Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “How much?” Buell asked.

  “How ’bout twenty dollars a month each? And I’ll keep the woodpile supplied.”

  Simon thought about it a second. “That’s about a dollar thirty a day, between us. I’m in.” He glanced at Buell. “How about you?”

  “You’re the money man. I’ll go along with whatever you decide.”

  “That’s done, then,” Amos said and rubbed his hands together. “Now, let’s talk about what I need. I make my money by providing services the fort commander won’t allow. Now, that don’t mean we ain’t got no rules—we do, and we enforce ’em. No whippin’ up on the ladies. No knife fightin’. I hate knives. No sleepin’ in the saloon. You rent a room, go with one of the girls and pay the fare, or you sleep outside. No credit, n-o-n-e, none. That’s about it. Questions?” Amos leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee.

  “Two. I can see where Buell fits, but I’m having a harder time seeing what you want from me. Bartending?”

  “Yours is easy. You make me more money. You said you saved that storekeeper back home a lot by findin’ better ways to do things. Do the same for me. Bartendin’ is Twiggs’s job.”

  “Might I work the same financial arrangement as I had at home with Mister Swartz? As an incentive bonus, I get a percentage of any increase in income realized because of my innovation?”

  “Realized income? Ya leave me speechless, Simon.” Amos chuckled and winked at Twiggs. “And who determines what’s . . . realized?”

  “You do.”

  “In that case, yeah. When I see the difference, we’ll talk, and I’ll cut ya a piece. Ya said two. What’s the other one?”

  “How much are we to be paid?”

  “Five a day for each of you.”

  Simon nodded.

  Amos looked at Buell. “Now, for you. After your little demonstration, there wasn’t a man in here that didn’t have something to say about it. Most were as impressed as I was, and you gained a lot of respect, the fearful kind. But—and there’s always a but—there were one or two who see you as some parvenu shooter who needs to be taken down a peg or two. And they’re gonna push ya soon’s they get a chance.” Amos studied Buell’s face, which showed no emotion. “You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, ya don’t act like it. Ain’t ya worried about someone looking to put a ball in yer gut?”

  “Not much.”

  “Damn boy, ya got brass. So, I’ll add this to give ya something to think about. I don’t want no killin’ if ya can help it. Dead yahoo can’t buy a thing, and that makes killin’ one bad for business. Understand?”

  Buell looked at his cup for a time, and then nonchalantly picked it up. Peering over the rim, he gave Amos a fleeting half smile, then slugged off the cool coffee. “Makes it a little harder to be sure of the end result.”

  Amos huffed and shook his head. “All right then, you’re now working for me.” He stood and offered his hand to Simon. “Only contract I need, and the only one you’re gonna get.” Simon shook it. He then turned to Buell and did the same before heading for the stairs. “I’m gonna go back to bed for an hour.”

  Simon watched Amos to the top of the stairs, then leaned his elbows on the tabletop, and studied Twiggs. “Any ideas?” He grinned.

  “Sounds to me like he’s given you free hand. I’ve never really thought about how to make more money. I get three dollars a day and six percent of everything I sell at the bar. That can get substantial during the winter.”

  “I didn’t see anyone eating in here last night, yet you have a full kitchen. Back home, the saloon we went to was famous for the food.”

  “Had a cook for a time, but he poisoned us twice, and Amos sent him packing. Nobody complained about the loss, and I don’t think Amos has really been looking.”

  “So you make your money in the drinks alone?”

  “Damn near. Amos gets a cut of the ladies, but they don’t last long. Most take a look at the place and leave for Cheyenne or Denver. We only got four presently.”

  “I noticed last night that Buell didn’t think much of the whiskey.” Simon punched Buell on the arm. “The brandy was good, but the other—what was it?”

  “Pure grain alcohol, molasses, water and cayenne pepper. Maybe Buell got a shot of some stuff that had a little too much pepper.”

  Buell’s eyes squinted. “You mean it ain’t real whiskey?”

  “Nope. Costs too much to ship. We get a barrel of the two-hundred-proof stuff, cut it half with water, flavor it, and pour it in bottles. Doesn’t taste that good, but that isn’t why they’re drinking it.”

  “How much do you charge for a drink?”

  “Two bits a jigger, or five for a dollar, or eight dollars a bottle, and they pour their own.”

  “How many drinks in a bottle?”

  “About fifty; the bottles vary a bit.”

  “Do you sell much of the French stuff?”

  “Maybe two bottles a week. Mostly on paydays, and usually when they’re so drunk they don’t know the difference anyway.” Twiggs smiled. “Pay’s the same for me.”

  “Do you have something I could write on?”

  “Sure. I can see the wheels turning already.” Twiggs got up and went to the bar.

  Buell sighed and slumped back in his chair as Twiggs handed Simon a notebook. Simon asked, and Twiggs answered, questions for the next hour, Simon diligently making notes. Buell sat quietly and watched.

  Simon had just come back from a visit to the privy when the front door banged open and the man who had set up the bottles for Buell’s shooting the day before shuffled into the room.

  “Morning, Plato,” Twiggs said.

  “Mister Twiggs,” he replied and looked at Simon and Buell. “Mister Lacey, Mister Steele,” he said with a nod.

  He scowled through a month’s growth of scraggly beard, his hair sleep-plastered to one side of his head. Simon smelled him long before he got to the table.

  “Had your breakfast yet?” Twiggs asked.

  “Nope. Ain’t got three cents on me, so I figgered I could get some o’ my jobs done first and then eat.” He swallowed as his mouth reacted to talk of food.

  “You can eat first if you want, Plato. Hell, no sense waiting. I know you’re good for it.”

  “Nope, don’t wanna ride if I can’t pay the ticket.”

  He walked to the end of the bar, and picked up a couple of the spittoons arrayed along the front. He carried them through the kitchen door, and then another one slammed shut. Pretty soon, he was back, and gathered up all of the fifteen or so brass and copper pots, two or three at a time, and carried them out.

  When Daggett didn’t come back, Buell looked at Twiggs. “That’s his job? Cleaning out spittoons?”

  “Somebody has to do it. And it’s a rare morning when he doesn’t show up for work.”

  “Damn. I’m not sure I could do that.”

  “Probably not his choice either, but he has a problem with whiskey. A morning job is about all he can handle. By afternoon I wouldn’t trust him to hold the door open. He’s his own Nemesis.”

  “So Amos lets him clean spittoons in exchange for something to drink?” Simon asked. “That seems like . . . I don’t know, taking advantage—exploiting.”

  “Would it be better to let him go hungry as well as dry? It’s damned if you do and same if you don’t.” Twiggs huffed. “And spittoons isn’t all he does.”

  Sometime later, Daggett clanked through the door with the last of the pots and set them on a table. Retrieving a broom from the kitchen, he went to work on the floor, starting at the stairwell end. Simon noticed he never made eye contact as he swept the floor around them. Twiggs continued to chat idly with Simon and Buell. When Daggett finished, he took a seat at the far end of the room.

  Twiggs said, “I’m going to get him something to eat now before the rest come down and take over the kitchen. I’ll see you guys later.” He pushed out of his chair and went into the back.


  Simon leaned over the table, closer to Buell. “He reminds me of John Lindstrom.” He nodded in Daggett’s direction.

  “A little I guess, but John never looked like that.”

  “Not that. The drinking. I heard Ma and Pa talk about him back home. Always so drunk by afternoon someone had to lead him to wherever he was staying.”

  “I remember that. He slept in our livery a lot.”

  “Wonder if Daggett might ever get away from it like John did?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Look at ’im. He’s squirmin’ like a fishin’ worm, and it ain’t eight o’clock yet.”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “You would. It’s his hole, leave him in it.”

  “I suppose. Still, wished there was something we could do.” Simon glanced at Daggett again, who was now head down on the table.

  “Doesn’t look like a lot happens around here in the mornin’,” Buell said, leaning back in his chair. “Hell, we coulda slept another couple hours.”

  “Yeah, and listen to Tay stew around that little place of his. I’d just as soon be up and around. You want some more coffee?”

  “No. My guts are sloshin’. Let’s go out and see some more of this place, and I’d like to take a look at our new home.” Buell got up and stretched.

  “Good idea.”

  They left the saloon and stood for a minute or so, looking up and down the street. The porch they stood on, made of two-inch-thick planks, stood about a foot and a half above the street. The street was dusty now, and Simon imagined what it looked like in April, when the frost starts to leave the ground and everything turns to muck. Several chairs leaned against the front of building. They went down the two steps in front, and headed left for the cabin, just past the stables.

  Simon pushed the door open and waved Buell in. The little house was exactly as described. “Looks real nice, but I didn’t expect curtains and tablecloths.”

  Buell walked over to one of the easy chairs and sat. He lightly punched both arms with his fist and tilted his head back until it touched the upholstery. “This one’s mine.”

  Simon stepped past the stove and through an open door to the back room. “Just as nice in here. The beds have feather ticks on ’em. Bet we sleep warmer tonight than we did last night.” He came back into the living-room-kitchen.

  “This is gonna be good,” Buell said. “Feels kinda strange having a place of my own, though. Is there a back door in there?” He nodded toward the bedroom.

  “Yup.”

  “Some place we can put the stuff from our saddlebags?” Buell looked around the room.

  “Yeah, two wardrobes in the bedroom, and a dresser.”

  Buell stood and went outside, returning with their bags.

  “Here’s yours.” He passed a bulging pair to Simon and continued on into the bedroom. “I’m gonna take the one on the left. Any problem?”

  “Nope,” Simon said as he set his bag on the table. He opened the bottom door on the cupboard. “We got pots and pans and everything in here.” He opened the rest of the doors and examined the interiors. “Dishes, knives and forks. We won’t have to buy much for this place.”

  “Are ya a little suspicious about this deal?” Buell asked from the bedroom.

  “I could be, but the Daggett thing makes me feel a little easier, and Tay said Amos was fair and honest.”

  “He said fairly honest, if I remember, not fair and honest. There’s a difference.”

  “Ma used to say, the proof’s in the pudding. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  He continued his inventory of the cabinets.

  “Simon? You still out there?” Buell asked from bedroom.

  “Yeah.” Simon stared at the black skillet in his hand. “Just thinkin’ for a minute.”

  “Went real quiet.” Buell stepped into the room. “Yeah, I know. I thought about Pa last night. Sometimes I really miss Carlisle.”

  “Me too.” Simon put the skillet on the stove. “But we’re here now, and we have things to do. Got your shit squirreled away?”

  “Yup. I’m gonna go see what the stable looks like. Want me to take your horse?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Buell picked his hat off the floor and went outside.

  CHAPTER 6

  Simon stepped through the door under the stairs, leaving the small room that served as his office. The early-evening air in the saloon pounced on him like a sweaty, over-warm pillow. Amos had told them Saturday night would be their first real taste of what the packed roadhouse could be like. Even with his admonition, the noise, smoke and heat came as a stifling surprise.

  Every table had at least six men crowded around it, and some had as many as ten. People stood two deep the entire length of the bar. Twiggs, a permanent smile affixed, poured drink after drink of the rotgut for the men standing. A tall woman in a long, sleeveless dress, cut low in front, helped him deliver drinks to those seated. Another woman stood by a table enduring the hand of a soldier groping around under her dress. Amos sat in his usual place, playing cards with four others. Nearby, at the base of the stairs, Buell sat perched on a three-foot-high chair. His Sharps rifle stood butt down on the bottom step and leaned against the banister post. He had an unobstructed view of the whole saloon, and every patron could see him.

  Simon made his way over. “Luger’s place back home was never this wild, even on New Year’s Eve.”

  Buell leaned down. “And I think it’s just gettin’ started.”

  “Any trouble that you can see?”

  Buell nodded at the woman Simon had noticed before. “That young trooper there is about to find out it costs money to stick his fingers in the candy jar. Petula has give me a couple of looks, and I think she’s about had enough of him.”

  “Nothin’ new there. From what I’ve seen the last three nights, the soldiers will take what they can for free for as long as they can. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Simon headed toward the bar. “Can I give you a hand, Max?” he asked Twiggs.

  “Wouldn’t mind a bit. Paydays can be busy, but tonight is unusual. Thanks.”

  Simon looked down the long counter and saw a hand waving in the air—he headed for it.

  Sergeant Adolph Barrschott had endured a lousy day and he needed a whiskey. First, a new recruit had gotten thrown off Stomper, and Stomper, true to his name, had deliberately searched out the rider and stepped on him, snapping the boy’s left arm like a dry twig. He threw a saddle on his horse, muttering to himself. “Of course, Lieutenant Fuzznuts blames me for puttin’ a raw recruit ‘on a rough horse,’ as he called it. Rough horse, my ass. Fuzznuts wouldn’t know a rough horse if it dumped in his mess kit. Hell, I put all the fresh meat on Stomper. Livens things up. Besides, the little shit coulda got outta the way if he hadn’t been all hunkered up like a scared prairie dog.”

  Then Lieutenant Maupin had taken Barrschott off the escort detail for next week’s supply wagon detail. Not only a nice break, a trip to Fort McPherson, it offered other, more important, considerations, and those now looked to be going by the way. And finally, Lieutenant Maupin had made him finish the duty roster for next week.

  Barrschott had slapped the stirrup down and climbed onto the animal, still fuming. “Any other time Monday morning is good enough, but Fuzznuts was upset about the horse thing. Shit-ass shavetail.”

  Arriving at the hitching rail in front of Amos’s weathered brown building, he dismounted. Slamming his huge shoulder into a waiting horse’s hip, he shoved open a space for his own. Then he stomped up the two steps to the porch and pushed open the door.

  Twiggs spotted the dusty, blue hulk as Barrschott intimidated his way in a straight line across the room to the bar. The first sergeant stood six foot seven and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. An extra-wide space opened as the men on either side shrank away from his selected spot.

  “Whiskey!” His fist crashed to the bar.

  “You needn’t shout, Adolph,�
� Twiggs said. “I’m standing right here.”

  “And a damn good thing. What I don’t need is more waitin’.”

  Twiggs set up a glass and poured it brimming. “Had a bad one?”

  “Do beans make ya fart? Where’n hell the army gets these sons’a whores they call officers is beyond my reckonin’. If that gob of mule snot slips me one more notch, I’m gonna pin his big ears back with them shiny gold bars.” He carefully picked up the glass, tossed the contents to the back of his throat, and swallowed. Tears glazed his eyes briefly, and he exhaled the breath he’d held in anticipation of the red pepper’s bite. “Oh Lord, how kin ya feed that shit to a fellow white man? Pheew. Fill ’er up.”

  “I gather you’re referring to Lieutenant Percival Manwaring Maupin the Third, late of the Hudson Valley School for the Unemployable.” Twiggs chuckled.

  “That’s the sonuvabitch. And ta think the folks that spawned him might have bred some more jist like ’im.” The second shot followed the first. He nodded at Twiggs and nudged the glass forward.

  Twiggs filled it again.

  “Where’s Amos tonight?” Barrschott turned around and surveyed the saloon.

  “He was over there playing cards at his usual table. He’ll be back shortly. Trip to the privy, I expect.” Twiggs hustled to three customers down the bar and poured another three drinks.

  “Who’s that feller sitting in the high chair?” Barrschott asked when Twiggs returned.

  “Name’s Buell. Amos hired him and that young man at the other end of the bar.” He indicated Simon.

  “Thought the bar was yours.” Barrschott eyed the glass of caramel-colored liquid waiting for him on the bar.

  “Still is. He asked to help, and I said I’d appreciate it. I didn’t say anything about payment. And that’ll be six bits or a dollar for two more.” He pointed to the whiskey and winked at the sergeant.

  “Ya never miss a one, do ya?” Barrschott laid a dollar on the bar.