“Hmm. Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Lowe.”
“Come in, the door’s unlocked,” a voice greeted Griff’s knock from room nine at the Frontier.
St. Joe’s Marshal walked through the portal into the muzzle of a Remington 1860 Army. “That’s right, Mr. Stark. Close the door behind you. I represent the Railroad Protective Association. There is a large reward out for you. Been upped to a thousand dollars. That’s big money in these days. I’m going to enjoy collecting it. Don’t … try anything foolish. The offer is good dead or alive, remember?”
“Do you mind telling me what for? We both know the accusations on that flyer are patently false.”
“Of course they are. What difference does it make? You are in someone’s way. You are to be removed. What easier, tidier method?”
Griff took two steps farther into the room. “Whose way? What is this all about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I really don’t know. And, please, don’t come any closer.”
Griff didn’t need to. With the speed of a whiplash, the heavy knob of his walking stick lashed out from his right hand. The gnarled silver design smashed into the railroad detective’s right hand, knocked his revolver to the left, and broke three of the delicate bones under his thin, pale skin before reflex caused the Remington to go off.
In the reverberating crash of sound, Griff leaped on his tormentor. Heavy blows to both sides of the head rocked Phillby. Griff followed up with a knee to the groin and wrenched the weapon out of the railroad agent’s fist. He used the heavy Remington like a club, whipping it into the side of the detective’s head. Phillby went stiff and then relaxed into unconsciousness.
“M’God. I heard the shot, Marshal, and come runnin’.” The hotel clerk stood in the open doorway, a sawed-off Greener shotgun in his hands.
“Thanks, Clive. Appreciate that. Help me drag him out of here and over to the jail.”
“I got nothin’ to say,” came the surly response from Ronald Phillby, the R.P.A. agent. He sat in his cell, glowering at Griff, a large swath of bandage around his head.
“I found a wadded-up sheet, covered with blood, in your room. I found traces of blood, not too carefully scrubbed, on the floor. And a knife big enough and dull enough to make the sort of wound we found in Snuffy’s back. What happened? Did you overhear him say something about the Railroad Protective Association and connect it to me? Or did you tip too much by asking questions around town?”
“I told you. I got nothing to say. And when the mayor hears about you being wanted in Illinois, Missouri, Tennessee, and Georgia, I’ve a feeling I’ll walk out of here and you’ll hang for that killing.”
“Wrong. I have all the evidence we need to put the noose around your neck. I’d only like to know what it was that made it worth the risk to kill an old man.”
“Forget it.”
The detective’s eyes widened and in the same instant, Griff dropped to the floor.
From the corner of his eye, Griff caught a glimpse of a revolver barrel poked through the barred window. The phony drummer had a partner. He had left his own revolver outside the cell. Too wary to approach a dangerous man totally unarmed, he had his .28 caliber pepperbox concealed in the waistband of his trousers. The Colt hanging in the window exploded before he had a chance to draw.
In rapid succession, two slugs blasted apart the prisoner’s chest. Then Griff put all three .28 balls into the exposed forearm of the assassin. A yowl of pain came from outside followed by running feet. Griff scooped up the dropped Colt and stood where he could see out the window. He took aim and squeezed off a round.
Unfortunately his aim proved too good. The .44 slug severed the fleeing man’s spine and he was dead before Griff could cock the 1860 Army for a second try.
Once all of the excitement died down, and there had been a considerable amount of it, Ansel Thorson slipped into the marshal’s office. “There’s a man just come into town you’ve been wantin’ to talk with. Ja, sure. It’s Windy Tremaine, cook for Captain John Fallon.”
Chapter Seven
“WE LEFT THE Tuckers at Fort Kearny. That’s on the South Platte River. Nebraska.” For Windy Tremaine, a short, incredibly brown and wrinkled man with salt and pepper hair and beard, that was a mouthful of words. Not given to being talkative, Windy preferred the company of his huge, iron dutch ovens and frying pans to people. He found he had a rapt audience in Griffin Stark, though, no matter how sparing he might be in his comments.
“That was last August?”
“Nope. Near to October when we got there.”
“All the same. They had a small boy with them? Seven years old or so? Blond hair, black eyes?”
“Seems they did.”
“Tell me about him.”
“ ’Bout so high.” Windy held his arm a little below shoulder level. On him that made it about three foot six inches. “Ornery. Bright. Liked his grub. Even et mine.”
“Did he … seem happy?”
“Yep. Ball o’ fire.”
Griff restrained his eagerness. He could pull teeth with his bare hands easier than getting information out of this man. “Did they happen to say where they intended to go?”
“Didn’t talk much, that Evan Tucker.”
Judged by Windy’s standards, Griff thought, that must make his brother-in-law almost a mute. “Could he have found work as a blacksmith around Fort Kearny?”
“Nope. Army’s got their own.”
“Aren’t there any people living near the fort?”
“Homesteaders. Provin’ their government claims.”
This was getting him no farther. Griff decided to change the subject. “When will Captain Fallon be in?”
“Week, maybe.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tremaine. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Glad to be of aid. Always like a good jaw session.”
Filled with a growing urge to get under way, Griff went to Ansel’s wheelwright shop. “Ansel, he’s there. Jeremy is somewhere near Fort Kearny.”
“And you want to start off now. Ja, sure.” Ansel shook his head. “Wait for the spring rains to be over first. Then we go. Ja, sure.”
Days passed at a maddeningly slow pace. Griff packed and repacked his saddlebags. Impatiently he came to the conclusion he could not take along all he needed on a single animal. He again consulted his friend.
“Ansel, where can I get a good pack mule?,,
“Go to Stan Douglas. He has good stock, sturdy and able to go long distances without water or food.”
“We’re going to be in relatively settled country, right? What makes that so important, then?”
“Ja, sure. Kansas and Nebraska are getting settled. About a person for every five miles. But there are Indians around Fort Kearny. Cheyenne and Omaha, Pawnee, all of them fierce. We might have to go to some wild places to keep out of their way. Get a good mule, Griff. Ja, sure.”
Stan Douglas gave every impression of not wanting to part with a single animal in his corral. He hemmed and hawed over the relative merits of each, quibbled about price and at last allowed that he might not have what Griff wanted.
“Mayor Ormsby put you up to this, didn’t he?” Griff demanded, a suspicion dawning on him.
“Not at all. I am proud of the mules I sell. If I can’t be, I’d rather not stick a man with a poor one.” He rubbed a bristly chin with one wide, thick hand. Clear blue eyes shone out of deep sockets, appraising Griff and shrewdly estimating how much money the traffic would bear.
“I like the ones you have here. Any of them. Is—” Griff pointed at a tall gray “—that one broken to a packsaddle?”
“Yep. Won’t buck or try to drag it off under a tree.”
“Good. I’ll take him.”
“He’s a little soft footed,” Douglas cautioned.
“Shoe him,” Griff suggested. “What about that black over there?”
“Bit short on wind.”
“I’m not racing the damn thing,” Griff snapped in exasperati
on. “All right, you pick one.”
Stan Douglas took a long, lingering look at his stock. Finally he put out a hesitant finger. “That black over there, the one with a little brown mixed in his coat.
Griff studied the animal. It had a hammer head, short legs, and small, mean eyes. It looked about as peaceful and easy to manage as the devil with his tail in a wringer. “Looks good to me. What’s his name?”
“Satan.”
“I think I’ll take the gray. I’ll put the shoes on him.”
“That’ll be fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars for a mule?”
“Best animal in a hundred miles. Take it or leave it.”
“I could see thirty, but not fifty. You said he had soft feet.”
“Don’t interfere with his carryin’ things. Good pack animal. Forty-five dollars.”
“I wouldn’t go over thirty-five. I have the expense of a hoof trim and shoeing, after all.”
“Split the difference. Forty dollars.”
“Done.”
“You got took. Ja, sure. You got took right good,” Ansel told him half an hour later.
The end of the week came and still no Captain Fallon. Griff all but bit his nails with anxiety. So far some six wagon masters had appeared in St. Joe. Griff considered taking to the bottle again, but rejected the idea. He hadn’t drank more than two shots of whiskey or a pitcher of beer at one time since he’d taken the badge as marshal.
Tuesday of the next week came; and a tall, lean man of indeterminate age, rode into town on a big chested, blood bay. He wore a buckskin shirt and trousers, high black boots that came nearly to his knees, and a wide-brimmed fawn-colored hat. He had a pair of tooled-leather holsters over the high Spanish fork and large, flat horn of his saddle; they bore a pair of huge Colt dragoon horse pistols. Wavy, dark brown hair hung to his collar, curled slightly outward at the ends; and in the crook of his right elbow, he held a Henry repeating rifle.
Captain John Fallon had come to town.
“Don’t let the getup fool you, son,” Windy Tremaine remarked to Griff in a burst of loquacity. “He’s the best damn wagon master in a thousand miles.”
“Will you introduce me to him?”
“Yep.”
“Now?”
“Nope. T’night at the camp grounds. Cap’n John’s at his best around a bonfire.”
So Griff waited, rehearsing over and over the questions he wanted to ask. As the sun sank below the distant flat rim of the prairie, reflecting for long, dramatic moments off the rippling water of the Missouri, he went first to Ansel’s shop.
“Ja, sure. I’m through for the day. I’ll come with you.”
Windy made a typically verbose introduction. “Cap’n John, Griff Stark. Griff … Cap’n John.”
“Talkative, ain’t he?” the wagon master said through a chuckle. “Best cook in five counties, though. If I didn’t have him along to fix victuals for my crew and myself, I’d have a mutiny on my hands and I’d starve to death.” Suddenly he got down to business. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Stark? This year I’m on a long haul. Bellingham Bay, up in the Oregon Territory. You fixin’ to sign on as an immigrant or a crewman?”
“No. I got a job. Marshal of St. Joe.”
“Hmm. I’ve not done something wrong, have I?” Firelight reflected off the bronze skin stretched over the wagon master’s high cheekbones.
Griff gave him an easy smile. “Not at all. I do want to ask you some questions, though. Last summer you took a family named Tucker to Fort Kearny.”
“That’s right. I recall them well. Feller with one hand. A blacksmith. Fair at doctorin’ critters, too. He pulled one of my horses out of a bad case of sanding. What would you like to know?”
“First off, did they winter at Fort Kearny?”
“That I don’t know. I didn’t stay there. Went on to Fort Laramie.”
“Did you ever happen to hear what Evan Tucker planned to do, where he was going to settle?”
“N-nooo,” Fallon responded slowly, searching his memory. “Not exactly. He did once mention having heard there was some good land up above Wolf River – the Frenchies call it the Loup – he was interested in. Around Broken Bow. Is that any help?”
“More than you can imagine. I can find them from that.”
“Is he wanted?”
“Yes. But not like you think. He’s my brother-in-law and the boy with them is my son.”
“Uh-huh. The lad does have a little of your looks.”
“But mostly his mother’s, thank God,” Griff amended with a chuckle.
“Your wife is here with you?”
“She’s … dead. That bastard Sherman’s Bummers got her. Burned our home.”
“My sympathies. You participated in the war?”
“Yes. Major in Stuart’s cavalry. My squadron was assigned to Jubel Early’s command.”
“I took time out from my profession to join the Great Conflict.”
Griff’s eyes hardened, suspecting a Yankee. “What outfit?”
“I scouted for Stand Wattey.”
“You’re … Cherokee?” Griff made no effort to conceal his surprise or his pleasure.
“On my mother’s side. Did you know, our general was the last Confederate commander to surrender?”
“I admire him for it, sir.”
“As do I. The reprisals were terrible, though. I won’t give the Indian Nations another ten years before the people lose all their land to the Yankees.” The last came out bitterly.
“You might be surprised. Broken Bow, then. Thank you, Captain Fallon.”
“Good night, Major.”
“Just marshal now. Good night to you.” A few minutes later, Griff spoke excitedly to Ansel. “We can be there in two weeks. We’ll move fast, cover lots of ground.”
“Ja, sure. At the pace the horses will put up with. Don’t be chuckin’ the little feller under the chin too soon, I’m thinkin’.”
“Both of them dead?” General Manager Chambers paced the floor of his St. Louis office and cast repeated glances at his visitor. “At least they won’t do any talking that way. You’re sure Smith killed Phillby?”
“No question of it. Marshal Stark ducked and the bullets meant for him took Phillby in the chest. Then Stark killed Smith while he was trying to escape.”
“End of round three. This man leads a charmed life. What I still can’t understand is why Mr. Treadwell so frantically wants him dead? Ours not to reason why, I suppose. On your way out would you tell Miss Evers to show Colonel Braithwaite in? Thank you.”
Two minutes later the ex-Confederate entered Chambers’ office. The manager greeted him warmly, poured bourbon from a crystal decanter set, and offered the colonel a fine Havana.
“Some reception,” Braithwaite began dryly. “I gather my stock has risen somewhat?”
“It has indeed. Your handling of the affair with those miners in the northeastern part of Colorado Territory was brilliant. It was blamed on Indians?”
“Yes. The Arapahos. There’s even talk of a Territorial militia being formed. A fellow name Chivington. He’s totally incompetent. Never seen a day’s service in any army, I don’t believe. But, if he gets the tribes stirred up, it can only result in trouble for our competitors.”
“What about our own enterprises?”
“Not to worry. If Chivington gets his way, we pose as the ‘Friends of the Noble Redmen’ and they’ll go out of their way to let us do what we want.”
“There’s another matter that needs immediate attention. Your old comrade in arms, Griffin Stark, is becoming a bit more than a nuisance. He is to be eliminated. Orders from the top.”
Braithwaite suppressed a triumphant smile. He would have a second chance at exterminating the uppity Georgia clodhopper. “Where is Stark?”
“In Saint Joseph, Missouri. He’s the town law. Send some of your boys over to deal with the problem, if you will.”
“Gladly. I’ll take care of it myself.”
/> “Come, come. There’s no room for personalities in this business. Send your best men, if necessary, but the home office desires that you stay in Silver Creek.” Braithwaite scowled but held his peace. “Stark is not a gold-crazed miner or a stupid savage. We got € three Arapahos drunk, took them along, and shot them in that mining camp. It was our ‘proof’ that savages committed the atrocity. That sort of thing won’t work with Griffin Stark.”
“A simple bullet in the back of the head will do fine.”
“Consider it already done.”
Tall, swaying humps of buffalo grass reached to the horses’ withers. To Griff Stark it seemed like a vast gray-green sea in constant, restless motion. In every direction he could see, uninterrupted, to the far, blurry horizon. Not a ridge, hill, or tree broke the rolling swell of the prairie. The farms around St. Joseph and across the river in Kansas had reduced this mystical land into a checkerboard: squares of rich black earth, freshly plowed and others of ripening yellow grain. Not until they rode beyond the fringes of civilization did Griff and Ansel discover the wonders of the plains.
“No wonder the Indians call this ‘The land the gods made last.’ Ja, sure, it is a wondrous sight.”
“We’ll push on until nearly dark. Walk the horses ten minutes every hour.”
“It would have helped if we brought more grain. The animals will weaken out here, I’m thinkin’. Ja, sure, we will, too, if we keep up this pace.”
“The cavalry does it all the time,” Griff returned.
“We are not in the cavalry,” Ansel observed. “I came along to see this land. If we go slower we will see it all and live to tell about it. Ja, sure.”
“How about some buffalo for supper?” Griff asked to change the subject. He could not contain his urgency. Common sense told him that Ansel was right, yet every hour that he wasted kept him longer from his reunion with his son.
“Where would we get that?”
“Aren’t those dark blotches up ahead buffalo?”
Ansel peered into the distance. “Ja, sure. It could be. It will keep a long time, that meat. Not like beef or pork. The Indians call beef the ‘stinking meat.’ ”
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