Black Hills (9781101559116)

by Thompson, Rod

  “Nobody is taking anybody,” Con Wellington said calmly. “Who are you?”

  “We are the business men that own all those businesses in town, and we make the rules.”

  “Well, those are pretty stupid rules, because we are the ones who spend the money in those businesses in town,” responded Con Wellington calmly, “but if they are the town rules and the other citizens have agreed to them, so be it. Cab City is about the same distance; if that’s the way it is, we’ll just start going there. We’ll have to check with your storekeepers and see if that’s what they want, but for tonight, you folks go on home and if we find out that’s the town rules, we’ll abide by them, won’t we, Jingles—”

  “It don’t matter what he says,” the bowler-hat leader interrupted. “There are more of us than you, and we have the guns, as you can plainly see . . . they’re pointing at you. We are taking him with us, and we are going to teach him a lesson. Take him boys.”

  “If you try, your group is suddenly going to get a lot smaller,” Cormac told them as he walked up to the group, coming from the side, “but if that’s what you want, you go ahead and see if you can ride that bronc.”

  As one, the rider’s heads turned to look at the voice, and the guns began to swing toward him. “Wait everybody, freeze!” exclaimed one of the riders. “For God’s sake, don’t make him go for those guns! I saw him shoot a guy in Dodge City. That’s Mack Lynch!”

  In an instant, the brushing sounds of guns going back into their holsters was heard throughout the group. “We’ll be going now, Mr. Wellington,” said the suddenly polite and soft-spoken leader. As one, the group turned without another word and rode out of the yard, leaving those remaining to stare at Cormac.

  “Is that true Cormac?” asked Con Wellington. “I thought your name was Cormac Lynch, but I guess Mack is short for Cormac. I never made the connection.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cormac. “It’s true. I’m sorry. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “That’s not necessary, Cormac. This would have gotten ugly if you hadn’t been here. You’re more than welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no thank you. If I stay, sooner or later, sure as shootin’ someone with a gun will come looking for me, and somebody else is liable to get hurt in the ruckus. I’ll leave in the morning.” The next day, he drew his pay and did just that.

  He was headed southwest, riding down a hill into a two-bit town three days into Southern Colorado after leaving Kansas, when Cormac realized it was his birthday and decided to wet his whistle and tie on the feed bag at the local saloon to celebrate. That was a decision he later wished he’d thought better of. He first registered at the hotel and then rode over to the saloon. He figured that a couple drinks and food that he hadn’t cooked his own self and a good night’s sleep in a real bed would be celebration enough. He later thought the sign over the door of the saloon should have prepared him. It proclaimed A SALOON WITH NO NAME.

  “What do you think?” He was riding Horse with Lop Ear carrying the pack beside them as they stopped in the street and looked up at the sign. Horse nickered her approval. Cormac shifted his weight and swung his leg over the saddle horn to slide off but instead, he swung it back over and sat down.

  “You know what, guys? Sorry, Horse. I know you’re not a guy. I think it’s time you two had a birthday. As Lord and master, I do hereby proclaim forthwith this thirtieth day of June to be your birthdays and therefore cause for celebration.”

  Cormac backed Horse away from the hitching rail and turned up the street. “Let’s go buy you some new shoes for your birthday and get you a room in the stable, and just maybe, if you don’t kick the blacksmith, I’ll get you a rub down and some grain or corn in your feed bag.”

  After making arrangements for the blacksmith, who also owned the stable, to re-shoe both horses and give them a good brushing and combing, Cormac walked to the saloon. It was of the large size, with the expected long bar along one wall and a door at one end leading to the storage and living quarters, and that was where they ran out of normal.

  There were oddly shaped tables of various types of wood and style, some large enough for eight or ten people, some only for two. There were large and small soft chairs, hard chairs, and small straight chairs in various locations ringing tables and lining walls. In one corner, a large red umbrella with dangling white fringe hovered over a table that had been built using multiple types of beautiful woods by an obviously skilled craftsman.

  Another corner was arranged like a parlor; with pictures, a table with surrounding chairs upholstered in red, and a rug on the floor. Most of the pictures were nice to look at, some weren’t, and one was just plain ugly. If it had belonged to his pa, his pa would have probably said he was gonna trade it to an Indian for a broken watch and then throw away the watch.

  The rug made Cormac think of his dirty boots, and Lainey warning him about his dirty high-topped farmer shoes after chores late one night.

  “Cormac Lorton Lynch! Don’t you dare come into this house and walk on my fresh-mopped floor with those dirty old clodhopper shoes! Either clean them off, take them off, or go without supper and sleep in the barn tonight!” Cormac remembered looking in the door for support from Mr. Schwartz sitting at the table; he had been working hard all day in the Dakota-hot fields, and he was tired and certainly not in the mood to be pushed around.

  Mr. Schwartz only wiggled his toes with one pushing out through a hole in his sock to call attention to the fact that he had no shoes on either, and with a smile, pointed to them sitting on the porch outside the door and shrugged his shoulders. What’s a man to do? Later, when Cormac had been morose and brooding about it, she teased him as she walked by.

  “Oh, boo hoo! Boo hoo!” she cried, pretending to rub her eyes. Unfortunately for Cormac, he had been holding a towel at the time and snapped the south end of her when she was going north. He was instantly in real trouble then. Lainey had grabbed the broom and put the run on him in no uncertain terms.

  There were floor-length curtains on the windows of a thick material unknown to Cormac and more pictures large and small of mountains and lakes, pastures and streams, flowers and trees, a person riding a funny-looking two-wheeled contraption with one really big wheel in front and a tiny wheel in the rear, and a multitude of other subjects placed on the walls at various heights. One was large and hand painted of an attractive lady with long black hair and a captivating smile on a wall all by itself. Most bars were made for standing only, however, along the far end of this one were five tall stools for sitting that reminded him of the one-legged milk stools they had used on the farm for milking.

  Like the other patrons, he shied away from the stools and found a spot at the opposite end of the bar, behind which were several exotic-looking bottles of alcohol. Cormac rolled and lit a cigarette while waiting for a double shot from a bottle that looked to be soundly built, and when it came, sipped it slowly as he took it all in.

  A pretty waitress in a high-necked dress that fit her well from the waist up, but loose enough from the waist down to swish the floor when she walked, moved gracefully in and around the tables delivering drinks and food, and somehow managing to stay just out of reach of searching hands.

  “Sort of takes your breath away, don’t it?”

  A cowhand leaning against the bar beside him and looking at the oddities, made a motion with an empty glass that took in the room. Cormac looked around the room again, seeing a splotch of red stain by his feet and smelling the remnants of gun smoke, the tracked-in mixture of dirt, hay, and manure on the floor, the whiskey and the sweat, and hearing the saloon sounds: the tin-penny piano along the back wall playing a song about a girl named Clementine with an old-timer, a couple of farmers, a businessman in a three-piece suit, and a couple of teamsters—all drunk, or near enough to it—making up new verses that had her living an interesting life:He said he loved her

  Said he wanted her

  But the next day

  He was gone
r />   She went searchin’

  Cross the river

  All they found

  Was his dead bones.

  And there was the unintelligible chatter of voices: a too-loud laugh of a sporting dance hall girl helping an overeager drunk cowboy up the stairs, a poker player loudly asking for three cards, and the excited voices of two cowboys coming in the swinging door already feeling their oats.

  “That it does, pardner,” Cormac answered, nodding. “That it does. I wonder how a place like this come to be.”

  “The story goes that the owner had once been a wealthy rancher with a wife who collected furniture from different parts of the country, even imported some from other countries. When she died from some kind of fever, he lost interest in ranchin’ and bought this saloon, then furnished it from his home because it reminded him of her.” Cormac signaled for a drink refill and motioned at the cowhand’s empty glass.

  “You want a refill on that?”

  The cowboy grinned at him. “If that’s an offer, I surely would. I’m huntin’ a job, but my poke’s a bit on the empty side lately.”

  Cormac smiled back. “Been in that boat a time or two myself. I’ll buy you a couple and when you get the chance, you can pass it on to someone else like us. How long since your stomach’s seen any food?”

  “You a mind reader? I stopped at a ranch that set a mighty fine spread, and when I left, the lady gave me a couple sandwiches to take with me, but I polished them off two days ago.”

  “Been through that, too. I was just wondering what an establishment like this would have to offer in the way of food; I’m almost afraid to ask. It’s my birthday, and I just got paid three months wages. I figure to have me a good dinner and a good night’s bed sleep in a real bed at the hotel. How ’bout we have another drink, and then see can we scare us up something to eat, on me?”

  His new friend showed no hesitation, and they selected a beautifully made table with colored inlays that, upon closer inspection, was marred by initials carved in two places. What a shame. Three cowhands walked in the door, looking around with the same astounded look that Cormac probably was wearing when he had walked in. It came to him that he didn’t know pardner’s name, and that was fine. It was likely they would never see each other again anyway, for tonight he could just be pardner.

  The three newcomers passed by them and went to one of the larger tables, sitting down facing the door as if awaiting something, or somebody. Likewise, Cormac had chosen a chair with his back to a partition allowing him to watch the door and keep the rest of the room under surveillance.

  The three newcomers hadn’t long to wait. Their ordered drinks hadn’t had time to arrive yet when four men and three ladies entered and joined them. The new group must have been there before; they walked past Cormac’s table, looking neither right nor left, going straight to the first group’s table.

  They were all dressed in the style of the day, the men in three-piece woolen suits with ties and bowler hats, the women with high-neck long-skirted dark dresses with hats to match. All three carrying matching handbags, one had a parasol over her arm. Obviously ladies and gentlemen looking somewhat out of place in such an establishment, looking more like they just stepped off the pages of a magazine advertisement.

  It occurred to Cormac that all of the patrons were playing the same game. Whenever anyone walked in the door, all eyes watched expectantly for their reaction. A few more people straggled in singly or in pairs while Cormac and pardner were eating. Most reacted in the same manner.

  The food was mighty tasty. After eating his own trail cooking, most anything prepared in a real pan would have been a treat, but the steak was thick, tender, done to a tee and served under a layer of cooked onions along with a large helping of beans with a south-of-the-border taste on man-sized plates: the cook knew something of cowboys’ appetites. They took their first bites suspiciously, smiled at each other, then relaxed and settled down to do some eatin’.

  No words passed; they concentrated on the task at hand. When the last bite of beef and the last bean had been swallowed, they both wiped their plates clean with the last of the fresh-made bread they had been given and cleaned up the crumbs. If it had been a food-eating race, they would have finished in a dead heat, washing down the last bites with the last of their whiskey. Cormac motioned for a couple of cups of coffee. He thought they had both had enough alcohol for the night.

  “This is what I call living high on the hog.” The cowboy sighed contentedly.

  “Sure is,” Cormac agreed. “That is, without doubt, the best eatin’ I’ve had in a long time,” Cormac told him. “I used to know a couple women up in Dakota Territory that could cook like this. They coulda made boot-leather soup taste good, and then serve it with biscuits smothered in some kind of German gravy and doughnuts in case you weren’t already stuffed like a plump chicken. Man, could they cook.”

  Pardner nodded agreeably. “I’ve a met one or two like that over the years, but they usually leave a lot to be desired in the looks or attitude department.”

  “Well, you’re part right,” Cormac agreed. “These two were mother and daughter. The mother didn’t look so great but once you got to know her, you didn’t notice. The other was her adopted daughter and one look at her causes most men to start thinkin’ maybe being married ain’t such a bad idea; that is if they can get their brains to start working again.”

  They leaned back and dug out their makin’s and just as they finished rolling their quirlies, all hell broke loose.

  “Wait, please!”

  One of the first cowboys to sit at the larger table had knocked his chair over backward getting up and was backing, unarmed, away from the table with his two hands held up in front of him, palms outward. Two of the men in the group that had joined them, along with one of the women whom Cormac had considered to be ladies, were rising and all three began shooting into him. Cormac would have to adjust his thinking on the definition of a lady.

  Three armed shooters against one unarmed man wasn’t Cormac’s idea of a fair fight, but it was no real concern of his as long as their guns didn’t start pointin’ in his direction. The thought gave him a sense of guilt. Why? Who said he had to be his brother’s keeper, as he once heard a preacher say? Had there been any warning, he might have felt the need to try to stop it, but it was over and done before anyone realized what was happening so why was it any of his concern? Keeping an eye on the shooters, he lit his cigarette and held the match over for pardner. Cormac was startled at his expression. Pardner’s eyes were wide and panicked.

  The two friends of the recently deceased had done nothing, and were still doing it. They moved only their hands, placing them palm down on the table at arm’s length. The men shooters holstered their guns; the woman returned hers to her bag, and then the four men and three women turned to leave. Cormac downgraded his opinion from three ladies to three women. Ladies that he had known didn’t go around shooting unarmed men, or armed men either, for that matter.

  Although pardner was tensed, as if expecting something, he was keeping his head down and his hands were nowhere near his gun; Cormac didn’t like it. This thing wasn’t over, not by a damned sight, and the group would have to pass by their table on the way out. They had almost made it when one, slightly in the lead, suddenly pointed at pardner.

  “That’s another one!” he exclaimed. “Get him!” They all turned and started to draw, the woman shooter jamming her hand into her bag.

  Cormac swore, “Ah, hell!”

  Why couldn’t they just leave? He had already removed the hammer thongs from his guns and hooked his foot under the rungs of the chair next to him. His quirlie still dangling from his mouth and his flat-topped black hat back on his head, he kicked the chair into them while unloading up and out of his chair to begin firing with both guns as he stood up. He didn’t like using the Colt for close work indoors because the large amount of smoke from the magnesium, saltpeter, and sulphur gunpowder mix made visibility difficult and t
he sulphur would leave a long-lasting stench, but he had no time to be choosy. The woman was the quicker; her hand was coming out of the bag with a pistol in it and turning. She was looking cruelly into his eyes, thoroughly enjoying what she was about to do.

  Cormac shot her first. Her eyes widened and her soft, lovely shaped mouth uttered a surprised, “Oh!” She looked down at the two holes in the center of her chest, then again into his eyes as it sunk in that she was dying. “You . . .” she started in a bitter accusing tone as her legs gave up the ghost, and she was left with nothing to support her and collapsed.

  Well, if she could go around shooting people, people could sure as hell shoot back.

  Both guns hammering, Cormac had already picked his target order. After the “lady,” the little one looked to be the fastest, and was; the big one looked to be a very close second, and was. Cormac took them in order and the other two last as their guns were clearing leather. The big one and the little one had surprised looks on their faces too, as if they never thought it could happen to them. Hell, it could happen to anybody, even Cormac, and would if he got careless. He knew he would meet somebody faster someday and he would go down in some dusty dirty street or some saloon, to nobody’s surprise.

  What difference would it make to anybody, anyway? He had a few friends and acquaintances who would admit to their friends and their acquaintances that they knew it was going to happen someday, and then what? When the Denver bank got the news, someone would take his money and his horses and property to Lainey, who would probably refuse them. And that would be the end of Cormac Lynch and the John Lynch chain of descendants.

  Turning to the two remaining ladies, he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and continue to think of them as ladies since they weren’t shootin’ at him and wouldn’t. They were statues with eyes wide as saucers.