Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “I appreciate that. I’ll go ask. About how far west?”

  “Five miles, north side o’ the river. Get ya anything while you’re here?” He looked at Buell.

  “I need some leather. A holster and a scabbard.”

  “Ain’t got that here, but we do have a gunsmith. He’s got a place in the rear of the blacksmith. Ya passed it on your left coming in from the east.”

  “How’d ya know we came from the east?” Buell met the sutler’s black eyes with a suspicious frown.

  “Nebraska was over there last time I heard. And ya told Tay you was from Nebraska. Touchy young feller, ain’t ya?”

  “C’mon, boys, I was jist headin’ that way m’self. Be glad to point it out.” Tay Prescott nodded at the door. “See ya, T. P. And ya stuck that buck fer the ’baccy too. Sixty cents, ya oughta be ashamed.” He chuckled as he headed for the door.

  “Are the Indians all that tame?” Buell asked. “I thought they were raising hell out here.”

  “Jist barely signed a new treaty. As of August twenty-five, we ain’t gonna mess with them, nor they with us. Damn, that’ll feel good, not havin’ ta be lookin’ over my shoulder all the time when I’m huntin’ and such. They still give me the bumps, though.”

  Tay Prescott moved over the slightly uneven ground like cream over warm pie—he flowed. His feet seemed to never quite leave the ground, his gait a sort of shuffle. Simon expected him to stumble or trip with every step, but quickened his stride to keep up. He caught himself slightly imitating the old man.

  They pushed open the door to the livery and walked in. The smell stopped both young men in mid stride. The scent of hay, horse sweat and dung, liniment, dust, and the unique odor of old wood, connected with boyhood memories of Buell’s father’s blacksmith and livery. They looked at each other and grinned.

  “Looks like Rawlins ain’t here right now,” Tay said after a look around the livery. “C’mon back and we’ll see if Kent’s in.” He shuffled across the floor to a door in back, and pushed it open. “Hey, Berggren, ya in here?”

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  Tay stepped back, and motioned Simon and Buell into a spacious room.

  “Gents.” A big-boned man stood at a bench to the left, a leather apron covering his chest and legs. He held a six-foot-long flintlock rifle. He stuck out his hand: “Name’s Kent Berggren.”

  Simon thrilled at the soft rounded cadence of a Swedish accent.

  “Kent, this’er young fella is lookin’ fer a holster and scabbard. Name’s Mace, Buell Mace.” He indicated Buell. “And this’s Simon Steele.” Simon shook his hand.

  “Another Swede,” Berggren said, and smiled. “Always pleased. Now, my business. Lookin’ to replace that one?” He pointed to the rig Buell had strapped to his right hip.

  “Nope. I need something for this.” He unbuttoned his coat, and pulled the shiny Remington out of his belt.

  “Oh, shit.” The gunsmith stared at the shiny pistol. “Can I look at that?”

  “Sure.” Buell handed him the butt.

  The smith turned the pistol end for end and peered closely at the pale yellow grips. His fingers traced the outline of the perched eagle carved in the ivory. “Beautiful. Where’d ya get this one?”

  “It’s mine, fair and square. Does it matter where I got it?”

  “Not really. It’s . . . a . . . I know another fella had one like it. Matter of fact, I put his grips on. Carved his initials ‘KB’ on the inside.” He handed the pistol back to Buell. His hand trembled slightly, but it didn’t escape Simon.

  “You sayin’ this is the gun?” Buell’s voice had a flat challenging edge to it.

  “I’m sayin’ I saw one like it. Belongs to my brother.”

  “He went to Omaha the first of the month, didn’t he?” Prescott asked.

  “Yeah, and we ain’t heard a word from him. It’s not been that long, but—”

  “I didn’t get it from no white man,” Buell said.

  Panic suggested itself to Simon. He blinked rapidly as he studied Buell.

  The gunsmith’s face turned ashen, and he slumped back against his bench.

  “We were attacked in the night. These—” Simon started to explain.

  “Keep yer mouth shut.” Buell cut him off. “Ain’t nobody’s business but ours.” He looked back at the gunsmith, who now stood studying the floor.

  “Mind if an old fart says somethin’?” Tay asked Buell.

  Buell looked at him for a second, and then nodded.

  “I got a feelin’ about you fellers. Call it sure learnin’ from survivin’ forty years in the hills. Anyhow, when Mister Mace here says he come by it fair and straight, I figger he’s got ’nuff sand to make it stick. So, let’s hear how ya come by it, and maybe we kin clear this up.”

  Buell frowned. “About ten or twelve days ago, a coupla roosters jumped us at night. They figgered to sneak up on us, but we saw ’em followin’. They was cocked and ready to shoot. I blasted one in the leg, and hit the other one somewhere else. The leg-shot feller run off a bit and bled till he died. The other man got to the horses and rode south. I know he was shot cuz he left plenty of blood where they tied up. He dropped this pistol when I hit ’im.” Buell released a pent-up sigh. It could have been either relief or resignation, Simon couldn’t tell which.

  “Ya say it was ’bout ten days ago?” Tay shot a glance at Berggren.

  “Somethin’ like that,” Buell said.

  “Was the one ya kilt real skinny, face that looks like scrambled eggs, all pockmarked?” Berggren asked. “Had a mouth full of rot that’d back up a skunk.”

  “Yep. And dirty, I mean real dirty. He’s the dead one,” Buell said.

  The gunsmith sucked in a sharp breath, and his hand went to his clenched jaw. He shook his head, then lowered it as his eyes glazed over.

  “The feller what’s dead is named Skinner,” Tay said. “Him and another feller has been stealin’ and killin’ on the trail for years. Ya did us all a favor.” He walked over to the silent gunsmith. “I’m plumb sorry, Kent. Damned if I ain’t.” He put his hand on Kent’s shoulder.

  “I told ya,” Buell said emphatically, “he weren’t no white man.”

  Tay’s eyebrows shot up.

  Buell continued: “He didn’t wear boots. I saw his tracks, and in the woods, he walked as close to me as you are. If I hadn’t heard him breathin’, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

  “Ain’t got no way a knowin’ fer sure,” Tay said, “but the other’n could have been Injun. Nasty bastard named Knife.”

  “He rode through here two days ago,” Berggren said. “Had the army doc take a look at a hole in his hand. Bet ya it was a . . .” He paused and glanced at the gun in Buell’s holster. “A thirty-six-caliber ball. Dirty bastard. Murderin’ son of a bitch.” He shook his head from side to side. “Can I look at the grips?”

  Buell handed him the gun, and Berggren backed the screw out of the ivory. He looked at the underside of the right grip. Tears sprang from his eyes and he grabbed the bench for support. “Oh, Karl. Oh, God.”

  “I’m sorry, mister,” Buell said. “I owe that bastard, and I pay off.”

  The four men stood silent for a while, unable to find words. Slowly the smith regained control of his emotions and put the pistol back together. Finished, he carefully laid it on the bench. Neither he nor Buell took their eyes off it.

  “I’ll make ya a deal, Mister Mace. I want you to keep the pistol, and I want you use it when you find him. I want you to shoot him once for each of Carl’s three children and three times for his wife.”

  “Are you sure?” Buell asked. “It rightly belongs to you, or his wife.”

  “No, I’ve decided. But promise me you’ll do as I asked. And if not with that gun, then with some other. I’d be in your debt.”

  After caressing the grips again, he handed the pistol to Buell, then turned and opened a drawer. He offered Buell a tooled, mahogany-colored leather holster and belt with a silver buckle.
“I was going to give him this for Christmas. They go together.”

  The look of sadness on his face made Simon’s throat sore, and he swallowed hard to make the knot go away.

  “Like I said, I kin judge a man better’n most, and I reckon Mister Mace will do as he says.” Tay shook his head sadly and touched the gunsmith on the arm again.

  Berggren took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders, letting his breath out in a long sigh. It seemed to signal his resolve to accept for now what had happened.

  “You needed a rifle scabbard too. What do you shoot?”

  “Sharps carbine.”

  “Skinner’s? I’m sorry . . . doesn’t matter. Got one here—matter of fact, several.” He reached under the bench and brought out the short scabbard. Straps were attached at the big end. “Four dollars.”

  Buell paid him.

  As they left the shop, Simon noticed the smith sag onto a stool and bury his face in his hands.

  Once back in the livery barn, Tay turned and stopped. “Damn, I hate to see that. Kent’s a good man. Doc took that Injun’s thumb off.” Prescott shook his head and looked at the closed door for a moment. “Where ya fellas figgerin’ on stayin’ tonight?”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it particularly,” Simon said. “Figgered we could sleep rough another night if we had to.”

  “Well, you can stay in half a dozen places here, or they’s two roadhouses within six miles, one down river and the other up. Either will do. Else ya kin stay with me. Yer more’n welcome. Got a little dugout, ’bout a mile out.”

  “Don’t want to put you out, Mister Prescott. We can find something.” Simon looked at Buell.

  “Ain’t nobody puttin’ nobody out. Be glad to have the company and catch up on some news. And call me Tay. Mister makes me nervous.” His face lit up again in an all-consuming smile.

  Buell nodded.

  “Thanks for the offer,” Simon said. “We’ll take you up on it. I’d like to stop by the store again, and buy a few things. And then send a telegraph.”

  “Be ready ta git scalped. Ya saw what he did to that Indian? You ain’t gonna fare much better. Ol’ T. P. Triffet treats everybody more or less the same—puts the screw to all of ’em.” Tay chuckled. “I’ll gather up m’ horse and meet ya over there. Won’t be long.”

  The dugout Tay had alluded to turned out to be exactly that. The sharp slope had been dug into, and the front and sides of the dwelling constructed of stacked rough-hewn logs. A ridgepole ran back into the hillside, and a shallow-pitched roof of sod-covered rough boards, run off to each side. The door hung on three leather hinges. A twenty-foot square pole corral backed into a lean-to covering six or eight neatly stacked cords of wood. Tay rode up to the corral and dismounted. “Unload yerself, and put yer horses in the corral, or loose hobble ’em and let ’em go. The grass down by the creek’ll keep ’em happy.” He uncinched his saddle, took it off his horse and threw the blanket and saddle over the corral rail. The bridle followed a minute later. He slapped his horse on the rump, and it meandered off toward the creek.

  “Won’t he take off without hobbles?” Buell asked.

  “Nope. He’ll be there in the mornin’. Indians have tried to steal him three times, and ain’t got ’er done yet. Hobble ’im, and they will fer sure.”

  “Then what about ours?” Simon asked.

  “Haven’t had any horse thievin’ fer quite a spell. Reckon ya got to do what ya think is best. It were me, I’d hobble ’em.” He winked and headed for the dugout door.

  Simon and Buell unsaddled the horses and turned them loose, with hobbles. When they entered the home, they found Tay busy building a fire in a black iron stove. The whole dwelling only measured about sixteen feet square. Once inside, Simon saw that the dugout was, in fact, a squat, square log house set in the hillside. The rear end contained the stove and wall-to-wall shelves from the ceiling to the floor. On the left side a four-legged rawhide bed stood, with more shelves above it. A table and bench stood at the foot of the bed. The right side had a matching bed, and at the foot of it stood a squat ten-gallon pickle barrel. Simon had seen dozens just like it. A ladle hanging above on the wall suggested it might be the water supply. Traps, skins, rolled up hides and several leather packing bags hung from the ceiling in various places. A long flintlock rifle leaned against the wall just inside the door.

  “Make yerself at home. I’ll get a fire goin’ and rustle up some grub.” He added some larger pieces of wood to the small fire struggling for life in the stove.

  Buell looked at the single bed and then at Simon. “Flip ya for it.” He dug into his pants pocket for a coin.

  Simon had never enjoyed a meal like it. Hunger, the good company, and the simple fact they didn’t face another day of riding tomorrow helped a lot. Fried spuds, boiled carrots, steak, bakery bread and plum jam with butter, fresh tomatoes, and milk, tucked away until he could hardly breathe. “I hadn’t counted on eating like this out here.” He leaned back against the rough log wall.

  “Why’d ya think that? There’s upwards to a thousand people in and around Fort Laramie. We got most things ya have back East; they just cost more here and sometimes ya gotta wait a bit. A few of them shabby-lookin’ houses near the fort has got some of the finest furniture and stuff you kin imagine. Lot of it jist picked up by the trail as the folks passin’ through discovered they had too much to carry and threw it off.”

  “But, tomatoes?” Buell asked. “And spuds?”

  “Sure. Folks gotta eat, so folks raise what’s needed. I reckon if the damned railroad hadn’t decided to run south of here, we could have grown into a big town. Now, looks like we’ll start to fade along with the trail.”

  “Wasn’t there one that runs into Montana Territory?” Simon asked.

  “There was, the Bozeman. The Sioux shut ’er down, and the treaty we just signed says we ain’t gonna use it no more, another reason we ain’t gonna last.”

  “So, you think we might want to consider going on?” To Simon the idea didn’t have a lot of appeal.

  “Not really. I’ve been pokin’ ’round some in the hills northeast of here. Found some interesting country. Ain’t ’sposed ta be in there, but I reckon one lonely prospector ain’t gonna disturb much.” He seemed to enjoy dangling just enough of a story to draw more questions. They came instantly.

  Buell leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Whatcha mean, interesting?” His eyes reflected one of the kerosene lamps burning overhead. “Ya mean gold, don’tcha?”

  “Ain’t found enough to make me stay any place long. The Indians consider that country sacred, and they take it serious. But I’ve seen enough to know I’d like to have a free hand to nose around.”

  “How can you get in and out without them spottin’ ya?” Simon asked.

  “That’s big country, boys. Contrary to what ya might’ve heard, Indians ain’t no smarter or bigger than any other man. They do have the advantage of being growed up right there, but once a man has moved about some in those hills, that advantage is gone. I ain’t afraid of ’em, but I do respect ’em.”

  “So, exactly where you finding this interesting country?” Buell asked.

  “Cuz yer a little new here I’ll overlook that, Buell. But fer yer own good, I’ll tell ya that ain’t a question ya ask of a prospector. I’ve had more’n one feller try to follow me inta the hills. Couple of ’em are still there.” He lowered his head slightly and looked at Buell under a beaded brow. His meaning could not be mistaken.

  CHAPTER 4

  The McCaffrey roadhouse west of Fort Laramie consisted of a motley group of buildings set right on the road. The main building boasted two stories with a porch and a hitching rail out front. On either side of the building, a pair of nearly identical structures leaned into the big one, either for support or to hold it up; it was hard to tell which. A livery and blacksmith shop took up space across and down the road a little, with two large corrals that contained a dozen or so horses. Three more small bu
ildings finished the scene. Simon and Buell reined up at the rail and tied their horses amongst a dozen others. Standing outside, they could hear the noise from within, but when they opened the door, the cacophony that greeted them made Simon blink with astonishment. They walked across the room to the bar.

  “Where can I find the owner?” Simon asked the bartender, a tall, skinny man with oily hair.

  The barkeep cupped his ear with one hand and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m looking for the owner.” Simon glanced down, embarrassed for shouting.

  “That’d be Amos McCaffrey.” He pointed towards a table at the foot of some stairs that led to the upper story. “He’s that fella in the brown coat and the derby hat.”

  Simon leaned closer. “Do you think he might be looking for help?”

  “You what?” The bartender leaned over the bar with his head cocked sideways.

  “How’s my chances of getting a job?”

  “You want to work here? What the hell for?” The bartender grinned at a customer standing next to Simon. “Amos is always hiring somebody. Maybe you can have my job.” He turned and headed down the bar.

  Simon and Buell walked half the length of the room to the table the barkeep had pointed out where six men sat playing cards. Simon waited until Amos McCaffrey caught his eye and nodded.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Simon said.

  Amos nodded again.

  “A Mister Triffet referred me to you about possible employment.”

  “Referred?” Amos grinned at the other card players. “Mister Triffet? You mean T. P., the sutler at the post?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gawdamn, he talks pretty don’t he fellas? And respectful too. Now why can’t you hard-asses treat me that way?” He held his hand up. “Don’t answer that.” He turned his chair and looked up at Simon and Buell. “So, just what can ya do?”

  “I’m a skilled bookkeeper. I know how to order and inventory supplies, and I know how to work with the public. I worked in the mercantile trade for over three years.”

  McCaffrey directed his attention at Buell. “And what about you? You lookin’ too?”