Heaven and Hell: The North and South Trilogy Read online

  “Yes, but don’t you dare ask how I got in a place like this. I hear that twenty times a week.”

  “You do that much fucking? Damn. Wonderful to be young. Been so long for me, I nearly forget the particulars.”

  Ashton laughed, genuinely amused. She found the old codger likable. Maybe that was why she hadn’t lied. Sitting down by him, she said, “I’ll tell you this much. I was widowed unexpectedly here in Santa Fe. This hellhole was the only place I could find work.”

  “And you don’t plan to stay forever, huh?”

  “No, sir.” She eyed the case. “You some kind of salesman?”

  “The word’s peddler. The kind I am is starving. There’s engraved cards in my coat pocket. Willard P. Fenway, Western Territories Representative, Hochstein Piano Works, Chicago.”

  “Oh, that explains the picture of the fat lady. You sell a wonderful instrument. I saw Hochstein pianos in all the best homes in South Carolina. That’s where I grew up. Say, do you mind if I get ready for bed?” He urged her to do it speedily. “Do you want me in a gown, or bare?”

  “The latter, if you don’t mind. Keeps a man warmer.”

  Ashton proceeded to undress, unexpectedly enjoying herself. Fenway waved the empty bottle. “Have to correct one of your remarks. I don’t sell Hochsteins, I try to sell ’em. This trip I’ve only unloaded one Artiste—that’s the grand model pictured on the sales sheet. Cattle rancher in El Paso bought it, the dumb cluck. His wife couldn’t read music, just wanted to put on airs. It’s probably the only instrument I’ll sell for months. The boss saddled me with a territory consisting of the entire damn nation west of the Mississippi, which means my potential customers consist of crooked gamblers, dead-broke miners, drunk soldiers, red Indians, poor sodbusters, Mexes, whores—no offense—and your occasional half-witted rancher’s wife. Say, will you hurry up and lie down and keep me warm?”

  She blew out the light and jumped under the coverlet and into the curve of his arm. Old and bony as he was, his flesh felt firm, his hand on her shoulder strong. Travel made him hardy, she supposed. His skin smelled lightly and pleasantly of wintergreen oil.

  “You could certainly sell a piano here,” she said. “Maybe not a grand, but a spinet. The patrons are always yelling and screaming for music.”

  “Won’t get it from Hochstein’s.”

  “Why not?”

  “Old man Hochstein’s a Bible-thumper. Strict as sin in public, ’specially in the company of the old mule he married. On the side, a new chippy services him every week. But that’s his only relationship with ladies of your profession. Believe me, if I was allowed, I could put a Hochstein in just half of the sporting houses in Illinois, and retire.”

  “The market’s that rich?”

  “Throw in Indiana and Iowa, I could live like a damn earl or duke. Hochstein won’t touch the cathouse market, though. Competition won’t eith—whoa! Where you going?”

  “We need some light. We need a discussion.”

  A match scraped; a flame brightened the room. She grabbed her blue silk robe with peacocks embroidered on it, a present from the señora. It was part of a batch of clothes the señora had taken from a girl she threw out.

  Fenway fussed about being cold. Ashton tucked the worn coverlet under his chin, making soothing sounds, then sat down again. “Willard—”

  “Will, goddamn it, Will. I hate Willard.”

  “Excuse me, Will. You just had a wonderful idea and you don’t know it. Wouldn’t you like to give that old Mr. Hochstein a kick in the seat? And make a lot of money in the bargain?”

  “You bet I would. I been his slave twenty-two years now. But—”

  “Would you stand some risk to do it?”

  He thought about that. “I suppose. Depends on how much risk, for how much reward.”

  “Well, you just said you could live like a nobleman by selling pianos to parlor houses in three states. What if you sold them all over the West?”

  Fenway looked bludgeoned, barely managing to croak, “My God, girl. You’re talking about El Dorado.”

  She clapped her hands. “Thought so. Will, we’re going to be partners.”

  “Partners? I’ve not been here ten minutes—”

  “Yes, you have, and we’re partners,” she said, giving an emphatic toss of her head. “We’re going into the piano business. You do know how pianos are made?”

  “Sure. The work I don’t know how to do myself, I could hire out. But just where would two piano-makers find the forty or fifty thousand dollars it would take to start up? You tell me that.”

  “We’ll find it in Virginia City. Once you help me escape from this damn place.”

  Ashton leaned forward, the breast of an embroidered peacock bulged by the breast behind it. She smelled Fenway’s breath for the first time. Not the usual sewer smell of most customers. He’d sweetened it up by chewing a clove. The clove mingled nicely with the wintergreen. She really liked the old fellow.

  “Y’see, Will, my late husband had property in Virginia City. A mine. It belongs to me. All we have to do is get there.”

  “Why, yes, nothing to it,” he said. “It’s just a little old hop and a skip to Virginia City. Am I really hearing all this?”

  “You surely are. Oh, wait. Have you got any strings on you?”

  “You mean wives? Nope. I wore out three, or they wore me out, not sure which.” He grinned. Below, someone broke a piece of furniture. Then Ashton heard the culprit yell—Luis. Fenway failed to understand the venomous look that flashed over her face. “You telling me the truth, Miss Ashton? Your husband owned a mine in Nevada?”

  “The Mexican Mine.”

  “Why, I been there. I know that mine. It’s a big one.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Will. I don’t have a paper to prove I own it. And the marriage license saying I’m Mrs. Lamar Powell got left behind in Richmond.”

  “If we can reach Frisco, I know a gent who can fix up another paper.” Ashton reveled in the way his eyes glowed. He’d begun to see the opportunity. “But that might not be enough—”

  She laid his hand on the swelling peacock. “Oh, I’ve got ways to persuade anybody who’s picky.”

  Fenway was beside himself, turning pink. “Keep talking, keep talking. You may be crazy, but I like it.”

  “The hardest part—seriously now, Will, no joke—the hardest part will be getting out of here, and out of Santa Fe. The señora, the woman you paid, she’s a mean sort. Luis, her brother-in-law, he’s worse. Do you have a horse?”

  “No. I travel the overland coaches.”

  “Could you buy two horses over at Fort Marcy, maybe?”

  “Yes. I’ve got enough for that, I think.”

  “And do you have a gun?”

  The color in his face faded fast. “This gonna involve shooting?”

  “I can’t tell. It might. We need nerve, we need horses, and we need a loaded gun, just in case.”

  “Well—” A veined hand indicated the sample case. “Root around under those sales sheets. You’ll find an Allen pepperbox. She’s a good twenty-five years old, but she’s popular with traveling men.” He cleared his throat. “Afraid mine’s for show. No ammunition.”

  “Then you’ll have to buy some.”

  While he was considering that, the altercation downstairs broke out again. A crashing sound suggested one person breaking furniture on the head of another. Ashton’s mouth twisted up meanly when she heard Luis bellow, “Vete, hijo de la chingada. ¿Gonsalvo, y dónde está el cuchillo? Te voy a cortar los huevos.”

  A ululating yell and hammering footfalls signaled the potential victim’s retreat. Fenway’s eyes bulged.

  “Was that the brother-in-law?”

  “Never you mind. We can take care of him—if we have a loaded gun.”

  “But I’m a peaceable man. I can’t handle a loaded gun.”

  Ashton’s sweet smile distracted him from her malicious eyes. “I can.” She stroked his cheek, stubbled white at day’s end.
“So I guess it’s up to you to decide, sweet. Would you rather keep dragging around the West, safe and poor, or take a little chance and maybe live rich forever?”

  Fenway nibbled his lower lip. In the cantina Luis’s rumbling, grumbling voice recapitulated his recent brave triumph over the man who’d fled. Fenway gazed at Ashton and thought, This is surely a piece of work. A remarkable piece of work.

  He had no illusions about the girl who was petting and cooing over him. Nor did she disguise what she was. Why, she practically wrote it out on a sign, and would bid anyone who didn’t like it to kiss her foot. He’d already taken a fancy to the honey-talking she-wolf.

  She planted a chaste kiss on his lips. Moist mouth close to his, warm excited breath bathing his face, she touched him with the little tip of her tongue while a finger fiddled in his ear. “Come on, Will, tell me. Poverty, or pianos?”

  His heart thumped at the prospect of her cleavage, the prospect of riches—and the prospect of losing his life.

  “What the hell. Let’s try pianos. Partner.”

  Two nights later, with an early winter storm deluging Santa Fe, Will Fenway returned with his sample case, just as he had the preceding evening, when they’d laid their plans. Slightly wild-eyed, he closed the door and leaned against it while the rain hammered the shutters. Ashton snatched the case from his hands and opened it on the bed. “Did you pay for the whole night?”

  “No. Couldn’t afford it.”

  “Will—” she complained, cross and nervous.

  “Listen, I’m beginning to think this is a damn-fool idea. I spent every cent I’ve got on ammunition and those two nags, and now the señora and her nasty-looking relative are playing cards downstairs without another soul in the place, ’cause of this rain. They’ll hear every sound.”

  “We’ll wait them out.”

  Ashton removed the Allen pepperbox from the otherwise empty case. She checked the revolving barrels to be sure they were all loaded, then laid her few meager pieces of clothing in the case. She had no rain cape; she’d have to get soaked.

  She felt a tightness in her chest, yet she was composed, in a cool sort of way. She laid the Oriental box in the case. “How long have we got?”

  “An hour’s all I could pay for.”

  “It’ll have to do. We’ll go by the back stairs, and through the storeroom. Did you—?”

  “Yes. I did everything,” he said, snappish because of his fear. “The horses are in that little shed around back. But—”

  “But nothing.” Ashton began caressing his forehead with her fingers. His skin was no longer cool or tangy with wintergreen, but slick, clammy. “Sit down, Will. Sit down and we’ll wait till it’s a little noisier. Luis gets noisy when he drinks. It’ll be all right, trust me.”

  From a pocket of his old frock coat Fenway took a silver watch, which he snapped open. He placed it on the bed. Both of them stared at the black hands. Ten past nine. The bigger hand ticked over a notch. One more minute gone.

  Ashton stood behind him, expertly kneading his tight neck and shoulders. “Now just don’t worry. We’ll pull it off, slick as anything. Partners as smart as we are, no one can stop us.”

  Except possibly Luis, who helped himself to another drink so noisily that Ashton and Fenway heard the bottle clinking against the glass.

  As time ran away from them, their luck appeared to do a miraculous turnabout. Luis began to serenade himself in a loud tuneless baritone. Señora Vasquez-Reilly said, “No me fastidies,” but he kept right on. Five minutes later—nine minutes before ten, the hour at which the señora would ascend the stairs and order Will out—the rainstorm intensified, complete with heavy rolls of thunder.

  “We’re going to make it, Will. We’re going to do it—now.” Ashton tied her lacy mantilla under her chin, a wispy scarf, but better than nothing. Pressing the closed case into his hand, she took the loaded Allen and opened the door. She examined the dim, rancid hall, lit by a single stubby candle in a tin sconce.

  The hall stretched straight back to the dark rear stairs, empty. Ashton’s breath hissed in and out as she edged forward: She whispered, with her mouth against his ear, “Step easy. Parts of the floor squeak if you come down hard.”

  With almost exaggerated tiptoe steps, they crept along the hall past the first closed door. Ashton heard the girl inside snoring. Then, on the left, they passed the second door, where they heard no sound at all from Rosa.

  Ashton risked going faster on the stairs. It worked until she reached the second step from the top, and Fenway put his weight down on the first one, which gave off a sound like a cat with its tail twisted.

  The rain had slackened. The sound carried. And their luck reversed completely again.

  Rosa’s door opened. Naked, she stepped into the hall, carrying her slops jar. Because of the stair noise, she immediately looked to the left—and saw them.

  Her scream probably carried all the way to Fort Marcy. “¡Señoral ¡Señoral ¡La puta Brett, se huye!”

  “That’s it,” Ashton cried, grabbing Fenway’s lapels. “Go fast, lover.”

  She went plunging down the risers two at a time, and if she had missed one by chance, if she’d fallen, she’d have broken her neck.

  As if to tease the fugitives along with a little good fortune now that they’d been discovered, Ashton and her partner made it to the storeroom without so much as a stumble. Rosa, however, kept howling, and the instant Ashton started to slip through the maze of old broken crates, the señora’s voice joined in, exhorting Luis to hurry.

  The door from the cantina opened. An amber rectangle of light laid itself across the floor, revealing the fugitives near the back door.

  Luis charged toward them. Ashton fired the pepperbox. Through the smoke, she saw Luis fall to one side. Then she saw the señora, in the cantina, wiping blood from her cheek. Blood from flying splinters; Ashton’s ball had hit the frame of the door, and Luis had merely taken a dive to save himself.

  “Come on, Will,” Ashton cried, yanking the back door wide and jumping out into the mud and rain.

  Panting, Fenway followed. He pushed her to the left and, in doing so, gave her kneecap a ferocious whack with his sample case. She staggered, almost fell. Fenway caught her elbow and guided her. “Not far. That little shed. Here we are, here.”

  She smelled and heard the fretful animals. Luis appeared at the back door, pouring out a torrent of profanity. He lunged into the open and darted after them, only to pitch over when his right foot slipped in the mud. The way he yelled as he went down told Ashton he’d broken or torn something.

  He sprawled on his side, groping toward the fugitives with his left hand. A faint glare of lightning showed his mud-slimed face. From the door, the señora screamed, “Levántate, Luis. Maldita seas. Levántate y síguelos.”

  “No puedo, puta, me posa algo a la pierna.”

  “Mount up, for Lord’s sake,” Fenway wailed. He was already in the saddle, clutching the handle of his sample case. Ashton seemed to spend an eternity in the few seconds she stared at the tableau behind the cantina: the señora standing there demanding that Luis get up, Luis groping toward them with his outstretched hand while his pained face said he couldn’t.

  In that momentary eternity, a vivid cavalcade of large and small slurs, insults, unkindnesses passed through Ashton’s mind. The señora and Luis were equal offenders, but Luis was the nearer. She stepped two paces toward him, aimed the pepperbox with her arm rigid, and put a ball into his head.

  They clattered across the empty central plaza, rain-washed and gleaming. Ashton’s horse led. She’d pulled her skirt up between her thighs and rode astride, bent low, watching for obstacles.

  From behind, Fenway cried, “Why’d you shoot that man? You didn’t have to shoot him, he was down.”

  “Luis abused me. I hated him,” she screamed over her shoulder. Ahead, a pair of soldiers from the fort stepped into her path, rubber ponchos shining in the lightning flashes. One pulled the other back at the last
moment; both fell.

  As Fenway galloped, the lightning revealed deep dismay on his rain-pelted face. He knew the little Carolina tart was stone-hearted, but he’d never imagined she would go so far as to slay a helpless man. What kind of creature had he hooked up with anyway? Nearly sick from excitement and the motion of the horse, he no longer felt liberated by their escape. Instead, he was gripped by a queasy sense of entrapment.

  Accustomed to horses since childhood, Ashton rode expertly, head down over the nag’s neck, her only guidance the occasional feeble flare of the lightning. She rode as if hell was behind her and nothing ahead would stop her, and her partner felt dragged along, captured, and pulled by her incredible force of will.

  He heard her cry, “We’ll make it, honey. We’ll outrun those greaser dogs. Keep riding!”

  He might indeed outrun any pursuit, he thought as the horse carried him over the slick road like a cork in a typhoon sea, but he doubted he could ever outrun her. It was too late; she’d hooked him.

  And she’d committed murder.

  With his assistance.

  The deputy marshal for the territory and the commandant of Fort Marcy together questioned Señora Vasquez-Reilly, who said to them:

  “Of course I can tell you who murdered my sweet, innocent brother-in-law. I can describe her to perfection. I always doubted that she gave me her real name. So whether you ever catch her is up to you.”

  16

  IN RICHMOND, A YOUNG doctor made the rounds of the Almshouse wards guided by the matron, Mrs. Pember. The doctor was new, a volunteer, like the others who tended these sad lumps of human refuse.

  Here and there a patient gave him a vacant glance, but most paid no attention. One man crouched beside his cot, exploring an invisible wall with the tips of his fingers. Another held a lively silent conversation with unseen listeners. A third sat with his arms crossed and tucked under, straitjacket fashion, weeping without a sound.

  The doctor dictated notes to the matron as he proceeded from cot to cot. Near the cot at the end, a man sat hunched on a packing box by an open window. Even this late in the year, smoke still drifted from the burned sections of the city, hazing the thin autumn sunshine.