The Last Good Day, стр. 10

“I don’t think you know what you say sometimes,” Rance said “Remember the last saloon we was in didn’t turn out so good? And this is rebel country.”

“Won’t know who we are this time,” B.W. said. “Hell, we don’t know who we are.”

B.W. and Rance dismounted and handed the reins to Tommy.

“Take the horses to the livery keep them saddled,” Rance said. “We’ll join you in a little while, bring you some grub.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in there I ain’t seen,” Tommy said. “You just want to get me out of the way so you can get drunk and chase whores.”

“Take the horses to the livery stable,” B.W. said.

“I don’t want to, “ Tommy said.

“I know,” B.W. said, “but I’m bigger than you. Do it.”

Tommy led the horse’s away. They walked in the saloon. The place was filled with a lot of men wearing rebel uniforms, several of them dancing with the whores as the piano player pounded out Dixie.

They walked up to the bar beside a rail-thin man wearing a rebel uniform. B.W. laid a silver dollar on the bar.

“What’s all the hoopla?” Rance asked.

The man turned to Rance, smiling. “He’s dead. Somebody shot that sonofabitch.”

“Shot who?” Rance asked.

“Lincoln,” the man said. “We got a telegram this morning. Shot him at the theater last night, died this morning.

“You hear that, B.W.?” Rance said.

“I heard,” he said. B.W. looked at the man. “Are they sure?”

“Yep, he’s dead alright.” He turned back to the bar and held his glass up for more whiskey.

“Might be time to go,” Rance said. B.W. didn’t answer.

“You hear what I said,” Rance said. “We need to go.”

B.W. looked at Rance, his eyes were glazed. He wiped them with his sleeve. “All hell is goin’ to break loose now,” B.W. said. “There’s another war coming. May not be with guns but it’s coming.”

“Can’t argue that,” Rance said.

A scrubby-looking bartender with slick-down black hair and red garters on his sleeves sat two glasses down in front of them, poured Rance a shot then looked up at B.W., did a double-take and put the cork back in the bottle. “We don’t serve Indians,” he said.

Rance slid his whiskey glass over in front of B.W., picked up B.W.’s empty glass and sat it in front of him. “I’ll have a whiskey,” he said. The bartender looked at the glass and then B.W. “You’re serving me not him,” Rance said. The bartender hesitated, pulled the cork and poured Rance a shot, stuck the cork back in the bottle, picked up the silver dollar and moved away. B.W. didn’t say anything, just picked up the glass and downed the whiskey, and Rance did the same.

A big man with an arrogant look wearing a Confederate colonel’s uniform stepped away from the bar and walked out into the middle of the floor, his hand on the handle of his saber. He was maybe in his fifties, dark eyes with a neatly trimmed gray beard. He looked around the room, drew his saber and held it up over his head. The piano player quit playing and the saloon became still and quiet.

“You see that flag, boys?” he said, pointing the saber at a Confederate flag on the wall. Everyone yelled a rebel yell. “We have been given another chance. The war’s just in a pause now, it’s not over. We need to build a new army and march on Washington. Who will join me?” The crowd roared and they sang Dixie again and drank anything that was put in front of them. A voice from the crowd yelled, “We’re with you, colonel!” and a roar went up again.

“Already started, major,” B.W. said.

“Yeah, all we can do here is get killed,” Rance said.

“You wouldn’t turn on me, major?” B.W. said.

“What makes you think I would?”

“Have a hard time trusting anyone now.”

“War’s over,” Rance said.

The little thin man was listening. “You was a major?” he asked Rance.

”Was,” Rance said. “Forty-first Virginia.”

“I was too,” the man said. “Buy you a drink. The war may not be over?”

Rance looked at B.W., surprised. B.W. grinned.

The thin man looked at B.W. “He with you, major?”

“He is,” Rance said.

The thin man held his glass up again and three fingers, the bartender brought the bottle over and the little man said, “Pour three,” and sat his empty glass on the bar beside Rance’s and B.W.’s. The bartender hesitated, looking again at B.W., then poured the whiskey.

“Thank you very kindly,” B.W. said and gulped the whiskey down.

Rance nudged B.W. “Let’s go, we’ll get that steak somewhere else,” he said and they walked back outside.

Tommy appeared leading the horses. “Wasn’t anybody at the livery,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Lincoln was shot. He’s dead,” B.W. said. “We’ll find another place.”

The two rebels doing the shooting outside were passed out in the muddy street.

“Figured you would be happy about this,” B.W. said to Rance.

“Nothin’ but foolish talk in there,” Rance said. “Lincoln was our best hope to put the country back together.”

“Yep, gonna be bad for a long time,” B.W. said, “especially for the colored. How ‘bout we finish off our whiskey to relieve some pain.”

“Might be the right time,” Rance said.

“Can I have some?” Tommy said.

“Maybe a sip, huh, major?” B.W. said.

”We’ll find a quieter place,” Rance said and they rode down the street, the horses high-stepping through the mud out of town.

“Lincoln was the president of the Yankees, right?” Tommy asked.

“All of us since they won the war,” Rance said.

“Was a special man,” B.W. said.

“He was,” Rance said. “Got to give him that.”

“What you mean,?” Tommy asked.

“He believed all men should be free,” B.W. said.

“Even the colored?” Tommy said.

“Yeah, but now he won’t get the chance to make it happen.” B.W. said.

“That the way you think, major?” Tommy said.

“He was probably the only one that could bring us together. No telling what will happen now,” Rance said. “Could be another war. Not much we can do except always do the right thing.”

“And right now the right thing to do is get drunk,” B.W. said. “Get the whiskey,