As the overcast shadow of nightfall turned to real nightfall, Drewbell got the urge to leave the overlook, climbed down the third floor latter and into the vast bedroom of the French girls (four beds against the center of each wall, table in the middle, and one wide bureau). She floated down the stairs in a haze and wandered out through a back door, trancelike. The open land between the barn and the house was mostly rock and sand, with patches of dry, yellow weeds. Drewbell sauntered, her arms swinging a bit more than usual. Her pale skin often kept her from emerging during the bright hours, so the dark clouds were welcome. The humidity had been unbearable the past two weeks and she hadn't left the house more than a few minutes. Inside felt cooler.
She passed a long ditch that had been recently dug: the grave-like trench stretched 6 ft. wide by 4 deep and ran a good 50 meters along the northwest edge of the farm, from the barn in back straight out into the nowhere desert.
At the end nearest the front of the barn stood an oil drum.
Drewbell noticed none of this.
It took several steps toward the stretch of desert oblivion before she caught herself in a moment similar to waking during a sleepwalk. Her realization that she had meandered some distance from the house wasn't the only thing to bring her from the wander? Someone else was walking behind her. As she turned to check who it was, a firm grip caught her above the elbow and helped turn her back, not toward the house but the barn.
"This is a very dangerous time to be wanderin'," the voice scolded.
Drewbell saw the determined eyes and square chin of the person guiding her back - a boy near her age, take a year or two, named Cant. She had seen him on several occasions, usually during meals, but when she searched out the windows during daylight hours, she only ever caught the distant trails of him returning to the barn. He and the other boys had dug a deep ditch around one side of the house over the past two weeks, usually shirtless. His skin was a scorched tan from the sun. His eyebrows were furrowed-
Finally, she caught herself again slipping into haziness.
"Dangerous? Cause of the storm?" she asked, pulling her arm quite gruffly from Cant's grasp.
"Ain't'n you know what's comin' this way?" he spat.
"No I 'ain't'," she mocked. "What's comin'?"
Neither had the capacity to ease, to lower their tone below hostile.
They stared at each other, intensely?
"All the more reason. Come on then," he finally broke.
Cant tried to walk in front of her but she followed step-for-step beside him to the gaping mouth of the barn. Inside, the stables were half-full. Marielle had a white horse, and there were two for the stable boys. The horse Anson and them had rode in on was in the back. They had started the journey with two horses, Jonathon switching between Drewbell and Anson, until the second horse succumbed to a mystery illness halfway between Brighton and The Catlight Infinite. After that, all three rode the same horse for the closing miles - Anson in front, Jonathon in the middle, and Drewbell in back.
The stable boys were gathered on a pile of hay, all except two - the twins. One had a large chunk missing from his ear, and both had the same name though Drewbell couldn't recollect what that name was. Once through the doors, she found the twins in the rafters, in the second-story loft, one on either side of the barn and positioned at a window.
"Sit down," Cant commanded.
"Or what?" retorted Drewbell, so angered at his lack of manners that she shoved his shoulder. Cant turned back, not to swipe but to do something much worse, much more threatening? he stared into her eyes at such a depth she felt nearly violated, as if someone had read an especially revealing page from a very secret, very personal journal.
Reluctantly, she sat cross-legged on the hay a few feet from the other boys.
"What'n they doin'?" Cant called up to the rafters.
"They's just waitin' in the brush," called down the twin with the intact ear.
"What 'bout you, Jr. 2?" Cant called up.
The response was delayed.
Then Nathan Jr. 2 emerged from the window he was hanging out of. Drewbell saw that he had a rifle with a scope in his hand, and that that was what he used to observe the terrain.
"I think they's also sittin' in the brush. Either that or they don' run oft for the day. Maybe the clouds scared 'em oft."
"What's out there-?" Drewbell began to ask, low-toned to hide her fear of the impending situation, of which she had had absolutely no knowledge of until that minute.
"Come read us a story, 's still hayday," one of boys pleaded, his tone with a level of fear - the shake in the voice, the dread in the eyes.
Cant turned and, for a moment, it seemed he was going to scold the young boy for proposing such a ridiculous idea; however, in a survey of all the boys' faces (even Nathan Jr. 1 and 2 had poked their heads back inside to see his reaction), there was such prevalent doubt and panic that Cant's eyes diminished from irritation to understanding. "They ain't comin' in till it gets darker, late night," he calmed them, his tone gentle. "Prolly ain't comin' till past midnight, Anson says." He nodded at the group, watching that each one of his men (and Drewbell) nodded in return to acknowledge that they heard, and knew, and understood, and were at ease for the moment. "Ain't no one here goin' to get hurt. I swear to you. But we been tasked, and we see the task through." Drewbell saw him look deep into the eyes of the young boys, measuring their strength, building upon it. "And I ain't see no harm in readin' a story."
The children were exalted.
VII
The rotund Sheriff Wimbledon Brash rode back to his men just before nightfall. Their camp was set up a mile from the whorehouse.
"We're lookin' at near twenty innocents, maybe more, maybe less," he informed the group of a dozen men, riding up. He hopped off his horse for a fresh can of beans finishing over the fire. Whoever had prepared it would have to take the next one as Sheriff Brash grabbed the scalding can with his bare hand and went to fishing out a bent up fork from his saddle bag.
"But she's there?" asked one of the deputies.
(Another deputy watched despairingly at the Sheriff gobbling the can of beans, wincing as the man tilted it against his lips and shoveled the last of the beans down his gullet with scoop after breathless scoop.)
"Yeah," the Sheriff answered, beans falling down his front and mashed across his teeth, syrup dripping into his beard and cheeks. "We seen that Sharpe fella walkin' the parameter, and we was told she's in there. I'm bettin' she is. We gon' ride in after midnight, when they're all plenty liquored and least 'spectin' it. Should cut down on them young'uns gettin' frightened and in the way, too. I known a fair amount'a whores that've put up a good fight. 'Least for a girl. So be careful. You gotta shoot one then you gotta shoot one but let's try not to kill a house fulla whores and chil'runs for one outlaw."
FROM AN ACCOUNT OF HENRY VILLE
Henri Ville has no history before the age of 34. The account to begin her history is that of her 34th birthday, and the only reason it is known is because of the extravagance in which it was celebrated, so unrestrained and with such profligacy that all preceding parties pale in comparison. When Henri Ville arrived on the scene - in Philadelphia - she was accompanied by two men: the first was a Mexican name Anson Sharpe, a handsome, flamboyant, attention-grabbing young man that wouldn't be out of place in those new moving pictures; and the second was a well-built, older Jew known as C.S. Bialik, a gray-haired man with seemingly endless supplies of gold. The party lasted thirty-four straight hours, from her 8:00 p.m. reservation at the Hotel Walton on Broad to 6:00 a.m., nearly two days later, all the way across town. There were elephants and parades of drunken partygoers and championing music. Even President Roosevelt stopped in briefly during the final twelve hours. The alcohol was stocked with enough for a military brigade, they say, and once the party ended, three that had arrived as strangers left the city of Philadelphia more famous and well-acquainted with high society. C.S. Bialik was seen in the western country over the next few
months, where he mostly remained, but Henri Ville and her adjunct, Anson Sharpe, vanished from the eye of the nation for but a brief moment?
VIII
Jonathon William Beckett the third was pouring the last from a bottle of whiskey into a 3 ounce liquor glass when a female voice cooed, "''Ow long 'ave you been in zee 'ouse?" Jonathon turned to find an older French woman; her face caked in bright blues and pinks. The sight startled him, as young Jonathon had never seen a woman in such vibrant makeup.
The older woman smiled politely at Jonathon's reaction.
"It cover zee wrinkles," admitted the woman.
The young boy pushed the whiskey glass toward the outstretched hand of another woman, whose eyes were elsewhere as she laughed at the high jinks taking place across the room: Anson had Rebecca stretched along the couch, her arms held by another, while Anson tickled her sides and blew raspberries on her belly. Rebecca had begun to laugh so hard she no longer made a noise, her face bright red in ecstasy and torment.
"Know I was zee one to name zee Catlight Infinite?" the older woman asked Jonathon once his drink had been served.
The only other patron at the bar was Marielle, in her corner, her watchful gaze occasionally lifting from the newspaper Pellsley Grant had delivered earlier in the week. She stared (near mournfully) at the young Jonathon William Beckett the third.
In response to Jonathon's quizzical look, the older French woman went on:
"I did not know zee name for Candle. When I arrived 'ere from zee other country, I did not know a lot of zings. Now I speak much good." She proudly brought her hands out, as if to physically display her control of the English language; Jonathon just stared at her as she spoke. (Marielle cracked the tiniest smile at the exchange, as the boy continued to look a little scared.) "I would zay, 'Put out zee catlight.'" Her voice, in reenacting how she once sounded, was much louder, with more bass, further startling Jonathon. She didn't notice - her wide smile showed that she was obviously pleased with herself at how the story was turning out. "And one of zee other girl-zis was much long ago-zhe used to say, 'Infinite you get zat wrong.' We were not much good at Engliz back then. And Marielle," the older woman turned to look at Marielle at the end of the bar, who looked up just long enough to nod an acknowledgement before pretending to focus back on the paper, "zhe used to teaze, 'Catlight! Catlight Infinite!'" When she said the name, the woman's voice boomed loud enough that all the others in the lounge turned their attention momentarily to the bar, before bursting out with more laughter and returning to whatever they had been doing.
For a moment, the older woman had a look of embarrassment.
"Are you French?" Jonathon asked.
"Zat I am, my dear," she answered, and her smile returned.
"Um, where?" Jonathon tried hard not to sound dumb, "?where is that? French?"
(Marielle gave another tiny smile.)
"Oh well France, it is across zee ocean, young man. Far from here. And I come from a town named Lille-"
There was a dagger of lightning and a strike of thunder from the dark clouds outside the house. The flash entered through the window and its flowing rouge curtains. The room halted except for Anson, who continued laughing. All the others dropped their smiles and looked toward the nearest window or doorway.
"It's just like you said," one of the girls said in a dazed tone.
"You got time, darlings," Anson answered, circling his arms around the nearest girl and pulling her back onto him.
"What's-" Jonathon turn to ask another question, only to find a thin, fragrant vapor where the older French woman had once stood. The sound of thunder had scared her off, her purple-clad rear disappearing up the stairs.
"She doesn't leave her room much," Marielle said from the end of the bar.
Jonathon's eyes stayed with her a moment, then he nodded, drew himself away, and moved on to toss the empty whiskey bottle into a nearby trash pile.
FROM AN ACCOUNT OF HENRY VILLE
Henri Ville and Anson Sharpe robbed their first bank on a brisk November morning. The weather had dropped early for the season and snow had fallen the week previous and a thin layer remained on the walkways of Philadelphia. Both arrived on S. 6th and Chestnut, without escort, where they entered the Bank of North America and exited fourteen minutes later.
While inside the bank, no gun was drawn, no bullet fired.
The two were exceptionally calm and polite.
As the teller states:
"She was very pretty. First thin' I noticed was that she was pretty. And the fella she was with, he was handsome. When they walked in, we all noticed. They just? they seemed important somehow. They walked in through them doors and the wind blew papers off Bill's desk and some of us turned and saw 'em walk in. They walked up to me an' I's nervous 'cause she did the talking and she was so pretty and calm and her eyes were really serious. She tells me, 'We gonna withdraw the Brante estate account' and I says, 'Sure, so long as you got proper identification,' and they did, the gentleman had all the paperwork. He was a darb but kind of stiff, standin' behind her in a long coat."
The two of them had fabricated the paperwork to an impeccable degree.
How they did so is still under questioning.
The teller sent the pair to an accounts manager, who retrieved the vast wealth of the account (estimated to be upwards of $23,000), which Anson then stuffed into a bulky knapsack (one rumored to be adorned with a green $ sign). It was at this point, during the transfer of such an extraordinary sum of money, that the bank manager become involved and quickly noted that neither the gentleman nor his lovely compatriot were beneficiaries of the Brante Estate, and thusly invoked the local police.
With the money in tow, the gentleman Anson Sharpe and the peacherino Henri Ville exited the bank near the same moment that two police flivvers arrived, and a brief firefight ensued greater than any gun opera previous. The gentleman Anson Sharpe had, under his long coat, a weapon never previously witnessed in the nation's former capitol, and dare I dictate, the world. Bullets were rapid and echoing for blocks, each sparking upon impact in a release of brilliant, glittering embers. The police later reported that, though no one had been hurt, both flivvers' engine blocks had been destroyed, preventing further chase.
IX
"I'm wakin' up to ash and dust," growled Curtis Anglin from beneath the curled brim of his crisp brown Mossimo hat.
The fire had grown since he dozed, the ash sifting into the air and blowing across his pants, vest, and horse-felt blazer. The gray bits clinging to the black looked like tiny gravestones. If there was one thing Anglin didn't like, it was ash or dirt smudging up his expensive clothes. He stood and removed his hat, letting the gang admire his smooth blonde hair and chiseled good looks. He was a peculiar sort for a hunter, an outlaw. Swinging the hat at a slight distance, he gently fanned himself clean. He bent down and lifted the blanket on which he had been sleeping, flapping it heavily into the air to blow off the grime.
Someone had remained behind him:
"There's a storm comin', boss," spoke the meager Jasper Dupart, careful to bare the bad news. "We gon' need to move into the cave."
Jasper had been at Curtis' side for near-on four years, longer than anyone else in the Anglin Gang. There had once been several dozen compadres but they had tried to rob a train and a majority were overtaken by the train's occupants. After that, to raise their numbers, they recruited a dozen more (one was killed during an argument right off, leaving their number currently at 23). Their next few bank robberies worked out better - especially when Anglin decided he didn't want to rob trains anymore - and they were now a year solid as a gang.
This most recent trip started when Anglin himself crossed paths with the law at a saloon. He had been sitting quietly in the back when a group - led by the burly Wimbledon Brash and two federal marshals - stomped their boisterous way into the bar, proud at uncovering information that would lead to the infamous Henri Ville. A reliable tip placed her in a whorehouse a good deal of mile
s south.
She had a $5,000 bounty on her head, dead or alive.
"What'n you mean, move to the cave?" Anglin asked, sharply.
Several of the men bustled off.
"These're darkenin' clouds. They gonna bust in rain-"
"You 'fraid to get wet?" sneered Anglin, chuckling sloppily. He knew there was fear in the air. Informing him that there would be a sudden risk of drenching his calf-skin boots from San Francisco, or his green belt of unidentified material (imported from either Europe or Asia, no one was sure, including Anglin himself), often led to a loud, berating diatribe.
Some of the men forced a hearty laugh at Jasper's expense.
"Well then," Anglin ended his chuckle abruptly, "let's move it on to the cave."
No one moved.
"Now! Move!" Anglin shouted, growing concerned. "Tryin' to get this here dear-skin vest ruined?"
And the men started-
X
Anson liked to piss outside. He didn't trust outhouses, of which there were two at the end of a short, thin trail formed by the many feet having traveled from the back of the house to the commode. He stumbled a bit around the side, catching himself in a thicket of weeds. The sky was the darkest shade of black, the clouds murky and foreboding with satin-like ripples of white from a moon near full just beyond. He sauntered up to a particularly empty patch on the side of the house, unzipped, and prepared to relieve himself.
"What'n you doing, mister?" called out a voice.
Anson jumped clear out of his skin.
"What-who?" and he squinted in the darkness toward the voice. "H.S.?"