Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “You have trouble in your heart, and you don’t know the question to ask. Maybe I’ll tell you of a place to go and find the question. And maybe the answer will come from Earth there.”

  Simon was silent again, and the Indian closed his eyes once more. A striped chipmunk scurried from the corral to the corner of the dugout, and sat back on its haunches. As Simon watched, lost in thought, and not completely aware of it, the little animal went to all fours and walked deliberately to the two men and sat again.

  “Good sign,” Walks Fast said.

  “Wh—what?”

  “Small creatures know many secrets. The chipmunk knows your heart is good.”

  Walks Fast stood to face Simon. The chipmunk scolded him and scampered away. “I go now,” he said. “Soon we will talk more. Talk to the spirits who visit in the night. They know your heart too.”

  Before Simon could answer, the Indian turned, and with long, steady strides, soon passed out of sight around the bend in the valley. Simon leaned back against the rough logs of the hut, and the warmth of the sun felt better than it had in a long time.

  The spring shipment from Fort McPherson brought several bags of cement, army-ordered but delivered, courtesy of Sergeant Barrschott, to McCaffrey’s ranch. Along with the cement, came paint, window glass, eight doors, and eight small coal stoves. Simon stood in the barn and surveyed the stolen property. “Where were these stoves going to go?” Simon asked Barrschott.

  “If someone asked, we were going to put them in Old Bedlam. Some of the rooms don’t have any heat at all.”

  “Old Bedlam?”

  “Officer’s mess and social place. Got rooms for people visiting and such.”

  “And how about all the glass?”

  “Easier yet. They’re constantly adding rooms on to buildings they got, or adding windows and repairing broken ones. Quit worrying. Ya ain’t gettin’ cold feet, are ya?”

  “No. Just nags at me a little, sometimes. Here, help me cover it up.”

  The cement foundations for the eight little houses were all laid, and Zahn, Daggett and a carpenter from the fort were laying out floor joists for the first one. May Pritchin and two of her girls, Agnes and Flo, stood beside the building site and watched the work, but mostly they watched Zahn.

  “Morning, ladies,” Simon said as he joined them. “So what do you think?”

  “I can’t wait,” Agnes said. “I’ve always wanted a place of my own, and even if it really belongs to Mister Amos, it’s still mine.”

  “Me too.” Flo batted her dark eyes at Simon. “One of the reasons I left home was cuz I shared everything with six sisters, including our father.”

  “Ahem.” May raised her eyebrows at Flo. “There are some things that need not be shared, Florence.”

  Simon pretended he hadn’t heard. “This one is yours, May. Zahn says they can have it ready for paint and paper in a month. You ready to decorate?”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t think much of the idea when Amos talked to me, but I can see now it’s going to be nice.”

  “Have you heard anything from your inquiries in Saint Louis?”

  “Matter of fact, I have. Two sisters want to come out, and I’ve found a Creole girl from New Orleans. A couple more have written, but one was thirty-nine and the other forty-two. I’m not running a rest home.”

  “When do they want to come out?”

  “Soon’s we have a place.”

  “Well, I can always find another carpenter to speed things along. Tell ’em to come on. We’ll be ready for them by the middle of June.” Simon touched the brim of his hat and walked over to talk with Zahn.

  The seven-note trill of a meadowlark wafted into Simon’s slumber. Half awake for over an hour, he’d about worked out what he needed on the next supply run to Fort McPherson. He’d have to get with Twiggs and Barrschott in the next day or so. New customers continued to visit the new hotel and restaurant, and every improvement had increased the numbers. He was considering a new bar with a back mirror. A new saloon in Denver had burned down before the bar could be installed, and the bar was going cheap. The owner would get it to Cheyenne by rail, and Simon needed to talk to Rosie about freighting it up from there.

  The four new girls were due in two weeks, so he’d need to check with Zahn and make sure the last three houses were on schedule. Five were finished, with four occupied, the ladies adding curtains, lamps and rugs as fast as they came in to the trading post. Already the profits showed on the books. May demanded a premium for the privacy of the detached bungalows, and the option to spend all night with the girls cost even more. There were several soldiers who went out on patrol but spent the first night at McCaffrey’s. Suddenly, Simon sensed a presence, and opened his eyes to look directly into the warm brown gaze of his dog. “Mornin’. Need to go out?”

  The dog thumped the floor with his tail, and looked toward the parlor door. Simon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and Spud padded to the door in anticipation. Simon smiled at him, and reached for his pants. Minutes later, he stood in the doorway and listened to the songbirds greet the morning. The dog disappeared toward the river. Simon stretched hard, and then went back in to get ready for the day.

  Twenty minutes later, Simon and Spud walked into the saloon. Twiggs and Lori sat at a table, Twiggs working on a plateful of creamed beef and biscuits. Lori sat nursing a cup of tea.

  “Mornin’, Simon,” she said. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Got any of that left?” He pointed at Twiggs’s meal.

  “Sure. Sit and I’ll get it.”

  Simon took a seat, and Spud trotted toward Simon’s office and disappeared.

  He watched Twiggs take another bite. “You expecting Barrschott today?”

  Twiggs chewed for a moment and swallowed. “Said he was comin’, but today’s Monday. He’ll be busy at the fort till late afternoon. Wonderin’ about the next supply run?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a list, and I need to know how much we can, uh . . . appropriate, and how much I need to order out of Cheyenne.”

  “Here ya go.” Lori set a plate of steaming biscuits and gravy on the table along with a cup of coffee.

  “My, that looks good,” Simon said. He forked a chunk of biscuit into his mouth and smiled at her.

  “I hear we’re getting four more girls,” she said.

  Simon swallowed. “Yep, couple more weeks, and we’ll have a full stable.”

  Lori looked at her cup.

  Simon heard her sigh.

  “What’s that for?”

  Lori looked up. “Got to thinkin’ about them last night. First time I’ve done that.”

  “And?” Simon put his fork down.

  “Is it right that someone makes money on what they do?”

  “Uh-oh,” Twiggs said. “I’ve had this discussion before, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go tend to something I know about. No offense.” He picked up his plate and coffee cup, and headed for the far end of the bar.

  “I asked myself the same question about a year ago,” Simon said. “We need someone who’s capable of enforcing order, maybe even shooting someone. Buell does that. And nobody wants to swamp a saloon on a Sunday morning, but it has to be done, and Daggett does it. And we need women, and we have May and her girls. They all do what they’re doing of their own free choice, and Amos pays what he thinks they’re worth.”

  “But, do you understand that maybe they don’t have free choice? The girls, I mean?”

  “How so?”

  “I was talking to Flo last night, actually early this morning. Her home life was a living hell. She had six—”

  “I know. Six sisters and a lecherous father.”

  Lori’s eyes sparked. “He should be hanged for what he did.”

  “I thought as much, but didn’t want to hear it,” Simon said. “I’ve talked to May. Most of the girls are from less-than-desirable homes or had no homes at all. Some get into it for the ex
citement, and then find it’s not so easy to quit. I had a hard time with it, too, but I’m convinced that if a girl wanted to quit, May and Amos would help her. Least that’s what I try to believe. Maybe it’s just me trying to justify what I do.”

  “That helps, Simon. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to finish this, and then let’s talk about what you need for your kitchen.”

  Lori relaxed in the round-backed chair and watched him finish his breakfast. Then they went into the office to work on the supply list.

  Sergeant Barrschott walked to the end of the long barracks room and found Rankin lying in his bunk. “Get up and come with me.”

  “I just got off duty, Sarge. I’m tir—”

  Barrschott jerked the bony private off his bed, one hand full of collar and the other ahold of his belt. Suspended thus at arm’s length, Rankin twisted like a falling cat when the burly sergeant let go. The crack of a skinny elbow on the wood floor was followed instantly by a howl of pain.

  “Gawdammit, Sarge, that hurt.” Rankin scrambled to his feet and rubbed his elbow.

  “S’posed to. When I say move, move. Now come with me.”

  Together, they walked across the parade ground and into the dim confines of the supply warehouse. Barrschott led Rankin to the back and then turned. “Okay, Rankin, tell me who you been talking to about our little deals?”

  “I ain’t be—” A punch to the sternum made Rankin gasp. Clutching his chest, he sucked in tiny breaths of air as he tried to cope with the excruciating pain under his clasped hands.

  Barrschott smiled. “I talked to someone who knows what you did. Lie again, and they’ll find your body in that barrel of vinegar over there.” He waited until Rankin managed to get a full breath and halfway straightened up. “Now, what did you tell him?”

  “I said, uhh . . .” He winced in pain with every breath. “I said I could get him . . . a case of rifles . . . for three hundred dollars.”

  “And where did you say you could come up with this case of rifles?”

  “I didn’t tell him.” Rankin’s hands went up defensively. “Don’t! I can’t take another hit.”

  Barrschott dropped his fist and waited.

  “I said we were going to McPherson in June or July, and I would get them there.”

  “Who was we?”

  “We. Us guys. The supply detail.”

  “You mean me?” The sergeant moved half a step closer.

  “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, Sarge. I just wanted to—”

  “You didn’t. Your customer won’t be needin’ those rifles, or anything else, for that matter. He had an accident. And you’re going to have one too if you’re around here next month. Your enlistment is up in two weeks, and I want you gone. Understand?”

  “But Sarge, I don’t have any place to go.”

  “Should have thought about that. You heard what I said. Two weeks.”

  Barrschott strode out of the building and into the late-afternoon sun. He surveyed the compound. The quartermaster lounged against the wall of the building opposite, and Barrschott headed for him. “I think you need to do a little records cleanup,” he said when he got there. “Maybe some of those old requisition forms could get burned. You know . . . army efficiency.”

  The quartermaster touched his hat and smiled. “I’ll get right on it, Adolph.”

  The warm spring day made it hard for Simon to concentrate, and he was relieved when he looked up from his work to see Rosie enter his office. “Afternoon. Appreciate you dropping by, Rosie. Sit down.”

  The teamster settled into the leather chair and scratched the dog’s head that suddenly appeared. “Hey, Spud.” The dog stood for a moment, and then, duly acknowledged, he lay down again. “What can I do for you, Simon?”

  “I need a new bar. With clear mirrors behind and lots of fancy wood.”

  “And a polished counter and brass foot rail?”

  “Exactly. There’s one in Denver I can have shipped to Cheyenne. Could you arrange a wagon or two?”

  “One wagon or two? Big difference.”

  “The man who has it says it weighs about two and a half tons. It’s in thirteen crates.”

  “The weight’s no problem. Can ya find out how big the crates are? I have a four-horse dray that will take twelve feet in length.”

  “There are eight big crates, each fourteen feet long. Two feet sticking out be okay?”

  “No problem, but we better put the rest on another wagon.”

  “When could we go get it?”

  “We? You goin’ along?”

  “If you don’t mind. I haven’t been out of Fort Laramie for going on three years.”

  “Sure, pleased for the company.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know real soon. I’ve got to work on Amos a little.”

  Rosie got out of the chair and stooped to ruffle Spud’s ears before he walked out.

  The two wagons, Rosie in front and Daggett following, rattled past the front of the house, and turned around in front of the barn. Simon stepped out on the porch as they came to a stop. Spud sat beside him.

  “You’re gonna get a look at the big town, and not wanna come back,” Buell said. He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms folded.

  “I doubt that. Can’t be much more than we have here.”

  “You’re in fer a surprise. Have a good time, and we’ll see ya in about a week.” He reached inside the door and brought out Simon’s rifle.

  Simon threw his valise up to Rosie and climbed the wheel to the seat. Buell handed him the Winchester and stepped back on the porch.

  Rosie kicked the brake loose and smacked his lips as he loosely slapped the horses with the reins. All four horses leaned forward, then stepped off at a fast walk. Simon waved at Buell, and absorbed the first jolt as they hit a rut in the road. They drove past the saloon, and continued on toward the fort for about a mile when Rosie swung the team toward the Laramie River.

  “I thought we would have continued east to the fort,” Simon said.

  “Naw. I want to get across the Laramie here, and then climb up. There’s a fair trail that heads almost due west. We drive that to Chugwater Creek and then follow it south. Hang on. It’s gonna be a little rough till we get on top.”

  By the time they were above the river and on the plain, Simon was wondering if this had been such a good idea. Already his back hurt and his arms ached from hanging on. A succession of rolling hills met them, one running into the next for as far as he could see. Five hours later, they reached the creek and stopped on a large patch of green by the stream.

  Simon climbed stiffly down from the wagon. “Want a fire?” he asked hopefully.

  “Actually, we usually don’t even stop, but I don’t think I can take another hour of watching you wince every time we hit a hole.” Rosie clapped Simon on the shoulder. “Go ahead. I could use a hot cup of coffee.”

  The next two days were a repeat of the first as they followed the stream southwest and then south, leaving it completely on the third day. Simon alternated sitting alongside Rosie and standing in the back.

  He was standing when they topped a low rise above Cheyenne. “Judas Priest,” he said, his jaw dropping.

  Spread below lie a settlement ten times the size of Fort Laramie. The rail line disappeared east and west of the town, and set track-side near the center stood a two-story building that looked like a hotel. Alongside, a huge windmill turned slowly in the light breeze.

  “Big, huh?” Rosie looked at Simon and grinned.

  “How many people?”

  “Well over five thousand.”

  Daggett pulled his wagon alongside. “We gonna stay at a livery, or we gonna camp down Crow Creek like last time?”

  “What do you think, Simon?” Rosie asked. “We usually camp out, saves us a few dollars.”

  “Is that a hotel there by the tracks?”

  “Yep, that’s the Union Pacific Hotel. Nice place.”

  “I think I’ll
stay there. I’ve about had enough of hard riding and rough sleeping.”

  Rosie nodded his head. “Okay. Plato, you head out and find us a spot. I’ll drop Simon off and meet ya there after I swing by and get a sack of oats for the horses.”

  Daggett gave Simon a high sign and spoke to his team. He angled to the east as Rosie headed straight for the imposing building by the tracks.

  Simon counted eighteen windows, evenly spaced across the front of the second story. Boardwalks ran along the front and down both sides; the one bordering the street was covered. People moved to and fro in a steady stream: women in beautiful long dresses, carrying parasols and wearing hats near as big as their bustles, and men in shiny shoes and striped coats.

  Simon felt like a bumpkin as he stepped up to the counter in the lobby and set his valise on the floor.

  “How can I be of service?” The short clerk wore a smile as artificial as his hair.

  “I’d like a room.”

  The clerk looked at Simon, obviously measuring his worth. “Will you be staying with us long?”

  “Probably tonight and tomorrow.” Simon was acutely conscious of his filthy clothes and dusty face. “Can I get a bath here?”

  The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “We are a first-class hotel. Do you want a bath in your room?”

  “Well, yeah, that would be fine. Right in my room?” He mentally chastised himself. Bumpkin indeed.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “We offer a laundry service as well.”

  “No, I’ve got a change or two in my valise, and I’ll be back on the trail day after tomorrow.”

  “Very well.” The clerk turned his ledger around, handed Simon a pen, then watched Simon stroke his name and “Fort Laramie” in bold longhand. “Fort Laramie,” he said as he turned the book around. “Businessman?”

  “I manage a restaurant and roadhouse just outside. Not nearly as nice as this, but—”

  “I’m sure. Will you need help with that?” He looked at Simon’s rough bag with disdain.

  “No, I’ll manage, thank you.”

  “One thirty-eight. See the maid in the first room at the top of the stairs about your bath. The dining room opens at six.” He handed Simon a brass key and turned away.