Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  Several of the pirates called out greetings to Bierce, who returned the same. To me he said, “Well, well, Marshal, where have you been—not that you’ve been missed. I was just regaling the señorita with tales of the literary life in London—a far more sophisticated place; have you visited?”

  “No, I have not, but I have hunted on the Great Plains with the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia—and that, along with occasional trips to New York City, attending to private business and the theatre, is good enough for me. Though,” I added graciously to Victoria, “I am quite keen on the attractions of Neustraguano.”

  Bierce laughed at that, his spirits quite merry for so saturnine a soul. He asked me to sit down and renew my role as courier to his street urchin express. With each note that he wrote and received, it appeared that some deeply laid plan was taking form—and pleasing him no end. He even acted the gracious host, putting on a splendid table (I drank endless cups of coffee, trying to rid myself of any remaining torpor) and proving a delightful supper companion.

  I lost track of time until nearly midnight. Bierce then turned suddenly abrupt and said, “The señorita and I must go. We will meet you at the ship. For now, you stay here. If we go together it will look suspicious. Give us thirty minutes.” He dropped a pouch; it clattered on the table. “That’s our fare. You keep it; it’s your security.” He slid from the booth, tossed me a casual salute, and said, “Be seeing you.” Then he took Señorita Victoria’s hand, and they were away.

  I had no intention of twiddling my thumbs. I needed to alert Billy Jack and Sister Rachel, who had been out of sight and out of mind. I grabbed the pouch and bolted from the booth, tipping my hat to Mrs. Briggs at the hotel desk.

  I found Billy Jack awake and at the window. “The fruit men—they just left.”

  “Damnation! They’re after Bierce and Victoria! Come on!”

  We leapt from the room and into the corridor. I rapped on Sister Rachel’s door, opened it—and, to my astonishment, she was no longer a nun but a ravishing woman in an equally ravishing black spangled dress. “My, my, Armstrong—you’ve left things quite late. I was hoping you were taking me to supper. I’d just about given up hope; it must be midnight. I had dresses sent up and settled on this one, you like it?”

  “For goodness sakes, woman, come on—there is no time to lose!”

  “You are an impetuous man!”

  We ran down the stairs, out the hotel doors, and into a cold, clammy, choking fog that hung like an endless succession of veils. You could literally push aside one veil of fog with your hand only to see another behind it. Beyond the veils I could see little, but I could hear water lapping to my left. I moved slowly, lest I walk off the wharf and into the sea, and waved at my companions to follow my path. I have, as you know, a pretty good sense of direction, and I knew that if I could maintain a course due north, I would in short order be reunited with Bad Boy.

  I stepped as boldly and rapidly as I dared, gripping Rachel’s hand, Billy Jack padding behind, our footfalls echoing off the wooden walkway, my eyes straining through the fog—and then I saw it, a lantern dead ahead. To my left, towards the water, I heard creaking timbers and grunting men.

  The lantern was outside Briggs’s shed. The door was closed and locked. I trotted round to the makeshift stables behind. My companions Bad Boy, Marshal Ney, and Edward were there, as were the horses belonging to Billy Jack and Rachel, all apparently safe, but Bad Boy’s alert brown eyes signaled danger. Still, I had no time to think, only to act. Billy Jack and I quickly saddled the horses, took their reins, and with Bad Boy at my side, we led them through the fog.

  I stood by Briggs’s shack and called out to the sea, “Ahoy, there! Bierce! Briggs!”

  Bierce called back. “Ahoy, is that you, Marshal? I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “Where are you? I have our horses. Where’s the boarding plank? I fear you’ve been followed.”

  “Ah, you spotted them. I’ve had my eyes on them for days. The boys took care of them.”

  “I’m relieved. We came as quickly as we could. But where are you? I don’t see the boarding plank—or the ship.”

  “No plank. We just set sail. We’re off without you, I’m afraid. But it’s better this way. At least you have the money.”

  “I didn’t come here for money!”

  “Most men do.”

  “Bierce, bring that ship back here!”

  “I’d advise you to be on your way, Marshal. I’ve alerted the newspapers that you’re an impostor…”

  “What?”

  “… and that you acquired the money I gave you under false pretenses. It’s from the mint—and I left the impression you took it from me; you stole it.”

  “What?”

  “Dutiful public servant that I am, I’m pursuing the thief.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, you’ve said that several times. I’d recommend you ride east. Have fun.”

  Two seals guffawed in the distance. You can imagine my frustration: I had lost everything—well, not quite everything. I still had Bad Boy and Edward and Marshal Ney. And then there’s you, of course, dearest one, always forefront in my thoughts. But I had lost Victoria and my future as a soldier of fortune. Both had disappeared in the San Francisco fog. And Bierce, that cackling reprobate, had sullied my reputation as a Marshal.

  But I had this consolation: with Marshal Ney, Edward, and Bad Boy, I had the makings of a Cavalry troop. As a bonus I had an Indian scout and two additional horses. I also had a beautiful woman in a black spangled dress who was expecting supper. Together we would make Bierce pay for this impertinence. I jumped aboard Marshal Ney. With a bare touch of my heels, I was off, due south, leading Edward by his reins, and with Bad Boy bounding behind: Custer and his Critter Company in pursuit of Ambrose Bierce.

  And then I heard a voice: “I haven’t had my supper yet!”

  I looked down at Bad Boy. His jaws were shut. I looked behind me and there in the distance, fogging swirling around her, was Rachel, arms akimbo, high-heeled foot stamping.

  * * *

  Thankfully, the Hotel Neptune kept late hours, and at the hitching rail Bad Boy had only to growl to keep the drunken sailors away from the horses. Seated in Bierce’s booth with my striking companion and an Indian, I was, as ever, a focal point of attention.

  “I have to say, Marshal, this is not exactly the sort of restaurant I had in mind.”

  I smiled wanly; my mind was consumed with strategies for rescuing Victoria.

  “Still,” she said, “I suppose it’s the company that counts. I do wish you would talk to me, Marshal.”

  “Duty consumes my thought.”

  “Thoughts of her, I suppose.”

  “Who?”

  “Your little señorita friend.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, but yes, of course—I’d be less than a Custer,” I looked nervously at Billy Jack, “I mean an Armstrong, if I didn’t dedicate myself to rescuing her.”

  “Well, you know, General, I might need a little rescuing myself. Have you looked at the clientele of this place? They’re certainly looking at me. Aren’t I a match for that little Spanish number of yours?”

  “Really, Rachel, those words hardly become a nun.”

  “I’m not a nun anymore, Marshal.”

  Thank goodness Billy Jack intervened. “Strategy simple: she go by sea; we go by land; you and I are Cavalrymen, we know how to make fast time. At the border we acquire a ship of our own. There’s a port there—saw it on a map, San Diego.”

  “Armstrong, you’re not actually chasing after that woman, are you? Who is she to you? She came here for that other man. Now she’s got him. I say, let her have him, and you and I enjoy San Francisco.”

  “Duty bids me go, Rachel.”

  “Duty? If you ask me, you’ve got some duty closer to home. Would you leave me in San Francisco, alone?”

  “Surely you wouldn’t deprive me of Bad Boy?”

  “No, not your stupid dog—you, you
big galoot. I need your protection.”

  “Well, apparently thanks to Bierce, I’m now wanted by the law—or will be in the morning, whenever the newspapers hit the street.”

  “The law is not the only one that wants you, Armstrong. I’ve been trying to say…”

  “Rachel, wait a minute—maybe there is something in that. Maybe I need your protection. The law, bounty hunters—they’ll be looking for a crooked Marshal. They won’t be looking for a married couple.” I took off my badge and dropped it in my pocket. “There must be a southbound stage that leaves in the morning. We’ll catch the first one.”

  Rarely do I ask other women to pose as my wife—but, of course, dearest Libbie, sometimes duty demands it. So, in the morning, it was not Marshal Armstrong who caught the stage to Los Angeles, it was George Autie, his wife Rachel Autie, and their adopted Indian son William Jack Crow Autie. I found an independent stage driver—in bustling San Francisco, you can find just about anything—so we had the coach to ourselves. I bought Bad Boy a seat, Billy Jack rode shotgun, and our four horses were tethered to the rear of the coach.

  “They’ll be fine,” assured the stage driver. “I’ll figger some extra rest for the horses. This here bein’ a special fare journey, we can set the rules; we ain’t on nobody’s timeline, save your own. We’ll take the old Butterfield stage route. That’ll get us into Los Angeles in less than a fortnight. I know you’ve got business farther on. Don’t mind seeing you onto Warner’s Ranch, if you like. Ain’t that much farther; it’s a nice station; won’t add but a pittance to your fare.”

  I clasped the driver’s hand in gratitude, and Billy Jack swung up beside him. I helped Rachel into the coach, saw Bad Boy safely aboard, and climbed in after them. We were off.

  “I can’t tell you how honored I am to be traveling south with my dashing, young husband. George Autie—what a wonderful name—and now it’s mine too.”

  “Rachel, you are incorrigible.”

  “Well, we do need to pass the time somehow. Surely you don’t mind my talking—or perhaps you’d rather I talk to your dog.”

  “It is not your talking, Rachel; it is your making a mockery of our circumstances. Our lives are in danger.”

  “Your life always seems to be in danger, dearest George; and I don’t see how escaping San Francisco and running off to a foreign war is going to help that.”

  “It is a clear matter of duty.”

  “Duty—in a skirt.”

  “Rachel, I served honorably in effecting your escape from the Sioux, wresting you from frontier rowdies, enrolling you in a cancan troupe, and ridding you of a criminal business partner. If anyone should have faith in me—and in my good intentions—it is you.”

  “I’ve no lack of faith, Armstrong—it’s just that I know where we’re heading; and it seems straight for trouble, as always.”

  We were well clear of saintly, nautical San Francisco, but far short, I thought, of any need to rest, when the driver roared, “Whoa!” and we stopped so suddenly that Bad Boy was thrown from his seat and into Rachel’s lap. I heard the stage driver say to Billy Jack, “Lay the gun on the floorboards, sonny. I reckon I know who we’re dealing with.”

  Outside, a voice called out. “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t. You there, hands up! You folks in the coach—come on out; slow and easy. Let me see your hands, no heroics please, no sudden movements; I hate to make mistakes.”

  I emerged to see something most unexpected: a man with a flour-sack over his head topped with a bowler hat. The sack had eye slits—and glittering there were eyes of cobalt blue. In his hands was a shotgun.

  “Those tethered horses, belong to you?”

  I nodded.

  “They can stay, then, and you can have ’em when we’re done. I’m only after the essentials. Driver, if you’d be so kind, I’d be obliged if you unhitched your team, turned ’em to Frisco, and just kept walking. You can fetch your coach later. I’ll leave it here. If you don’t bother me—if you don’t try anything—you’re a free man. Indian, that goes for you too.”

  “The Indian’s with me,” I said.

  “And who might you be?”

  “Mr. George Autie, from Michigan.”

  “Autie, is it? Ha! All the way from Michigan. Well then, Mr. Indian, if you’ll just stand there with Mr. Autie, I’ll let your driver be on his way.”

  “You don’t mind, Mr. Autie?” said the driver. “You paid your fare.”

  “He may have paid his fare, but I don’t see how he’s in a position to mind; and he’s still going to have his horses,” said the sack-hooded highwayman.

  “It’s all right,” I told the driver.

  “Before you go, Mr. Driver Man,” said the robber, “there’s one more thing.” His eyes—and the shotgun—rotated to me. “Mr. Autie, I want you to write a poem. A half dozen lines will do: a paean to San Francisco.”

  “What?”

  “Questions aren’t your friend, right now, Mr. Autie; scribbling is. I’ve got pencil and paper if you don’t.”

  “Why should I write a poem?”

  “It’s a small request.”

  “Yours?”

  “The poem will go to Mr. Ambrose Bierce, the literary critic.”

  “What?”

  “For publication in the Captain’s Gazette.”

  And so it was that we stood there, watching our driver lead his team of horses back down the winding road to San Francisco, bearing on his person a poem I wrote and entrusted to his care to be delivered to the Captain’s Gazette. Even now I can remember it:

  Farewell, then, oh San Francisco,

  Your saintly shore I leave

  With memories of your church bells ringing;

  At my departure I do grieve,

  For such is your natural splendor,

  Such is your saintly allure,

  That I am struck nearly speechless,

  Except to say, bonne nuit, monsieur.

  Our sack-wearing, shotgun-toting wayfarer had chuckled upon reading it and deemed it “Not bad,” before handing it on to the driver.

  When the driver was out of earshot, he said, “Bierce reckoned you’d hire a coach. Looks like I guessed right too. Getting that poem printed in the Captain’s Gazette will make you out as a sort of literary bandit. Bierce reckoned that was a nice touch, a nice little story. In the meantime, I’ll have that mint money, if you don’t mind. It’s not rightly yours and he figured I might want it. He figured right, too.”

  “Mrs. Autie will need to retrieve it from her bag.”

  “Mrs. Autie? Oh, you surely are a card. All right, then, Mrs. Autie, you go ahead and fetch it—real careful like—or I’ll blast your poor innocent husband.”

  “Bierce knows you?” I said.

  “Well, Mr. Autie, I’m not unknown. They call me Black Bart. Usual target is Wells Fargo, but you’ll do for now.”

  Rachel handed me the sack of money. I tossed it to Black Bart. “My, my, that is a heap of coin. I’m obliged to you. Now then folks, I’ll give you the same deal as your driver. You just walk the opposite direction, up that hill. Once you pass over the crest, I don’t mind if you turn around and walk back and fetch your horses and belongings. I’ll be long gone by then. But if you—or that dog—come after me, looking for trouble, I’ll have to give it to you. As it is, all you’ve lost, aside from your coach and driver, is evidence of a crime you didn’t commit. So, I reckon, on the scales of justice, I’ve done you a favor. You can repay me by doing as I tell you. So, go ahead and get walking. You won’t see me again—leastways not with a sack over my head; not unless you’re uncommonly unlucky.”

  “In that case,” said Rachel, “we certainly will see you again—my husband and I are uncommonly unlucky.”

  I took my wife—or rather, my impostor wife—by the elbow and led her and Billy Jack and Bad Boy up the road. Near the top of the hill, I risked a look back—Black Bart was gone.

  We had but one option: Billy Jack and I would revert to being Cavalryme
n—he as a scout, I as an escort for Rachel. Billy Jack had his Indian pony; I rode Marshal Ney; Rachel took Edward; and Rachel’s mount served as our packhorse.

  Our new goal was the port city of San Diego, a distance of some five hundred or more miles across a landscape that could be simultaneously beautiful and harsh, with towering forested mountain ridges; barren, rugged deserts; rolling tree-lined hills; and a glittering sea to the west.

  It took us about three weeks of steady riding, and for all the wonderful sights we saw, it was the meals round the campfire I remember most. Bad Boy and Rachel looking at me soulfully, Billy Jack sketching out the next day’s ride in the sand, coffee aromatic in the pot over the fire, and I reflecting on what might lay in store for us in Neustraguano where there awaited a war (of what dimensions I did not know), a villain (often I dreamt of hurling Bierce from a castle keep), and a damsel in distress (Señorita Victoria). Of life’s many consolations I often think the finest are dogs, horses, and my own meditations on duty.

  Such meditations had their reward. In San Diego we found a pretty little town that gave us a respite from the trail—a chance to bathe and refresh ourselves at a hotel—and was our entryway to the great Neustraguano adventure. Billy Jack and I scouted the seaport village for an amenable Captain who could take us there.

  I expect my Crow scout and I made a bit of a picture, riding along the wharf. We had chosen San Diego, because we expected we could pass unnoticed here. If Bierce had put further obstructions—whether spies or brigands—in our way, surely he would have put them in the much larger port city of Los Angeles, not in sleepy San Diego. The one risk we ran was that San Diego might be too sleepy to provide us with seaborne transport.

  But that proved not to be the case. A young man standing in front of a fishing boat caught sight of us and approached with the rolling gait of a sailor. He was attired as a ship’s Captain should be—his dark blue jacket immaculate with brass buttons glittering, his shoes polished brightly, his white trousers remarkably clean for those of a man surrounded by dirty ropes, tar, and sea water. He tilted his naval cap back, brushed a luxuriant flop of light brown hair from his forehead, and grinned. I was glad we had left Rachel at the hotel; after our long and arduous journey, a handsome young man like this might have had a bad moral effect on her.