* * *
Her timing had been impeccable, for Seth Beckstead has stepped out of the Post office door. Seeing her, he started to smile, but that vanished when she stopped the carriage, stepped around it, and said, “You paid them to choose me to play Lucy.”
Quickly he pulled the door shut.
“I thought . . .”
“I do not care one whit for what you thought. I thought you were a gentleman.”
He straightened. “I opened my heart and soul to you the other night.”
“I did not ask you to do so. Nor did I ask you to take me to the theater, or to buy me a role on the boards.”
His head turned toward the people passing on the other side of Wallace Street, and he looked past her down the boardwalk, probably seeing more people. Virginia City and the Fourteen Mile City had lost hundreds, perhaps thousands, of residents to Helena and the newer mining camps over the past months, but she still boasted a substantial population, especially of gossips.
“Perhaps we should hear one another out . . . in my office . . . or your home.”
“I do not want you inside my home again, Dr. Beckstead. And the next doctor’s office I visit will be Dr. Justice’s.” She spun quickly, moved to the carriage, and began to turn it around.
“Ellen,” Beckstead whispered with urgency, “the other night, you kissed . . .”
She was already pushing the carriage down the boardwalk and spoke without shame, and without turning her head back to him.
“You kissed me. Uninvited and unwelcomed. If you remember, I did not return your kiss.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Rather than turning onto the wide and rutted Oregon Trail, they stayed with the Big Blue River north, then westerly until reaching the Platte. The Texans, and some of the Kansans, could not believe the river.
“I thought it was an ocean,” Ryan Ward said. “At first, I mean.”
Molly McDonald thought the kid was horsing around, but quickly realized he was serious.
“You could see the other side,” Molly said.
“I know that, Mickey. But . . . it’s . . .”
“Wider than anything we call a river in Texas,” Dalton Combs said as he rolled a cigarette. “That’s certain for sure.”
“Nothing that shallow in Texas,” Jameson Hannah said. “Except most of the women I know.” He laughed.
Molly spit into the fire and looked at Constance Bennett, who stared, coffee cup untouched, at Mason Boone’s back. The cowboy was adjusting the stirrups on his saddle, and the unlacing and lacing that required would keep him occupied the rest of the night.
“He ain’t gonna tell nobody,” Molly whispered.
She didn’t appear to hear, but she had, and slowly realized Molly was speaking to her. Blinking, Constance turned around. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t . . . well . . .” Constance sighed like she had just climbed a mountain—like you’d find any mountains in this country. “He . . . I really wasn’t thinking . . . about . . .” Her head tilted toward the Texas cowboy. She rose, and moved closer to the fire, not to keep warm—not as hot as this day had been, but so no one would overhear the conversation. “I was thinking . . . about . . . Fort Kearny.”
Shaking her head, Molly smiled. “No one recognized you, me neither, in Maryville when we went through that pebble of a burg. Nobody will know us from Adam’s left ox when we get to Dobytown.”
Tears began welling in Constance’s eyes.
Molly scooted across the ground, tossing out her coffee onto the grass. Leaning forward, she spoke quietly but sternly. “Buck up. They see you crying, they’ll suspicion you and me for sure. You know what a bastard Story is. Think he’ll let a woman, or a couple of women, ride with him to Montana? Hell, no. He’ll figure us to be deviants and turn us afoot, maybe tar and feather us. Wouldn’t put nothing past that—” She stopped in midsentence and looked at young Sibrian as he came over to warm himself by the fire. How a Mexican could think he needed to stay warm in this infernal heat pestered Molly, but she painted on an idiot’s grin and held up her cup.
“Hey, kid, would you mind runnin’ over to that belly-cheater and gettin’ me another cup?” She rubbed her knee. “All that sittin’ in a wagon just aches an ol’ hoss like me.” Old hoss. Hell, she was just past thirty. But Sibrian likely figured thirty to be ancient, pup that he was. The Mexican grinned, Molly tossed the cup to him, and when he had moved twenty feet, she whirled back to Constance.
“That’s right. Wipe your eyes. You can blame that on smoke. Trust me. That major you killed is buried and forgotten. And we get past Kearny, we’re free.” She laughed. “Unless we get killed by Injuns.”
She made herself stand, squeezed Constance’s shoulder, and faked a limp as she came out to get the cup of fresh coffee from the wrangler. After thanking him in her worst Spanish, she sipped some of the coffee and looked back at Constance. Who stared again across the camping ground at Boone.
“Shit.” Molly gritted her teeth and heard one of the bullwhackers call out, “Mickey. How ’bout a story? Or a little Spanish monte?”
“How ’bout both?” She turned away from Constance, shifted the chaw to her other cheek, and limped toward the gathering of gamblers.
Maybe the Texas boy would be good for the girl. Keep her mind off Fort Kearny and the rotting corpse of that son of a bitch she had knifed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Dragoons, cavalry, scouts—whatever the hell they were—galloped past the wagon, and Steve Grover cheered them as the oxen slowed, and John Catlin breathed again. Fort Laramie, big, sprawling, dismal but suddenly the most beautiful sentinel Catlin had ever seen, lay 100 or 150 yards before them. A pistol shot echoed as the soldiers chased after the Cheyennes, and another group of soldiers rode out of the fort. Grover cheered them, too. Catlin probably would have, as well, if he had any voice left.
He leaned the Enfield against the freight wagon and looked into the pouch on his belt. Empty. No voice. No powder or lead, either. Damn, they were lucky.
Another rider left the fort, but at a walk, and not dressed in Union blue. Major Coushatta John Noah trotted down the line of wagons that made up his train till stopping beside Catlin and Grover. Swinging a leg over his horn, he grinned before nodding at the worst bullwhacker and boy extra he had ever hired.
“You can thank me with a whiskey at the post sutler’s this evening,” Noah said.
“For what?” Catlin had climbed into the back of the wagon, pulling Cheyenne arrows out of the sides of boxes and sacks of seeds and such.
“Putting you last in the train.” Noah dropped out of the saddle and walked to the wagon, yanking out two more arrows. “Had I put you fellows anywhere else, a lot of us would be dead.”
“We almost were.” Catlin stuck his hand into the pouch and withdrew his empty fingers.
“You ought to play faro, Catlin.” Noah dropped the arrows into the dirt and returned to his horse.
“They always attack this close to the fort?” Grover asked as he moved back to where he had made a seat of some sort at the front of the wagon.
“Never. I’ll stand you two to drinks after I clean up. Find out where the idiot in charge here wants us to make camp. Wash up, empty what all you crapped in your britches, and be prepared to get good and drunk.” He led the horse about ten yards before stopping and turning back after Grover called out his name.
“Good and drunk?” Steve Grover beamed. “That’s redundant.”
* * *
They sat on a bench, watching the sun sink, the soldiers march like men with purpose but not much order, and the civilians in tents, shelters, huts, or nothing at all. Catlin wasn’t certain if a census taker would find more civilians or soldiers at Fort Laramie. There were slim pickings for grazing land—at least close enough to keep any Cheyennes from stealing livestock or slitting throats.
Catlin took another sip from the jug and passed it to Grover.
“You’re b
laming this on the new forts?” He studied Noah, who didn’t look like he was that drunk.
“Damn right. Son, you look at this from a white man’s eyes. You gotta take the Indians’ point of view.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Grover said.
“First . . .” Noah didn’t even look at Grover. “You got thousands of white folks coming through Indian country. Indian country given to them by our U.S. government. Nobody asked Red Cloud or anyone else if that was all right with the Sioux. Sioux got a little riled. But things weren’t that bad till our U.S. government decided it was well and good to put up some forts on land we give, through treaty, to the Indians. Again, nobody asked Red Cloud or anybody what they thought about this.”
“They’re just digger Indians,” Grover said.
“Boy.” Now Noah turned to glare at Catlin’s pard. “Only digging those Indians do is for graves.”
“They put their dead on scaffolds,” Grover said. He was drunk, Catlin figured. “I seen the drawings in—”
“Digging graves for those they kill,” Noah said. His hand shot up. “I know, boy. I know. They don’t dig graves. I was being facetious.”
Catlin changed the subject. “What did the commandant say?”
“Enough to convince me that our best chance is to forget Montana.”
The jug had returned to Catlin, who started lifting it to his mouth, but now lowered it.
“By my ciphering, I can make enough of a profit by taking these wagons to Salt Lake.”
“What about Virginia City?” Catlin said.
“Making a profit don’t mean a thing, son, if you’re dead.”
Noah took the jug, drank, wiped his lips, and tossed the Taos Lightning to Grover. “We’ll rest here a few days. Let the soldiers chase the ornery Cheyennes away. We head west, not north, won’t likely run into many hostiles. I’m not always a cautious man. But I am rarely suicidal.” He started away.
“I had my mind on Montana,” Catlin said.
Coushatta John Noah stopped, turned, and put his hands on his hips. “You hear anything I just said, boy?”
“I didn’t leave Indiana to settle in Salt Lake. And I didn’t quit farming to look at an oversized cow’s ass for a thousand or more miles.”
Noah’s mouth opened, but before he could speak, Catlin asked, “How much to buy you out? Just this wagon.” He chuckled. “That’s likely all I can afford.”
“Buy me out?”
“You got no contracts in Salt Lake, Major. No guarantee you’ll sell anything. How much? For this rig, the oxen, and all she carries?”
The wagon boss walked back, took the jug, poured more whiskey down his throat, and shoved the jug into Catlin’s hands. “You are loco.”
“Just make me a good offer.”
“You might be eating all that grain and shit till next fall, boy. The army has issued a law. You can’t light out for Montana on your own. If you were dumb enough to try. Lakotas would have you scalped, gutted, and feeding ravens within a week. But there’s a rule—and they sure are enforcing it here—that says thirty armed men and twenty wagons, at the least, for permission to travel through hostile territory. Without you, I still got my numbers. But without me, you’d have to catch another train. And I don’t think you’ll find anybody wanting to go to Virginia City. Not this time of year. Not after me.”
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“I think a night’s sleep’ll change your mind,” Noah said.
Steve Grover took a pull from the jug. “I thought you knew John better than that, Major.”
“You side with him?” Noah asked.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t boring riding with him.” Grover wiped his mouth.
“Fools.” Noah walked away.
* * *
The next morning, Major Coushatta John Noah handed John Catlin a bill of sale.
“Told you we was pards after you saved my hair back down the trail,” he said. “Figured our partnership would last longer. Tell me you realized the error of what you was thinking.”
“I’m going to Montana, Major.”
“Then put that paper in your pocket. On the back I wrote out a letter of introduction.” He held out his hand. “I’m glad to have known you.” He nodded at Grover. “Both of you.”
“We appreciate your taking a chance on us,” Grover said.
Catlin used both of his hands to clasp Noah’s.
“If you’re here when we come back from Salt Lake,” Noah said, “we’ll let you ride back to Nebraska City with us.”
“If we’re here when you come back,” Catlin said with a grin, “we’ll be dead.”
Noah grunted something unintelligible, slapped Catlin’s shoulder, shook Grover’s hand, and strode toward the wagons.
“Not to worry you any,” the wagon boss called out without turning around, “but if you aren’t here when we come back, you will most certainly be dead, too.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Trail-worn longhorns and dust-caked cowboys trudged down Front Street in Grand Island, Nebraska Territory, not that many drovers would have called Grand Island a town. Irish railroaders stepped out of a clapboard boardinghouse and stood watching in silent awe. Telegraph poles stretched east to west, past a tent depot where stacks of railroad ties stood as high as the tent’s ceiling, and more men, and a few women, observed the cattle drive from the shade of a tent saloon. Two empty flatbeds and a handcart were parked on a siding.
That was all there was to Grand Island.
Boone pulled away from the cattle, pushed back his hat, and stared—ignoring the slurred comments from the Irish railroad men, and the sarcastic beckoning from the whores.
Story reined in the claybank. “If you’re thinking about dipping your wick into one of those virginal goddesses, I’d advise against it.”
Boone wiped dust from his beard stubble and told his boss, “Just staring at that.” He pointed at the westward-stretching rails, then glanced over his shoulder at the ramshackle buildings and wind-battered tents. “This place wasn’t even here when we came through here last winter.”
“Get back to work,” Story said. “It’s against my policy, but I shall see how much these thieves charge for what they call whiskey, and if I don’t think it’ll leave everyone blind, I might buy a couple of bottles for tonight’s camp. To prevent a mutiny in the ranks.”
Boone barely heard him. “It’s history, you know.” Pulling his hat back on his sweaty head, Boone looked at his boss. “Ever think about that? That what we’re doing . . . what you’re doing . . . will be part of history, that you’re making history.”
“I don’t give a fig about making history,” Story said. “I’m just interested in making money.” He pointed. “I’ll bring back some rotgut, maybe, but no chirpies.”
Boone kicked the horse into a trot to catch up his position across from Jordan Stubbings.
* * *
At the campsite, José Pablo Tsoyio found the young wrangler, José Sibrian, at the edge of the great Platte River. There was much to admire in the young man, José Pablo Tsoyio knew. They had a common first name, they were true Spaniards, at least in the mind of José Pablo Tsoyio, unlike Fabian Peña, who was a mere peón. Sibrian had a way with horses, even better than the other wrangler who had started out in Fort Worth but had grown homesick by the Verdigris River and ran back to his mother on the Brazos after learning of Nelson Story’s intention to push the herd all the way to the rough country near Canada. Sibrian, on most days, worked hard after he had the horse herd under control, and José Pablo Tsoyio rewarded him with sugar in his coffee. But on this late afternoon, he found the wrangler standing dumbly, bucket at his feet, looking at a barren island in the middle of the river.
“I sent you to gather dried buffalo dung so I can cook supper,” José Pablo Tsoyio said in Spanish. “What do you think you will see on that island? A mermaid?”
The wrangler turned, blinking rapidly, and shook his head. Sibrian did not kno
w what a mermaid was. He pointed. “What could have cut down the trees? Do you think beavers did this? I have always wanted to see a beaver.”
The anger vanished from José Pablo Tsoyio. Smiling, he stepped closer and put his arm around Sibrian’s shoulder.
“My young friend,” he said softly, “beavers did not cut down those trees. That is the work of the men who lay the iron rails.”
“For what reason?”
José Pablo Tsoyio shrugged. “Bridges. Poles for the white man’s wires. Ties for the iron rails. Houses for the next stations. Who can say? But you will not find any buffalo dung looking at what the norteamericanos will do to all of this country. And our patrón will be angry.”
“El patrón is always angry,” Sibrian said.
Laughing, José Pablo Tsoyio squeezed the boy tighter, turned him west, and pointed his free arm. “Soon . . . but not very soon—we will come to the high mountains. When we get there, José, I shall show you a beaver.”
The boy grinned, picked up his bucket, and walked along the banks, stopping to pick up dung, and José Pablo Tsoyio returned to continue preparing supper.
* * *
A blond-mustached lieutenant led a squad of soldiers to inspect the caravan at Fort Kearny, but spent most of the time damning the Union Pacific Railroad for putting the tracks so far—maybe five miles—from the fort.
The pup of a lieutenant finally reached the mule-driven wagons of Cory Bennett and Mickey McDonald.
“Is this the end?” the officer asked Hannah.
“Yep. These buckos always seem to be pulling rear tit.”
The lieutenant almost laughed himself out of the saddle. “‘Pulling rear tit’—that’s a good one, sir.”
Hannah blinked and shook his head. Molly McDonald spit tobacco juice onto the soldier boy’s horse’s nearest hoof, but the officer didn’t even notice.
“Well, you’ve got enough men and wagons to proceed.” The lieutenant nodded, scribbled something in his notebook, which he stuck inside his blouse. “It’s one hundred eighty miles to Fort Sedgwick. You’ll be inspected there.” He started to turn his horse back toward the head of the column, but Hannah stopped him.
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 29
