Yet only the silence persisted, the impenetrable dark, through which an immense sadness stole over Turkey Doolan where he crouched. And then with it, from out of nowhere, from out of memory long years buried now, four lines of poetry came into his head, the only lines of poetry Turkey had ever learned, written by that beloved frontiersman Captain Jack Crawford at the death of Wild Bill himself. Doc was an old turd, Doc’s mockery could never detract from their grace, their beauty. As always, they brought tears into Turkey Doolan’s eyes:
Under the sod at Deadwood Gulch
We have laid Bill’s last remains:
No more his manly form will hail
The Red Man on the plains…
And Dingus? If the impossible happened to Dingus, would he too find his bard, would there arise someone to compose the stanzas worthy of this so much nobler life? Turkey felt bereft, a terrible desolation visited him.
But finally now, faintly, at long last he believed he heard footsteps, people approaching distantly. He could not be sure — nor could he bear it any longer. Turkey built himself shaking to his feet.
So he was already feeling his way toward the top step when he became aware of the woman again, when he heard her venture forward through the darkness herself. “What happened?” she whispered hoarsely. “Did it — was it the way you said it would—?”
And then Turkey despised himself for his doubts, for his lapse of faith. Rising to his full height, less in restitution for the affront to Dingus alone than to everything he himself held sacred, Turkey proclaimed, “Ma’am, you could wager your last gold dollar on it. Now a slight portion weren’t too distinct, maybe, but it were Hoke Birdsill got his’n, absolutely.”
“Sheriff Birdsill,dead?”
The woman’s voice was remote, although perhaps somewhat thoughtful also. “Yes’m,” Turkey said, peering into the street anew. “Why, I don’t doubt, if’n we lighted that there lamp we could be the first lucky folks to view his mutilated remains where they fell. Especially since it don’t appear nobody else in town is rushing out awful hasty—”
So he had glanced back once more, waiting to see if she might in fact retrieve the lamp, when a curious sensation of self-consciousness took hold of him. Because the woman seemed to be considering him oddly in the blackness now, looking him up and down intently as if she had not before been truly aware of his presence at all. “Sheriff Birdsill is dead?” she said again.
“Yes’m,” Turkey repeated.
And still the woman continued to gaze at him in that odd way. Then her voice changed, however, became almost weary. “You’ll have to help me,” she said.
“How’s that, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Indeed. Because all this excitement, it’s given me — suddenly, yes. This — this chill. In fact it’s—”
“Chill?” Turkey said.
“Ch-ch-chill. Yes. Why, I simply may die on the spot. But if you’ll take my arm, help me back into—”
“Oh, but ma’am, there’s Dingus, and—”
So then he had no choice in the matter, since the woman swooned into his arms. Turkey had to carry her inside.
Thirty minutes later, when he raced to the scene of the fire, he was no more or less immodestly clothed than most of the other townspeople there before him, considering the hour, and even those few who had arrived in relatively substantial attire were already sharing selected garments with the dispossessed prostitutes themselves, a coat here, a shirt there. There was also a prodigality of wholly undraped flesh for Turkey to gape at, in fact, where it bulged and shivered in the fierce light of the blaze. Stark naked, and repudiating any sartorial charity at all, one girl was actually perched screaming atop a hitching rail at die forefront of the crowd, while very near her struggling improbably to disguise a veritable cascade of stomachs with nothing more abundant than a kerchief, an elderly man was shouting hysterically also. Someone identified him as the town mayor. “Our major industry!” he cried. “The foremost attraction of Yerkey’s Hole, wiped away in one fell swoop!”
Because it was the bordello, of course, Belle’s, blazing like the tinder box it was. The heat was terrific, but no less so than the light itself which flooded the onlookers as, moments before, it had flooded the very bedroom where Turkey had been pacing incredulously, a hand clapped to his skull. “Defenseless?” he had been crying. “Ruined? Aw now, lady, it weren’t me dragged us in here tearing off her clothes and mine too like tonight were the first time in your life you ever heard there were such a thing as two folks crawling under the same blankets at the same time fer some other reason than they was both tired, or—married?MARRIED?”
He had not even learned the woman’s name. He still hadn’t for that matter, although the sudden inundation of near-daylight breaking over them had postponed the need to temporarily, had thrown even that calamitous insanity into abeyance. Because even she, the deranged horse-faced creature with the abused curl papers in her colorless hair, had become alarmed then, or curious anyway at the sudden furor in the streets, the commotion. No one had been hurt, evidently, it had started upstairs at the rear, and the main stairway had remained unobstructed for a while. But no one seemed to know its origin either. Flames flickered and hissed among the angular roofs, and within the structure itself the holocaust appeared absolute. “But every stitch!” a whore was wailing. “Every stitch a girl owns!”
“Don’t fret youself none, honey,” a miner reassured her. “You could always come bed down under the sluice with me and the boys.”
So he was more distracted than ever when he finally discovered the doctor, still in his own nightshirt and prancing excitedly at the periphery of the crowd. “Lissen,” Turkey cried, clutching at the man’s flannel sleeve, pulling him even further aside, ‘Svhat happened? What happened? How did it—?”
“Don’t know,” the doctor pronounced almost gaily. “But she’s a spit-sizzling sweetheart, ain’t she? Purtiest durned fire I seen since—”
“Oh thunderation, not that!” Turkey protested. “Who gives a Chinaman’s lob about some dumb old fire? I mean before, with Dingus and Hoke Birdsill, when they done what you said they wasn’t never gonter do and I said they was, and then they—”
“Who said they never?” The doctor turned to eye him indignantly. “Why, I could of told you right from the start, it were gonter be jest as spectacular as—”
“But—”
“Yep. Matter of fact I don’t reckon there’s ever been one solitary episode in the whole history of human heroism kin compare with it. Why, the way Dingus jest kept on acoming, letting Hoke git in all them first shots, too, and not firing hisself even when Hoke put one bullet clear through the brim of his hat, and then a next one smack across the fringe of his vest, but jest asmiling that there confident, lion-hearted smile until he finally got on up close enough to lift that shotgun where he knew he weren’t gonter miss, and then he—”
“Redone—?”
“Why, sure. And where was you, you didn’t see it? Ain’t you the eagle-eye weren’t gonter miss a trick?”
“Well, I dint. I mean I were right out there, no more’n forty feet away neither, or at least I were until I got somewhat indulged elsewhere. But it sure dint strike me as near light enough to never see nobody smile, let alone take notice of no bullet hole in a—”
“Well, I reckon you jest ain’t very special in the eyesight category, son. Because I witnessed the whole event clear as well water myself, from down there in front’n my office, and—”