So Reverend Rook was a sinner and maybe a hypocrite, according to the tenets of his own Good-turned-bad Book. Chess, though . . . Chess Pargeter was by nature an outlaw born and bred, just like his Ma, and couldn’t’ve ever been anything else, not even if he’d never robbed his first stage, or killed outside of the War. The big decision Chess had probably made before leaving San Francisco hadn’t been to not be a whore, per se, ’cause from what Hosteen let slip, he’d certainly taken payment for favours since — it’d just been to not ever let himself be what Chess considered a victim.
“He’s a mean little man, that’s for sure,” Hosteen had said, half-admiringly. “You know where Chess come from, right?”
Morrow nodded.
“Well, listen. I once went to a cat-house, up on Black Mountain — them gals was so tough they didn’t even have pimps. They set their own rates; enforced ’em, too. I saw one cut a notch in a trick’s ear ’cause he shorted her the minimum — said she’d’ve done it on his tallywhacker, but she wanted to give him a chance to pay her back. And the next week, there he was again! Chess strikes me that way.
“Very first time he come into camp, lookin’ — and actin’ — like he does, the men got to talkin’. Damn if he didn’t even blink, though — just gave out how sure, he’d suck your cock for ya, long as you washed it first. But he always wanted something in return.”
“Money?”
“Naw, trade, usually. Dry boots, bullets . . . you see that knife of his? I give him that. Wouldn’t let you fuck him, though, no matter what. You can do that with your wife, he used to say. Then this one big bastard tries it, and Chess fights back so hard he gives him two black eyes. ’Course, he was big, and he had friends. After, he says: Guess you’re mine now, bitch. But Chess didn’t cry about it none, just said: I ain’t no-damn-body’s, motherfucker.
“And after our next engagement, what do you know? All three of ’em ended up in the doc’s tent, and all three of ’em died ‘of their injuries.’ Which is real interestin’, considering how the only thing that big fucker had was a cracked head, all one of his friends’d lost was a finger, and the last one’d just been shot in the ass-cheek. But there they were the next mornin’, blue and stiff . . . with their throats cut, ear to ear.”
“Is that what landed Chess in the stockade?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But we was deep in Injun country at the time, so they let it go, ’cause it gave ’em an explanation — plus, the Lieut still had Bluebellies left needed killin’, and Chess was the best we had at that particular game.” Hosteen paused. “Then Rook joined up.”
“And?”
“Oh, Chess wanted him right from the start, but the Rev wouldn’t have none of it, ’cause he said what he really wanted was to save Chess’s soul instead. So he used to spend a good part of each night preachin’, while Chess just sat there noddin’ and cleanin’ his guns — bidin’ his time. What surprised me was exactly how long Chess went along with it all, considerin’.”
“The Rev seems to have given up on that idea somewhat, since,” Morrow said.
To which Hosteen just laughed, and nodded. “I reckon how gettin’ hung will probably do that to a fellow,” he said. “’Specially when it’s for somethin’ you didn’t even do.”
Which probably bore looking into at some point, but not by Morrow, and especially not tonight. Because tonight would be when Ed Morrow finally either got that damn Manifold reading for Professor Asbury, or took off, either way. After the mess at Songbird’s, he’d had just about enough spooky shit to last him the rest of this life, or any other.
God knew, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, before this. Those few times he had found himself observed at this practice (never by Rook or Chess, thank Christ, so far as he could ascertain), he’d claimed the Manifold was simply a tricksy sort of pocket-watch he’d picked up along the
way. Got it off a dead Pink, he’d told Hosteen, and felt his heart drop over the way that otherwise so-congenial old man grinned wide at the very idea. Fact was, if any of Rook’s bunch were to find out where his true allegiances were, they’d shoot him first in the back, then in the skull once he was down, like a broke-leg horse.
But every attempt had ended the exact same way, in confusion and doubt. Oh, the needles spun all right, into — and immediately back out of — the coveted red zone. What they didn’t do was stay there long enough to register either way, let alone produce any numbers for Asbury’s equation . . . as though something was interfering with the magical heat Rook threw off, or the man’s precious “ch’i” was being blocked by something at least as powerful as it was.
Still, Morrow didn’t know enough about the Manifold to guess at what that might be; if the thing was broke, he not only couldn’t fix it, but he wouldn’t even be able to tell. Which made this the best possible time for one more try, since at least he knew Chess and the Rev were both as distracted as they’d ever be.
Straining to move quietly as possible, Morrow levered himself up off the bed, feeling his ginger way across the floor, ears peeled for creaks. His shotgun he left leaned up against the door-frame; if anyone did happen to spot him in the already-chancy-sounding act of “looking for a pot to piss in,” he surely didn’t want to have to explain why he was doing it armed. As he shut the door carefully behind him, he could feel how the Manifold’s indigestible lump, hidden deep in his waistcoat pocket, seemed to wake up at the mere possibility of getting back near Rook, clicking fast against his ribs like an extra, malfunctioning, heart.
He mounted the stairs, hoping the romantic din Chess and his boss were making would cover any mistake on his part. ’Cause they were deep in congress yet, for maybe the third time in a row, a faint blur of motion glimpsed reflected in the cheval-glass which hung overtop the bed they currently shared. And the closer Morrow drew, the harder he found to tear his gaze from that very same rude spectacle.
His first thought was, So, Chess is red all over. Second: Do people really do that? But there they were, right in front of him, so the first conclusion he’d have to venture was yes, “people” did — and when they did, they enjoyed it. Quite a whole damn lot.
Rook was half-sat up with Chess balanced in his lap, jouncing him up and down, their mutual effort almost bruising in its enthusiasm. Chess kept pace admirably, sweat-shiny, hands busy in his own lap the whole way. And when it seemed Rook finally couldn’t take the strain anymore, he tumbled them both over and twisted around so he came out on top, which appeared to suit Chess even better.
“Oh yes,” Chess half-snarled, half-squealed. “Pin me down, by God — go on, work your damn way with me — ”
“My Christ, but you’re an undomesticated son-of-a-bitch,” Rook huffed.
“Sorry.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“True ’nough. But I’d sure try to be, if I thought that’s what you — uh! — wanted. . . .”
“Shut up, Chess,” the Rev just growled — came in hard and fast, possibly hitting that unnamed thing a few times in quick succession, ’til Chess clutched and arched beneath him. The results sprayed up between them, splashing sheets and skin; Rook groaned, firing deep. Chess sprawled back, panting and glistening like he’d been shot through the heart.
Saying, a mere breathless moment later: “Let’s do it again.”