Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “Can’t afford to. I’ve got plans that cost money, and every one of these counts.” Twiggs picked up the dollar, dropped it in the cash drawer below the counter, and then headed toward another customer who stood holding an empty glass in the air.

  “How are you holding up, Simon?” Twiggs asked as he pulled a mug of beer.

  “This is a lot more work than meets the eye. Who’s that giant you’ve been talking to?”

  “Name’s Barrschott. His bark is a lot worse than his bite. Mind you, it’s not a good idea to irritate him, but I actually get along with him quite well.”

  Twiggs headed back up the bar with the mug of beer, then clinked a dime into the cash drawer as he headed for another customer.

  Buell eased to the edge of his chair as the corporal who’d been groping one of the girls made another pass at her. She shoved his hand down and tried to turn away. A shout went up from his tablemates as he caught her by the wrist and yanked her to her knees.

  “Now yer where ya kin do me some good,” the trooper said, sneering.

  Buell had already made his way halfway across the room when the woman cried out. “You’re hurtin’ my arm. Make him let go, please,” she pleaded to no one in particular.

  “Yer paid to do what I tell ya,” the corporal said.

  “Let her go, Blue. Now!”

  The soldier held onto the woman’s wrist, her arm twisted outward, elbow flexed awkwardly. He eyed Buell up and down, his eyes pausing on the uncocked Sharps for a moment. Then he puffed his lips dismissively, and turned his attention to the tearful woman. “Kiss my balls,” he said to her.

  The butt of the Sharps flashed through the distance to the soldier’s jaw in a short arc and connected before his eyes could come back to Buell. Two teeth rattled across the table and fell off onto the floor. They landed at the same time as the trooper and his chair.

  Buell helped the young woman to her feet and steadied her until the older woman serving drinks rushed over. She took her across the room to the kitchen door. He turned to find the giant in dusty blue and wearing the three strips and diamond of a cavalry first sergeant between himself and the high chair by the stairs.

  “Weren’t no need fer that, goddammit,” Barrschott’s voice boomed.

  “She asked him to stop, and so did I. That’s enough.” Buell gripped the Sharps with both hands.

  “She’s a whore. That’s what she’s paid for.” The sergeant stepped over and looked down at the unconscious trooper.

  “He wasn’t payin’. And the rules say no hurtin’ the women.”

  “And what gives you the right ta bust a man’s jaw like that?”

  “I did,” Amos said as he strode across the floor from the rear.

  “He weren’t hurtin’ her much, Amos. Certainly no call for your man to bust ’im up like that.”

  “His call. It’s what I hired him for.”

  “I’ve a mind to take some o’ the bright offa you.” Barrschott took a step towards Buell.

  The double clack sound as the Sharps went to full cock stopped him in mid step. Buell pointed the muzzle at the sergeant’s throat, and then stared coolly into the man’s eyes. Their gazes locked for only a moment, Barrschott’s eyes narrowed, and a twitch flicked across his cheek.

  Then the tall soldier turned on the seated troopers. “Pick up that shithead, and git him back to the barracks. Doc ain’t gonna be happy seein’ a skunk-drunk skirt chaser this time of night. Move! Goddammit!” He kicked a chair and dumped the seated trooper sprawling. “And Fuzznut’s gonna plug his fuse hole. You bastards have just finished my day for me. Sonsabitches. Now get the hell out of here,” he bellowed furiously, and aimed another kick, the target scrambling out of the way.

  Simon, mouth agape, watched the huge sergeant shove and drag the five troopers out the door. Barrschott’s sulfurous tirade went on for several minutes as he questioned in detail the intellect, gender, and lineage of every one of his men. As the swearing faded, the noise in the saloon returned to its previous volume.

  Simon walked over to Twiggs. “I thought we were going to witness a disaster.”

  “I wasn’t so sure myself.”

  “I was glad to see you had that shotgun ready in case. I’m not so sure Buell would’ve had time to cock and aim that Sharps if the sergeant hadn’t turned to check on the trooper first.”

  “Shotgun wasn’t to protect Buell, Amos, Barrschott, or anyone else.”

  “Huh? Why then?”

  “Couple years ago, we had a full-fledged riot. Barrschott and about twenty troopers went at it hammer and tongs with about the same number of buffalo hunters. Right in the middle of it, someone hit me with a bung starter and knocked me cold as a splitting wedge. Then they took all three cash drawers. Must have gotten away with close to two hundred dollars.” Twiggs hefted his shotgun. “I was protecting my investment.” Then he put it under the bar. “I got customers, and I better get back at it. Here comes the boss.” Twiggs turned away.

  Amos and Buell made their way over.

  Simon studied his friend for a second. “Damn, Buell, you scare me when you do that.”

  “I think he did good,” Amos said. “I was watchin’ too—just went to take a piss at the wrong time. I was wonderin’ what yer first problem would be like. This one was perfect. Ya stood toe-to-toe with the biggest the army’s got, and didn’t blink. Don’t know if I coulda done that. Scared?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t want to try that without something to even things up a bit. That son of a bitch is big.”

  Amos chuckled. “And strong as a bull. Don’t think for a minute that big gut is soft. I saw him take on three buffalo skinners. One hit him smack in the stomach with the butt of a Hawken rifle. Woulda floored anyone else. Just riled Barrschott. They got the best of ’im in the end, but there was a lot of patchin’ up to do on several.”

  “Can we expect that to be the end of it, then?” Simon asked.

  “I think so. If Barrschott thought what Buell did was unfair, he’d have had a go, Sharps or not. He’s real protective of his men, ’specially the younger ones.” Amos looked down at the carbine leaning against the bar. “I’m wonderin’, why’d ya use that instead of your pistol?”

  “There’s somethin’ about the big black hole in the end of a carbine barrel that leaves very little doubt. I saw it in that big mule’s eyes. You kin never be sure about how fast a man can get to his pistol, but anybody can pull a trigger quicker’n you kin blink. ’Sides that, I can use the pistol if I need to.”

  “Difference is, most people won’t pull the trigger. Would you have?”

  “Yup. Wouldn’t have pointed it if I wasn’t ready to use it.”

  “But you was glad he backed off? Weren’t ya, Buell?” Simon asked hopefully.

  “Didn’t matter. I know how to take care of myself. And keepin’ things under control is what Mister McCaffrey pays me for.”

  “But I said no killin’, remember?”

  “That was his choice, not mine. I’m ready to do what I need to.” Buell looked at Simon. “Let me see that shotgun Twiggs had.”

  Simon reached under the bar and handed it over.

  “There’s more to making good stew than just knowin’ how to stir, Buell,” Amos said as Buell inspected the gun. “But, good job. Nobody hurt bad, and I think they’ll be lookin’ at ya before they decide to start something from now on. I’m gonna get back to my card game.”

  Amos zigzagged across the room to his table, stopping twice to josh with some of the customers.

  “What did he mean by that stew thing? I hate it when you guys talk like that,” Buell said. He handed the shotgun back to Simon.

  “I think he means just your knowing how to shoot isn’t all he wants from you. There are other things that make a good saloon peacekeeper.”

  “Like what?”

  “Restraint comes to mind, and tact.”

  “What the hell do you mean . . . tacked? Gawdammit, Simon, ya know I can’t understand those big word
s, yet ya keep pushin’ ’em at me. If ya can’t say it in plain talk, quit talkin’. You sonsabitches make me feel like an idiot.” Buell grabbed his carbine and strode back to his high chair.

  When Simon tried to catch his eye, Buell avoided it.

  “I think doing what he does takes a lot more out of him than you think.” Twiggs had stepped up beside Simon.

  “You heard?”

  “Yes. That had nothing to do with you, Simon. He’s strung so tight right now, I’m surprised his knees bend.”

  “I hate it when he’s mad at me.”

  “But it’s been like this all your life, hasn’t it? Between the two of you?”

  “I guess it has. How’d you know that?”

  “At one time, it was my job to know things like that about people. Enough to say Buell will be all right in a while. He’s full of vinegar now though. I hope nobody else decides to try him.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Simon spent the winter of 1868–69 learning the intricacies of operating a profitable saloon and gentleman’s retreat, and in that six months had come to several conclusions about improving the business’s profitability. Buell’s single encounter with the brash soldier and subsequent face-off with Sergeant Barrschott had, as Amos predicted, been enough to gain the fearful respect of the regular customers.

  Simon rode toward the fort, the April sun well up, but the bright promise of warmth not quite delivered. Since taking the job at Amos’s, he had not been back to the fort. Sergeant Barrschott mailed for him the single letter he’d written to his parents, and he’d included a few words in a telegraph Buell had sent to his father. He needed some new clothes, and knew to get it right, he had to get them himself.

  “Nice to see you, Mister Steele. Hibernatin’ over?” T. P. peered through the mass of hair covering his face. Simon imagined an unseen smile that would match the sparkle in T. P.’s eyes.

  He smiled back. “Yes’ir. It’s been a busy and interesting winter. First one I haven’t spent in school, and I missed that. But I’ve about worn out the two pairs of pants I had, and, as you can see, the shirts have fared even worse.” He tugged at his frayed collar.

  “It’s all right there.” T. P. pointed to a long shelf that carried stacks of folded pants and shirts, bolts of cloth, and a cabinet of sewing materials. “I think you’ll find what you need. Underwear and socks are under the counter. Just open those doors and poke around in there.”

  “Noticed some Indians outside when I came in. They didn’t look very friendly.”

  “They aren’t. They’re Sioux, and this particular bunch never did cotton to the treaty, but they like comin’ here. They have a weakness for tobacco and candy. The tall, ugly one is called Two Strike. They say he killed two Pawnee with one bullet.”

  As Simon rummaged around looking for some flannel drawers, the door opened, and the tall Sioux T. P. had been talking about strode in. He glided silently to the counter at the far end of the store, and fixed the sutler with a stony stare.

  “Tobacco. One.” He pointed to the foot-long twists of raw plug behind T. P. and held up a finger.

  T. P. got one and laid it on the counter. “One dollar, Two Strike.”

  “You know name. You know Two Strike chief?”

  “Yeah, I know. Still costs one dollar.” T. P. kept his hand firmly on the two-inch-wide strip of tobacco.

  The Indian stared at him, never looking at the counter. Opening his hand, he let drop a single silver dollar. It rebounded off the counter and onto the floor. T. P. stooped over to retrieve it and when he stood, the Sioux met him with a contemptuous sneer.

  “Pick from dirt like squaw.” He snatched the twist, and walked silently out the door without closing it.

  “Arrogant sonuvabitch.” T. P. headed around the end of the counter.

  “I’ll get it,” Simon said. As he closed the door, he glimpsed the Indian gnawing a bite off the twist. Then he finished making his selections at the dry-goods shelves. He put everything on the counter.

  “Let’s see what ya got here.” T. P. sorted through the stack of clothes. “Two pairs of pants, seven dollars, two shirts, eleven, three socks, thirteen seventy, and three drawers comes to sixteen dollars and seventy cents. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen them before.” Simon pointed to a barrel of round red spuds. “They any good?”

  “I love ’em.” T. P. licked his lips. “Farmer that brought them in says that’s the last of ’em. They’re best boiled with just butter, salt and pepper on ’em.”

  Simon thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

  “How many?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, five pounds?”

  T. P. went to the barrel and put a few potatoes in a small cloth sack. Hefting it, he said, “That’s six, give or take. Fifty cents for five. We’ll make it an even seventeen dollars.”

  Simon left the store and went to his horse. Opening his saddlebags, he stuffed the shirts and pants in one side, and the socks and underwear in the other. As he contemplated putting the dusty sack of spuds in with the socks, he heard a dog yelp. He looked over his horse and at a group of Indians lined up along the store’s end. Directly in front of them crouched a puppy, tied to a piece of firewood that must have outweighed it three times. The dog cowered when one of the Indians walked up and aimed a kick at its side. Seeking escape, the pup scampered away crabwise when the rope bit into its scruffy neck. The Indians spit squirts of brown tobacco juice on it as it fled. One stream hit the pup directly in the eyes. It stopped, and whining, pawed frantically at its face. The Indians laughed, and another one stepped out of line toward the dog.

  “Hey! What you doing to that dog?” Simon shouted as he headed for it.

  Two Strike stepped in front of him. “My dog. You go.”

  “You can’t do that to an animal,” Simon said as he tried to walk around the tall Sioux.

  Simon was prone on his back before he knew it, his sack of spuds beside him. The Indian stood astraddle him and glared. Looking at the others, he nodded at the dog. The puppy yelped again as a moccasin-covered foot dug into its side. Two Strike smiled down at Simon.

  “What’s going on here?” T. P. half shouted from the porch.

  Two Strike looked at the sutler. “He fight Two Strike.”

  “About what? Simon?”

  Simon scooted back, digging with elbows and heels, and stood. The Indian grinned, then slowly turned his back on him to face his friends. They hollered and laughed.

  “They’re torturing that dog,” Simon shouted. “I can’t stand to see that.” His voice quaked.

  “They see them different than we do,” T. P. said. “If they find it amusing, they’re likely to do anything. Not much you can do about it. Dog’s not worth what that bastard might do if you make a fuss about it.”

  “I’ve got to do something. Will he sell it?”

  “Two Strike, you trade for dog?” T. P. asked and made a sign.

  The Sioux looked at him for a moment, and then a grin spread across his thin lips. “Trade,” he said and pointed at the sack on the ground.

  “Fine, then.” T. P. started to retrieve the potatoes.

  “No! Squaw get.” He pointed at Simon and then at the sack.

  The rest of the Indians watched, sullen and silent, as Simon stooped to pick up the spuds and offer them to the Indian. Two Strike turned his back on him, said something, and nodded at a young Indian, who stepped forward to take them from Simon. The whole group, pointing at Simon, whooped and howled with laughter, spattering tobacco juice everywhere. Two Strike folded his arms across his chest, and launched one final stream at the dog, covering its back with spit. Taking four long steps, he leaped on his horse. Then, kicking it furiously, he led the noisy group south, across the river, and away from the fort.

  Simon watched them go, and then went to the cowering dog. He extended the back of his hand as he spoke to it. “Hey, little fella, you look a mess.”

  The puppy bared his teeth and tucked hi
s tail.

  Simon yanked his hand away. “Don’t bite me, fella. I’m trying to help.”

  “That ain’t aggression,” T. P. said. “The bared teeth and the tucked tail means he knows you’re boss. Hell, fer that, I expect he thinks everybody’s the boss. Poor mutt. Ain’t ya never had a dog?”

  “Nope. By the time we could afford to feed one, I guess I’d grown out of the notion.”

  Simon touched the pup on the head, and it dribbled urine on its leg. Simon drew back his slime-covered finger. “Shit.” He looked up at T. P. who now stood with three others watching the play. “Mister Triffet, would you get in my left saddlebag and fetch me a pair of them flannel drawers?”

  T. P. got them and handed him the garment. Simon wiped his fingers on one leg and then untied the rope from the wooden anchor. Putting his hand under the puppy’s soggy belly, he tucked the scrawny mutt into the open end of the drawers and stood. The puppy’s head disappeared from the opening as it snuggled into a ball in his arms.

  “Well, ya got yerself a dog,” T. P. said smiling. “Whatcha gonna call it?”

  “I don’t have a clue. My horse is called Horse. I guess I can call him Dog.”

  “After what you went through? Do you know how close ya come to getting yerself cut? Ya gotta give him a name just cuz he cost ya, if for no other reason.”

  “Well, he cost me four bits. How about that, Four Bits?”

  T. P. and the others, now six of them, all shook their heads and frowned.

  “Okay, how about Spuds . . . or Spud. Yeah, Spud.”

  Everyone nodded and jabbed ribs with elbows. The dog had a name.

  Simon didn’t miss the fact that Buell wasn’t all that happy about living with a dog. At least that was the temper he displayed. Simon taught the puppy to not sleep on his bed, but for the life of him, could not extend that prohibition to Buell’s. Spud stayed in the office when Simon worked there, out in front of the saloon when his master worked the bar, and at the front door when they were home.

  Daggett catered to the dog, sneaking him tidbits from the kitchen in the morning. Spud spent afternoons on the porch where Daggett sat to sleep off the morning whiskey. Periodically, Spud would go to the door and wait for someone to open it. He’d spy Simon, and then turn back to his spot and lie down again.