Wagons to Nowhere

by Orrin Russell

  3

  He dreamt of her that night. The dreamstate changed not one feature of her face or figure. Her eyes were framed with the same fine hair, light and thin, blowing in the briefest wind. The dress could not conceal the full figure of a girl well matured into a woman; a woman’s breasts, the small of her waist, a round, firm ass that the fabric clung to and pronounced.

  She castigated him and lashed out at him with the riding whip, then suddenly fell into his arms and he kissed her and squeezed her supple body into his. Birds flew around them in a meadow of marigolds. They chirped and sang, the whistling growing louder until it pierced into his ears, reverberating his brain against his skull until he woke.

  It was morning. The sun was barely past the horizon and the birds outside his window gave no thought to his hangover.

  He bathed in cold water in the washroom in back of the hotel. He lathered his face and shaved the heavy growth of beard until he found a respectable enough image staring back from the mirror.

  He took coffee in the same cafe from which he had watched the bank the previous day. His stomach could handle the hot black liquid, but not much else. He said no to the eggs and beans and yes to a second mug of coffee.

  The streets of Denver had begun to fill. He walked them, telling himself he was strolling with no purpose, and knowing all the while his feet would take him past the Rendezvous Hotel.

  The girl was not on the balcony.

  Distraction. That was what was needed. That girl had elbowed her way into his thoughts ever since she nearly ran him down in the street.

  He turned on his heel and directed himself to the mercantile. It wasn’t just any general store; it carried one of the most ample selections of firearms in over five hundred miles, not including military outposts. He had carried a Colt Dragoon Revolver for quite some time, but longed for a Colt .45 that could be reloaded with pre-cast bullets in an instant. He did appreciate the ritual of loading the bullet and wad and powder into each cylinder, but the time it took could spell his death given the wrong situation.

  The shopkeeper laid the weapon on the counter and Balum picked it up and looked through the cylinders. He drew the hammer back and released it, then disassembled and reassembled the weapon.

  The shopkeeper observed it all without comment. He understood not only how much the weapon cost, but the value it could bestow upon a man in the untamed wilds of the Western lands. Realizing that his customer might be some time before coming to a decision, he left to attend to customers throughout the rest of the store.

  Balum continued to asses the Colt. He removed the Dragoon from his holster and dropped in the .45, then drew it out again. He repeated the process several times over.

  ‘Oh my,’ came a woman’s voice from behind him.

  Balum turned. Before him stood the same woman he had seen while drinking with Chester and Mr. Randolph. The dress she wore this morning covered her arms and shoulders, but was pulled tight around her bosom, causing her large breasts to heave up in front of her. Several inches of cleavage were on display before disappearing below the fabric.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ she said, covering her mouth slightly with a hand. ‘I do not make a habit of speaking to strange men. But where I come from guns are not so readily displayed. Tell me, is that yours?’

  ‘This one’s mine,’ Balum said, lifting the Dragoon off the counter.

  ‘Goodness. It’s enormous.’

  ‘It does the job.’

  ‘I believe you. My name is Suzanne Darrow,’ she extended her hand.

  ‘Balum,’ he said, taking it in his.

  She was right, he thought. It was not the custom for a woman of class such as this to make her own introduction to a stranger. He held her hand in his for a moment, feeling the warmth in her fingers, and looked into her eyes.

  She was pretty, and she was trouble too. Balum had seen that look before. He was not the most handsome man the world had to offer. He had been through the elements, been half starved and beaten, sun burned and frost-nipped, and he had a rawness to him that showed. But he was tall, the muscles running through his back and shoulders were thick from years of hard labor, and his eyes did not waiver from their target. As they had said of him in La Cárcel de Belén; donde pone el ojo, pone la bala.

  Most women either did not notice him or shied away. There were others however, such as the busty vixen standing in front of him, whose eyes could not help but latch onto him in a state of lust. Something in him brought out their passion, and he saw it in her as he held her hand in his.

  ‘Balum,’ she repeated his name. ‘A pleasure to meet you. I’ve just come in from Boston by train. We leave in two days for Oregon, with the wagon caravan. The men in my party are in charge of supplies, but I thought it would be nice to buy a few extra amenities for the journey.’

  ‘That’s a fine idea. You say you’re among the party going to Oregon?’

  ‘Yes. There are so many people, I can’t keep track anymore. Mr Nelson, the wagon master is taking on more wagons. There are nearly two hundred people I’m told. You wouldn’t be one of them, would you?’

  ‘I just might be,’ he said before thinking.

  ‘Oh I would feel so much safer,’ she said, and rested a hand on his forearm. ‘I don’t think almost any of the men have much experience handling guns, and they say the trail is dangerous.’

  ‘It can be.’

  ‘Well I do hope you join us. I would feel much more at ease. You strike me as a man who was built for the frontier.’

  She left him at the gun counter, giving him an extra sashay of her backside as she walked down the mercantile aisles.

  Balum set the Colt .45 down and walked out of the store. His mind was in no place to focus on the purchase.

  Why had he told her he might join up with the wagon party? She had something to do with it, he knew that. The sight of her giant breasts spilling over the top of her dress would make him consider nearly anything.

  It was more than that though. He knew what it was; it was that girl. That young beauty that had nearly run him down and had haunted his thoughts ever since.

  He was a fool. And he knew it. He didn’t even know her name. There was no way he was going to link up with a bunch of tenderfeet and babysit them all the way to Oregon. It would take months. And what would he do when he got there? He hadn’t a clue.

  But Cafferty’s conversation could not be erased so easily. Frederick Nelson and the Farro brothers had no business heading up a wagon caravan. Nothing added up.

  An image of the settlers came into his head. They were strewn out for miles across fields of grass, their bodies dead and bloodied, and Nelson and the Farros riding off with a set of wagons loaded with loot.

  He shook his head. Maybe he should speak with Pete Cafferty again. Just to set his mind at ease.

  4

  ‘There’s over two hundred members of that group, women and children included, and they’re as good as dead,’ Cafferty blurted out in response to Balum’s question.

  Balum had found the U.S. Marshal eating lunch at the Berlamont Hotel, as was his custom. He had asked the Marshal what else he knew of the Oregon expedition, and Cafferty had wasted no time in unraveling the most gruesome outcomes possible.

  ‘That’s doesn’t put my mind at ease,’ said Balum.

  ‘It shouldn’t.’

  ‘How’d this whole thing get put together anyway?’

  ‘A bunch of Easterners is mostly what it is. You can blame the railway. That’s what I do. Before they went and laid tracks down, most those folks would never have made it across the Mississippi. Now they show up on the train, buy their wagons here, stock them up and think they’re going to cross some of the roughest untamed country in the West.’

  ‘How did Frederick Nelson end up as wagon master?’

  ‘Hell if I know. But he is charging a hundred dollar fee per wagon. Says this goes to his and the Farro brother’s salary, along with equipment and supplies. He’s recruiting more wago
ns in the area, making sure only to accept those whose owners are of means. No poor folk, another words.’

  ‘Nothing adds up.’

  ‘You’re goddamn right nothing adds up. I need you on that expedition, Balum.’

  Balum rubbed a hand over his face and looked across the tables. He turned back to Cafferty, his face blank.

  ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ said Cafferty. ‘Care to take a stroll with me over to the Rendezvous Hotel?’

  At the name of the hotel Balum’s eyes lit up.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s go.’

  They left the restaurant, Balum cursing himself the whole while as they crossed the streets to the Rendezvous Hotel. He was only going along with Cafferty for a cheap excuse to see that girl. He told himself again he was a fool. Still, he felt a jolt of energy at the prospect of laying eyes on her again.

  The hotel had a restaurant similar to the Berlamont’s, and a bar attached to it as well. After a quick inquiry with the hotel clerk, Cafferty and Balum were shown the way back to the bar area.

  Though the day was but shortly past noontime, the bar was filled with men. The majority were not gathered there so much for drink, but to converse, share information, and become informed of the state of affairs in the region. The bar served as a meeting place, a center of information, and a place to conduct business.

  Cafferty led Balum to a table occupied by three men. They were well-dressed, and the manner in which they interacted showed they meant business.

  ‘Mr. Atkisson,’ said Cafferty to a square-faced man with a no-nonsense look about him, ‘there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to. Balum, Jonathan Atkisson.’ The Marshal stepped aside and the two men leaned forward to shake hands.

  ‘Balum is a solid man who can be counted on when trouble starts,’ said Cafferty. ‘I vouch for him. And Jonathan is a well-respected man from the east coast. He and his family have a big stake in the Oregon expedition. Balum is interested in joining the wagons, and I wanted to be sure the two of you were introduced properly.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ said Atkisson. ‘Any man Cafferty vouches for is someone I’ll welcome on the wagon train. These are my business partners, Robert Venton and Michael Stanton. If you’re interested in joining, I’ll be happy to arrange it with Frederick Nelson.’

  ‘I’m considering joining up with you, it’s true.’

  ‘I’ll be frank with you Balum. I’m a man of business. I understand law, financial matters, and industry. I see an opportunity in the logging sector in Oregon that I would be a fool to pass up. What I don’t know is the frontier. I’m a man of the city and unaccustomed to what lays outside it. And that goes for the majority of us in our wagon train. If Cafferty says you’re to be counted on in times of trouble, I don’t take that lightly. We need men with a skill set only the West provides.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Balum. ‘I’m curious, if you don’t mind me asking, how Frederick Nelson came to be your expedition guide.’

  ‘He was introduced to us in Boston. As I understand it he has made the trip before and is an experienced guide. He’s organized much of the group, and seems to have a good head for logistics. He’s assembled quite a number of wagons, and I agree with him there is safety in numbers.’

  ‘That’s true. Though it also creates a bigger target if anyone wishes to risk it. And I take it you’ve met his partners, Gus and Saul Farro?’

  ‘I have. I see what you’re driving at. Yes, I agree they seem a bit intimidating, but then again, so do most men who live by the gun. If Nelson wants them with us then I’ll have to trust in his judgement.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Balum. ‘I’ll be making my decision soon, and will inform you by tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Atkisson, rising from the table. ‘We’ve much preparation to attend to. Allow us to accompany you out.’

  They stood, and the five of them made their way through the groups of men standing and conversing in a collective hum of voices. They exited the bar area and entered the dining hall. Just as they were to part ways, a young woman appeared from the crowd.

  ‘Father,’ she began. ‘I…’ She did not finish her sentence. Her eyes landed on Balum, and the sight of him stopped her cold.

  ‘Ah, Leigha,’ said Jonathan Atkisson. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Balum. He’s been recommended by the Marshal as a good man to have along with us. Balum, my daughter, Leigha Atkisson.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Balum. ‘I believe we’ve crossed paths, but haven’t been properly introduced. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  Balum couldn’t help but smile. The look on the young girl’s face was priceless. She took a step back and made no offer to extend her hand.

  ‘Father, I see no reason to bring on men such as this. It’s only inviting trouble if you ask me.’

  ‘Leigha!’ said Atkisson. ‘Balum, you’ll have to excuse my daughter’s manners. She has a tendency to speak her mind.’

  ‘I take no offense,’ said Balum, still grinning.

  ‘Leigha, Balum comes highly recommended, and if he chooses to join us then he’ll be a welcomed addition.’

  ‘Hmph,’ retorted the girl. ‘We’ll have to see what Frederick says about this.’

  And with that she turned and left them.

  ‘Again,’ said Atkisson, ‘my apologies for my daughter’s manners. Nevertheless, as I’ve said, we’ll be happy to have you along. Keep us posted.’

  The men shook hands once more and parted ways.

  Once in the street and alone with Cafferty, Balum pulled out his tobacco and bit off a plug.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell him Nelson is a fraud and the Farro brothers are killers?’ said Balum.

  ‘He knows about the failed expedition. He believes the tale that Indians were responsible. As for the Farro brothers, they have a reputation but have not been convicted of any crimes. They make sure to shoot any witnesses. As a U.S. Marshal it’s not my job to label citizens as criminals unless they have been condemned as such by the law. You see my predicament.’

  ‘That’s why I won’t be much of a lawman to you,’ said Balum. ‘I’d as soon give him the story and set him straight.’

  ‘You know what they’re in for Balum.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Time’s awasting.’

  ‘I won’t do it alone. I’ll need someone in that wagon with me watching my back.’

  ‘I don’t have a single man to spare. Besides, I don’t want anyone knowing you’re a Deputy Marshal.’

  ‘I’m not thinking of your men. I’ve got someone else in mind.’

  ‘Is that so? Ok. Who’s your man?’

  ‘Joe.’

  Cafferty nodded. ‘Fine by me. Will he go?’

  ‘I’ll need to track him down. But I’ll need your word that his way will be paid for and there will be something in it for him.’

  ‘If it’s a reasonable request I’ll fulfill it. Can he even talk?’

  ‘I’m about to find out.’

  5

  He went by no other name than Joe, just as Balum went by nothing else but Balum. He had been born to a white mother and an Apache father, and had spent his life pulled between the two cultures. Were he to cut his hair short, don a suit and take up residence in an eastern city, he would pass for any American, his ethnicity a mystery too trivial to dwell on.

  Instead he wore his jet black hair long and uncut. He wore a gun at his hip, and his boots and hat gave an altogether different, and more accurate, picture of who he was. He was a man of the West. A man of wars and raids, of gunbattles and hand-to-hand combat with knives in the dark of night.

  He was a man who had worked by Balum’s side through six months of hard labor, rounding up Longhorns south of the border and driving them to Cheyenne. He had proved himself several times over, and Balum needed him now.

  The question of whether he could speak or not was a good one. Joe had been shot through the neck by a .4
4 caliber bullet out of a Smith and Wesson revolver just three months prior. To see the entry and exit scars one would wonder how the man was still alive, let alone able to speak.

  As for where he could be found, no one could say. After healing from the bullet wound he had left Cheyenne. He took his money from the cattle sale and disappeared. He left no note, no belongings, and no trace upon the land.

  But Balum had a hunch.

  It had been over a week since he had saddled up the roan, and it showed. The horse wanted to run, so he let it. They ran like a bear was on their tail, Balum hanging onto his hat in one hand, until a thick lather of sweat covered the roan’s coat. That horse would run itself to death if Balum let it, and he knew it.

  When they had put some distance between themselves and Denver he slowed to a comfortable pace and placed his hat back on his head.

  He had time to think finally, and his thoughts turned right back to where they had been for the past two days; the girl. Leigha Atkisson. It made him smile to remember the shock on her face when she heard he might be coming along. It had not escaped him for a minute how she had referred to Frederick Nelson by his first name. Not surprising, he thought; a young girl taken with a man like that. Nelson talked big and walked big, and as long as the wheels didn’t fall off, folks just might think he measured up.

  Balum rode due north. After nearly thirty miles he slowed to a walk and began to veer across the countryside in long cutbacks. What he was looking for wasn’t much. Fort Junction had been built in 1864 as protection against hostile Indians. It was a sod enclosure with two watch towers and measured no bigger than one of the fancy saloons in Denver.

  Besides serving as a way station, it housed the office for the Indian Resettlement and Relocation Bureau. The memory of Joe’s reaction to the Indians lined up for food rations at Fort Sumner had stuck with Balum.