As he turned away, one of the gathered crowd said mockingly, ‘Off you go, Henry, like a good boy. Make your report to Roger Fenton when he comes to town. Maybe he’ll buy you a lollipop!’ at which remark a number of those present broke into jeering laughter. A couple of the more compassionate men assisted the groaning Bradshaw to a shack, which constituted the surgery and living quarters of Dr Stevens, the only medical man within thirty miles.
As Marshal Firman slunk off, the folks left gathered around Abbie, curious about her gunplay skills. Yet being westerners, they hesitated to speak up and intrude on her privacy.
‘Well, good people, I’m really sorry to introduce myself in such a violent manner, but I felt that I had very little choice.’
A voice in the crowd spoke up with, ‘Don’t you worry about Bart Bradshaw, ma’am. Ol’ Bart’s been pushing his weight around here too long and he was due for a fall.’
There were murmurs of agreement at this remark, followed by someone else noting that Roger Fenton was the only man likely to miss Bradshaw. Others asked Abbie what type of gun she carried and where she had learned to shoot, but to all queries she just gave vague replies. Finally she held up a hand for silence.
‘Now I have a question of you gentlemen! Where can a lady get a decent meal and a cup of coffee in Colorado City?’
There was movement in the crowd as a tall, well-built and elegantly-dressed man pushed his way forward. Sweeping off his wide brimmed hat and bowing low, he declaimed, ‘Arnold Le Clair at your service, ma’am. Allow me the honour of escorting you to our finest eating establishment, namely the Café Royale, although I am assured that its owner is in fact a staunch Republican.’
Abbie looked at him with that frank gaze that so many men found to be so disconcerting. She saw a dark-complexioned man with a thin moustache and even features that would have made him positively handsome were it not for the livid scar on one cheek. He looked at her with a disarming smile and remarked, ‘Well! Are you satisfied with the inspection?’
Abbie thanked him prettily for his invitation and, taking his offered arm, they walked along the boardwalk, trailed by a goodly number of the admiring crowd, to the Café Royale where the two customers were presented with, and consumed, a meal worthy of a Parisian Café.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arnold was a delightful table companion. He had travelled considerably both in North America and in Europe and had an extensive repertoire of amusing tales with which to regale his fellow diner. Abbie noticed with a certain amusement that most of his selected stories seemed to be presented with a view to drawing out responses from her that would furnish him with more information about herself.
Abbie decided that it would do no harm to prick Arnold’s self-confidence a little as he seemed set on impressing her with his worldly air. Early on in their conversation, he had admitted quite frankly that he was a professional gambler, and so now during a break in Arnold’s discourse she put down her silverware, looked at him intently and said, ‘Arnold, do you know it really seems very strange sitting here with you, a professional gambler. Did you ever meet a certain Paul LaRue?’
He frowned a little at her question and responded, ‘Paul LaRue? Why yes, we’ve played cards together. Why do you ask?’
‘Well,’ replied Abbie slowly, ‘I didn’t really get to know the man myself. We only met once and I shot him – in a duel!’
Arnold’s jaw dropped and he looked at her in disbelief. Despite the fact that scarcely an hour ago she had shot the town bully, Bart Bradshaw, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the notion that her victory was somehow a fluke. And here she was calmly telling him that she had had a formal duel with a noted gunman and had won.
In the silence that followed, Abbie thought that it would do no harm to give Arnold a very brief outline of some of her experiences, including her role as wagon captain, the fight with Scar and his gang and a couple of her other gunfights, with the result that Arnold Le Clair was bewildered by this seemingly accomplished Victorian lady who was also a deadly gunfighter.
The meal was finished and they spontaneously rose from the table. Abbie insisted on paying her share of the bill; she didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. ‘That was an excellent meal, Mr Le Clair, and delightful conversation. Now I must be collecting my horse from the livery stable and heading back to our wagon site.’
She felt there was no need to inform Le Clair that her wagon train had broken up. He might well be friendly, but she had learned to be cautious.
They parted at the door to the café and Abbie walked down to the livery stable, receiving respectful acknowledgments from the people on the boardwalk. Her bay was inside, all groomed, fed and ready to go. Joey waited expectantly for his fee and Abbie produced a dollar, which she held out in one hand. ‘Joey! Before I give you this dollar, I want you to repeat what you were saying to me when we were so rudely interrupted by Bart Bradshaw.’
Joey eyed the dollar and licked his lips nervously, ‘Well, ma’am, I usually sleep in a stall or up in the loft if old Wilson, that’s the owner, ain’t mad at me. This particular night I was up in the loft when Mr Bradshaw brought a horse back in. It had been rented earlier in the day by Mr Clifford. Bradshaw said to two men waiting for him, “Well, it’s done! He wasn’t expecting anything. The bullet hit him in the back, right between the shoulder blades. Give me a hand, fellas! There’s blood all over this saddle.” The three of them cleaned up the saddle and brushed old Bob down. Then they left, taking Bob with them. The next morning he was found wandering outside the town and a search party found Mr Clifford’s body lying on the edge of an arroyo. To make it seem like a robbery, his pockets were turned inside out. That’s all I know, ma’am.’
‘Thank you Joey, here’s the dollar. By the way! Did you recognize the two men?’
‘One was that Roger Fenton. I dunno who the other was. Take care, ma’am.’ And Joey scuttled off, the dollar clutched in his hand.
Abbie climbed into the saddle and rode slowly out of Colorado City. Reaching the wagon site, she found several others of her party had returned with mixed impressions about their job-seeking experiences. Bobby Smith had been told that Fenton who owned the Lucky Strike mine wasn’t taking on any new hands. He was advised to try other mining ventures in the area.
Ann Marlowe and Beth Isaacson had found an empty store, which they thought would be ideal for the kind of snack bar they had been considering. Now they had to work out a deal with the present owner. Meanwhile they intended to remain at the present campsite where there were folks that they knew.
As Abbie stood chatting with her wagon train friends, Jack Harding rode in pulling a long face and shrugging his shoulders in response to her silent query. The group split up and both Abbie and Jack started preparing the evening meal for the three of them. The food was cooked and the coffee boiling away before Dora stumbled into camp. Her shirtwaist was torn at the shoulder, her bonnet was all awry, and she presented a dishevelled appearance. She sank down on a box and gratefully sipped at a mug of coffee offered by Abbie while Jack hovered around anxiously awaiting Dora’s story of how she got in such a condition.
At length Dora had recovered her composure and narrated how she had walked into town and had decided to start her enquiries at the bank. There was only a young teller in evidence and when she enquired about George Gillis, he gave conflicting answers. Initially he stated that the bank could not reveal any information regarding customers. This statement was then modified when he admitted to Dora that Mr Gillis was dead, but no, he did not know how it happened. It was before his time at the bank. He suggested Dora try the main General Store.
She had gone as directed and met the affable Mr Benson; affable, that is, until she explained that a friend back east had asked her to find out about the fatal accident experienced by a certain Mr Gillis. Directly she had mentioned the name, Benson’s manner changed. He became flustered. He blustered and finally asked to be excused for a few minutes as he had to deliver an outstandin
g order. He left by a back door and fifteen minutes later had not returned.
Dora had waited patiently, but was about to leave when a man entered the store. He was of medium height, had a well-trimmed Louis Napoleon beard, was well dressed and, like most men, was wearing a gun belt. He had smiled disarmingly at Dora and said that he understood that she was making enquiries about poor Mr Gillis. He had then suggested that it was not a subject to discuss standing at a store counter, and invited her to accompany him to his office behind the Bonanza Saloon of which he was the owner.
Dora had gone with him, her companion chatting in the most friendly fashion, as they walked the short distance to the saloon. He kept apologizing, because they had to walk through the empty barroom to get to his office. He had opened the door and ushered her in. Directly she was in his office cum living quarters, his manner changed and he had thrown her down upon a couch, demanding to know what her interest was in the late George Gillis. She had jumped up and demanded to leave. Her captor had grabbed and in the ensuing struggle her clothing was torn. Just as she was down on the couch once more, there came a hammering at the door and a voice calling out for Marty. His response for the caller to go away just invited more hammering and the remark that Bart was having a problem.
Marty, the bearded one, got up and, threatening Dora with a dog whip hanging on the wall, he went out locking the door behind him. She tried the door. It was solid. There was no chance of shaking the lock loose. The one grimy window in the room was in the wall facing an alley. It was of the sash type where the lower half slid up to double the top portion. The window was locked with a swivel catch and Dora thought that, given time, she could maybe loosen the rusted parts.
Taking a nail file from her reticule, with heart hammering, she set to work scraping away at the rusty paint-encrusted catch. Time passed, there seemed little noise coming from the barroom and fortunately Marty did not put in an appearance. Finally, the catch was clear of rust and paint, but still would not turn. Dora saw she needed some kind of leverage and looked around. The dog whip might serve the purpose and, seizing it, she used the handle to force the catch to turn. Slowly it began to move until the lower portion of the sash widow was free to ride up when pushed from below. The window rose about two inches and stuck; and that was the situation when a funny little man appeared, looking in at her. He saw Dora’s predicament and, putting a finger to his lips, he vanished, reappearing with a piece of board which he employed to pry the stuck window up and then helped Dora climb through into the alley. Thanking her rescuer, and eliciting the fact that his name was Joey, Dora had hurried to get safely back to the wagons.
Abbie and Jack looked at each other and at the still shaken Dora. There was a long silence, broken by Jack who declared; ‘I think I’d better pay Mr Marty whatever his name is a little visit and teach ’im some manners! ’E doesn’t go around treating any lady like that, let alone my girl!’
‘Hold on, Jack! I’m just as indignant as you over the treatment Dora experienced, but we don’t want to go off at half cock. I think that we have to consider where we stand before we make the next move. Don’t worry though. In time Marty will receive his just desserts.’
Abbie’s remarks were echoed by Dora who suggested that next time she would be more careful and less trusting before allowing herself to be in effect sweet-talked into a dangerous situation.
The trio decided to see what they had accomplished by their foray into Colorado City.
‘Well!’ listed Abbie, ‘We know that the storekeeper Benson appears to take his orders from somebody else and that he doesn’t own his establishment. We also have experienced that the names of both Gillis and Clifford get a negative reaction. The man Marty would definitely appear to be one of the enemy as would the town marshal, Henry Firman. From remarks made by bystanders, both apparently take orders from the mysterious Roger Fenton who, so far, has not appeared on the scene.
‘I’m not sure about the gambler, Le Clair. He was certainly probing during the meal that I had with him but, then again, it may well have been mere professional curiosity.’
Dora interjected, ‘The little man Joey would seem to be on our side. At least, that was my feeling when he helped me escape.’
Abbie endorsed Dora’s opinion, suggesting that another chat with Joey would be a good idea. And on that note they prepared to bed down for the night with the understanding that they would pursue the mystery further in the morning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next day, leaving Jack and Dora with the wagons, Abbie rode into town. She visited other establishments, such as the other general store, more struggling but seemingly more patronized than that of Mr Benson. There was a ladies’ haberdashery that warranted a visit, not with the notion that she might gain information, but rather because that was what she was expected to do. Actually, it was a worthwhile visit. The Misses Partridge who ran the haberdashery were two middle-aged ladies who had originally hailed from Dover in Kent, England, and were absolutely enthralled to have somebody to chat to from the country that they had left so long ago. She was invited back for a longer visit, at which time they intended to tell her the adventures that had led them to Colorado City. At least, that was their intent if they were still there. That man Fenton, their landlord, was unlike dear Mr Gillis, their first landlord, who had been so understanding. Fenton demanded his rent on the first Monday of the month and was always threatening to close them down. At length Abbie posed a question regarding the fate of poor Mr Gillis.
Both sisters replied describing how the Gillis riderless horse had come into town and how his body was found several days later in an arroyo where he had been evidently thrown from his steed. That is what the marshal said in his report to the City Council. The body had been buried in the little cemetery outside the city limits. Most people attended and the grave was still looked after by Joey the ostler.
‘Hmm,’ thought Abbie. ‘That’s interesting that Joey’s name should come up in conversation. I think that I’ll have to try and have a conversation with that gentleman.’
She purchased a few small items from the two sisters who seemed grateful for the sale and took her leave.
Acting on the directions she had just received, Abbie rode out to the sadly neglected Boot Hill. Neglected that is except for one grave. She dismounted and, loosely tethering her bay, she strolled around the little graveyard, stopping at various mounds to read the fading inscriptions on sagging wooden crosses and the odd weathered monument. Deliberately Abbie kept her movements casual so that if anyone was spying on her he would be unable to see if she paid more attention to any one inscription. She walked by the grave of Daniel Clifford, already overgrown, and just as quickly passed that of George Gillis, noticing out of the corner of her eye how neat it was with a jar of wilting flowers close to the simple wooden cross.
Back in the saddle Abbie rode back through town watching to see if Joey was around. As she was passing Marty’s Bonanza saloon, a man stepped off the boardwalk and accosted her, ‘Heh, you! I want to talk to you!’
Abbie reined in the bay and looked down at the fellow who addressed her in such a rough coarse manner.
‘Are you speaking to me?’ she responded in a cold imperious tone, deliberately remaining aloof.
‘Yeah! I’m talking to you! Who d’ya think you are shooting one of my men down in the street without any reason or provocation?’
‘Well, I most certainly know who I am, but who do you think you are, addressing me in this uncouth manner? What’s your name?’
‘My name’s Roger Fenton! Bart Bradshaw was one of my top hands and it happens that I own most of Colorado City! I demand to know what gives you the right to come here and go around deliberately stirring up trouble.’
‘Oh!’ replied Abbie. ‘So you are that Roger Fenton! The one who seems to have obtained all of these properties in some suspicious manner. So folks are saying up and down the Mountain Branch trail.’
As she spoke the last remark, Abbie del
iberately raised her voice for the benefit of the people gathered on the boardwalk listening with a certain amount of pleasure to the altercation between the Pinfire Lady and the boss of Colorado City who had frequently made life uncomfortable and uncertain for many of them.
Completing her statement, Abbie spurred the bay forward, almost trampling Fenton underfoot and rode back to the wagons. As she neared the encampment, she saw a knot of people amongst whom were Jack Harding and three men wearing large Mexican sombreros. She reined in the bay and dismounted. One of the Mexicans came forward, taking off his hat.
‘Buenas noches, señorita! Do you remember me? It is Miguel. Miguel Garcia, Mr Bent’s hombre. Mr Bent, he has a big package for the señorita, and he say for Miguel to bring it, but to have two guards cos they are ver’ bad hombres on the trail. So,’ introducing his companions, ‘I bring Pedro and José with me!’
Both of the other two Mexicans removed their sombreros and bowed low to Abbie, who acknowledged them with a large smile. ‘And what have you got for me, Miguel, that prompted such a long perilous journey?’
Miguel indicated the two large packages still lashed either side of a patient pack mule. ‘Here are the bullets for La Señorita’s Pinfire gun that Mr Bent he order fro New York! Mr Bent, he also say we three to stay with the señorita as long as she need us! Is that OK?’
Abbie indicated her pleasure at their arrival and said they were most welcome to stay, although it was possible that there could be trouble in the near future. The mule was unpacked and Abbie, with Jack’s assistance, carefully opened up one of the wooden packing cases. Inside the case were ten cardboard boxes, each containing twenty-five 12mm pinfire cartridges.
The Pinfire Lady Page 10
