Nathan Gould- Gunfighter from Green Mountain

by Bruce Graham

  I smiled a small smile. “Don’t go away mad.”

  She flicked her head so that her hair appeared wild. “But I will go away.” She ambled around the table to a man younger than I, in clean denim and a small hat. “Hello, Tom. How’s the family?”

  I stared at the drink that she had barely touched. I reached over and picked up the glass. I lifted it to my nose and smelled. There was no tang of liquor, but a slight odor of something else that I didn’t place for a moment. Then: tea. Her drink was alcohol free, so she wouldn’t lose control, but mine, at least at the beginning, would be heavier, to get me to lose my inhibitions sooner and drink more. I felt myself flushing. I realized what a greenhorn I was. How had I gone through five years in the Army, away from home, and learned so little about the blandishments used to separate me from my money, and who knows what more.

  I looked at Clare, arm in arm with someone she called Tom, bellied up to the bar and laughing. To her I was nothing but a commodity, a simple, ignorant hayseed to be milked for money. I had foolishly gone along with her, like a lamb to the slaughter; no, not the slaughter, that would be too fast; to the shearing, that could be done day after day, or as often as I’d let it go on and my cash would last. Did she know what I did for the Express? Did she realize that I might be worth more as a customer that the other men who drifted in and out of here?

  I stood up and turned away from Clare and Tom, whispering to each other over the bar. I strode from the Cantina and into the afternoon brightness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The cargo was loaded and the mules waiting when I arrived the next morning at the express office in the barely daylight. Logan wished me a bon voyage and I was off toward Laredo. When I was midway to Zapata and stopped to nourish and water the mules, I first noticed a small wooden box, not in the boot, but partially covered by a blanket on the floor of the freight compartment. I drew off the blanket and saw the stenciled lettering on the box: United States Currency to Taylor’s Bank, Laredo. I wrestled with the box and found the manifest attached to the underside: United States currency, $5,000.

  I replaced the blanket and resumed my journey. I arrived at the Zapata station and was more than my usual self in paying attention to the care devoted to the coach and contents. Several additional crates went into the boot. The money box was not readily visible and when the station crew went on to other work I spent my usual restful night.

  In the morning I checked the coach and noted that the blanket on the money box seemed to not have been moved from its position of the night before. I left the station with some trepidation over what would happen when Red Horse and his gang stopped me.

  I had no reason to worry long: I wasn’t yet at Ramerino when the three familiar horsemen appeared, but without any show of guns. “Buenos dias, Senor,” called Red Horse. “We are here to inspect your cargo once more. I presume you are not armed, as usual.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Si, Senor.”

  “Bueno.” He waved his hand toward the boot.

  One of the others dismounted and went to the boot. He was pushing the boxes around when Red Horse backed his horse abruptly. “Caramba.” He went for the pistol at his belt.

  The voice from behind me was not familiar: “Don’t move, you’re all under arrest.”

  Red Horse’s still mounted companion’s pistol was out, but two shots rang out behind me. The man cried out and toppled from his horse.

  The mules backed and snorted. I almost fell from the box, but dropped my arms and sank onto the box with a start.

  More shots rang out and Red Horse spun around on his mount, bent over. Horse and rider headed off at a gallop.

  “I give up,” cried the man who had been rifling the boot, hands in the air.

  Three men---the three that I had brought with me from Brownsville---walked their horses into sight, pistols at the ready. One of the men came to the coach. “Are you all right, son?”

  “I’m fine. What’s this all about?”

  “We knew he’d be after the money, we’re here to prevent it. We’re Pinkertons.” The man flourished a badge bearing the label “Pinkerton’s Detective Agency.”

  The men milled around, two of them heading off in the direction in which Red Horse had escaped, but returned in a couple of minutes. One of them said “He’s in the brush, shedding blood. If he’s alive, he might be in ambush, but he might be dead soon, too.”

  The three men tossed the dead bandit across his horse’s saddle and put the live bandit in shackles. The men conferred, and the leader came to me. “Go on with your trip, as if nothing happened. We’ll be not far off in case that bandit tries again and Bill will take these two back to Rio Grande.”

  I was shaken, I’m not sure if from the danger of flying lead or the shock of the entire ordeal and the confusion of the events. I took the reins and goaded the mules to action. We rumbled up the road and out of sight of the goings on behind.

  I was troubled by my conflicted emotions. On the one hand, the three bandits had been decent and pleasant enough with me, there was no reason for me to wish them evil. Yet they were robbers who needed to be dealt with before they could complete the theft of the cash in the boot. And I found myself in a situation not far different from my confrontation with the two Confederates who were trying to surrender, but wound up being killed by my poor handling of a situation; my pattern of passivity had lulled Red Horse into laxity that broke up his gang and might have killed him.

  When I arrived in Ramireno, there was more than the usual activity in the street and a small crowd at the steps leading up to the second floor office that the sign identified as that of Doctor Carlos Moreno. I brought the coach to a halt across the street in front of the livery stable and studied the scene.

  A man appearing to be an Anglo came to my side. “You don’t usually stop here,” he said.

  “I noticed the uproar. What’s going on?”

  “A man came in with a gunshot wound a little while ago. He came from the direction of Zapata. Did you notice anything down there?”

  “How was he shot?”

  The man shrugged. “I can’t say, he fell off his horse down by the Cantina and they carried him up to the Doc. Have you had a problem with bandits on your trips?”

  “As a matter of fact on a couple of runs three men stopped me, but didn’t take anything.”

  “How about this time? My brother’s the town marshal and he’d want to know.”

  “Does this man have a name?”

  The man snickered. “Did your bandits give their names?”

  I felt myself flushing. Before I had a chance to say anything more two Mexicans emerged from the Doctor’s office door. One said something and the group on the ground clapped and cheered.

  “I guess that means he’ll be okay, for the moment,” said the man by my side. “He’s the veterinarian, but the closest thing we have to a sawbones here. If I was you I’d high tail it, in case the crowd gets the idea that you might have something to do with his being plugged.”

  I almost asked something before the man spoke again.

  “When a Mexican is shot or beaten or knifed or injured, they look to take it out on any Anglo they think is responsible. And if this hombre came to grief out on the trail they’ll most surely look for an Anglo to blame.”

  Without another word I pushed the mules to action and was quickly out of the town and headed for Laredo. The coach moved along through San Ygnacio and on the long stretch of open road. Every once in a while I looked behind and off to the sides for any followers or the two Pinkertons. I searched my recollection for what were the Pinkertons. It had something to do with President Lincoln, but beyond that my mind drew a blank. And I felt anger that Logan would have arranged to ambush Red Horse when the Mexican had not caused any loss to the Express Company and had me carry a cargo of money without warning me.

  But perhaps Logan had nothing to do with the Pinkertons, maybe they were operating on their own, knowing that the money was in the ca
rgo and would be lost if Red Horse intercepted me. But why would Logan have risked losing the money when I had no way to prevent it? I was surely confused, no doubt because four years of exposure to the straightforward military hierarchy and command structure had not prepared me for chicanery and subtlety in the world of business.

  The Army expected enlisted men to do their job which was planned above and conceived to be pursued with cooperation both in the levels of command and between individuals and units. Orders had specific objectives usually involving coordination to accomplish those objectives and generally understood goals and procedures. Here I had been confronted with actions not clear in their objectives and even obscured from me, and about which I was unclear.

  By the time I arrived in Laredo I was mentally and physically worn out. I delivered the cargo and rested overnight, emerging from the station to a loaded boot and a woman in western clothing, including a bulky looking jacket. While we milled about the jacket opened a bit and I made out a pistol in a shoulder holster, something that I had never seen before.

  “That’s an odd rig,” I commented, looking directly at the pistol in the holster.

  “Do you have some problem with it?” she asked.

  “No, no. I simply said that I’d never seen such a thing.”

  She frowned. “Would a pair of Colt’s Dragoons be more to your liking?”

  I began climbing onto the box. “Look, I’m sorry that you have a chip on your shoulder. I made a simple comment. I didn’t mean anything by it. You can mount up and we’ll be off.”

  “Be careful of your comments. Do you have a guard? And are you armed?”

  “No and no.”

  “I have quite a cargo of precious jewels, which is why I carry a gun and show it off. I expect the Company to provide adequate security so that I won’t have to use my pistol and risk being killed or wounded. It’s the job of the Company to defend me and my cargo.”

  I studied her for several seconds. Then: “You can take that up with the Company agent. My job is to drive the stage and I do it as they tell me, which is to be not armed. If that doesn’t suit you, take it up with the agent, inside. But we’ll be leaving in three minutes.”

  She went into the coach and I prepared to get the mules into action. I heard nothing from her until we stopped at the midway point to rest, feed and water the mules. She climbed down from the coach while I munched on my hardtack. She meandered around and stopped quietly for a few moments. Then: “Is there anywhere that a girl can, you know?”

  I didn’t look at her. “Same as we boys.”

  She looked around at the open spaces. “Nothing private?”

  I began munching on another hardtack. “I promise not to look.”

  “Are you always this gracious?”

  “Miss---.”

  “It’s Mrs., I have a husband in Austin.

  “Lucky him. I’d like to leave in five minutes. I hope that’s enough time for you.”

  I dug in for another hardtack. When I looked up she was gone. I downed a long draft of water and inspected the gear on the rig. I made no effort to either see where she had gone or to avoid where she had gone. I doused the mules’ muzzles with water.

  She was suddenly climbing into the coach.

  I said nothing but clambered up onto the box and whistled the mules into action. We thundered across the plain without incident, while I thought of Red Horse and his crowd of sympathizers. I decided to go right through San Ygnacio and Ramireno without pausing until I got to Zapata. Even if Red Horse was under doctor’s care his friends might be in waiting for the coach that the bandit chief would have had time to say was responsible for his injury.

  The woman called out: “Will there be a place where I can get something to eat soon?”

  “There are two towns coming up, but we’re not stopping.”

  “Why not? The sign at the station said that meals were available.”

  “I didn’t make up the sign. We stop overnight in Zapata so I figure that the sign referred to supper and breakfast. I bring something for noontime, none too good, like Army grub.”

  “Would you be inclined to share?”

  “I bring enough for noontime today and noontime tomorrow.”

  “Why won’t you stop in one of the two towns?”

  “Because some people there may want to do me harm.”

  She laughed. “So much for the wild, wild West. The coach driver is afraid that somebody may want to hurt him.”

  It just so happened that we were about to move through some seriously rough ground, and I knew how to maneuver through it with minimal bumping. But I could also make certain to run over some very uncomfortable terrain. I did so, and the bumping and shouting from inside the passenger area was very much and very enjoyable.

  “Can’t you slow down?” she hollered.

  “I have slowed down. This place is badly washed out and it’ll be worse if I creep through it. Hold on and be patient. It’s almost over.”

  She kept growling and hollering until I reached moderately level roadway.

  I coasted through San Ygnacio a bit faster than usual. All was normal during the stop at the Zapata station, except for the crew coping with the whining woman about her Spartan accommodations.

  In the morning we were on the road a bit later because of the woman’s tardiness. She was sullen at the midpoint pause to feed and water the mules, when she asked: “The man at the station said that you were involved in fighting off a Mexican gang on your way up. Is that why you didn’t want to stop in those towns?”

  I wasn’t about to let this troublesome woman hear that I’d had my hands in the air while the Pinkertons killed one, arrested another, wounded and drove off Red Horse. But I couldn’t take credit for something that she’d eventually find out wasn’t any of my doing. “There was a shootout, the leader was wounded and went for help in Ramerino. When I came through there on my way up there was a mob of his friends, I suppose, and the doctor seemed to have patched him up. I just didn’t want to take a chance with a much larger bunch.”

  “How many were there?”

  “In the holdup? Three.” It was time to change the subject. “We have to go.”

  She was silent until we were unloading in Rio Grande. Then she stood next to me. “Were you in the Army?”

  “Vermont Volunteers. I decided not to go back to be mustered out, but stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “I have more of a future here.” I kept helping with unloading the cargo.

  She half turned away. “See me in the Cantina in an hour. I may have a proposition for you.” She spun and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Cantina was not quite crowded, but the girls were plying their trade and the faro and other games were busy. My temporary companion on Sunday didn’t acknowledge me as she huddled between two ranch hands at a table. I found the woman from the coach at an otherwise empty table near the faro game.

  She was in a jeans dress and a shirt with a large vest that I presumed was designed to better disguise her pistol and shoulder holster. Her hair was flowing halfway down her back and she must have cleaned up quite a bit from the ride. “I’m famished. Supper and drinks are on me.”

  I sank into a chair at 90 degrees from her. “That’s an offer I won’t refuse.”

  The waiter came and she snapped “Two Bourbons and steaks, potatoes.”

  The waiter nodded and went away.

  “I’m sorry if I was brusque with you yesterday,” she said. “Would it hurt for you to apologize for being harsh with me?”

  I smiled a little. “Whatever ‘brusque’ means, I accept your apology and I’m sorry if I was the same with you.”

  She smiled more broadly. She held out her hand.

  I grasped it firmly and for several seconds, then released it.

  “Okay, I’ll get to the point. My husband has a security firm in Austin and has a deal with the state to watch the Capitol. He needs men who’ll be firm and can handle a
gun. I figure you’ll be one of them.”

  “What about the Rangers? They’re a state agency, right?”

  “They don’t exist, the state can’t spend the money, the Federal Reconstruction forces do law enforcement outside of the city, they’re not in local or state facility law enforcement.

  Local justice, such as it is, comes from the barrel of a gun and such arrangements as the locals make. I know he’ll pay better than you get here, and the work won’t be nearly as dangerous.”

  “You say it’s at Austin?”

  “Right at the Capitol, my husband says you’ll have a uniform and $75 a month, plus living expenses, Yankee greenbacks. I’ll provide a horse and saddle and tack. We leave tomorrow morning.”

  The drinks and steaks appeared and the waiter left.

  I dug into the steak.

  She held up her glass. “To Austin.”

  I hesitatingly lifted my glass. “I haven’t agreed yet.”

  She sipped her drink. “What’s your misgiving?”

  I wasn’t certain what “misgiving” meant, but decided that it had something to do with not being certain and wasn’t about the wrangle over the subtleties of verbiage. “I’m not sure if I should get involved. How do you know your husband will go along?”

  She laughed. “He does what I tell him. He fronts to the macho men he deals with. They wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman in charge. I’m the brains of the operation, but strictly behind the scenes. And he knows it. Meet me at the livery stable at seven.” She dug into the steak.

  I followed suit, and deemed it expedient to let the conversation end.

  In the morning I found Logan at the office a half hour earlier than usual, with the sky barely showing light. He frowned when he saw me and I did not smile at him.

  “You had a run in with your bandit friends,” Logan said.

  “You could have had me killed.”

  “But you weren’t killed.”