by R. W. Stone
“You want that one? Hell, we got several new ones that are much nicer,” the clerk, suddenly a salesman, pointed out. “I got that off of a Canuck who passed through here. Never seen one south o’ the border. No decent rider’d be caught dead on it. Looks uncomfortable as hell. Probably tear your arse a new hole.” He walked over and pointed out a San Antonio roper. “Now this one’s pretty solid and a lot more comfortable. At a hundred dollars, it’s a real bargain.”
Donovan bristled at the man’s use of the term Canuck, a disparaging term used by Americans when referring to Canadians—a northern version of the term gringo. On any other occasion Donovan might have raised a ruckus over the insult, but today Lucas decided to let it go. The clerk was obviously ignorant, not having caught the Mountie’s slight accent, and Donovan wanted a good deal on the used saddle.
“Well, that’s fine if you want to spend a hundred,” Lucas said, “but I don’t. This one here’s pretty dirty and beat up, but the leather seems intact, so I figure it’ll be cheap enough for me. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”
The clerk considered the offer for a moment before replying: “Twenty-five.”
“Deal, if you throw in a girth strap to replace the one that’s missing.”
The clerk scratched his head as he considered Donovan’s offer. “You’re a Can … Canadian, aren’t you?” he said. “Didn’t mean to insult you. But most folks call them cinches down here in the States, not girth straps.”
“We got a deal?” Donovan asked, ignoring the fact the clerk had made an attempt at an apology. “Think about it, because I also need a bridle and a few other items.”
The clerk nodded. “Sure. I figure I can make it up on the rest of the stuff you need, anyway.” He smiled hesitantly at Donovan, and held out his hand, introducing himself: “Holly Glunn.”
Lucas took his hand and introduced himself. He was sort of taking a liking to the man.
It took another half an hour for Lucas to purchase the other supplies that he needed. While in the store, he changed into another shirt, this one a red flannel checked, and a pair of denim pants in a style becoming more popular of late.
Just before leaving, Lucas stopped by a rack of new hats. He tried on a cattleman-style Stetson, grinning when he looked in the mirror that was hanging on the wall near the rack.
“Lookin’ mighty fine in that hat,” Holly commented. “Right smart I’d say. I can make you a good price on it, too.”
Donovan looked down at his broad-brimmed felt campaign hat with its symmetrically pinched high crown, and let out a sigh. Once a Mountie, always a Mountie I guess, he thought to himself.
“No thanks, I think I’ll just stick with this one,” he told the clerk.
“Too bad. You look like a real cowboy in that. Anything else I can do for you?” Holly asked, a hopeful look on his face.
Lucas shook his head and started to pay him, but stopped. “Wait, there is one thing more. Might you hold the saddle and these supplies while I go get my horses?”
Since Donovan was going to pay in gold, rather than ask for credit, Mr. Glunn cheerfully agreed. “No problem. We’re open till six o’clock tonight, or as long as I need to be. And we open early in the morning, if you need to leave your things overnight.”
“Right thoughtful of you. I might just do that,” Lucas said, and added: “Thanks much, Mister Glunn.”
Because Donovan figured it would still be a while before his horses were ready, he left the store, and went looking for the town sheriff, Red following happily behind.
Chapter Fourteen
When Donovan entered the sheriff’s office, he was surprised by its filthy condition. Even in the most remote Canadian outposts, the NWMP constables always tried to maintain a clean living and working environment.
This office had on its floor a good portion of the dirt that should have been out on the street. The sound of Donovan’s boot heels was muffled by the dirt as he stepped in and closed the door. In the middle of the room, a large desk took up most of the space, and, behind it, a rather round middle-aged man snored loudly. His boots were perched atop the desk, his hat pulled down over his eyes. His legs appeared to be short, so he wasn’t a tall man.
The Mountie took a moment to look around. There was a Stevens double-barreled shotgun propped in one corner. A quick glance indicated that, like the office, it wasn’t well maintained. The stove held a pot of coffee, but the pot was so dirty on the outside, he knew he wouldn’t accept a cup, if offered. Alongside the stove was a large pegboard with some keys hanging on it. Lucas assumed they were for the jail cells in the back.
Donovan stepped back, opened the door, and slammed it shut loudly. The startled lawman woke up, swinging his feet off the desk and jumping up. The speed in which he accomplished this feat took Donovan by surprise. Nonetheless, the sheriff seemed briefly disoriented before he realized there was a stranger in his office. After giving Lucas the once over, he relaxed some.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Donovan reached into his pocket.
“Whoa, easy there, stranger,” the sheriff said as he stood up. “Take ’er slow.” The lawman’s hand shifted quickly down to his pistol’s grip. He might be slovenly, but apparently the sheriff was experienced and nobody’s fool.
“Just reaching for my badge, Sheriff. No need to worry,” Donovan said in a reassuring tone.
“Badge, huh?” Well, go on, let’s see ’er.” The lawman’s hand still rested on his gun.
Donovan pulled out his badge. “I’m a corporal with the North-West Mounted Police. Lucas Donovan.”
The sheriff glanced at the badge with its insignia, nodded, and seemed to relax. “That so? Huh, what do you know about that? All the way down here.” He stuck his hand out, smiling. “Joe Perkins is the name. So, whatcha doin’ down here, Corporal? A little out of your territory, ain’t you?”
“Just trying to find out some information, Sheriff, nothing more. I’m looking to learn all I can about a man named Emerson. Jack Emerson. Ever heard of him?”
Sheriff Perkins sat down on the edge of his desk and indicated a chair to Donovan. “Light,” he invited. The image of a barn-sour horse, one who doesn’t like leaving his stall, immediately crossed Donovan’s mind when looking at Perkins.
“Friend or foe?” Perkins asked.
“Definitely not my friend,” Lucas replied.
“You hunting this fella? You ain’t got any jurisdiction down here, you know. That is unless you got some sort of official paperwork … what the hell am I talking about?”
“No, no papers, Sheriff Perkins. I don’t intend to arrest him. If it comes to that here in your town, I’d let you know. If it’s somewhere else, I’ll be sure to include local law enforcement.”
“If it comes to that, huh?” Sheriff Perkins mumbled. “What’s he wanted for? Must be big … you comin’ all the way down ’cross the border and all for this here feller with no government papers on you?”
Perkins might be short and sloppy, but he’s no idiot, Lucas thought, then explained: “Robbery. Murder. Rape. Name a law you can break, and Emerson has broken it.”
“So how is it you Mounties let him get out of Canada? What with him being so bad and all?”
“Don’t know as we did. I am more of an unofficial scout for the force. I’m down here to make sure we aren’t wasting our time searching up in the provinces,” Donovan lied. He was counting on this lawman not checking up on him with the Canadian authorities.
“Well, in that case, I’ll try to help you out.” The sheriff opened one of the desk drawers. “Let’s see what we can come up with. That name don’t mean nothin’ to me personally, but I got a book right here in my desk with all the wanted posters that have been put out over the last couple of years. I sort of collect them. I never throw anythin’ out,” the lawman commented, which made Donovan smile as he looked at the clutter
all around the office.
After a half hour of searching through a stack of posters and drinking what had to be the worst cup of coffee Lucas had ever tasted, the two men failed to come up with a wanted poster for Emerson, or even anyone fitting his description.
“Well, thank you for your help anyway, Sheriff,” Donovan said as he wiped his gritty fingers on the legs of his pants. “I did hear that he might have relatives over somewhere on the Montana and Idaho border. A place named Willard Creek. I guess I’ll head out that way.” Donovan stood.
“They call it Bannack now,” the lawman stated, and started tapping the desk and looking at the ceiling as if trying to remember something. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Got it. The bartender over at the Busted Flush Saloon is from that area. Name of MacGregor. You might have a talk with him and see if he recognizes the name.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Can I repay the favor and buy you a drink? You can introduce me to this MacGregor.”
The lawman thought a moment, but then shook his head. “Like to join you, but I’m still on duty. I’ll just stay right here.”
He’s definitely barn sour, Lucas thought to himself as he left the office.
Chapter Fifteen
“Next stop, the local watering hole, Red,” Lucas said as he took in the fresh air outside the lawman’s den. The big malamute cocked his head and then wagged his tail furiously. The pair ambled down the plank walkway to the Busted Flush, located on the same side of the street. It was a rather large building with two floors. As was common with most saloons, there were two wide, batwing doors at the entrance.
“You know the drill, Red. Stay right here.” Lucas made a downward motion with the palm of his hand. Red whimpered slightly, but stayed as commanded. But as soon as Lucas entered the saloon, Red inched forward so he could stick his nose far enough into the room to keep an eye on his master.
Donovan stopped right after entering and took in the room in one quick sweep. It was an old habit with him, what gamblers referred to as “reading the room.” He noted the location of windows, doors, tables, and occupants—of which there were not that many at the present time. After years on the force, he’d gotten to a point where he could usually detect hideout weapons such as shoulder holsters, sleeve guns, or even hidden knives. Men carrying concealed weapons didn’t realize that they often position their bodies in subtle ways to compensate for the shape or weight of the hidden weapon they are carrying. Others make the mistake of too-often patting or touching their clothes to assure themselves the hidden weapons are at the ready or haven’t shifted. Such things can be read by the trained eye, with practice.
After reassuring himself that nothing seemed out of the ordinary for a frontier saloon, he walked over to the bar, leaned his Sharps rifle up against it, and waited. A very large man with a full red beard walked over and wiped down the counter in front of him.
“What’ll it be, stranger?” he asked. His tone was neither friendly nor hostile. He seemed more bored than anything else.
“You are named MacGregor, are you not?” Lucas asked.
The big barkeep nodded suspiciously, keeping his eye solidly on Donovan.
“I’d like a large ale and some information, if you have any.”
“Ale? You mean beer?” the bartender asked, shaking his head with a smirk. He looked Lucas over carefully. “So then, you’d be Canadian, and if I can still see straight, you’d also be a lawman.”
“I’m a lawman up in Alberta,” Donovan assured him, “but I’m looking for information about a man who might be from a place called Willard Creek, in Idaho, I believe. Sheriff Perkins said you might be able to help. I’d gladly pay for your troubles.
The big man smiled. “Grasshopper Creek? I lived there for a while.”
“Grasshopper Creek?” Lucas said, not understanding the connection.
“Well, let’s see,” the large man began. “Two explorers, Lewis and Clark, originally discovered the place and named it Willard Creek. It was back in the old Idaho Territory. Not much there at the time. You know … hot in the summer, cold in the fall, and wet and miserable all the time. Sometime later, somebody struck gold there and the place suddenly grew up. Problem was, the whole place was overrun with grasshoppers.”
“Grasshoppers? The insects?” Lucas asked.
“Right. Thousands of ’em. They were everywhere. Your ears, your mouth and eyes, bed sheets, boots, your food, you name it. So the locals began calling the place Grasshopper Creek. Over time, they managed to burn most of them out, and then it became part of this lovely state of Montana. Name was changed again. Bannack, this time. Would have been Bannack with an o, but as usual the government mucked things up and misspelled the request.”
Lucas chuckled. “I see things with the government are as efficient down here as they are back home. If I might ask, how’d you end up in a place like Grasshopper Creek? I mean if my ears don’t deceive me, you are Scottish, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, my lad, as if there was ever any doubt.” He chuckled while stroking his thick red beard. “But the question should be how I ended up here in this fine establishment.” MacGregor waved his big arm around the saloon.
“All right, I’m listening,” Lucas prompted.
“Well, my father was in the distillery business in Glasgow. As a child I practically bathed in whiskey barrels. I left home at fifteen, determined to find a better life here in America.”
“A little big to cowboy, I imagine,” Lucas joked.
“A mite, yes, but not too big to drive a wagon. I made my way to Chicago, where I worked the stockyards for two whole years. I then came west with a group that traveled back and forth to Chicago. Moving cattle they were. Along the way, we got word of a gold strike in Willard, so I left that group and headed over there, instead.”
“Any luck?” Lucas asked.
“At first, yes. I lived there a few years and it worn’t too bad … at first. Later, what with the Plummer gang robbing everyone, the crooked card games, and the local ladies, I soon lost everything I had made, little as it be. Started working my way back eastward, but didn’t get very far and that’s how I finally ended up here, in this small paradise.”
“Back to working with the whiskey you had left in your homeland,” Lucas observed.
MacGregor shrugged. “Can’t argue with the fates, I guess. So, who is this man you are looking for?”
“A fellow by the name of Emerson. Jack Emerson.”
The big man’s face went suddenly grim. “Friend of yorn?”
Donovan shook his head. “I’ll be honest with you, MacGregor. He killed my brother.” He stared the big man in the eye, wondering why he had told him the truth. “I need all the help I can get.”
The big bartender nodded. “You sure will, if you go after that group. I don’t know this particular fellow, but there’s a miserable clan of Emersons all around that area. The whole lot of them are meaner than a grizzly bear with a thorn in its paw. Too much inbreeding, if you ask me. They’d as soon slit your throat as say hello.”
“Sounds like the man I’m after would fit right in with this group,” Donovan said. Lucas dropped five dollars in coin on the bar. “So how do I find this Willard … I mean this Bannack?”
The bartender studied Donovan while wiping the bar counter off, sliding the money over to his apron pocket. “Well, you might find it with a map, of course, but it can be pretty tough going. Wait a moment,” the barman said, hesitating, “I know of a fellow who’s a little down on his luck and would probably guide you for a small fee. Problem is …” He paused to stroke his beard.
“He’s not particularly trustworthy?” Lucas finished the sentence for him.
“No, it isn’t that,” MacGregor replied.
“Then what is it?” Donovan asked.
“Well he’s … indigenous, you know … an Injun … and most folks won’t hav
e stock with one. Now me … I don’t care what a man is or where he comes from, as long as he’s straight with me.”
“That’s the way I feel,” Lucas replied truthfully. “So, where do I find this fellow?”
MacGregor gestured to the back of the saloon. “He’s out back stacking barrels and chopping firewood for lunch money. Can’t miss him.”
Donovan stuck out his hand and the barkeeper took it. Lucas’ whole hand practically disappeared inside the big Scot’s grip. He then left the bar and gestured for Red to follow.
They walked around the building to the area out back where he found a slender man cutting wood with a long double-bladed ax. He was obviously an Indian, and, given the locale, Lucas thought he might be one of the Sioux nation.
Donovan cleared his throat. “Hello. Do you speak English?” he asked.
The man eyed him carefully, but then kept his attention on the dog.
“Some,” the man replied finally, suspiciously.
“Lakota?” Lucas asked.
The man nodded. “Oglala Lakota.”
Donovan noted that the man did not put the ax down.
“Ininiwuk,” Lucas said, saying the Cree word used to identify themselves. It meant: men, or original people. “Or I should say, I was raised by one,” Donovan said in Cree. He had hoped to set the man more at ease.
Although the Cree and the Sioux languages were not identical, they shared linguistic similarities. In fact, before the arrival of the white man, the tribes had crossed into each other’s territories. Lucas hoped the man would understand he had nothing but respect for the native people.
The Indian nodded again, even seemed to relax slightly. He set the ax down next to a large beer barrel. “What want with White Bear?” he asked.
“All I need is a guide to take me to Bannack,” Lucas replied. “Grasshopper Creek? I was told by MacGregor that you can get me there.”
“Is far away. Many days’ ride.” His face was expressionless.
