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  On the other hand, Willy had shaken his hand, and Walker knew most of his men thought he’d gotten a raw deal. So there were three ways it could go. Willy might not have recognized him. Willy might have known, but could be counted on to keep his mouth shut. Last but not least, Willy might want to be a lance corporal. The smartest thing he could do would be to knock the kid out and see if he had any money on him.

  Walker didn’t do the smart thing. He stepped into the dark shadows behind the latrine and jumped over the length of wire someone had been good enough to remove from its posts. The troopers using the secret exit for French Leave to Madame Octoroon’s had worn a path through the desert scrub. It was easy to follow in the moonlight and wouldn’t pick up his footprints, or, rather, his footprints would be lost among all these others. The escaped prisoner walked away at a mile-eating pace, resisting the impulse to run. He wasn’t sure just where he was going, for one thing, and he might need some reserve speed before he got there.

  He was less than a quarter mile from the post when he heard three revolver shots and a distant cry of “POST NUMBER ONE! SERGEANT OF THE GUARD!”

  “That black bastard!” sighed Walker, breaking into a run for the eastern horizon. That fucking Willy had turned him in!

  Behind him, the post was coming alive like a hornet’s nest disturbed in the darkness. Somewhere a bugle was blowing “Assembly” and there were the sounds of slamming doors and shouted commands. He ran on, wondering how long it would take the colonel to put his pants on and … Damn! The bugle was sounding “Boots and Saddles”!

  All right, they’d mill about for a few minutes before fanning out the patrols. It was dark and they knew he was armed. They’d move out at a walk, slowing down as they approached each clump of brush and trotting their mounts across the open moonlit spaces. They’d send one patrol into town and another for the border. Maybe if he cut north?

  There was nothing to the north worth running for. Sunrise would catch him on the open expanse of rolling desert pavement without anything bigger than a tumble-weed to hide behind. His only hope was the slight hope of finding cover, any cover, in town. So he ran on, ignoring the stitch in his side. He was out of condition after the weeks since his arrest, and one leg was starting to knot on him, too. But it was run or hang. So he ran. The pace a mounted patrol set, walking some and trotting some, was just about that of a man on foot running as if the devil were after him, and, since the devil was, he ran better than he should have been able to. He’d reached the outskirts of town before he heard the sounds of following hoofbeats.

  Chapter Two

  The little railroad town might have had a name on the map, but it was so far from anything else in this part of the Southwest that it was simply called “Town.” There was a windmill-powered water tower where the cross-country trains stopped to quench their boiler’s thirst. The handful of railroad workers and other “respectable folk” lived south of the tracks, where the prevailing breeze from Old Mexico could help a bit. North of the tracks were the stockyards and a ramshackle collection of false-front entertainments for the cowhands who drove their herds south to the rails for loading. Downwind from the loading pens and main drag frequented by white hands sprawled an even less impressive shanty town inhabited by Mexicans and Negroes. Since the Army post to the west was manned by black troops, the “Nigger Town” was larger than in most western communities. It was said the local marshal even pistol-whipped white cowboys who crossed the tracks into the part of town “decent folk” avoided. Blacks were in trouble if they were found after dark near any of the white saloons or whorehouses. Walker slowed and made his way along a maze of back alleyways north of the tracks. Dogs barked at him from behind board fences but he didn’t expect anyone really wanted to know who was moving through the back lots of Nigger Town after midnight. His breath was coming back now, and if he didn’t get lost he had one place worth a try. It was probably a piss-poor try, but it was all he could come up with, now.

  He eased open a back gate and crossed a yard. Somewhere a window opened and a woman called out, “Who that traipsin’ about down there?”

  Walker didn’t answer and heard the window shut. He went to the back door of Madame Octoroon’s, took a deep breath, and tried the knob. The damn door was locked.

  He felt in his stolen pants for the pen knife he remembered and took it out, slipping the blade between the door and jamb. It only took a moment to unlatch the door. He opened it. The hallway inside was dimly lit with a red light bulb and seemed deserted. He moved down the threadbare runner to the stairs and mounted them two at a time on the balls of his feet.

  Drawing his revolver, he paused at the madame’s door and listened. He heard nothing. So he opened the door and stepped inside.

  Madame Octoroon was seated at a desk near her four-poster, wearing a red silk kimono and a slight frown as she turned her head to meet his crooked smile. The madame was a light-skinned woman of perhaps thirty-five, give or take a hard life. Her hair had been rinsed in henna and almost straightened by some mysterious chemical that smelled faintly of rotten eggs and perfume. Her features were pretty and she had a nice body. She obviously was aware of this. She made no effort to cover herself as she turned in her chair, the kimono falling open to expose one dusky breast. She said, “I don’t service the trade, Lieutenant, and if I did, this is still a nigger house.”

  Walker holstered his revolver as he closed the door behind him, asking, “Don’t you remember me, Madame Octoroon? We had a talk the night the colonel told me to put you off limits to the 10th Cav.”

  Madame Octoroon brightened slightly as she took a closer look at her visitor before answering, “Oh, you’re the one they calls Nigger Dick, right? I means, that’s what the other white officers calls you. The boys tells me you are all right, for one of them.”

  “Look, I didn’t come here to chew the fat about color. I’m in a bad fix, Madame Octoroon. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “Now jus’ you hold on and let me figure what you is asking before we decides how much it is to ask. You want a drink, Lieutenant Honey?”

  He nodded and she rose from her bookkeeping to sway her way over to a sideboard where some bottles were lined up behind a row of cut-glass drinking cups. With her back to him, she poured two heroic shots of gin, musing aloud, “Yeah, it’s comin’ to me, now. You is the one they court-martialed for lettin’ them Mexicans escape and getting a fool trooper kilt. I thought they was fixing to hang you, Lieutenant Honey.”

  “They thought so, too. I killed another man busting out of the guardhouse.”

  “Colored man, white stuff?”

  “No. He was a southern gentleman of Anglo-Saxon extraction.”

  Madame Octoroon turned with a laugh and handed him his drink, saying, “Hey, don’t lay it on so heavy, Lieutenant Honey. Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me your mamma was passing, right?”

  “I thought we were going to pass on this race nonsense.”

  “That’s easier for you to say than me. Sit down, white stuff. I know the boys say you knows how to treat folks right. I know you let me off with a friendly warning to keep things down to a roar, ‘stead of closing me down like they told you to. But now you come bustin’ in on me sayin’ you just kilt a man. A white man, and an officer!”

  He didn’t answer.

  She sipped her own drink and asked, “Why don’t you sit down like I told you, you fool? You look like someone drug you through the keyhole backward!”

  Walker sank wearily to the chair she’d just vacated and took a belt of gin. It felt like liquid fire going down, but it felt better than he’d had any right to expect, too. Nursing the drink in his lap, he smiled at the madame and said, “If you have any paying customers from the 10th downstairs, there’s going to be at least one cavalry patrol riding in and—”

  “Shit!” She cut in with a mocking smile, “Who you think you is, to tell a workin’ gal how to do her own job? You really thinks the boys is likely to lead a white officer to my
door without they warns me ahead of time? They won’t ’spect to find you here, white stuff. But that’s not sayin’ you’ve given me word one why I should stick my poor black ass out for you, hear?”

  Again he didn’t answer, and Madame Octoroon went to the bed and sat down, letting her kimono fall all the way open to either side of her long, tawny legs. She wore no stockings, but for some reason there was a red lace garter around one thigh. Walker looked down at his drink. The madame laughed. Then she asked, “You got any money, honey?”

  “I’ve got a little over twenty dollars.”

  She threw her orange head back and laughed. Then she said, “Shit, I wouldn’t fuck you for no twenty dollars an’ you’re askin’ me to take a chance on federal prison! Oh Lordy, you are the biggest fool I’ve done met up with, black or white, an’ in my business a gal meets fools.”

  He shrugged and started to rise. Madame Octoroon said, “Sit down, fool! Did I say word one ’bout you gettin’ up? The streets out there is crawlin’ with soldiers lookin’ to ream you’ white ass!”

  “I know. But you said you wouldn’t help.”

  “Now, damn it, did I say any such thing, Lieutenant Honey? I said I’d be crazy to help you. You likely figured I was crazy or you’d have never come here, right?”

  Walker knew better, but he couldn’t help saying, “Look, you may feel you’ve got some cat and mouse coming but I’m getting sick of paying you folks back for any ancestors I might have had. If I’d ever owned a slave or done one mean thing to a colored man I’d apologize, but I don’t owe you for the color I was born with. So let’s cut this game short and put the cards on the table!”

  Before Madame Octoroon could answer there was a sharp rap on the door and Walker stiffened as a younger, darker girl stuck her head in to blurt, “There’s sumpin’ happenin’ out front, Madame! Whole mess of soldiers jest rode by lickety-split!”

  Madame Octoroon shrugged and said, “You just git you’ black ass down to the parlor an’ let me worry ’bout soldiers going lickety-split, girl. You—uh—notice anythin’ special goin’ on, hereabouts?”

  The younger whore looked past or through the white officer seated near the desk and shook her head, innocently, as she replied, “No, Madame. I don’t mind I’s seen nothin’ worth talkin’ ’bout up here. Was there somethin’ I was ’sposed to see?”

  “You’ a smart little gal, Ruby. Just you go on down an’ tell Miss Lucy not to let no more customers in tonight, hear? How many we got left to service before we can lock the front door?”

  “They’s only two men in the place, Madame. One’s with Sue-Ann an’ the other’s drunk down in the parlor.”

  “Well, you give Sue-Ann’s crib a hurry-up knock as you pass an’ git rid of the sportin’ man. Give him a free drink and send him on his way. Then make sure Miss Lucy locks up and— oh, you’d best tell the professor we won’t need him on the piano ’til tomorrow evenin’.”

  Ruby left. Madame Octoroon took another sip of gin and asked, “Why ain’t you drinking? You suspicion there’s somethin’ wrong with that drink?”

  Walker took a small sip and lowered the glass with a weary lopsided smile, explaining, “I can’t afford to get the least bit drunk right now. I don’t think you put anything funnier than gin in the cup.”

  “Do tell? Then you must trust this world like it was run on the level! What makes you so trusting, Lieutenant Honey? Don’t you know there’s not a whorehouse in the world don’t keep knock-out drops for, uh, emergencies?”

  “Sure, but you’re too smart to drug me, even if you decide to turn me over to the Army. They’d be glad to take me off your hands, fast asleep or even dead, but you’d play hell staying open this close to a military reservation, once my superiors knew you served powdered drinks. No; your best bet would be to have given that Ruby a high sign just now.”

  “How you know I didn’t, white stuff?”

  “I don’t. We’ll probably find out soon enough if you did.”

  “You has a six-gun. How come you didn’t throw down on me an’ Ruby if that was what was passin’ through you’ mind?”

  “What am I going to do, hold you and all your girls at gunpoint until they stop looking for me? I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t thought there was, oh, a sixty-forty chance you’d help at least passively.”

  “Do tell? Well, which is sixty an’ which is forty and what’s this passive shit? I entertained a man who said somethin’ about passive one time and, do Jesus, I mind he was crazy!”

  The fugitive white man laughed and explained, “I figured there was a sixty per cent chance you’d turn me in against a forty per cent chance you might not. Better odds than they’re offering out on the street right now. By passive help, I mean just what you’ve been doing. Just letting me sit here for a while. I’m not asking you to do anything they could charge you with in court. I mean, what the hell, you could always say I had a gun and that you feared for your life, or—”

  “I thought you had some crazy idea about ropes,” she cut in, adding, “You got no idea the sort of things men ask of a gal in my line of work. Thank the Lord I saved my money an’ don’t have to work the cribs no more. I mind how it was, though, an’ I’m sort of motherly to my girls. They don’t has to teach French or take it Greek ’lessen they’s a mind to.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard good things about you too, Madame Octoroon.”

  “Hey, what’s this too shit? All right, you got a rep for bein’ decent, for a white man. That still don’t give you call to have such fool notions about forty or any other per cent! I swear, did I have a lick of sense I’d turn you in for the reward! Now, you gonna tell me there ain’t no reward on your white ass, Lieutenant Honey?”

  “There probably is. They usually post a five-hundred-dollars reward for deserters. I suppose you could call a soldier who runs away from a hanging a deserter. Don’t know what the going rates on treason and murder are.”

  She laughed, shook her head, and snorted, “Six bullets an’ twenty fuckin’ dollars an’ the man comes to a nigger whorehouse with the whole U.S. Army chasin’ him! That’s where you is, boy! You’ in a nigger whorehouse, tryin’ to butter up a nigger whore!”

  Walker shrugged, sipped his gin, and asked, “Which bothers you more: being a nigger or being a whore?”

  “Hey, watch that nigger shit! We can hang the Big N on our own selves. It don’t sound kindly, coming from ofay!”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Madame Octoroon.”

  She smiled wanly and said, “Yeah, it’s easier to git mad, ain’t it? It’s a fool question, though. I’m maybe eight or ten per cent black and one hundred per cent whore, but you likely knows which frets me more.”

  She paused and added, “How ’bout you, Lieutenant Honey? What worries you most ’bout me: my black ass or the business I’s in?”

  “Let’s see— I guess I’d have to say your business. Everything else about you is very pretty.”

  The madame choked, laughing, on her drink. But her laughter was forced and bitter. She said, “My, my, ain’t we ever so gallant this evening?”

  Walker heaved a relieved sigh, suddenly aware how tensely he’d been perched on the edge of his seat as he put the cut-glass cup on the desk, half empty, and said,

  “I thought once the search grew a bit colder I’d try to hop a freight out and—”

  “Oh man, you are crazy! Don’t you know nothin’ ’bout bein’ on the run?”

  “I’m sort of new at the game.”

  “That’s for damn sure! They’ll have guards posted in the rail yards for at least two days. They’ll have you’ description on the telegraph wire for a hundred miles up an’ down the track, too. First thing you needs is a change of duds. Bad enough you is tall as a tree an’ blond without you go traipsin’ about in that blue officer’s uniform!”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d steal some other clothes. Maybe off a clothesline or—”

  “Oh God, you don’t know anythin’! First off, who’s
gonna leave a suit you’ size on a clothesline, and does anyone do such a fool thing, who’s gonna stop ’em reportin’ it stole? You needs a change of duds the law don’t know about, honey. You come to the right gal ’bout that hair of your’s, too. I’d say our best bet would be to dye it red. Lawman spottin’ you’ size but lookin’ for a big blond would likely be throwed off more by brick red than brunette. You see, folks don’t look as close at a redhead’s features as they does a brunette’s. Nothin’ ’bout dark hair to catch the eye an’—”

  “I understand. It’s a good idea. I told you I have a little money and if we could pick up some cheap jeans and a hickory shirt.”

  “Will you just shut up an’ listen? Big cowboys gits the eagle eye from the law ’cause cowboys raise so much hell. We gonna fix you up as a redheaded sportin’ man in a loud check suit! You gonna wear a derby and carry a gold-headed cane an’ you gonna ride in the passenger coach where no railroad bulls can git at you! What part of the country you come from?”

  “Connecticut. Why?”

  “Nine out of ten wanted men run for home. So they’ll expect you on an eastbound train. We’d best send you to Tombstone.”

  “Tombstone, Arizona? What in thunder would I want to go to Tombstone for?”

  “Not a fuckin’ thing, honey! That’s why they won’t be expectin’ you to be headin’ that way! You’ll buy a ticket to San Diego, but you won’t git there. Federal marshals looking for you will be watchin’ the stations at all the bigger towns. So you board for Dago an’ git off in Tombstone. If you can’t make it across the border from there, you ain’t much of a runnin’ man!”

  He mulled her advice over, liking it better as he did so. Then he nodded and said, “Yeah. As soon as you get me the clothes I’ll board the train and—”

  “As soon?” She cut in, adding, “Honey, you ain’t gonna show you’ white ass outside this room for at least a day! What’s wrong with you, boy? You got worms? First thing a man on the dodge has to learn is to sit still while the law sniffs around in circles for a time!”