Episode 35

Cursed for a Fool

Some of the sisters gasped at Joe’s words. A couple of them tittered at the image he conjured. Adeline met his gaze, her lips set together but eyes alive with amusement.

“This ain’t fair, marshal. You know this ain’t fair,” Bratt said.

“Maybe it’s not fair. But as far as this girl is concerned you no longer have claim,” Joe said and cocked the hammer back on his pistol as he edged around to put T.J. between him and Bear. The owner of the Paradise was square in the middle of the firing line. His eyes swam back and forth, assessing his precarious situation.

“May I adjourn this meeting with your permission, Miss Adeline?” Joe said, eyes on the unmoving front blade of his .44, the barrel locked on Bratt’s sweating face.

“You may, marshal,” she said, her arms enfolding the terrified girl in a protective embrace.

“Go in peace, sisters,” Joe said and backed toward the tent opening behind the gaggle of departing women, his pistol held out at the proprietor until all were clear and back on the street.

When they were in the sunlight once more Adeline Tibbets said, “You are the answer to a prayer, marshal.”

“And you are a pain in my ass, ma’am,” he said with a crooked smile as he offered her his arm. Together they followed after the procession of sisters marching back toward their revival tent singing “Are You Washed in the Blood?”

“Is there a way I can salve the wounds I have caused?” she said with the innocence of a lamb.

“I think you know the balm I prefer,” he answered, eyes ahead, feeling her grip on his arm tighten.

* * *

“You’re bone tired, son,” Ben Temple said and blew a stream of smoke from his cigarillo. The creamy haze struck the board on the table between them making it appear as though the chess pieces were set in a swirling fog.

“And how’s a blind man deduce that?” Joe said, his fingers hovering over the knob atop a pawn blocking the path of his own bishop.

“You’re playing like a drunk Comanche or a fool,” Ben said with scorn. “I’d get a better game out of one of those soakheads you have locked up over there.”

Coolie Taylor slept on a bench before the locked cells. His snores competed with the racket from two cowboys sleeping it off in one cell and a travelling drummer they caught selling wood alcohol in the other.

“Well, I confess that my mind is on more pressing matters than rooks and queens,” Joe said, feeling the past week of catnaps and hurried meals catching up with him.

“If it ain’t sinners giving you hell it’s the righteous offering you heaven.”

“You heard about what happened down at the Paradise, huh?”

“Whole town’s talking about it. And those that didn’t see it themselves are getting an earful from those gabby sisters down at the temperance tent. But that’s not what I was referring to, son.”

“Then who’s giving me all this heaven and hell you’re on about?” Joe said, deciding to leave his pawn where it was and moving one of his knights from cover to threaten Ben’s remaining rook.

“Those are thin walls over at the Grand Prairie,” Ben said and swung a knight of his own out to take Joe’s piece.

Joe’s face reddened.

“You’re in check, son,” Ben said, his smile broadening.

“You win, old man,” Joe said and tipped over his king. “I’m getting myself lunch and then sneaking a nap before the sun sets.”

“Expecting more trouble tonight?” Ben said, drawing back the pieces to set up another game, white and black pieces in their place. Joe would never understand how a sightless man could manage that.

“Yeah,” Joe said absently as he stood. “The Three Rivers is paying their hands today.”