Chapter 1-2
808 Words
Later in the evening, Jude began feeling his drinks and started crying in his beer. Turning to Sundog, he said, “You know, Sundog, I been thinkin’ about Tempest. My past ain’t too pretty. Do you think it’ll matter to her once we decide to settle down?”
“Tempest? You got a thing for Tempest?”
“She’s a real special female.”
“But she’s a damned w***e, Jude.”
“I know, but she’s better than any other female around here, and I ain’t gettin’ any younger. Besides, I want a female that wants to do it as bad as I do. I ain’t gonna saddle myself up with a woman that says no six days a week and maybe on the seventh.”
“Jude, Tempest can’t say no. She’s a damned who—”
“Don’t use that word, Sundog.”
“The point I’m tryin’ to make is, the minute you stop givin’ her money, her answer changes.”
“Damn,” Jude said, looking up at Sundog. “You think so?”
“I know so. Hell, Jude, you got plenty of time to pick and choose. Besides, you got somethin’ workin’ here that’ll take all your attention. Don’t get hog-tied to no female until all this is over, hear?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. You know,” Jude said, “if I can make this deal with this Boston gal, it’ll make up for everything that’s ever happened to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know I’ve chased lots of rainbows in my life tryin’ to make quick money. I always had the idea in mind that when I get enough I’d move out of that rat trap I’m in now, get me a spread somewhere, and settle down with a real special woman. I did pretty good at first, never goin’ outside the law until I met Luke Jensen and his gang. I was young, Sundog, and didn’t have a brain in my head, but one mistake was all it took for me to ruin my life. I paid the price for my part in robbin’ that Wells Fargo stage, but the people around here won’t let me forget. Now that I’ve got a reputation, the law watches me like I’m a rattler ready to strike. Okay, so I made one little bitty mistake. Do they have to look at me the way they do every time a bank gets robbed or someone gets shot? I’m the first one they suspect. What the hell’s wrong with these people?”
“Jude, my God, stealin’ a payroll from a Wells Fargo stage ain’t exactly a little bitty mistake.”
“I know, but no one was killed, and they got the money back. I been thinkin’, Sundog, maybe you and the others would do a lot better with me out of the picture. My reputation’s done shot to hell, but it ain’t too late for you guys.”
“Hell, Jude, are we gonna go through this again?”
“Sundog, you know as well as I do that it’s gettin’ harder and harder to make a buck around here. If it wasn’t for practically killin’ ourselves workin’ in that damned rodeo, we wouldn’t have a dime to our names. No one trusts us anymore. I hate to say it, but maybe we better split up.”
“Jude, shut up, for God’s sake. You get in this mood every time you start drinkin’. We ain’t splittin’ up, and that’s that.”
“But I’m just thinkin’ of you and the others.”
“Hellfire, Jude, it wouldn’t do any good to split up. We’d follow you around like a hound dog follows his master. I done said it once, and I’ll say it again. You’re stuck with us, so get used to it.”
* * * *
Nightly a tinny piano, wild, raucous laughter, a few passionate moans, and a stream of raunchy words could be heard echoing down the dusty street from a small rise where the Pink Palace stood. This gaudy pink building might have been an eyesore to some, but it’s what kept the small town of Whiskey Hill alive.
The old-timers say an old cowpoke once had a shack there where he made whiskey in a still and sold it to the local saloon. Since then it was always referred to as Whiskey Hill. Later, after the old man died and the town began to grow, the name of Whiskey Hill stuck. It wasn’t long after that that a man by the name of Reno Garvey bought the shack, tore it down, and built a lively structure called the Pink Palace. He knew it was the ideal spot because it was far enough away from town to make the wives happy, but near enough to make the men happy. His ladies were painted-up, high-class whores who, for the right price, were not above doing anything the men wanted. Not able to deny his Boston blue blood heritage, Reno couldn’t abide being the owner of a whorehouse, so he constructed a big sign that read Cowboy’s Social Club and hung it on the front of the building.
It was a two-story mansion with a veranda that spread across the front, providing a place where the girls could come out and get some fresh air without having to socialize with the rest of the people.
A picket fence with a squeaky gate surrounded the structure, and every time it opened, the squeak seemed to echo down every street in Whiskey Hill. Anyone who knew about the Pink Palace was familiar with the sound of that front gate.
Some called it the Gate to Hell.
- Writer
