Demon's Pass (3 page)

“Oh.”

The man sighed, and pointed to the stairs. “Go up these stairs,” he said. “It's the first room on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Parker climbed the stairs, then when he saw the right door, he opened it and went inside. Instantly, he heard a metallic click, and he turned to see Clay holding a cocked pistol leveled toward him. Parker gasped in surprise and took half a step back.

“Boy, don't frighten me like that,” Clay said, sighing in relief. He released the hammer and lowered the pistol. “Most people knock before they come into someone's room.”

“You told me to come on up,” Parker said.

“So I did,” Clay said.

“Well, that's just what I done.”

Clay was in the midst of changing his clothes. He had already put on another pair of trousers, but was bare from the waist up.

“I had some bathwater brought up,” Clay said. “I've already taken mine, and the water is still warm, so you can take yours, now. I'll be back later this afternoon, then we can go downstairs to take our supper. I'll bet you've never eaten in a restaurant either, have you?”

“No, I haven't,” Parker admitted. “But, listen, I don't need a bath. It hasn't been that long since I had one.”

Clay smiled at him. “It's been long enough,” he said. He pointed to the tub. “Take a bath.” Clay started toward the door.

“Mr. Springer?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to check on the orphanage?”

“Maybe.”

“I already did,” Parker said.

Clay stood there with his hand on the door frame. “What did you find out?”

“It's like you said. They've got one here,” Parker said. He didn't say anything else about it.

Clay nodded. “That's good to know,” he said. He let himself out, then closed the door behind him.

 

After Clay left the hotel room, Parker got undressed for his bath. He held the pouch of money for a moment, trying to decide what to do with it, then he saw the bed. Hiding the pouch under the mattress, he returned to the tub and slipped down into the still-warm water.

Don't forget to wash behind your ears, Parker,
his ma's voice came back to him.

“I won't, Ma,” Parker said, quietly. “I won't.”

Chapter 2

Clay found Marcus Pearson exactly where he thought he would, in the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon on Liberty Street. Marcus was the best wagon handler Clay had ever met. He had driven wagons for Clay ever since Clay got into the business, mostly down into Texas, though he also made some trips into Nebraska. They were friends as well as employer and employee, and three years ago the two had even wintered together in the mountains of Colorado, trapping beaver.

As Marcus once said, “The only way you can get closer to a body than winterin' with 'em, is to marry 'em.”

Marcus was a small man, with such weathered skin that he looked seventy, though he was actually just a little over forty. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, the result of getting his hand caught in a trap. Despite the loss of two fingers, he could handle most things as easily as if he had his entire hand, and he demonstrated that now, by deftly pouring whiskey into Clay's glass.

“Did you take a look at those three wagons down to Garland's place?” he asked.

“Yes. They're pretty good wagons.”

“Can't beat 'em for the price,” Marcus replied.

“I know. That's why I bought them.”

“So, you are really going to do it, aren't you? You're going to sell goods to the saints out in Utah.”

“I said I was, and I'm going to.”

“You know, you could do two trips to Texas in the same time it's going to take you to go to Utah,” Marcus said.

“I know. But if everything goes all right, I can make five times as much on this one trip as I can on two Texas trips.”

“You said it.
If
everything goes all right. You could also wind up losing everything,” Marcus said. “From here to Utah by wagon is no easy trip. You'll have plains, desert, rivers, and mountains to deal with, to say nothing of Indians, wild animals, and who knows what else? And then, even if you do make it through, them Mormons aren't known to be any too friendly to gentiles.”

“I know it's going to be hard. But if it was easy, there wouldn't be any profit in it. I think I can do it, but I'm going to need a good man as my head driver.”

When Marcus realized that Clay was referring to him, he paused and laughed, then added, “I reckon I could go with you.”

“Good, I was hoping you would.”

Marcus smiled, and held up his glass. “Utah, here we come,” he said.

Clay touched his glass to it, and they drank a toast to the venture.

Marcus chuckled, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don't reckon we'll be doin' much drinkin' out there. I hear-tell them Mormon fellas don't take to spirits.”

“That's what they say,” Clay said.

“I've always wanted to go there, though.”

Clay looked at Marcus in surprise. “You've always wanted to go to Utah? Why?”

“I want to take me a swim in that Great Salt Lake they got.”

“Marcus, I've known you for six years, and I've never known you to go near water.”

“There's a reason for that. I can't swim,” Marcus said, easily.

“If you can't swim, what's the attraction to swimming in the Great Salt Lake?”

“Because they say that even folks who can't swim won't sink in that lake. You just jump in, and next thing you know, you're floatin' around on top of it, just like a cork.”

Clay chuckled. “That's a sight I'll be wanting to see. Marcus Pearson bobbing on top of the water, like a cork.”

“You're goin' to see it, 'cause I aim to do it,” Marcus insisted. “Now, tell me, how did your scoutin' trip go? That northern route out of here going to work out all right?”

Clay shook his head no. “Oh, it might save some time in the early spring, when the creeks and rivers are in freshet stage farther south,” he said. “But, this time of year, we may as well go the regular route.”

“That's sort of what I thought,” Marcus said. “But you was dead set to check it out.”

“Well, as you pointed out, it is going to be a long trip out there, and I'm open to any suggestion that might save a few miles.” Clay was silent for a moment, then he continued, in a more somber voice. “I came across a burned-out wagon while I was out there.”

“Freighter?”

Clay shook his head. “No. Immigrants. Man, wife, son, and daughter. The man and his wife were killed and scalped. Indians took the girl. I've got the boy.”

Marcus had just started to take a drink, but he pulled the glass back down. “The hell you say. You've got the boy?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“Over in my hotel room.”

“This here was immigrants, and they was just the one wagon, travelin' by itself?” Marcus asked.

“Yes.”

“I know there's not as much Indian trouble as there once was, but, still, I don't think that was any too smart. What kind of Indians? Crow? Cheyenne?”

“More'n likely Cheyenne, though probably a bunch of renegades. The boy says there was a white man with the Indians.”

“Damn, that would take some kind of particular mean son of a bitch to do something like that,” Marcus said. “What are you going to do with the boy?”

“I don't know. I know there's an orphanage in town. I thought I might leave him there.”

Two women came over to the table then, and looked down at the men.

“You might want to check on that orphanage before you leave the boy there,” Marcus said.

“Check on it? What for?”

“I've heard a little talk about it. Seems like it's more of a jail than an orphanage. 'Course, the boy ain't your responsibility. And you sure don't owe him nothin'.”

“Maybe not,” Clay said. “On the other hand, I don't think I'd like the idea of leaving him in a jail.”

One of the two women standing by their table cleared her throat, and Clay and Marcus looked up at them.

“Hello, darlin's,” Marcus said.

“Hello, Marcus Pearson. I'm glad to see that we hadn't turned to clear glass. I swear, if I wasn't beginning to think you couldn't even see us,” the older of the two women said. She was attractive, though in a garish way, with dyed-red hair that added to her gaudiness.

Marcus chuckled. “Oh, no, we can see you just fine,” he said. “Sit down and join us.”

The two women took their seats and, almost immediately, the bartender brought them drinks, doing so without asking. When Marcus made no effort to pay for the drinks, Clay gave the bartender some money.

“Thank you,” both women said.

“Ladies, this here is Clay Springer. He's a freighter, my boss, and my friend. Clay, I don't believe you've had the privilege of meeting two of our town's loveliest citizens, have you?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Clay admitted.

“Then allow me. The young woman to your right is Belle. Ain't she lovely?”

Belle, who was the more attractive of the two, beamed under Marcus's praise.

“Belle allows as how she is practically a virgin, since she is some particular as to who she goes to bed with,” Marcus explained.

Clay laughed.

Belle was a soiled dove, but she couldn't have been in the business very long, for she hadn't yet taken on that dissipated look which was so common to women of her profession. The other woman, Clay noticed, did have that look.

“Now, Suzie, our redheaded friend, is considerably more democratic than her younger sister,” Marcus said. “She will hop in bed with anyone who has the price.”

“Me and Belle ain't sisters,” Suzie said quickly.

“Didn't mean actual sisters,” Marcus explained. “I was usin' the term in the Christian sense.” Then, to Clay he added, “Suzie, you see, believes that when the Bible says, ‘Love thy neighbor,' it is tellin' her to go out and love as many of her neighbors as she can. Of course, she will only love those neighbors who pay.”

Suzie laughed good-naturedly. “You are really a card, you know that, Mr. Pearson?”

“Come to think of it, I'm also a neighbor, and I've got money,” Marcus said. He stood up, then extended his hand. “Mayhaps you would like to relieve me of some of it.”

“Why, I would be very pleased to do just that, Mr. Pearson,” Suzie replied, standing to join him.

After Marcus and Suzie walked away, Belle reached across the table and put her hand on Clay's wrist. “What your friend said about me being particular is true,” she said. “I will only go to bed with people I like.”

“I see,” Clay said.

“And I like you.”

“That's good to know.”

“I do indeed.”

“Belle, you been in Independence long?”

“I was born here.”

“Do you know anything about the orphanage in town?”

Belle got a strange look on her face. “Why are you asking about the orphanage? What have you heard about me?”

“No. It's just that recent events have left me in charge of an orphan, and I was thinking about making arrangements to leave him there. I thought that if you had been here for a while, you might be able to tell me something about it.”

“Why don't you just shoot him? He'd be better off.”

“What?” Clay replied, surprised by the bitterness of Belle's response.

Belle took a drink. “They call it The Hill, and I know a lot about it.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“You ever wonder how girls like me wind up whorin'?”

Belle's comment seemed like an abrupt change of subject and Clay paused for a second before he answered. “Well, I don't reckon I've ever given whoring that much thought,” he finally said. “I figure a woman does whatever she wants to do. I'm not one to judge.”

“I started whorin' when I was sixteen. That is, I started gettin'
paid
for it when I was sixteen. Mr. Slayton actually broke me in to the life when I was fourteen, but he didn't pay me for it, unless you count food and a bed.”

“Who is Slayton?”

“Jebediah Slayton is the man that runs The Hill. 'Course now, with boys, it's different. He just rents them out like slaves. They work from before sunup till after sundown. He collects their wages, and they get something to eat and a place to sleep. The funny thing is, I've never been able to figure out who got the worse of it . . . the boys or the girls.”

“How can he get away with something like that?” Clay asked.

“Who's going to complain? The only ones there are the orphans, and that means they've got no one to complain for them.”

“You paint a pretty gruesome picture.”

“I reckon I do. But it's somethin' I think you should know about if you're thinkin' about put-tin' someone there.”

“I won't be putting him there,” Clay said resolutely.

“You won't?”

“Not after what you've told me.”

The girl smiled. “Then I've done my Christian duty for the day. So, what are you going to do with the boy?”

“Well, I don't know,” Clay admitted. He stared at Belle for a moment. “I don't suppose you would be interested in taking him in for a while? He wouldn't be any trouble. He's a fine-looking, strapping boy, nearly sixteen years old.”