Wagons to Nowhere

by Orrin Russell

  Wagons to Nowhere

  A Balum Series Western no.3

  A novel by

  Orrin Russell

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Orrin Russell

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design and illustration by

  Mike Pritchet

  1

  Balum took the packet of tobacco from his pocket and squeezed it, then put it back. Most men thought nothing of spitting on the floor, but as rough as he was around the edges, he liked to think he had enough education to wait until he got outside.

  Though he surely wanted a wad in his cheek now.

  He had been sitting in the cafe window for over three hours, staring across the street at the Denver Commercial Bank. The old waitress had given him enough coffee to keep his heart beating for a lifetime, and when she came by again to fill him with more he simply nodded his head.

  The scene in front of the bank was dull. People entered, people exited. Nothing happened.

  He began to wonder if Cafferty had given him this job only to keep him out of trouble. To keep him from gambling his money away. Well, it was working. No one was robbing the bank and Balum wasn’t throwing his money onto a craps table.

  He stood up finally and walked out the cafe door. He paused under the wooden awning and fished the packet out of his pocket. With the plug firmly stuffed in his cheek, he sighed and leaned against a post to study his surroundings from under the shade.

  Denver was busy. Not the bank, which he was fairly certain was at no risk of robbery, but the rest of town. It was growing at a pace that outstripped the town council’s planning. Saloons appeared from one night to the next, and the brothels couldn’t be built fast enough or staffed fast enough to please the desires of the endless stream of men the town sucked in. Restaurants and liveries, blacksmiths, general stores and confectionaries, the commerce fed upon itself and the town ballooned into a city.

  Folks were arriving on a daily basis. As he watched from the shade he could see them coming in; wagons, dusty and worn, ready to take settlers to the farthest reaches of the West. They were covered, mostly, with light canvas covers stained dark and brown. The mules and oxen leaned wearily into the traces and hung their heads when they were pulled to a stop.

  Balum spat. He loved the hustle of the place, loved the women and gambling and the carrying on that could be found in a city, but he was as much a man of the solitary places as he was of civilization.

  He had been city living too long. Between Cheyenne and Denver, he was being run ragged.

  He blamed Pete Cafferty.

  The U.S. Marshal had a silver tongue. He had convinced Balum to extend his temporary ordainment as a U.S. Deputy Marshal into a semi-permanent state. In the three months since then he had scarcely had a chance to sit in on a decent poker game, and had been shot at twice.

  He made the decision right there, standing under the awning and spitting tobacco into the street that he would talk to Cafferty and hand over his badge. The cattle sale had made him a rich man, and he wanted to enjoy it.

  With his mind immersed in his predicament, he stepped into the street and was nearly run down by a wagon. Balum jumped backwards just as the two horses swerved to miss him.

  The driver pulled them up short and rose from the seat. She was a woman, young and pretty, and angry as a wounded badger. She held a riding whip in one hand and the reins in the other.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘are you going to stand there staring at me or offer an apology?’

  Balum only stared back, his mind blank and his heart racing.

  ‘Apparently neither,’ the girl continued. ‘My mother told me western men were nothing but brutes, and I believe she was right.’

  ‘Brutes?’

  ‘Precisely. Crude men who lack manners. Certainly not gentlemen. A gentleman would apologize.’

  ‘What am I apologizing for?’

  ‘You startled my horses.’

  Balum laughed suddenly, in a loud bellow that gave the girl pause.

  ‘Young lady, you might get apologies where you come from, but in the West, when you drive like a blind jackrabbit it’s you who says sorry.’

  The girl’s jaw dropped.

  Balum kept talking, ‘I imagine a pretty face and fancy clothes gets you plenty far back East, but I’m liable to take that riding whip out of your hands and put a couple welts on your behind. I’d have a good time doing it too,’ he smiled, ‘but I’ve got somewhere to be.’

  With that he walked past the young woman’s horses and left her standing on her wagon, offended and speechless.

  As much as he wanted to, he did not turn around for another look. He walked straight to the Berlamont Hotel Restaurant where he figured Cafferty would be sitting down to lunch. He found him there, halfway through a plate of grits and biscuits, and joined him.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be watching the bank?’

  ‘There’s nothing going on over there and you know it.’

  Cafferty raised his eyebrows and finished a mouthful of grits. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Well it worked. You kept me out of a poker game all morning.’

  ‘Your pocketbook will thank me.’

  ‘Cafferty,’ Balum said, ‘I appreciate the trust you’ve put in me as Deputy Marshal. I’m honored, and that’s the truth. But the other side of that truth is that I’m just not cut out to be a lawman. It’s not in my blood.’

  ‘I would disagree with that.’

  ‘Hell Pete, I haven’t always walked the straight and narrow. There’s been plenty of times I could have been found to be on the wrong side of the law. You’ve heard stories, I know it.’

  ‘I have heard the stories, or versions of them anyway. And that’s why I hired you. It’s not any man that can bring law to the West. I can’t bring some dandy in from back East with his nose fresh out of a law book. I need a man with some sand in his teeth. That’s you Balum.’

  Balum shook his head. ‘I’ll take the compliment, but this is the end of it for me.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Spend my money. First time in my life I’ve had any. I’ll sit in on some poker games, drink whiskey, and enjoy the women.’

  ‘And you’ll end up broke and busted in a month.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’d hate to see it, Balum.’

  Balum took the badge from his pocket and set it on the tabletop.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Cafferty. ‘Just hold on. Before you came in here I was considering you for a particular job. Something serious, and something not many folks can do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s a train that came into town day before yesterday. Filled with a bunch of tenderfeet from out East. They’re heading to Oregon in wagons, and the man leading them is Frederick Nelson. You recognize the name?’

  Balum shook his head.

  ‘He led a bunch of folks out West a few years back. They never made it. The way the story went, it was Indians. Sioux, they said. But Nelson made it out just fine, and with enough money to live like a governor for the past four years.’

  ‘Things like that happen. Indians attack.’

  ‘Yes they do. Could have happened just like he said it did. But this time around the party he’s leading is bigger and he’s got a couple guides with him.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘The guides are the Farro brothers.’

 
Balum looked at Cafferty. He knew the names, and they weren’t the names of trail guides. Gus and Saul Farro were killers.

  ‘Do you know what those two did in Texas last year?’ said the Marshal.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Murdered a man and his family is what they did. His wife and three children. Dead. And all to rob him of a month’s wages he was carrying in cash. Wasn’t even fifty dollars they made out with.’

  ‘Why don’t you arrest them?’

  ‘There was one witness. The man’s youngest daughter saw it happen. Word got out that she was going to testify, but before she did she caught a bullet in the head. She was twelve years old.’

  Balum exhaled.

  ‘I need somebody on that wagon train.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’ve been a U.S. Deputy Marshal for three months. Few people here know that, and nobody on that wagon caravan knows it. I’d have a lawman on the inside without anybody the wiser. And another thing. You’ve got grit, and you can handle a gun. And frankly, I don’t know too many others that could stand up to Frederick Nelson and the killers he’s got running with him.’

  Balum shook his head.

  ‘The city is wearing on you Balum, I can see it. You want to get out into the country, this is your chance. Those people are marching towards their death, and you can stop it. It’s honorable.’

  ‘Sounds like I’d be marching towards my own death right along with them.’

  Cafferty pushed the badge back across the table.

  ‘That wagon train leaves in one week Balum. Nelson is recruiting up more folks that want to go along. He makes them pay a fee up front and everybody needs their own wagon and team of draft animals. I’ll set you up with all of it.’

  Balum was already shaking his head.

  ‘One week, Balum. You think on it, then you tell me what you want to do.’

  2

  Balum drew a figure of a woman in the dirt with the toe of his boot, then rubbed it out with the sole. He looked as far up the street as he could see, but there was no sign of Chester. It was well into the afternoon, and the old man had gotten into the habit more often than not of meeting Balum at the livery corral at day’s end. It’s location on the outside of town gave them some relief from the bustle within, and they enjoyed watching the horses play while they chewed tobacco and regaled each other with tales of sin and depravity from their past.

  Today Balum needed his mind off things. He had swung by the telegraph office after meeting with Cafferty. When the clerk told him there was a letter waiting for him he knew right off it was from Angelique.

  He had waited to read it until he was alone. It was what he had expected. A woman like Angelique wasn’t made for baking apple pies and mending worn stockings. She was a wild woman; free from the conventions of society and spurned from it as well. Much like Balum.

  He held no rancor for her in his heart; they had both known how it would play out. She had even ended the letter reminding him he was always welcome back in Cheyenne… how enjoyable she would promise to make his stay. It made him smile to read it.

  Somewhat sad as well.

  He pushed off the corral post and walked back into town. At the end of a meandering street he approached a thatched cabin and rapped the door.

  ‘Chester!’ he belted out. ‘Where are you at, old timer? There’s drinking to do.’

  The door opened and Chester’s face squinted out from behind it.

  ‘Sun hasn’t even gone down.’

  ‘Good,’ said Balum. ‘Just means there’s more time for us.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’

  ‘Let’s go see the girls at the Baltimore Club.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t know how to say no to that.’

  ‘That’s right! Let’s go, come on.’

  ‘I think I’d best put a clean shirt on if we’re going to see womenfolk.’

  ‘You look fine. Besides, they’ll take you whatever condition you’re in. It’s the Baltimore Club for crying out loud.’

  But Chester was a man of formality. He would not discard his scruples no matter the stature of the establishment, and so Balum was made to wait while the old man found a fresh shirt and pants and took a rag to his boots until satisfied that he had brought out their long-lost luster.

  One of the saloons on the way to the Baltimore Club served whiskey aged ten years in oak barrels. They charged fifty cents for a single pour, but Balum felt the night called for it, and Chester saw no reason to refuse.

  They drank one, and shortly after Balum ordered another round.

  ‘You’re worked up my friend,’ said Chester. ‘I’ll let you buy me all the aged whiskey you want, but you’ll feel better if you talk it out.’

  ‘I’m done with it.’

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Being a lawman. Deputy Marshal. I needed it to set things right in Cheyenne, but that was it. Now Cafferty has me running all over the country. No time to enjoy what I’ve earned.’

  ‘You’re enjoying it now.’

  ‘Damn right I am. He wants to send me off on some job; months on the trail. Clear to Oregon, so I can babysit some tenderfeet, still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘I thought you were getting tired of the big city.’

  ‘I am. Still though, there’s a couple things I’d like to do here in Denver.’

  ‘So that’s it? No more U.S. Deputy Marshal Balum?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  ‘Play poker.’

  Chester laughed. ‘Of course. What about the girls at the Baltimore?’

  ‘Those too. After poker.’

  ‘After poker.’

  ‘That Randolph still hanging around?’

  ‘I’ve seen him about.’

  ‘Let’s find him. Get us a game going.’

  ‘I’ve got no money Balum.’

  ‘Tonight’s on me my friend,’ said Balum, and threw down the rest of his whiskey.

  They found Mr. Randolph seated on the upstairs level of the Silver Nest. The lower level of the saloon was much like any other upscale establishment. The top, where Mr. Randolph had recently withdrawn himself from a game of faro, was reserved for high-stakes gamblers, and required a half-dollar fee for those who wished to ascend.

  He sat at a window, smoking a cigarette and observing the street below. On seeing Balum and Chester he motioned for them to look into the street.

  ‘Just look at that,’ he said, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Look at her axillas.’

  The light of the setting sun was just enough for them to see the figure strolling below them. The woman wore a sleeveless dress held by two straps over her shoulders. A shawl covered the bare skin of her shoulders and arms, which she had lifted up and re-accommodated just as Randolph was admiring her.

  ‘She ain’t one of the girls from the Baltimore,’ said Chester.

  ‘No,’ said Randolph, ‘she is not.’

  ‘She’s dressed like it though.’

  ‘That, my friend, is the fashion of the East. Boston, New York. A world apart.’

  ‘I’m living in the wrong part of the country.’

  Balum said nothing. He looked down from the window ledge and felt his blood pump within him. The woman in the street knew exactly what she was doing. Men had dropped their activities and stood along the boardwalks mesmerized by the figure passing by them. She was all woman, every bit of her. Though her dress might have passed for fashion in the East, it was a provocative assault to the less refined norms of the West.

  ‘What do you figure a woman like that is doing in Denver?’ asked Chester.

  ‘She came in on the train with all the rest. Part of that big group putting wagons together.’

  Balum’s head swung around.

  ‘The one headed to Oregon?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that’s the very one.’

  Balum turned from the window and left the two men staring into the darkening street.

 
‘Something eating Balum?’ said Randolph.

  ‘Something. He’s in a mood to let the badger loose tonight.’

  When he returned he carried three glasses of whiskey. He passed them around and the three raised them slightly before drinking.

  It was only the beginning. An hour later Balum had made four more drinks disappear down his throat, and had lost just shy of ninety dollars in cash. Chester pulled at his sleeve, reminding him about the girls at the Baltimore, and even Daniel Randolph, an avid optimist in all games of chance, began to persuade him that it was time to let the cards go until a better night.

  He ordered another whiskey before leaving, and when the three of them reached the Baltimore Club he slurred unintelligibly to the barkeep to serve him another round of three.

  Women swam in front of him. Breasts and red lips and thighs peeking out of lace dresses. The smell of soap and perfume began to suffocate him, and he lurched outside into the darkness. He crossed the street and bounced off the walls of a narrow alley, but could not contain the roiling soup of whiskey in his gut.

  At the end of the alleyway he grabbed a balcony post to stabilize himself and let his body purge the poison from within. It came in gushes, his throat letting out a primordial cry in accompaniment. He gasped and spat and swayed on his feet over a pool of his own vomit.

  When he was done he wiped a hand across his mouth and became aware of his surroundings. The post his hand was clutching formed part of the balcony of the Rendezvous Hotel. Not ten feet away, standing on the balcony, a face of porcelain features looked down at him. It was beautiful and finely formed, with pert lips and a small nose, all contorted in an expression of disgust.

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll be receiving an apology for this either,’ said the girl.

  Balum looked up at her, his vision blurry.

  ‘If I had my whip I’d be putting the welts on you,’ she continued. ‘I may drive a wagon roughly but at least I don’t stumble through town as a vomiting sideshow. Good night.’

  She turned her back to him and left. The sound of her heels echoed out in the darkness and when they were gone there was no sound. Only the stench of gut-acid whiskey.