Chapter Fourteen
Well, that done her. By the time I got out to the campsite, them doomers—that’s a good word for it—the doomers were packed up, and fixing to go. They didn’t even bother to come over and complain. They just loaded up that ragged canvas, heaped stuff in another white wagon, and drove off. I noticed that Elwood Grosbeak, he had a fine ebony carriage, but the rest, a ragamuffin bunch, mostly walked beside the mule-drawn whitewashed wagons.
“You heading for greener pastures?” I asked Grosbeak.
“You won’t escape your reward,” he said, mysteriously.
And then they rolled away, on the rutted road to Laramie, and I thought them nice folks in Laramie were in for it. I watched them go, with a lot of cash they’d extracted from the good citizens of Doubtful. Grosbeak had been passing the collection plate for days, and scaring people half to death for days, and it probably didn’t matter to him if he skipped town a little ahead of Judgment Day.
Me, I was feeling pretty good about getting rid of a parasite, and thought I should ask the Puma County supervisors for a raise. But then I spotted something I didn’t want to see. A whole mess of Doubtful women, every last one of them dressed in white, head to toe, even white hats and veils, was coming along on Wyoming Street, and they each had a little basket, and I knew what was in them baskets. It would be money. Greenbacks, mostly, but silver and gold and jewelry, and I knew what all this was about, and I knew what would have happened if Grosbeak had hung around instead of skedaddling.
So I just waited there on that field, with all the spring grass trampled down by crowds, and the sun playing tag with puffball clouds. I just waited there for them ladies in white, all dressed to the nines, a mess of fevered-up ladies, fixing to pave their way through the pearly gates.
They flooded onto the flat, saw that it was empty, and there was only Sheriff Pickens standing there. They hadn’t expected it. Finally, one of them approached me. It was Reggie Thimble’s third wife, Matilda, and she was the leader of this bunch.
“Mr. Grosbeak has departed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And was he taken up to heaven?”
“No, ma’am, he got out of Doubtful just as fast as he could pack up and vamoose.”
She contemplated that for a moment. She was flanked now by a few more of the ladies, making a kind of white wall in front of me. I knew them. They were merchants’ wives mostly, and a few maiden girls waiting for handsome and promising husbands. They sure looked nice, all gussied up in white, with flowery white hats.
“Did you cause the reverend to depart, Mr. Pickens?”
“No, ma’am, but I did make a suggestion or two. I said, says I, Mr. Grosbeak, you should put your money where your mouth is. I’ll setup the gallows and you step right up and put that noose over your neck, and if you ain’t taken up by the morning of the twenty-ninth, says I, we’ll drop the trap. He sure got offended, and said I was disrespectful, and I said a person’s got to act on his beliefs, and if he wasn’t gonna get took up to heaven, then a hanging wouldn’t scare him.”
Well, Matilda, she stared and stared at me. “You have desecrated the sacred,” she said.
“Well, ma’am, this outfit come down from Douglas, and I got word of how it went up there. Grosbeak, he says, doomsday is May 1, and he preaches it and gets them folks upset and they heap cash into his collection plates, and then the last hours of April, he and his bunch, they harness up and pull out, with a mess of greenbacks in their britches. And they come here, but now the date’s May twenty-eight.”
“The devil has you by the throat,” she said.
Me, I wasn’t going to argue with her. There’s no arguing that stuff. You either accept it or not, but facts don’t matter none. I rubbed my Adam’s apple a little to let her know it was still operating.
She turned to the whole mess of ladies, and she says, “This doesn’t matter. The Hour of Salvation is at hand, even if this evil man has driven away our prophet. His words are true, and we must have faith. So, instead of cleansing ourselves of all worldly possessions by placing our baskets on his table, we will proceed to the creek, and we will divest ourselves of everything, and then await the chariot of fire that will carry us upwards into glory.”
“Ma’am, don’t do that. Give it to the Sheriff Department Retirement Fund, or whatever.”
“You are loathsome, Mr. Pickens. We will toss our filthy lucre away, and prepare for the end and the beginning.”
“Ma’am, you been bamboozled, you been conned. You just take all that stuff to Barney’s Beanery and get a good bowl of oatmeal, and then go on home to your folks.”
“You are unspeakable.” She turned to the rest. “Come with me,” she said.
She led that whole lot of nice ladies in snowy outfits toward the creek. I had an awful sinking feeling in my gut, but what they did with their own money was up to them, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
The ladies, looking determined and soulful, like Joan of Arc about to be burned as the English heaped kindling at her feet, these sainted women began their stately walk toward Doubtful’s dubious creek, which supplied water to the town, and removed other stuff. There, in a sort of grassy glade, the women collected along the bank, and plunged into mournful silence.
About then, Cronk, the faro dealer at Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room, he waited on the path with questions written all over him. He was out early, enjoying his morning dog-turd-colored cigar and the fresh air.
“What are they up to?” he asked.
“They are surrendering all their worldly possessions, to prepare themselves to be swept up to the pearly gates in a day or two.”
“What’s in them baskets, sheriff?”
“You leave that stuff alone, hear me? I’ll fetch their husbands in a bit, and try to get it all back.”
“Any law keeping me from trying?” Cronk asked.
“My law,” I said. “That stuff, it’s going back just as quick as I can get it back.”
Cronk, he just smiled and puffed away, enjoying the May weather.
Them women in white, they all raised their arms and waved at the sky, and then one by one they approached the creek and tumbled the contents of their baskets into the purling water. I sure saw a mess of green fluttering down. Them greenbacks, they didn’t sink, like the coin, but simply floated leisurely down the creek, which ran behind Saloon Row and the red-light district, and toward the Platte River, miles distant.
Cronk sighed. But he knew if he dove for that loot, I’d buffalo him so fast he wouldn’t know what bounced off his skull.
One by one, the shining white-clad women tilted their baskets over the creek, and loosened a small fortune. I thought I saw a few gold rings and maybe a gemstone or two in there, but I was standing a respectful distance. And Cronk, he was smiling to beat the band, just sucking on his fat cigar and smiling, like he had a sudden vision of retirement from the shadowy confines of the saloon where he ran his faro game month after month.
There sure was a mess of greenbacks bobbing downstream. I shoulda guessed what came next. When the bills got near Denver Sally’s place, a mess of women in wrappers and kimonos came boiling out. It was early for them gals to be up; their business day didn’t start for some while, but somehow they got wind of this, and were heading toward the creek to harvest the crop floating in.
Cronk, he was just standing there with an arched brow. “They get in, but you keep me out?” he asked.
He sure enough had a point. “You steer clear of these women here,” I said.
Cronk, he went running toward the belles of the evening, planning to improve the day’s take from his faro game. Me, I stood on the riverbank and watched them beautiful women in the whitest white unload their worldly goods, and when it was over, I headed for the courthouse. I wanted to talk to the supervisor, Reggie Thimble, about what his latest wife was up to, and suggest that maybe a few husbands around Doubtful might want to reclaim what was left of the family stash.
Them women, they were in no hurry, and headed back to the empty field for some reason, probably to await their ascent into the cloudless skies. That suited me fine. I’d get the husbands out to the creek and let them collect what they could, and hope they wouldn’t get into a brawl doing it.
I started into town, but I was too late. There were ladies of the evening, and barkeeps, and even a few old drunks down there on the creek, scooping up the loot, much of which shone brightly in the pebbled bottom of the creek. Oh, there’d be some unhappy households this eve, and there’d be a few people from the sporting district who would be partying.
I spotted Rusty on the way, and told him about it, and Rusty just shook his head. “I think you got your tail in a crack,” he said.
So I clambered the courthouse stairs and found Reggie Thimble sharing a little toddy with Silas Jones, who owned the Blue Rib Ranch, way west of Doubtful.
“Sheriff?” Thimble asked, looking annoyed.
“Need a private word, sir.”
“There’s nothing needs saying that old Silas shouldn’t hear,” he said.
“It’s about Mrs. Thimble, sir.”
“Well, fire away, then.”
I sure didn’t know how to tell him that his wife had led a group of white-clad women and they had pitched the family fortunes into the creek. I tried that one about three times before I just settled down and narrated the whole shebang, while Thimble glared at me, accusation in his face.
“So you’ve driven the tent preacher out, is that it?”
“He packed up and left, yes, after I let him know I was keeping an eye on him.”
“You telling people in Doubtful what their religion’s gotta be, is that it?”
“Nope, just warning a crook to behave.”
Thimble, he glared at me. That was his wife leading the pack of white-gowned ladies, and now the family fortunes were at least somewhat depleted. I wondered what he was thinking.
“I reckon we can recover some of the cash from all those sports in the district,” I said. “Rusty and me, we’ll have to turn ’em upside down and shake the bills and coin outta their pockets, and they’ll whine some.”
Thimble shook his head. “Finders keepers,” he said. “If you hadn’t chased the tent preacher out of town, there’d be no trouble.”
“If the world doesn’t come to an end on May 28.”
“If it didn’t, he’d simply return the items the next day with his apologies,” Thimble said. “But now it’s lost. A small fortune changed hands because of your boneheaded behavior. Looks like we’ll have to fire you, Pickens. This time you’ve gone too far.”