffed the manager, who tumbled to the ground. Some of those gals were watching, and they screamed. There sure was some commotion back there as people scattered. Them fellows who were dousing the footlights quit and got away.
Ralston was slow to get to his feet but the beefy deputy yanked him up. There was blood on Ralston’s lip.
“Guess that’ll teach you not to resist arrest,” Iceberg said.
That sure was unfriendly.
Iceberg spotted Rusty and me. “What are you doing here? Get out.”
“Guests of management,” I said.
“Out,” Iceberg said.
“I’m a guest here,” I said. “Think I’ll stay.”
I was half expecting Iceberg to draw his cannon and aim it, but maybe he didn’t like the odds, and instead ignored me and Rusty.
“Come along,” he said to his prisoners.
I think that little feller Jardine could have slid his hand out of the manacle easily enough, but he left his wrist in there and nodded at me. I guess I was doing the right thing, not making too big a fuss.
All them show people gathered now to watch as Iceberg hauled Ralston and Jardine out the door and toward the sheriff office and jail. At least that’s where I thought they were headed. I followed along, and watched Sheriff Iceberg haul them into the county courthouse rather than the jail, and straight into the courtroom, which was all lit and ready. And there was Judge Rampart, waiting behind the bench, and there was Lawyer Stokes. And there was the banker, Hubert Sanders. So this here little party had been planned in advance.
They hauled Ralston and Jardine straight before the judge.
“The charge is public indecency. Guilty or not?” Rampart asked, leaning forward and licking his lips.
“This sure is a fancy welcoming party, your holiness,” said Jardine.
“Contempt of court. Ten dollars,” said Rampart.
“Your majesties, I scarcely know what to plead because no such law exists,” said Ralston.
“Contempt of court, ten dollars for you, too.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Jardine, “if we plead guilty to a law that does not exist, what does it gain us?”
“Five hundred dollars or six months, your choice,” said Rampart.
“But if we plead not guilty to a law that does not exist, what does that gain us?”
“The exact same. Except that Lawyer Stokes and Sheriff Ike Berg will spend thirty seconds testifying that there was nudity on that stage.”
“Well then, we won’t plead guilty, and we won’t plead not guilty,” Jardine said.
“That’s nolo contendere. The fine is your box office receipts,” Rampart said.
“Right here,” the beefy deputy said. In his hand was Ralston’s black metal cashbox.
“Ah, capital,” said Rampart.
The deputy dumped the loot onto Rampart’s bench, and the judge and Hubert Sanders swiftly counted up the evening’s take by the light of three kerosene lamps brought to the bench.
“That’s it?” said Rampart, sliding the last two-bit piece into a pile.
“That’s it,” said Sanders.
“Your fine for public indecency is five hundred seventeen dollars and fifty cents. Sheriff, unloose those cuffs and let these gents go. Hubert, you take this fine over to your bank and lock it up tight, and don’t let any vermin get at it. The wages of sin belong to Puma County.”
That was mighty fast justice.
Rampart turned to me. “You. Why are you here?”
“My ma always told me not to stick around where I’m not invited,” I said.
Rampart rolled his eyes. “How long, oh Lord, must the good citizens of Doubtful suffer the presence of this buffoon?”
“What’s a buffoon, your grace? I never did hear that before.”
“Out!” Rampart was waving his finger at me and Rusty, and Ike Berg was making mean gestures, so we headed into the warm night and waited. Sure enough, a moment later Jardine and Ralston came ripping out the door, fined and freed.
For two gents who had just taken an awful whipping, they didn’t seem too upset.
“Nice of them to store the box office for us,” Jardine said.
“We’ll try it again,” Ralston said.
“That’s plumb crazy!” I said. “You’ll go broke!”
“No, it’ll keep Ike Berg from stealing the boodle,” Ralston said.

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