The Floor of Heaven by Howard Blum Read Free Book Online Page A

whether he could see or not. The speaker clearly possessed an immense vitality. And his skill, after all, involved feeling the bumps on people’s heads, not looking at them. Besides, the phrenologist seemed well cast for the part. He wore an eastern suit with a watch chain strung across his vest and had a thick hatch of white hair. The man had a respectable appearance; like a college professor, Charlie immediately decided, although he had never met one.
    After finishing his preliminary remarks extolling the “science of phrenology,” the speaker found his way unassisted to the chair that had been placed in the center of the parlor. Grasping its back with his two hands, he announced in his clear, rich voice that he would like someone to come forward and sit down in front of him. A volunteer? he asked.
    “HENRY BROWN,” a voice shouted, and at once many in the audience chimed in to second the suggestion. “Henry Brown, Henry Brown,” the animated chorus continued to chant. However, Henry Brown, Caldwell’s marshal, was reluctant to come forward. Shaking his head with an obstinate conviction, the marshal made it clear he didn’t want to volunteer. The prospect of anyone “feeling” his head and getting an inkling of what was stored inside was not for him. And Charlie was the only person in the room who understood why.
    Most of the town’s citizens thought Brown was a genuine hero. They’d eagerly pinned the marshal’s gold star on his chest after Brown, a newcomer to Caldwell, had demonstrated his courage and his lethal skill in just a few busy weeks. Not only had he killed a couple of hell-raising gunnies who’d been in the process of shooting up a saloon, but he’d also ridden with the posse that had hunted down Spotted Horse, after the Indian chief had attacked a family of settlers. The whole town seemed to think they had found the perfect man for a dangerous job. But when Charlie had first landed in Caldwell back in ’82, the sight of Henry Brown wearing a shiny gold star had struck him as damn peculiar.
    He knew Henry Brown. Only the Henry Brown he had met had been riding with the outlaw Billy the Kid. Back in ’78, when Charlie was foreman at the LX spread down in the Texas Panhandle, Billy and his gang had camped out on the ranch for a while while they were selling a herd of ponies they had stolen in New Mexico. During that time, the Kid and Charlie had grown chummy. Of course, Charlie wasn’t under any illusions. He knew the Kid was a killer; in the blink of an eye this jovial young man could suddenly turn terse and steely, and then murderous. But there’d been a target-shooting contest at the ranch and Charlie, to the Kid’s surprise, had matched the outlaw shot for shot. And when the Kid had taken a cotton to Charlie’s new ten-dollar meerschaum cigar holder, Charlie had let him try it, and then offered it as a present. In return, Billy had presented Charlie with the finely bound novel he’d just finished reading, and in a further gesture of friendship he’d written an inscription on the title page and signed his name. It was this new friend who had introduced Charlie to several of his men—including Henry Brown. That winter, though, Brown and a half-breed Indian had quit the gang and ridden on to Indian Territory.
    Come spring, Billy and the rest of the gang had headed out, too. But in October, after branding season was over, they’d returned to the LX and made off with a passel of cattle. Friend or no friend, Charlie wasn’t about to let anyone get away with rustling Mr. Beal’s cattle. He picked five “fighting cowboys” and went after the Kid and his gang.
    The LX crew headed for the mining town of White Oaks, where, Charlie reckoned, the lure of rich prospectors would attract the Kid. But as they made camp after a hard day’s ride, Pat Garrett, the sheriff of Lincoln County, New Mexico, rode in. He was forming a posse to go south, down the Pecos River, in search of Billy and his gang.