1'Why Abe Tomkins Took-off!'
By Phineas Redux
—OOO—
Summary:— Henrietta 'Harry' Knappe and Sally 'Snapshot' Nichols, Deputies and lovers in 1870's Red Flume, Arizona Territory, USA, fall foul of a local character who proceeds to make a substantial nuisance of himself.
Note:— Influenced by the 'Wolfville' stories of Alfred Henry Lewis.
Copyright:— copyright ©2024 Phineas Redux. All characters are wholly fictitious representations, and the overall local geography may be questionable, too.
—O—
The Yellow Bottle sat on Marrow Road, Red Flume, Territory of Arizona and on this sunny morning of September 187- had opened early to cope with the weekend influx of cowboys from the outlying ranches intent on a good time over the next two days. This of course meant that all sorts of hangers-on appeared from nowhere too; habitual drunks on the make, deadbeats, ragged-trousered layabouts, cardsharps, folks who thought they had a perfect answer to playing Faro, and characters of a general nature suffering from many and copious peculiarities. One of the latter of whom was Abe Tomkins.
Abe had been around for a while, gravitating through various towns over the years depending on how popular unsuspecting citizens initially found him. The fact that his popularity waned quickly with the increasing knowledge folks had of his ways answering the reason why he peripatated so often between various communities within the Territory. The fact that in this month of 187- he had gravitated to the environs of Red Flume being the trigger for the following story.
The saloon of the Yellow Bottle was wide and long, the bar itself running the full length of the right-hand wall. Behind which ran a series of mirrors that gave the impression the room was vastly larger than it was in reality, interspersed between which were serried ranks of bottles filled with a fine selection of the liquids that calm, delight, and sate the thirsty appetite.
At present, somewhere just after 10.30am, Abe Tomkins himself was leaning on the bar comfortably thinking about Life in general.
"Barkeep!"
"Yeah?" George Barlow answering the official call to duty.
"Y'got any o'those h'yar Europeen whiskies?"
George considered the arcane query from his professional viewpoint.
"Why should I go t'the expence o'sich, partner?"
Abe wasn't for accepting this puerile excuse.
"Would it be expensive? Surely not! Y'get a fine selection o'foreign whiskies in, ye have a wide group of drinks t'whet folks' appetites. Clar as daylight, sure."
"Nah." George closing the unproductive conversation, or so he hoped.
"Scotland!"
"What?" George pausing in his defensive retreat to look back at his argumentative customer.
"Scotland. Thet sideshow over t'England." Abe showing-off his mediocre grasp of geography. "Over t'Europe, like I said. They has some good whiskies thar, or so I've bin tol'."
"Has they?" George not the slightest interested in foreign opponents.
"Y'git some o'they Scots whiskies in h'yar, ye could make a dam' fortune—tell ye straight!"
"I'll bar it in mind, thanks." George wholly finished with Abe, walking away along the bar out of range of any repartee.
But Abe was on a roll, turning to his elbow close neighbor to continue his favored topic.
"Say, stranger, what's yer take on Scots whiskies? Bin tol' they're better'n anythin' made h'yar in the States or Territories."
The stranger, who was only interested in his own particular glass and its contents, was hardly involved in this arcane topic and not shy to let such be known.
"Red Eye's good enuff fer me, bud, leave it thar."
Abe, somewhat deflated, turned a discolored eye of his own on the critic by his side.
"Little short, as an opener t'a good conversation. What happens at the Eatery when ya orders yer dinner? Don't tell me, cain imagine mysel'!"
It was the unnamed stranger's turn to take umbrage, which he spent no time at all in doing.
"Stranger, yer talks fifty t'the dozen, none o'which words has any interest or quality. Button it, thanks, me wantin' ter enjoy my drink h'yar in peace without listenin' t'a jackanapes with a loud mouth."
Folks in the Territory of Arizona had many moral natures, ways of looking on the world around them, and of interacting with those around them on a variety of subjects. So the next action could have been prophesied by any of the other customers in the saloon, many of whom actually did, grasping their drinks in hand to make sure they didn't lose them in the coming affray.
Abe, finding his interlocutor was definitely on the critical side of his argument, took the only reasonable route to happiness and joy left—he stood straight, swung his left hand and knocked the stranger to the floor, spilling whisky all over the bartop and floor itself.
The stranger, not put out by his assisted fall at all, scrambled to his feet and within seconds a full scale all-comers' welcome Donnybrook was in progress.
—O—
The Sheriff's Office had a rear adjunct which housed its line of cells; generally reserved for inebriates, hooligans, and down and outs; but this morning the Sheriff and two Deputies found their hands full with the group of roustabouts hauled along by the Deputies to take up temporary residence there.
"How many?" Sheriff Charles Donaldson wholly amazed before even receiving the offical estimate.
"Nineteen." Sally Nichols giving this information through gritted teeth; she being a sharpshooter of fame and willing now to prove it. "Had'ta break-up a full scale riot over t'the Yellow Bottle; folks going at it full-on thar. Look, Sheriff, I got a black eye mysel'."
"Yeah." Henrietta Knappe, famous bear-hunter in her spare time of being a Deputy, butting-in to back-up her lover. "Took all my persuasion t'stop her openin' up with her Smith an' Wesson's on the whole saloon! Nineteen!"
"Sh-t!" Donaldson making a quick calculation. "Have'ta be, oh, some three or four t'each cell in thet case. Go to it, leddies."
"What're we gon'na do with 'em all?" Sally, looking mean as a hog with the toothache.
"Hold 'em till Judge Carter kin roster 'em all through his schedule." Donaldson shaking his head in wonder. "Probably take the best part of a week. Either o'ye knows whar he may be presently?"
Henrietta shrugged, in the act of shoving one of the miscreants along towards their new home.
"Last I heerd he'd gone fishin' up t'Halligan's Creek; not expected back till next Tuesday."
"Sh-t!"
"Yer repeatin' yersel', Charlie." From a distracted Sally, intent on trying to pinpoint in the crowd the man who had given her a black eye.
"Sh-t!"
Half an hour later the three officers of the Law were back in the Office trying to plan ahead.
"What d'we do with any other bums who'd gen'lly be thrown in Clink?" Henrietta focused on this major point.
"Waal," Donaldson stroking his chin as he sat behind his desk. "ain't no room h'yar presently; so's we'll jes' have'ta corral 'em sum'mers else. Any idees thetaway?"
Silence descended on the small room as three sets of brains began to work harder than they had all week; Sally finally breaking the impasse.
"Jube Reynold's warehouse comes t'mind. It's got lots o'separate rooms, with locked doors. Could do mighty fine as a temporary jail, with a few changes. Need'ta appoint some temporary Depities t'look after the place, o'course."
Donaldson considered the proposition with frowning brow.
"It's a plan, best we has, anyways. OK, we'll do it. Go on over t'Reynold's an' give him the good news. Don't take no, mind. He sets back on his heels an' growls, jes' lay down the Law's necessities an' needs on him straight, OK?"
"Got it, Boss." Sally almost at the door to the sidewalk before the Sheriff had finished speaking.
"Hey, wait fer me, gal!" Henrietta hot on her heels.
—O—
Jube Reynolds owned a large warehouse on the eastern outskirts of Red Flume, though he lived in a square house on Largo Road halfway across town. On being faced with the two Deputies and their request dissension seemed the proper response, and he took it.
"Turn my warehouse in'ta a dam' jail? Ye must be out'ta yer minds—git lost!"
"Now-now, Jube, let's not be hasty." Henrietta appealing to his better nature, though fully aware there was very little public evidence that such actually existed. "Thet won't git us anywhar. We, at the Office, needs some extree accomodation fer those deadbeat rats an' drunks thet fer sure'll be makin' play fer a day or so behind bars. What with our usual cells full t'the brim over this late hoo-ha at the Yeller Bottle thet gives us no choice but ter take over somewhere's suitable ter use as a temporary jail—your warehouse fittin' the bill some fine."
"I disagrees entire. I won't have it."
"We're doin' it, anyway." Sally making plain her standpoint on the subject. "So stand aside a'fore ye finds yersel' one o'the first inmates, Jube!"
"Hell'n Damnation!"
"Thet about covers it, sure." Henrietta as unfeeling as a Landlord. "Whar's the keys t'the place then?"
Reynolds, in a state of amazement, confusion, regret, and growing anger, puffed and blew for a few more minutes; but finding his opponents standing fast against all complaints and curses finally gave in.
"H'yar ye be, an' may they choke yer in yer duties, too, dam'mit!"
"Fairly said, an' fairly took, I'm sure." Henrietta grabbing the keys before he changed his mind. "Who's the caretaker over thar?"
"Abe, Abe Tomkins."
"Sh-t!" From Sally, who could see already how their proposed meeting was going to go.
"Thet's yer problem, not mine." Reynolds snarling in return. "Ye asked, an' I've told—Abe Tomkins, and blessed be ye both if'n each or both survives the meetin', I sez!"
"G-d-d-mit!" From Henrietta, who herself could only see the clouds darkening in the near future for all concerned.
—O—
The warehouse under discussion sat free towards the end, or beginning depending whether you were entering or leaving, of Barker Avenue. Past it was only the open dusty trail leading into the barren desert towards Pendleton fifteen miles to the nor-west. Attached to the desert side of the tall building was a corral used for the carts and wagons which generally loaded or unloaded their cargoes there; these being foodstuffs, for humans as well as animals, general hardware, and a variety of other materials changing with the seasons. At present it was stacked with sundry items though several of the interior spaces, set-up as individual rooms or wide barred cages, were still empty. There was only one main entrance, a wide double wooden door which was firmly closed as the Deputies rode up to face it. Of any inhabitant there was no sign.
"Place don't seem t'be in business—empty."
"Yeah," Sally agreeing with her suspicious lover. "No sign o'life whatever. Abe? Hey, Abe? Open up, Depities h'yar, on business. Open up, dam'mit!"
On the second floor the shutters to a tall window flung open to reveal the long barrel of a rifle sticking out, pointing in a highly personal direction.
"Come now, Abe." Henrietta reacting with some concern. "Thet ain't no way ter greet friends. What fer yer doin' thet? Put it away right now an' open the dam' door."
"Spencer."
"What, dear?"
"It's a Spencer rifle, like mine. He could hit a target at three hundred yards if so minded, jes' sayin'."
Henrietta sighed dismally.
"Thet ain't no help, lady. Abe, stop messin' aroun'. Git down h'yar an' open the dam' door. We got official business with this h'yar hovel."
The silhouette of a man's upper half appeared at the window, clad in a dark jacket and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
"What yer want? I got instructions, explicit, from Jube Reynolds, not t'let anyone whatever in these h'yar premises out'ta business hours, an' the place ain't open fer business t'day, so thar! Git!"
"Holy Mother o'God!"
Henrietta, somewhat less riled than her partner, sat back on her saddle considering possibilities.
"We could haul iron an' blast him t'fragments!"
"I'd take thet, sure. Say the dam' word."
"Or, contrary, we could sit h'yar an' waste most o'the mornin' talkin' him down."
"Waste o'time, let's shoot the bum fair an' sqar!"
"Meb'be jes' sittin' it out'd work—wait till he had'ta come out fer food or water?"
Sally lost the last trace of patience, an aspect of nature she had never been greatly mistress of.
"Harry! It's a foodstuff warehouse—enuff food in thar t'do him the rest o'the dam' yar. An' as to water, thar's a interior well fer the animals thet brings an' takes away the cargoes. We'd all, out h'yar, die o'boredom long a'fore him, dam'mit!"
"Thet's somethin' t'take in'ta account, sure!" Henrietta flummoxed completely. "Any idees?"
"He's ignorin' lawful orders, gives us fair reason t'take him out any which way we kin. You loaded fer birdshot or bar? My Thirty-eights'll do me."
"Easy does it, gal." Henrietta trying her best to calm the savage breast. "Some more talk'll be reasonable yet. Abe, what fer yer so atribilarious t'day? Open up an' let us git on with our lawful purposes. Y'ain't a felon yet, but thet'll change in the next half hour if we remain opponents in this h'yar fracas. I'd rather shake yer hand than fill ya full'a lead, but either's on my card, laddie. What'll it be?"
A long pause ensued while Abe considered his choices, then—
"I'm lawfully employed h'yar, in the form o'caretaker o'these premises; Jube said in person t'defend this house with my life, an' thet's jes' what I intends. Try'n bust in an' taste lead, leddies!"
Sally shuffled on her saddle as she sat back drawing both pistols in anger.
"Thet's it, open threats t'a duly certified Depity in pursuit o'her duties. Let's start blastin', lover!"
"Hold hard, youngster!" Henrietta imploring her partner sharply. "Let's not go off the edge so quick! Lem'me try reason first."
"Abe don't know the meanin' o'the term, lover." Sally hesitant to do so. "What he needs is a dose o'lead ticklin' his kidneys t'make him change his ways. Y'know a'ready how dam' stubborn he be, in a'most every walk o'life."
"Lem'me try agin'." Henrietta raising a hand to wipe her brow, the strain beginning to hit home. "This h'yar's ridiculous! Cain't be allowed t'go on none. Any idee what'll git through t'the ol' bum? What're his likes, fer instance?"
Sally furrowed her brow as she considered the matter, to no obvious conclusion.
"Dun'no. We know he drinks like a fish, fer sure. He's bin an inmate of our cells unnumbered times over the last two yar. Al'lus loses at Faro, cain't shoot straight t'save his'n life—which is a plus pint in present circumstances, I admits. Useless at cairds, too. Don't think, come to it, he's any good at any dam' thing; not t'say reg'lar good, thet is. Any help?"
"Not the dam least, lady; but thanks, anyhow."
"Aims t'please, I'm sure. Now, about this shootin' the ol' crittur an' us gettin' along with our business? Thar's a time fer everything, an' Abe's time looks mighty like it's come, t'me."
Henrietta, beset by Destiny, Nemesis, the Fates, and a pack of Harpies all working closely together, sighed despondently. "Every dam' body's aginst me, fer sure. Abe? Abe dam' Tomkins! Git yer scraggy ass down h'yar pronto an' open this dam' door or we comes at ye shootin' with full meanin' an' intent!"
There was no sign of movement from the open window, it remaining dark and mysterious. Then they heard a bar being removed from inside the door which presently opened to allow the exit of a medium-sized man dressed in corduroy trousers and a deerskin jacket, no firearms on view. His face half concealed by a scrappy beard of some days' growth, his head covered by a broken-brimmed hat that looked as if it dated from the not long past Civil Conflict. Abe Tomkins had appeared in person.
"What fer yer slingin' sich mighty threats about, gals. Ain't we ol' friends from way back? Why, I've bin in yer cells often enuff t'call ye both by yer first names, sure. If yer takin' over this h'yar property let's see the color o'yer contract, then? An' I wan'na know what Jube thinks o'the whole affair, too."
Sally, having climbed down from her mount, re-holstered her pieces with obvious regret.
"F-ck thet, ol'timer. Git yer ass in motion an' hit the trail; neither Harry nor me worryin' which, as long as it's dam' well out'ta town; yer tenancy h'yar bein' revoked round every pint o'the compass, certin."
"Who sez so?"
Sally, tired of talking, drew one of her pistols again.
"My friends, both o'them, Mister Smith an' Mister Wesson, are adamant on the subject; yer sling's yer hook or gits filled ful'la lead, choices yourn—make same now!"
Abe, caught between a rock and a hard place, grunted unhappily.
"Oh, sh-t!"
"Thet sure'nuff covers it—move aside, we're comin' through!"
—O—
Sheriff Donaldson, being happy that the warehouse was now, even if only temporarily, under new management, had revoked Sally's order for Abe to vacate the town. This reversal of Destiny being made known to the old reprobate he had taken up residence in the Red Diamond, a fleapit drinking-den with rooms on the second floor; the management not being over particular about their customers' social graces, or lack of same. Sally, of course, was less than happy at the turn of events but unable to do anything about it.
"Charlie's losing his mind, thet's obvious."
"Don't let him hear ya say so; it'll only annoy him worse'n he is a'ready."
"Iirrph!"
Henrietta was thinking of other things however.
"We got more important things t'worry over, pard'; all these dam' drunks in the cells, an' the bunch o'cits' we have'ta Depitise t'take over the new warehouse cells. Charlie's over thar now, doin' his best t'create a new Arrizony Army o'temporary Depities."
"Best o'luck t'him, I'm sure." Sally curling her left nostril in distaste; a mannerism only she had perfected. "Meanwhile, what d'we do about feedin' an' swillin' out these present bums back in the cells h'yar?"
Henrietta had earlier been filled-in on this subject by the Sheriff, but now revealed her lack of faith in the new instructions.
"Charlie said he'd come t'what he called a accomodation with Miss Turling's Eatery t'supply food an' drink en masse, as the Frenchies sez. As t'cleanin', he's taken on a couple o'women from God knows whar fer the purpose. Figur', mysel, throwin' a bucket o'water in each cell willy-nilly each mornin'd suffice t'the purpose well enuff!"
"With ya, babe, with ya." Sally nodding her agreement to this wholly Spartan method of keeping clean and wholesome.
A peremptory knock on the Office door, immediately followed by its being flung open to allow of the ingress of a portly well-established middle-aged woman with a purpose in Life, now interrupted the Deputies' private confabulation.
"Whar's Charlie?" She starting her conversation off on the sweeping pinnacle of her purpose.
"Sheriff's busy, cain we be of assistance—Miss's—, er, Foster?"
"Carlisle! Jenny Carlisle!" The lady standing on her honor, chin in the air. "Whar's my Mike?"
Sally and Henrietta exchanged glances, equally unwitting of the answer.
"Lost him, has ye?" Sally making the most obvious conclusion. "Meb'be he's gone on a bender an's lyin' drunk up some alley sum'mers! Had a good look roun' the town lately?"
Their visitor, feeling hard done by, exploded in near hysteria.
"Drunk? My Mike, not on my watch, I assure ye! He was took, some illegal, by you two, I'm sure; yestern morn in thet hooly-raggly at the Yeller Bottle. So, whar ye got him tied up in chains an' leg-irons, leddies; 'cause, make no mind o'it, I intends t'sue everyone consarned, includin' yersels', fer every dam' red cent ye've ever made nor will make in future, so thar, dam'mit!"
Before answering Henrietta picked up a sheaf of notes from the desk, applied herself for a long minute to reading down the lists thereon, and finally nodded knowingly.
"Yip, Michael Carlisle, he's on the list."
Mrs Carlisle raised enquiring eyebrows at this news.
"So? What in tarnation does thet mean? Ye holdin' him prior t'hangin' him at the next Assize, or what?"
Sally, already minus any last trace of her patience, stepped forward to defend her position and lover together.
"Drunk an' disorderly; also takin' part in a public fracas to the detriment of Public Peace an' Safety. Judge Carter'll probably fine him ten dollars, when he gits back from his holiday on Tuesday."
Mrs Carlisle was even more outraged at this addition to her woes.
"Y'mean my dear Mike's gon'na be incarcerated h'yar, in this dam' decrepit dump, fer the next week? I won't have it; I wan'na see Sheriff Donaldson now—an' I means right this dam' minute. I doesn't move an inch till he shows up, so thar!"
Sally, lacking in all compassion, still tried her best.
"He be rather busy at this minute, ma'am. Figure if ye goes off an' returns some this evenin' ye may have a better chance of speakin' yer mind. At the moment d'ya wan'na go through an' speak with yer husband? It'll jes' be ye outside in the corridor speakin' through the bars, mind, him bein' amongst a passel o'other reprobates in the same cell."
"Mike Carlisle is not a dam' reprobate!" She almost screaming this rejoinder to Sally's hasty description. "He's a fine peacable upholdin' citizen o'this h'yar town; I jes' be sad an' some shamed the dam' Depities o'same community ain't livin' t'the same high moral tone an' level as he, dam'mit! Lead the dam' way, an' watch out fer fireworks, I warns ye!"
While Sally took on the onerous duty of showing the irate wife to the incarcerated husband Henrietta took the safer option of sitting at the desk to study the list of temporary cell inmates more thoroughly—hoping internally as she did so there were not going to be many more of Mrs Carlisle's caliber arriving to claim errant husbands, brothers, Uncles, sons, or whatever.
—O—
The Red Diamond was a fleapit but one that had a reputation for extraordinarily cheap liquor, quality not an issue; a situation that appealed to those of little means but mighty thirsts—who, in and around Red Flume, numbered many. The public saloon was relatively poky having space for only around twenty licensed customers, but this hadn't stopped around forty squeezing themselves into every available corner and niche. The ceiling was rather low too, making the smoke filled room something of a trial if not used to it. The bar itself took up one of the short walls, backed by a painting purporting to show a lady with few clothes and great bodily surface but failing miserably in its personaification of such. From the ceiling hung eight storm lanterns their burnt oil creating even more of a smog in the atmosphere. Impressively there was still room for both a Faro table and one where a four-sided game of poker were both in full swing.
The customers also all seemed happily at home, drinking, talking, gambling, and generally creating that comfortable atmopshere which conduced to hearty talk and great bonhomie amongst friends. Over by the bar those standing there were in the midst of a wide discussion on an important topic.
"Scotch whisky!"
Jim Barnes was sceptical and wasted no time in making his curiosity known.
"What's thet? Out'ta Kentucky, or whar?"
"Nah," The first interlocutor standing by his position. "Heerd same jes' yestern morn, over t'the Yeller Bottle. Some guy in thar said, at great length, ye couldn't git finer whisky nowhar, no matter whar ye travelled in lookin'."
"So?" Jim still interested. "What be so fine about it? Bettern our mash, or what? Is their grain bettern ours or what?"
"Couldn't say." The as yet anonymous man shrugging his shoulders under a detestable excuse for a jacket, hat no better. "Figur's it must have somethin' about it fer this man t'sing its praises, but don't know exact what they might be. Jes' better all round."
Jim, losing interest as quickly as it had raised its head, turned back to his glass of Corn Gold, guaranteed 18 months old.
"Whar be this mythical land, then? This Scotch place. Never heerd o'it mysel'."
Frank Collins, some way along the bar, chipped in, as one knowing the answer.
"Scotland—it's thet dam' place whar all these dam' Scotsmen ye keeps bumpin' in'ta aroun' every dam' corner in this benighted country comes from. Scotland."
"Whar be same, partner?"
"No idee!" Frank admitting his limitations. "Sum'mer's over the big ocean, don't exact know whar. Far away, anyhow."
Abe Tomkins, at this point standing to Frank's left hand, now revealing himself as the originator of the discussion, pushed the debate further on.
"Scotland's famous fer it, so I've heerd, from multitudinous sources, believe me. Runs straight out'ta the rivers, apparent. All ye needs do is take a walk out in'ta the countryside with a jug, bend down t'any stream thet trickles across the fields, an' Bob's yer Uncle, a full jug o'whisky, ready aged an' everything. Clar fact, I've bin told by those who out'ta know!"
There was a rustle of interest all along the bar, this delightful fact hitting home to the hearts of all those present.
"How much'd a sea v'yage thar cost, would ye be knowin'; jes' out'ta curiosity." Someone further along the bar fishing for gold.
"A dam' sight more'n the dam' bottle at the end'd be, fer sure, ol' timer." Someone else, of more intellect, stating the obvious.
"Uumph!"
"Couldn't be any worse'n this muck we git t'drink h'yar." Another, somewhat dissatified, customer putting forth their opinion. "Figur' Hank, the Owner o'this jint, takes the barkeep Arthur, along thar, out in'ta the cattle prairies every month or so, collects bucket-loads o'cattle piss, brings it back h'yar an' commences t'pass same off as Corn Gold, or Scent o'the Wheat, or whatever. Dam' well tastes like it!"
"Har-Har!" A multitude of laughs breaking-out at this stab to the heart of everything Arthur held dear resulting in the only possible outcome.
"Here! Thet thar ain't nice, no way." He roaring loud so everyone could hear, meantime raising a stout stick, along the lines of a huge axe handle, high over his head. "Anyone else makin' hay with the quality o'my wares'll feel the weight o'my anger, via this h'yar arm-extender—jes' try my patience an' find out's all, dam'mit!"
Well, what could be expected but what did in fact happen? In an instant, so quick no-one afterwards could pin the exact trigger, the whole room was ablaze with flung fists, chairs, kicks, swings to the body, face, legs, and the arms of almost all there. Who was fighting whom hardly the issue, as long as the fight continued being the motivating force, apparently. And, of course, the only likely final outcome being that, eventually, the Sheriff and his Deputies showed-up to restore order; but not without further pain, argument, opposition, the shooting of firearms into the air, and general regret that a fine hullaballoo had only lasted such a short time.
—O—
Reynolds' Warehouse, later that evening, was ajostle with what seemed an army of miscreants and drunks, all being processed, via a great deal of shouting and argument, into a variety of temporary cells which were as yet hardly suitable for human habitation, but needs must—and in this case, were made to serve ruthlessly and without pity for the new batch of inmates.
"They dam' well brought sich on theirsel's," Sally grunting angrily as she did her bit to restore some semblance of order amongst the crowd. "Hey, you, Higgins! Is thet a dam' Derringer ye've hauled out yer pocket? Give it dam' here this minute or I'll dam' well fill ye ful'la lead! Thanks! Harry? How much dam' longer's this mess goin' on?"
"As long's it takes, dear." Henrietta being just as occupied as her lover. "Thar's some thirty bodies h'yar, not countin' those busted up enuff t'visit Doc Andrews fer repairs a'fore comin' on along h'yar later. Meb'be another ten. Could be h'yar till midnight, sure!"
"G-d-m'm-t!"
Finally, as Henrietta had prophesied, some time after midnight found the two Deputies free of the onorous task of flinging half the population of the town into Clink, even if of a homemade variety. Then they made their way back to the Office along with Sheriff Donaldson.
"I'll go on t'the Office, leddies." He sounding a heroic note as they walked through the dark streets. "You two call it a day, see ya both aroun' ten day after t'morrow; it bein' yer day off t'morrow. Bill an' Jerry'll take over fer ye well enuff."
"Thanks, Charlie; g'night t'ye, too."
Another half hour found them comfortably set in their own wholly owned house in a quiet street in the spreading suburbs.
"Coffee! Tea! Wine! Whisky! Take yer choice honeybun."
So questioned Henrietta lay back on their chaise-longue, replete after a light if hasty supper, considering the matter carefully.
"Tea, don't wan'na struggle with a dam' hangover t'morrow. Any cookies left in thet jar?"
"Yeah, sure." Sally busy in their little kitchen seeing to the whole set-up. "Gim'me five minutes an' all will come right."
At last they could both relax together; the time now well past 1.00am.
"What a dam' day," Henrietta sighing comfortably. "all hell breakin' loose every dam whar. What a dam' mess."
"Yeah, I agrees." Sally munching a cookie with verve and energy. "Who'd imagine so many fools could go over the score t'gether so miserably."
"Knowin' the majority of citizens in this h'yar community ourselves, I don't suppose we should be so very shocked, after all."
"There's that, sure." Sally acknowledgeing the dismal but nonetheless undeniable fact. "This thing of using Reynolds' Warehouse should take some of the pressure off us for a short time at least. Curious two riots in one day at different places; makes me think someone's been fomenting dissent on a grand scale. Meb'be one, or a group, of those Nihilists ye hear's about in the newspapers?"
Henrietta furrowed her brow over the suggestion.
"Certainly feels thet way; ye could be onto sumthin' thar, kid. How's about, t'morrer, we takes a hour t'scout out the Yellow Bottle an' Red Diamond; see if we kin dig out any facts of interest. Jes' an hour or so; what yer think?"
Sally took another sip of tea before replying.
"It's a plan, an' we'll need t'investigate the whole dam' set-up anyway, in the near future, for the Court appearances if nuthin else. Yeah, let's do thet."
"Meanwhile, lover, bed beckons—I'm pooped!"
"OK, come on, gim'me yer cup, then I'll see ter tuckin' ye in comft'ble, dear."
"Lady, yer a angel; how'd I do without ye?"
"Not so good as with me, thet's a given, lover. Come on!"
—O—
The following morning dawned bright and chirpy, the streets rather less crowded than usual and the Red Diamond, when Sally and Henrietta reached its doors, less patronized than was normally the case.
"Most o'them still in the dam' cells." Sally making this statement as they entered. "Whar's Arthur? Art? Hey! Come on over h'yah."
"What's yer pisin, leddies? Bit early, all the same, ain't it? Feelin' the strain o'Life?"
"Very funny, Art." Henrietta making plain, like another contemporary but far more famous person, she was not amused. "We're h'yar official, lookin' ter clear the mist surroundin' yesterday's little bit o'fun. So, what happened? Who was responsible?"
Arthur looked confused, staring at both women enquiringly.
"How'd I know? It jes' broke out rampant, like these fights al'lus does. Who started it? I cain't sa—ah, thet is, uum—"
Sally could see a likely break in the trail as well as any other tracker, and fell on it ruthlessly.
"Come on, Art, shell out—tell all, we're listenin'."
"Waal, if'n ye insists—"
"Oh, we does, Art; we surely does! Oh, sorry, carry on." Henrietta, eager for the off, getting ahead of herself too blithely.
And so in the next few minutes she and Sally heard all about Abe Tomkins' interest in esoteric foreign whiskies of the World and how his explanation of which had been at the forefront of dissent, assent, and argument immediately prior to the ramshackle mish-mash which had later occurred.
"Abe Tomkins, eh?" Henrietta musing on this information.
"Abe?" Sally seeming only half convinced.
"Yep, it were he, himself, no other, only him." Arthur striving for clarity, preciseness, and detail. "Abe Tomkins, as I stands h'yar t'day. His tale bein' at the core o'the whole enterprise. I was thar, I heerd him, it were him, sure enuff!"
Henrietta finally nodded.
"OK, thanks, see ya, come on, Sal."
The two women walked back out to the street with furrowed brows.
"Whar to now, dear?"
Henrietta had the answer to this at her fingertips.
"The Yeller Bottle, whar else."
"Oh, yeah, sure!"
The Inn in question, on being reached, proved to be in an even more parlous state than its rival. The public saloon still exhibiting a state of wreckage almost beyond compute.
"Hell, what a dam' mess. George! George, thar! We wants more'n a few words with ye, laddie."
"What be it, leddies? Make it snappy if ye kin." George showing all the signs of someone heavily burdened by the ills of the World. "I got three men hard at it h'yar, as ye sees, an' been so these las' two days, an' still umpteen days' work t'do a'fore we kin open agin."
Sally, never one for complicated conversations, came to the point.
"Who did it, George? Who started it?"
George stepped back a pace, as if amazed at the question.
"Who started it? Who—! Thought everyone an' their Aunt knew thet! I'll dam' tell ye both who started it—Abe Tomkins, by Hell! He would sound off about somethin' t'do with foreign drinks, whisky from some obscure country no-one's ever heerd o'before. An' final all hell broke loose over folks differing interpretations o'whether he was talkin' nonsense or sense. Thet's the way it went, leddies, sure as I goes t'church on Sundays—sometimes, anyhow!"
Back on the sidewalk Sally had something to say.
"He was holed-up at the Red Diamond, last I heerd. An' he wasn't took fer neither the Yeller Bottle affray nor the Battle at the Red Diamond; he's free as a bird as we speaks. Still at the Red Diamond in his room on the second floor."
"We could'a took him when we wus thar earlier." Henrietta seeing through a brick wall with the best.
"Dam'mit!" Sally on the ball. "Let's go!"
—O—
The Red Diamond, on their return, showed no overt sign of physical improvement since their last visit. A quick word with a passing servant told them which room their prey had rented and, seconds later they stood in a narrow shabby corridor outside it. Henrietta's knock gaining no answer she stepped back with raised boot to do the necessary just as Arthur turned the far corner.
"Hey, leddy, what the hell! Don't do thet thar!"
"Why the hell not?" Sally burning up with internal fire. "Abe's in thar, an' we means some t'haul him out's all!"
"No, he ain't!"
"What?" Henrietta pausing to lower her boot while aiming a Medusa glare at the Bar owner.
"He hauled ass late last night." Arthur passing on this information with a sigh of relief. "Said things round this h'yar town was gettin' too hot t'handle, an' he proposed headin' out fer pastures more mild an' conducive to a feller o'his gentle calm natur'. Took off a'fore midnight last."
Both women took the opportunity to stand back and take some air before replying to this news.
"Any idee which way he went?" Sally hardly hopeful.
"Nah," Arthur uninterested in the whole thing. "He jes' said his piece, gave me his rent, I nodded at him, an' off he went."
"Sh-t!"
On the sidewalk two minutes later a Council of War took place.
"What d'we do?"
Henrietta looked down at her partner, sighing softly.
"What d'we do?"
Sally gave her lover a queer look, as indicative of some underlying disorder.
"Ya feelin' alright? Yeah, what d'we do now? An' don't repeat me agin, neither."
Henrietta sighed again, placing her hand gently on the more petite woman's shoulder.
"What we does, gal, is we don't do nuthin, get me?"
Sally considered this advice for a few seconds, but couldn't stop herself.
"Why? I mean, what? Why? Abe's out thar, in the desert, puttin' miles a'tween him'n us with every passin' minute. What we want is a posse, a heap of guns, an' likely a rope ter use on the nearest tree in the vicinity when we corrals the ol' annoyin' soak."
Henrietta nodded, clearly agreeing with the basis of her loved partner's plan.
"A delightful outlook, lover, sure. But impossible t'carry out. What if we does find the ol' reprobate? We, sadly, hauls him back t'face Justice in Court—an' what happens then? Go on, tell me!"
Sally brought to the point, shrugged disheartedly.
"He gits off Scot-free, 'cause thar ain't no evidence thet'll stand its place in Court. Probably not even git fined, 'cause he weren't took in neither o'the bust-ups, neither."
"Right-on, lady." Henrietta patted Sally's shoulder affectionately. "So our best bet, with everything panning out as it is, is t'ferget the whole thing an' pretend we knows nuthin about Abe whatever. Deal, youngster?"
Sally thought about the possible outcomes surrounding the whole sorry affair and made her decision.
"Deal, dam'mit!"
—O—
The Grey Parrot sat on Main Street in Firbank, a small community some 40 miles east of Red Flume. This afternoon it was well patronized by a large crowd, the long bar being lined from end to end by cowboys, ranch-hands of all types, workers from here and there, and small businessmen of all sorts. The main contemporary topic of conversation being the curious one of whether whiskies made in America, specifically the Territory of Arizona, could hold their own against foreign imports, particularly those from far distant Scotland; this last suggestion being put forth by a new arrival leaning against the bar with the air of an old veteran in the game.
"Y'see," he was in the middle of enunciating. "Whisky is whisky, wharever ye finds it, sure; but in this h'yar place I'm referrin' to, this h'yar Scotland, they makes it fresh from the actil rainwater streams of the country all round. Ye jes' needs a steel pot, then t'go out in'ta the country, anywhar's ye chooses, an' dip yer pot in whatever stream ye comes to. Result, a pot of gold! Or, at least, a'ready double-refined whisky o'a natur like t'the Nectar folks is used t'drinkin' up thar on the highest level o'Paradise itsel'. Yip, certin's my name's —"
The End
Another 'Red Flume' story will arrive shortly.