‘ ’Scuse me, Abbie, I think you need a belly. . . .’ He stopped, aghast at the outraged look on the English girl’s face, ‘Er, what I mean is, you need an equalizer, a hide-out gun, ’case you bin relieved of your pinfire.’ He hastened to explain that such a hidden weapon was frequently described as a belly gun, since it was concealed against the stomach, behind the owner’s belt.
Billy thought for a moment and then rummaged among the packs in the storeroom. ‘Hah!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, ‘How about this little beauty?’
He came back flourishing a small cap and ball revolver. ‘Here y’are, Abbie! Jus’ the thing for you.’ So saying, he handed her a Colt .31 caliber, 1849 model, in seemingly pristine condition.
‘Billy, where did you obtain such a pistol? You didn’t. . . .’ She left the rest of her sentence unsaid as she turned the pistol over in her hands.
Billy realized what she was implying and hastened to explain that he had come across a dying man some years back, a gambler by the cut of his clothes, and the man had given him the gun in gratitude for having eased his last hours. ‘So you see, Abbie, it’s mine, all legal-like, an’ I hereby give it to you!’
Two days later Abbie, astride her bay and leading a roan as a packhorse, made her departure from Billy’s hidden valley. Tucked under her buckskin shirt, and held securely inside her waistband, nestled Billy’s gift resting a trifle uncomfortably against her stomach. Common sense had dictated that she use a man’s saddle rather than the elegant but impractical English side-saddle that she had been using when she first encountered the injured trapper. Billy had advised and shown Abbie how to efficiently pack her spare clothing; food and utensils into balanced loads secured by diamond hitches on either side of the docile roan.
Farewells had been brief. Abbie felt a lump in her throat as, seated in her saddle, she had looked down affectionately at Billy who stood with one hand holding her horse’s halter.
‘Well, Abbie, you’d better git afore you change your mind,’ he had exclaimed gruffly while wiping away what he said was a speck of dirt from his eye. ‘So long, partner!’ And with a slap at the bay’s rump he turned back into the cabin.
‘Goodbye, Billy! I’ll always be thinking about you!’
So saying she had dug her heels into the bay’s flanks and, resisting the temptation to look back, had rode off on her lonely quest.
Cautiously she rode through the narrow cleft, very conscious of the clip-clopping of her animals’ hoofs echoing and re-echoing from the rocky faces on either side. Leaving both horses at the entrance to the cleft, Abbie slipped noiselessly through the bushes and peered out down the narrow arroyo. All was still, apart from the gurgling of the little stream, and there were no signs of any human activity. So collecting her animals, she mounted and rode forth, following carefully the detailed instructions that Billy had given her on how to link up with the westbound trail.
Abbie obeyed the old trapper’s advice to the letter, keeping carefully below the skyline wherever possible and exercising extra caution whenever she approached any outcrops of rocks or isolated groves of trees, either of which could conceal potential enemies. So she rode, ceaselessly swivelling her head to note the terrain through which she travelled. It would be easy to be distracted by all the welcome signs of the western spring. The prairie was a riot of colour created by thousands of flowers. The few trees offered inviting shade with their bright, green foliage, and the jack rabbits and prairie dogs constantly sought to distract her with their antics. But the English girl ignored all the distractions, especially the temptation to use her long gun and add to her provisions by shooting one of the whitetail deer that were placidly grazing and ignoring the passing of the horses and their solitary rider.
Abbie’s route was roughly south-west and by late afternoon, as the sun sank towards the jagged peaks of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, she encountered the first indication that others had passed that way. The ground was scored and rutted by the wheels of countless wagons and, by the side of the trail, there was the pitiful remnant of one such vehicle, a broken wheel and a few pieces of half burnt timber, the mute evidence of what had probably once been somebody’s hopes and ambitions. Close by there were three low mounds of soil, indicating the last resting place of the wagon’s occupants. Even as she passed, Abbie noted that the relentless prairie wind was busy levelling the grave sites. Soon there would be nothing to show the passer-by the location. Abbie shivered and urged her mount away from the spot.
Shortly thereafter, Abbie turned off the trail and found a sheltered place where she cooked a hurried meal over a small, smokeless fire. Bacon and a bannock, washed down with a mug of black, sugarless coffee, was her lonely repast. Then after cleaning her utensils and removing traces of the fire, Abbie remounted and, obeying Billy’s teaching, rode on a good mile or so before finding a concealed place where she bedded down for the night, after first hobbling her horses to ensure that they would not stray.
Through the night she dozed fitfully, huddled under her blanket, head pillowed on her saddle and right hand firmly grasping the pinfire pistol. The one sound almost constantly heard was the noise of the horses pulling at the grass with their strong teeth as they grazed. This comforting background noise was periodically punctuated by the howl of some lone coyote serenading the moon and causing Abbie to startle into full consciousness. After each alert it was some time before she once more slipped into a shallow sleep.
All in all, Abbie had a restless night, and got up shivering in the cold morning air, noting a heavy wet dew covering all her possessions and glistening off the grass and bushes. Ruefully, she reflected that the lonely night had been of her own choosing since Billy had been quite prepared to accompany her. She shrugged her shoulders philosophically and, bringing to mind a half-remembered quotation from her schooldays, resolved to ‘stiffen up her sinews’ and ‘quicken the blood’, especially the latter, and get a fire going with which to prepare breakfast.
The sun was just peeping above the eastern horizon by the time she had breakfasted, performed a hurried ablution, packed her gear, caught and saddled the bay and loaded the docile roan. With a last look around her campsite to ensure that there was little evidence of her stay, Abbie mounted her horse and headed once more towards the west.
CHAPTER SIX
After three days of such uneventful progress, with no sign of any other humans, white or otherwise, Abbie was relieved to see wisps of smoke arising from a cluster of buildings straddling the trail some distance ahead. An optimistic sign, painted on a sagging board to her left, told the passing wayfarer that she was approaching the town of Paradise.
Drawing closer, she noted that this budding metropolis consisted of a number of weather-beaten, unpainted, wooden shacks placed haphazardly either side of the wheel-rutted path that led through Paradise. To her right was a corral, attached to a barn in a sad state of disrepair, and a sign above the open doorway indicated that this was ‘McCain’s Livery and Feed’. The proprietor himself called out a friendly ‘Howdy, stranger!’ as Abbie passed, no doubt hoping that the young rider in buckskins might prove to be a potential customer. Abbie just waved her right hand in salutation as she pulled up in front of a larger false-fronted building, which announced to the passing world that this was ‘Charlie Kunz General Store and Saloon’. In smaller letters below was daubed the claim that Charlie offered ‘The Best Food in Town!’, which, considering the dearth of possible competition, was more than a trifle pretentious!
Abbie sat for a few moments, looking at the sign and ignoring the curious gazes from a trio of be-whiskered local gentry seated on the boardwalk. She didn’t really need any further supplies, although some extra fine powder for the .31 calibre Colt might be useful. Billy had given her enough to make up about twenty loads, but that didn’t leave much available for practice. In addition, a store-cooked meal might be a change from her own culinary fare. Making up her mind, Abbie slipped from the saddle and, securing both of her horses to the rail i
n loose ‘getaway’ hitches, she pushed through the batwing doors and entered Mr Kunz’s establishment.
She paused inside the doorway, to allow her eyes to become accustomed to the relative gloom of the interior after the glare of the noon-day sun. Facing her was the bar, a solid slab of some hardwood, resting on the tops of two large barrels. Behind the bar, against the rear wall, was a shelf with a number of dubious-looking bottles offering alcoholic solace to the desperate and unwary customer. To the left was piled along another counter the products offered in the ‘General Store’, consisting of blankets, range clothing and leather boots sharing most of the space with a limited number of hand farm implements, while a rack of assorted rifles and shotguns took up space between the two grimy-paned windows that reluctantly provided some natural lighting. To the right a couple of roughly-made tables and chairs suggested that this was the dining area.
As Abbie entered the establishment, the solitary occupant, ensconced behind the bar, called out a hearty ‘Howdy, young fella!’ while at the same time industriously polishing the none-too-clean bar counter with a less-than-white bar cloth. ‘What’ll it be?’ His small twinkling eyes opened wide as he noted his error in identification. ‘Sorry, ma’am. I guess I haf made a big mistake! Whatcha doin’ in dat outfit?’ His abject apology was delivered in a warm guttural tone denoting his Germanic ancestry.
Abbie smiled at his confusion. ‘That is perfectly all right, Mr Kunz. I can appreciate your error. It’s just that this clothing is far more comfortable and suitable for travelling than any female attire.’ Her explanation was given in a clear, modulated, English accent so at odds with her rough frontier appearance, causing the bartender’s jaw to drop open in surprise and confusion.
‘Vat can I for you do? Ve can’t serve you at de bar, but. . . .’
He broke off as Abbie smilingly shook her head. ‘No, Mr Kunz! I was not seeking liquid refreshment, but perhaps I could purchase a lunch from you?’
‘Oh, ja! Dat is OK. Mein Frau is von good cook. So de men tell me.’ He chuckled at his little joke and went on to explain, apologetically, that his lunchtime fare was very limited, neglecting to mention that the same limited dishes were offered from early morning to late at night. The meal would consist of fried venison, beans, hot biscuits and coffee.
Abbie indicated that his offering would be perfectly acceptable, and crossed to one of the tables while mine host shouted the order through a doorway back into a lean-to kitchen. A muffled female voice indicated that the culinary preparations were underway and, shortly after much male and female whispering in the kitchen, Abbie was presented with a chipped mug of steaming black coffee. Less than five minutes later the short plump figure of Frau Kunz appeared, a broad smile on her heat-reddened face, framed by two long blonde plaits. She bore dishes and silverware that initially were placed upon the bar, while she spread a small white cloth on Abbie’s table. Then the dishes were transferred to the table. Abbie found before her a plate of thinly sliced, fried venison, a large bowl of beans, swimming in a tomato-based sauce, and a small pyramid of hot biscuits, together with the cutlery with which to consume the appetizing meal. At gestures from the smiling German couple, Abbie willingly demolished the food laid before her and had barely finished her second cup of coffee when the pleasant interlude came to an abrupt end.
Directly Abbie had entered the Kunz Emporium, the trio on the sidewalk, joined by half a dozen other curious citizens of Paradise, had surrounded Abbie’s two horses, eyeing their good points, their harness and above all their brands. One individual had then set off in a shambling run to a tumbledown shack at the western end of the built-up area. Abbie was paying her bill for the food and complimenting the hospitable couple, when the batwing doors were thrust violently open and several men appeared.
‘Yeah, that’s her! That’s the one who murdered my two pards in cold blood!’
Abbie was suddenly confronted with the hate-filled visage of Cad Williams, whom she’d last seen riding off to the east with his hands held high above his head, now standing twelve feet from her, one hand on a pistol, while the forefinger of the left hand was pointed accusingly at her.
‘Shot poor ol’ Jake down in cold blood, an’ then killed Pedro Gonzalez! Two of the most gentle men as ever walked the earth!’ As Cad cried out these accusations, even some of the cronies in his wake looked dubious at what sounded less than truth. The man who had summoned Williams attempted to back him up.
‘She’s nothin’ more than a dirty lil’ horse thief! An’ we all know how to handle horse stealers! String her up!’
His suggestion was echoed by a couple of the other intruders less concerned with the truth of Cad William’s accusations than with the novel idea of watching a victim, a woman at that, swinging in her death agonies from the hoist above the door of the livery stable.
‘Hold it, boys! Ve ain’t havin’ no necktie party here, vith no trial!’ All turned towards the bar where Charlie Kunz the owner stood, covering the crowd with a ten gauge shotgun clutched tightly in his pudgy hands. ‘Let’s see vat der young lady has to say for herself.’
He nodded to Abbie who spoke, hesitantly at first, but whose voice became louder and more precise as she continued, outlining some of the events that had led to the encounter with Jake and his gang. She briefly described the attack on the wagon train, her finding of Billy Curtis, his injuries and their joint attempts to travel west with the travois.
At the mention of Billy’s name there was a subtle change in the attitude of the listeners. Hitherto, most of them had heard her story with semi-polite disbelief, and with frequent negative comments. However, many of them knew, or knew of, the old mountain man, and Abbie’s story began to have a ring of truth about it. She finished the tale of her decision to travel westward, and the reason why she had declined Billy’s aid, and it was by then evident that the vast majority of her listeners were fully convinced that she had told the truth.
Dark looks were cast towards Cad Williams and his chief crony. Unfortunately, rather than quietly allowing that they were in error, the pair chose to curse and bluster and demand their notion of justice. Seeing that the crowd had dismissed the accusations against the girl, Cad lost complete control and, with a foul oath, and a cry of, ‘She ain’t gonna live to tell that tale again!’ he pulled a pepperbox revolver from a belt holster.
Abbie had been watching him intently, alert for any hostile action and, as Cad drew his pistol, she acted just as she had practised all winter long in the cabin. Dropping to a crouch, she half turned to the right while simultaneously reaching for, and drawing, her pinfire pistol. Her left hand automatically locked into position forward of the trigger-guard, as her left thumb found and cocked her piece. Cad Williams was still bringing his cumbersome gun up to the firing position when Abbie fired her first shot. At the last second she disobeyed Billy’s oft-repeated dictum: ‘Always go for the gut or the chest,’ and she put a 12mm bullet in Williams’ shoulder. He yelped as he dropped his pistol, but reached for a wicked-looking Arkansas Toothpick in his left boot. Reluctantly, Abbie fired once more and then yet again; this time they were heart shots. Cad Williams slumped to the floor. The crowd stood frozen at the sudden gunplay, and Abbie Penraven stood there, pistol in hand, wreathed in a widening pall of grey smoke. Though not on the road to Damascus, Cad Williams’ chief crony had a similar startling conversion. Muttering that he had made a terrible mistake, he departed and vanished from Abbie’s life.
Despite Abbie’s original intentions, she accepted a pressing invitation to spend the night in Paradise. Charlie Kunz showed her a small storeroom behind the bar, where she could bed down and feel secure, with a strong bolt on the door. With her saddle and pack stashed in the room and both horses in McCain’s livery stable, Abbie, in truth, was relieved that she did not have to face the lonely trail so soon after being forced to shoot a man, even if he did richly deserve to die.
After an evening meal, which was very similar to that which she had consumed at midday,
she had been heartily glad to retire to her little room and sink down on the single bed, both mentally and physically worn out. Beyond the door she could still hear the men at the bar loudly reliving every second of her gunfight with Cad Williams and comparing notes with other gunplay they had observed, or about which they had heard. Two aspects continually came to the fore in loud and excited conversation. The first was the speed with which Abbie had drawn and, secondly, the accuracy of her shots. Strangely, only one had remarked upon the breech-loading pinfire pistol she was packing, and he referred to her as ‘the pinfire lady’. It was a description that she was to hear time and time again. Abbie finally fell asleep lulled by the murmur of male voices in the saloon, yet very disturbed that, within the last few months, she had shot and killed three men, and seemed to have acquired a somewhat unsavoury reputation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following morning, while drinking a welcome cup of coffee, a shadow fell across her table.
‘S’cuse me, lady. Could I ask a question of you?’ Abbie indicated her permission with a slight nod of her head.
‘You’re heading west, I ’ear. Would it be possible to travel wiv’ you as far as the settlement on the South Platte River, Colorado Territory? I’d be no trouble!’ he hastened to say. ‘And I got me own vittles. It’s just more comfortable for a body ’aving someone along who knows ’ow to ’andle themselves.’
Abbie looked more closely at the owner of the part Cockney, part European, voice standing before her. She saw a small, hardly more than five feet tall, man regarding her with a pleading look in his eyes. His brown face and rather greasy long side-locks led her to surmise that her petitioner was possibly a gypsy, or more probably Jewish.
The latter assumption turned out to be correct. Jacob Levy, for such was his name, was originally from Poland, but his parents had fled during one of the Russian-inspired pogroms to London, England, where he had been raised in the Jewish community of Whitechapel. Later, seeking his fortune, he had emigrated to the United States and had wandered westward as a pedlar, selling pins, needles, and all sorts of gewgaws to isolated homesteads along the way.
The Pinfire Lady Page 4
