Free Mojave by Johnny D. Boggs Page B

matchmaker.”
    Canfield/Kanievsky the shadchan /matchmaker lifted his Tom and Jerry and toasted the air across the table toward Whip Watson.
    Then Whip Watson dipped his left hand into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather purse, and fished out more coins. Two he slid to me, and they was by-grab double eagles. The other, which I took pride in the fact that it was only a ten-dollar piece, he pushed over toward Guttersnipe Gary.
    â€œCanfield and I have private business to discuss, boys,” Whip said. “Making arrangement for our delivery in a week or so. Isn’t that right, Canfield?”
    â€œIndeed,” Mr. Canfield said.
    â€œGuttersnipe Gary.” Whip eyed him. “You need a bath. And a poke.” Although he didn’t seem pleased with either chore, Guttersnipe Gary took the gold coin. Whip then turned toward me, and I sure hoped he didn’t say I needed a poke because I’d seen that dried out ol’ whore named Betty and really didn’t want to come down with one of them painful diseases in my manhood. Again.
    â€œMicah Bishop,” Whip said, “you need some new clothes. A bath. And a shave.” That was it. I let out a sigh of relief. “If you’re going to be my lieutenant,” Whip said, “I want you to look like a man and not a bum.”
    I thanked him, sent a nod Canfield’s way, and rose.
    So I was Whip Watson’s lieutenant. I’d always figured his segundo was Juan Pedro, and wondered how that graybeard would feel now that he’d lost ten dollars to his boss and might soon be taking orders from me. Looking at Guttersnipe Gary, who was standing and giving me a cold, cold stare, I knowed he wasn’t too pleased with my promotion.
    â€œI’ll meet you in an hour at Noel’s saloon,” Whip told us.
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    That afternoon, I wandered down the streets and boardwalks of Calico, gripping those double eagles tighter than a miser. Walked to the end of town, where the carpenters stayed busy as bees building what was to become the palace of this town. Next door was Miller’s store and his “Giant Powder Depot,” where a guy in sleeve garters was directing some hefty gents as to how to load kegs of blasting powder onto the back of a wagon.
    Went inside the store to get duds that would befit a man of my new stature.
    Black boots, with seventeen-inch tops, fit me just fine. As I’d always been partial to striped britches, I found a pair that were brown—Calico’s favorite color, seemed to me—with navy stripes. Some suspenders, too, new socks, and a pretty blue band-collar shirt that even come with a pocket over my heart and mother-of-pearl buttons. A double-breasted vest of burgundy brocade. A fine Seth Thomas watch with a bird and a tree and a farmhouse and some other pretty designs on the hunter’s case so I’d have something to stick in one of the vest’s pockets. Gun belt, brown, and holster, brown, and pouch, also brown, for my percussion caps, capper, and some .36-caliber paper cartridges. New bandanna, brown again, only color they had except for pink polka dots. Socks. Unmentionables. And a real nice Stetson, not a Boss of the Plains, but a fancy hat with tan bound edges, a curved brim, and side dents.
    Been a long time since I’d paid for store-bought duds, and I’d never spent Calico prices. I walked out with my new clothes wrapped in brown paper and my fancy hat in my hand and what little change I had in another one of my vest pockets, thinking that Whip Watson would make a fortune on his carriages and hammers and gunpowder, and wondering if I had enough money for a haircut and bath and shave.
    So there I stood, listening to the hammering and sawing next door and a whistle whine way up the canyon at one of the big mines. Trying to recollect where the barbershop was.
    That’s when Lucky Ben Wong stepped into my life.
    First words he says to me was: “Need bath? Need