“Good. We’ll talk a little later about what I have in mind. Now, what’s for breakfast?”
Lori gave her husband a touch on the cheek and went to the kitchen.
“Amos said we have a huntin’ party comin’ in next week. Germans,” Buell said.
“Yeah, they’ve been here before,” muttered Simon. “Leastwise, the one that wrote Amos has been.” He couldn’t hide his distaste.
“Looks like you aren’t looking forward to their visit,” Zahn said.
“Got a hard spot where Germans are concerned. I know it’s not rational to condemn the lot because of one bad experience, but there’s something about their air of superiority that grates on my nerves. And Count Rindfleisch is as superior as they come.”
“I like the way they gamble,” Buell said. “Get one to thinkin’ ya got him outsmarted, and he’ll lose a lot of money provin’ ya wrong.”
“Well, there is that.” Simon smiled. “But still, I’d just as soon entertain a . . . I don’t know, anything but a German count.”
Thursday, on schedule, and replete with an arsenal that would have supplied a well-equipped army platoon, the Germans, far more than the three expected, descended on McCaffrey’s. They took every available room. Eager to show his guests the experience he’d boasted about for a year, the count led his party off into the hills early the next morning. The first excursion was to be an overnight affair, so the saloon stayed relatively quiet Friday night with only the regular customers to attend to. That peaceful scene changed radically Saturday afternoon as the hunters returned, tired, hungry, and disappointed. They had not seen one animal that they considered worthy of shooting.
With everyone demanding baths, the kitchen staff was dragooned, along with Lori, to help the two upstairs women. A hectic couple of hours were spent attending to the overbearing group. About six thirty, the count came downstairs, followed shortly by the rest. They filled one entire dining room.
Half an hour later Lori stepped into Simon’s office and stood, hands on hips, a disgusted look on her face. “If this isn’t going to be a repeat of last year, Simon, I want you to go in there right now, and tell them this is not Berlin or New York City, and we do not have fine crystal and porcelain, and our wine list is very limited.” The tenor of her voice had risen with every word.
“What now?” He knew what, but was anxious to delay the inevitable.
“I agreed to stay late and help because you asked me to. I did not agree to be insulted and groped.”
“Groped? Who?” Simon stood and came around his desk.
“Not groped, just brushed—accidentally. You know what I mean.”
“All right.” Simon sighed. “I heard them come down. Sounded like a herd of buffalo. I’ll go talk to them.” He left the office and headed for the dining room.
Buell caught his eye as he walked past and grinned. “Temper, temper.”
Already the noise was as bad as a bunch of drunken skinners, the hard-edged sound of spoken German shouted across the small room. At the doorway, Simon looked around until he saw the count. He had his back to Simon, his boots planted on the seat of one of the upholstered chairs. Simon’s pulse increased as he strode across the room and around the table to face the man.
“Good evening, Herr Rindfleisch,” Simon said as he pointedly looked as the German’s shiny boots.
“Ah, the landlord,” the German replied in perfect English. He looked at his feet as well, and then back to Simon’s face.
Simon’s his jaw muscles tightened. “As most of your friends are new to us, I’d like you to tell them what kind of service they can expect.” He paused and forced a smile. “And equally important, what they may not expect.”
“You may go on,” the count said, but before Simon could continue, said something in German to the noisy crowd. The whole room burst into laughter.
Simon felt the color rise in his face. “Our wine selection is limited, and exotic foods are simply not available. No pâté de foie gras or fromage Camembert.”
The count’s nostrils flared as he took his feet off the chair and stood. “Ah, yes, I forgot. The educated one.” His five-foot-six height forced him to look up to meet Simon’s eyes. “That we would have any interest in fancy French cheese or liver pâté is doubtful, and I take their mention as an insult.”
The room had quieted when he stood, and the tone of his voice had silenced the group. Simon could see the anger build in the little German’s body, but could not suppress the twitch in his eyebrows that he knew confirmed the German’s accusation. “Those were two that came to mind,” he said as politely as he could. “There was nothing intentional.”
“Nor was there when my friends asked for something as simple as a good German wine.”
“We, on occasion, have German wine. But this early in the hunting season, we are out of wine, and not just German wine.”
“You Americans. Rustics. No wonder you fight amongst yourselves.”
Simon felt the color rise in his face. “Please explain to your friends, Mister Rindfleisch, that we will do what we can to make their stay here as pleasant as possible. And remind them that the ladies who serve their meals are exactly that, ladies. I trust you understand my meaning.”
Simon abruptly stepped around the little man, and was almost through the doorway when the count said something, again in German, and the room burst into laughter. Heat climbed the back of Simon’s neck as stalked across the salon toward his office.
“Whoa, what’n hell went on out there?” Buell asked as Simon rushed past.
“Arrogant bastard. I damn near punched him in the mouth.” Simon came back to Buell’s station. “They were giving Lori and the girls a hard time about what we had available to drink. And sounds like someone accidentally touched Lori.”
“And you let ’em get away with it?”
“They’re what makes this place pay. I told them Lori and the other servers are out of bounds. It’s my business to be civil.”
“Yeah, but ya gotta be a man too.”
“They’ll be gone in a week. I can live with it.” Simon puffed his cheeks and sighed. “They’ll be your problem in an hour or so—after they’re done eating. Don’t get a hot head.”
“They’ll get the same treatment as everybody else. They know the rules.” Buell settled back in his tall chair. “And they know I’ll enforce ’em.”
Two hours later, the German visitors came out of the dining room, and into the saloon. The first nice week of spring had just passed, so the saloon was full of people: soldiers, civilians from around the fort, and the usual number of itinerant travelers. They all wanted a good time, and all vied for the same attention. Twiggs and his two helpers set glass after glass on the bar as the customers consumed amazing quantities of whiskey, brandy, and beer.
Four card games going on simultaneously made open tables scarce. The Germans spotted one with only two men sitting at it, and some of them headed for it. Simon saw Buell track them like a cat watching a mouse. Five Germans arrived at the table, and the count said something to the two men. One of them nodded his head, and the Germans located two more chairs at other tables and the five sat down. The four remaining Germans headed for the bar. Simon breathed a long sigh of relief, and caught Buell’s eye.
“I’ll be in here,” he mouthed and pointed at his office door. Buell nodded, and went back to his surveillance.
Lori was beat. She usually made breakfast for anyone who wanted it, and then relaxed until early afternoon. From about two thirty to six, she prepared for the evening meal, and after seeing the service well-finished, put up her apron about nine thirty. It made for a long day, but she enjoyed what she did, and found meeting all the new people exhilarating.
Today had been different. Simon asked her to serve the German hunters, which took her out of her kitchen domain. She’d made innumerable trips from there and the bar, to the dining room. Her feet and arms ached and she needed some fresh air. She stepped out of the heat of the kitchen, a
nd into the saloon. Walking behind the bar, she stopped at the first beer pump.
“I need a beer, Max.”
“Sure.” He grabbed a glass and filled it slowly with the straw-colored brew. “There ya go.”
“Thanks.” She shuffled back into the kitchen, across the room, and out the back door.
The cool night air embraced her, and she turned left toward the wood stack on the eastern end of the building. She found a section of log standing on end and up against the stack. With a sigh of relief she sat, her back against the rough wood. After taking a sip of her beer, she looked around in the dim light for a place to set the glass down. Finding it, she leaned her head back and looked into the night.
A soft glow from the rising moon turned the scruffy cottonwoods by the river into near perfect specimens, the dead branches and bare spots hidden in the uncertain light. She located the Big Dipper, dumping its magical contents into the spring sky. Following the alignment of the end stars in the cup, she repeated the perceived distance between them until she located Polaris. She remembered when Zahn had first shown her how to do that. They had been completely alone on the endless prairie, and the memory of what had happened later in the vast privacy of the plains made her giggle softly.
The back door opened, and a shadowy figure weaved his way to the outhouse. A few minutes later he returned, the kitchen door banged shut, and once more, the privacy of the evening belonged to her. She missed Zahn, gone again into the mountains, this time to find a good stand of timber for the mill. As her body relaxed, she leaned her shoulders against the top of the woodpile and closed her eyes.
The arm that passed around her neck and encircled her throat scared her so badly, she stopped breathing. Before she could gather enough air to scream, a hand clapped across her mouth. Fingers dug into her flesh on either side of her jaw. The man jerked her to her feet, and shoved her away from the hotel. They headed toward the brush by the river, his arm still tight around her neck, moving six or seven paces before Lori could react. She reached behind her head and her fingers found skin. She dug in with all her strength and scratched.
A barely audible grunt came from the man, and his grip loosened slightly. She ducked forward and turned around at the same time, freeing herself from his grasp. His fist shot out and struck her in the breast. The flash of pain blinded her for a moment, and she let go a high, ear-splitting scream. Another blow cut it off a mere second after it started, and her legs began to fail her. Fighting to remain conscious, Lori slumped to her knees, both hands on the ground for support. The man grabbed her by the hair, and tried to pull her to her feet. She resisted and her scalp began to tear. With what she knew would be her last effort, she turned her head and sank her teeth into the man’s thigh. She bit so hard her head shook.
“Gott!” the man cried, and Lori gasped as he slammed several blows into her back. One punch looped around and caught her in the side and she cried out. As searing pain shot through her ribs; she nearly let go.
And then she heard Buell. “You son of a bitch!”
Dimly, Lori heard a sodden blow and a man crying out in pain. Her hair came free and the earth tipped sideways under her body. She slipped off the edge to slowly drift down into complete darkness.
Simon had been sitting in his office, staring into space when Spud stood, the hair on his shoulders bristling. Then, with a low growl, the dog lunged through the door. Simon got out of his chair just in time to see Buell rush past, and a second later the back door crashed open. He nearly fell over his desk getting around it, then ran out of his office, through the kitchen and into the night.
A man shouted, and he turned in the direction of the voice. Dimly, he could see two men, one with a rifle. The glint of moonlight on steel winked once, and Simon heard Buell swear. Then came the sound of a body being struck—hard. He rushed toward the two and found Buell, the Sharps carbine in both hands, flailing away at a prone figure whose foot was being savaged by the dog. Screams of pain came from the man, blended with snarls of rage from the animal and unintelligible swearing from Buell.
And then Simon saw Lori, lying still and flat on her back. His frantic mind was torn between stopping the assault on the man, and getting to her. “Buell, stop it. You’re killin’ him.” The heavy rifle rose and fell again, this time bringing the sharp crack of a breaking bone. Another unearthly scream came from the man on the ground, and then he fell silent. Buell raised the weapon again, and Simon grabbed it. “Stop!” He held fast to the barrel as Buell tried to wrest it free. “Quit, Buell. He’s not moving. Spud! Spud! Let go. Come here!”
Buell stopped pulling at the carbine. “Okay, I’m done. The son of a bitch.”
Simon let go and knelt beside Lori. He put his fingers to the side of her neck.
“She all right?” Buell asked.
“What the hell happened?” Twiggs said, as he rushed toward them carrying a lantern. Several other people followed him from the saloon.
“Who’s that?” Twiggs stepped over to the man, facedown on the ground. He stooped to look at his face. “It’s that German count, what’s his name, Rheingold?”
“Rindfleisch?” Buell asked.
“Vas iss?” a man in the crowd said, and pushed his way through. A torrent of German spilled as he shouted back toward the crowd, and three more men came forward. They picked up the unconscious count and hurried into the saloon.
“Lori, can you hear me?” Simon said.
She muttered something, and then reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Lori?” He took her hand and she squeezed his. “You hear me?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Help me up.”
Buell moved to her other side, and together they tried to sit her up.
“Oh! It hurts something awful on my right side. Be careful.”
They eased her back to the ground.
She reached her left hand around, and felt her side. “It’s a rib.” She winced again.
“You’ve cut your head,” Simon said as he ran his thumb over his fingertips. “That’s blood.” He held out his hand to Buell and Twiggs moved the light to it.
She put her hand to her head and felt about until she winced. “On top. Not much. Help me stand up.”
Both men held out their arms, she got her legs under her and stood, groaning. “That feels better. Let’s get inside.”
Twiggs cleared a path through the crowd, and they all went into the saloon. Inside, a deafening din met them as details, real and imagined, circulated through an angry crowd. The sound of German being shouted reverberated from upstairs. They made their way to the stairwell.
“Get the hell outta the way,” Buell demanded. The crowd on the stairs scrambled to stay clear of the thrusting barrel of his rifle. They helped Lori into her apartment where May took control. She had them seat Lori in a straight-back chair, and then herded the two men out into the hall. Simon felt the cold stares from the contingent of Germans crowding around the door at the end of the hall. He and Buell went downstairs and headed for Simon’s office.
“She gonna be okay?” Twiggs asked. He stood at the end of the bar, concern furrowing his brow.
“May has her. She has some hurt ribs and she lost some hair on top of her head. I think she’ll be all right.”
“We gonna let that bastard stay here?”
“Soon’s they get their stuff together, they’re leavin’.” Buell looked at Simon. “Right?”
“If not sooner,” Simon said, his voice tight with anger. “He can’t be here when Zahn gets back.”
They walked into the office, and shut the door. Spud sat between the two chairs opposite Simon’s desk. His thick body trembled as he looked at the closed door, and a low rumble came from his chest.
“Ya did a good job, Spud,” Buell said as he stroked the dog’s head.
“Is that how you knew Lori was in trouble?”
“Yeah. I saw her go out carryin’ a beer. Figgered she was just gonna have a breather. And then I saw Spud come tearin’ o
utta here like he’d been shot at. I knew it must be somethin’ wrong with Lori. She must’ve hollered and ol’ Spud heard her.”
Simon sank into his chair. “We got a mess. That bunch upstairs ain’t takin’ this lightly.”
“I don’t give a damn if they do or not. Ain’t no doubt the army will stick their nose in, but there’s forty witnesses who can tell them what happened. Piss on ’em.”
“I’m getting tired of this, Buell. Ya know that?” Simon leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. The picture of the high mountain meadow flooded in for a moment, only to be replaced by the image of Buell whaling away at the German, and Lori lying unconscious on the ground. He wanted desperately to just go to sleep and wake in the morning with all his trouble taken care of.
Amos, Simon and Buell sat across from the scowling provost marshal, who sat behind a desk reading a paper. Finished, he looked up. “I once said you were dangerous, Mister Mace. I can now add sadistic to that,” Captain Van Dyke said. He glared at Buell, his distaste obvious. “And on top of that, you have created an incident with a foreign government. Do you have anything to say?”
“Nope.” Buell glared back.
“I thought the fiasco with the English dogs was messy. This will prove to be a hundred times that. And the fact that it happened outside your saloon, as you are quick to point out, Mister McCaffrey, does not exonerate you. That man was a guest at your establishment. And you, Mister Steele, as manager, are also culpable.”
The three men sat silent.
“Well, is anyone going to say anything?”
“Like what, Captain?” Amos said. “We’re sorry? Didn’t mean to interrupt his rape of Missus Tapola?” He leaned across the desk, his face getting red. “Whatcha want me to say? If we was another hundred miles away, his stinkin’ carcass would be swingin’ from a cottonwood right now. He’s gawdamn lucky Zahn ain’t back yet.”
“Might be a good idea to get that sumbitch outta here before he is,” Buell said.
“Meaning what? Are you threatening him again?” The captain looked directly at Buell.
Laramie Page 24
