Colorado Crossfire

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Mamay-Day-Te! Mamay-Day-Te!”

  Then a distant voice, that of an old man, answered. “Gui-Tainte. Gui-Tainte.”

  That was his Kiowa name, something that even the McNally family knew nothing about. In the language of his mother’s people, he was called White Wolf. “Mamay-Day-Te!” White Wolf spoke.

  “Gui-Tainte, open your eyes. I am here, Gui-Tainte.”

  “Now I see you, Mamay-Day-Te,” he answered. An old man – a warrior – had appeared to him in the cloudy mass that made up this spirit world. “What would you seek of me, Gui-Tainte?”

  “I am going to war,” White Wolf said. “I will fight many men. Can you see me fighting?”

  The old man nodded. “Yes, Gui-Tainte. I have visions of glory and death.”

  “Will I die, Mamay-Day-Te?” White Wolf asked.

  “I see blood,” the old spirit man answered.

  “Is it my blood?”

  “I have visions of glory and death.”

  “Will my friend die?”

  “I have visions of glory and death. Be brave.”

  “Will we win our fight?” White Wolf asked.

  “Be brave.”

  Suddenly the Kiowa Kid was sitting in the sweat lodge. He was surprised to note that he was still automatically splashing water on the stones. The steam rolled over him and the perspiration flowed outward and coursed down his skin in heavy streams. He thought about what he’d seen and heard. He’d learned nothing, but had been told that there was glory and death ahead and he should be brave.

  But brave for what? The glory or the death? Or both?

  Kiowa wanted to go back to the spirits, but the spell was broken. Dry in the throat, he put the canteen to his lips and drank. After a few minutes he crawled out of the lodge and into the cool evening air.

  Dawn, as usual in the mountains, took a long time coming up over the peaks on the close horizon. It was still fairly dark when Lefty and the Kiowa Kid redid their bedrolls and tied them onto the backs of their horses.

  “You want to ride on out or have some of Dawson’s woman’s breakfast?” Lefty asked.

  “Did he say he had fresh venison?”

  “He sure did,” Lefty answered. “And flour for flapjacks, too. And wild honey to put on ’em.”

  Kiowa grinned. “Let’s start the day on a full belly. I’m hungry.”

  “After not eating for near two days, I ain’t surprised,” Lefty said.

  They walked from the corral back into the cabin.

  Millie already had a good fire going. She looked at them wordlessly, anticipating they had something to say.

  “We’d be pleased to eat,” Lefty said. He and Kiowa sat down at the table.

  Millie turned to the chore as Dawson came in through the front door. He had a Henry rifle on one shoulder. “Howdy, boys. I seen a lone elk up in the woods and went stalking. The sly old feller got away.”

  “Too bad,” Kiowa said. “We’ll be having breakfast, Delmar. Then we’re on our way.”

  “I think I’ll join you,” Dawson said. “A walk of a morning makes the stummick growl, don’t it?” Within a few moments the three men were wolfing down pancakes smeared with honey along with roast venison. “This beats the hell outta that hardtack and salt pork we ate on the last job “ Lefty said. “Sounds like the army,” Dawson said.

  “Yeah,” Kiowa said. “We spent half a year scouting for a cavalry outfit. We run them and us ragged after the Sioux.”

  “Ever find any?” Dawson asked.

  “Only when they wanted us to,” Lefty said grinning. “Well, where’re you boys headed from here?”

  “We hear there’s mining up around Luckville,” Lefty said. “We thought we’d give it a try.”

  “Yeah,” Kiowa said. “And look up some of our old pals that we ain’t seen for awhile.”

  “Like Pud Barlow and Ben Clackum?” Dawson asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And Craw Mindon?”

  Lefty slowed down. Dawson was obviously mentioning names of Milo Paxton’s gang deliberately. “Maybe.”

  “What about Selby Turner and Tip Tyler?”

  “Nope,” Kiowa quickly said.

  The conversation turned to general subjects about life in the mountains. Millie treated the men to two more helpings, each time returning to sit silently at the fireplace after refilling their plates. Finally the meal was done. Lefty and the Kiowa Kid stood up. “How much we owe you, Delmar?”

  “Oh,” Dawson said thoughtfully. “Overnight, a coupla meads, and a bottle o’ whiskey. I reckon two dollars cash money ought to square us.”

  Lefty dropped some coins on the table. “We’ll be going now, Delmar. See you later in the year.”

  “Not before the first snows,” Dawson said.

  Lefty shrugged. “Chances are we’ll be doing read good long before winter really sets in.”

  “Could be,” Kiowa said.

  “Sure, boys. Hope you strike it rich.” He watched his two guests leave the cabin. “Coffee,” he called out.

  Millie came over and served him a hot cupful. “The Indian had a bad vision,” she stated.

  “How’n hell d’you know?” Dawson asked.

  “I know.”

  “They did more’n just a little inquiring after Milo Paxton’s boys,” Dawson said.

  “You mentioned them yourself,” Millie said. “Just now.”

  “I wanted to satisfy what was gnawing at me, woman.” He took a drink of the coffee. “Maybe ol’ Lefty and the Kiowa Kid have taken up bounty hunting.”

  “Do you think so?” Millie asked.

  “They’re good at stalking game,” Delmar Dawson said. “But they’ll find man hunting differ’nt.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I think they’re after one or more of ’em. Maybe even Milo hisself.”

  “Those are bad men. Many men. They are only two,” Millie said.

  Dawson chuckled. “No wonder Kiowa had a bad vision.”

  Six

  Lefty and the Kiowa Kid first met Jim Bigelow not long after they followed the Wichita judge’s kind – but firm – advice to get out of that city and away from the temptations offered there.

  After a lengthy trip across Kansas and a great deal of Colorado, they arrived in Denver. If they’d been awed by Wichita, Denver positively staggered them. It was noisier, bigger, more crowded, and it definitely had more attractions. The two boys from Oklahoma Territory rode into the place with eyes opened wide and mouths agape.

  And, again, it was barroom shenanigans that got them into trouble.

  “I swear we’ve had nothing but pure education since we left Fort Sill,” Lefty said.

  “I reckon we have,” Kiowa said in agreement. “Look at all them stores and folks and saloons.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said. “The saloons.”

  “See any particular one that fancies you?” Kiowa asked.

  “Well, let’s look around,” Lefty said. After riding a ways up and down the main street, he decided he liked the look of a place called the Bouncing Nugget.

  The sign over the door was red and gold, its cheeriness attractive to a youngster who’d spent his whole life on a drab frontier army post.

  “I’d like to drink me a beer in there, Kiowa,” he remarked. “Whattaya think?”

  Kiowa, his own desire for a stiff belt pretty strong after nearly a month of steady travel, offered no objections to the suggestion. But he quickly said, “But let’s not get into no more trouble. If a lawman says we got to turn in our guns, let’s do it.”

  “I ain’t turning my guns in to nobody,” Lefty said defiantly. “I said that in Wichita and, by God, I say it here in Denver. But ifn they want me to, I’ll agree to leave town. How’s that?”

  “That’s what we’ll do then.”

  “Sure thing,” Lefty said.

  After dismounting and carefully tying the reins of their bridles around the hitching rail, they looked up and down the street.

  “I don’t see no sheriffs,” Le
fty said.

  “Me either,” Kiowa answered. “Let’s go. Maybe we can get inside afore one shows up.”

  “Now you’re talking!” Lefty said.

  They weaved their way through the throng of passersby on the boardwalk, reached the door of the saloon, and stepped inside. The Bouncing Nugget’s interior was no more than a few tables on a floor liberally sprinkled with sawdust. A narrow stairs led to a second floor balcony where several rooms were located. The bar, a crude long box affair, occupied one entire side of the establishment.

  Although the saloon was far from the choicest offered in the city, Lefty and Kiowa thought it quite elegant.

  The two walked up to the bar and ordered a couple of beers. The bartender served them quickly, took their money, then went back to chat with an acquaintance.

  Lefty raised the mug. “Here’s to what’s waiting for us in Colorado,” he said.

  Kiowa did likewise, taking a sip of the warm suds.

  “Now that tastes good, don’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Lefty agreed. He took a quick swallow. “Speaking of what’s waiting for us, have you had any o’ them visions o’ yours?”

  “I thought you was askeered of ’em,” Kiowa said.

  “There’s something evil there,” Lefty said. “But as long as you’re having ’em, we might’s well use ’em, right?”

  “Well, I ain’t had any,” Kiowa said. “There ain’t been a right time. I got to do the preparations. A vision don’t just pop into my mind when I want it to.”

  “Why not?”

  “A white man just wouldn’t understand,” Kiowa said. “That’s big medicine stuff that’s been with my people since the world started. And they sure as hell ain’t got nothing to do with getting rich.”

  “Then what good are they?” Lefty wanted to know.

  “They’re holy, like your church,” Kiowa said.

  “They ain’t. And my ma’s right,” Lefty said. “You oughta get the Bible read to you.”

  “Ha!” Kiowa said. “I don’t need no books. Nature is full of spirits that can learn you things providing you got the sense to ask ’em right.”

  “Crazy damn Injun,” Lefty said.

  Kiowa laughed. “You’re the crazy ’un. I recollect when you was acting silly as hell that night we was camping west o’ Signal Mountain.”

  Lefty frowned. “It was time for the little people to be out.”

  Kiowa laughed again.

  “Hey, my ma tole me about ’em,” Lefty said. “If you catch one, he has to give you a pot o’ gold.”

  That made Kiowa’s laughter increase.

  “And my pa knows about ’em, too,” Lefty said. “They’re called leperkans.”

  Now Kiowa doubled over with mirth.

  A husky, feminine voice interrupted them. “Sounds like you boys are having a fine time.”

  A saloon woman, blond hair streaked with gray, eased in between them. Her face was granite hard and worn, but she smelled of perfume and wore makeup. “Howdy, ma’am,” Kiowa said.

  Lefty, showing a silly grin, only nodded.

  “You boys telling each other jokes?” she asked.

  “Sorta,” Lefty said.

  “Well, how’d you like to really enjoy yourselves?”

  Both boys had had plenty of experience with prostitutes already. Whiskey sellers, who also had stables of whores, could always be found at Fort Sill on paydays. They camped in the wooded bottoms of Cache Creek and Whiskey Creek, setting up primitive brothels and outdoor bars the soldiery called hog ranches. Lefty and Kiowa had visited the places many times. At first they’d done it on dares from other boys, but as they got older, pure lust drove them there. Young people matured fast in the primitive west.

  Kiowa looked at the woman. She was much older than they. Indians believed that if a young man had sex with an old woman, she would steal strength from him. He shook his head. “I reckon not.”

  “What about you?”

  Lefty nodded. “Sure. How much?”

  “A dollar.”

  He was thoughtful. They’d worked a couple of weeks for a farmer in western Kansas and had earned a little money for their efforts. “Two bits,” Lefty countered.

  “Four bits,” the woman said. “And it’ll be worth it, big boy.

  “Four bits it is,” Lefty said. “I’ll be back directly.”

  “Sure,” Kiowa said. “I’ll have me another beer.” The Indian youngster ordered his mug refilled. He slowly sipped the beer, savoring the flavor. He let his mind drift over their plans to become professional hunters. It-seemed like a good idea, but the problem was that it didn’t seem to offer much in the chances for wealth. He pondered that problem for awhile, then finished his beer.

  “Want another?” the bartender asked.

  “Sure,” Kiowa said. He glanced up toward the upstairs where Lefty had gone with the woman.

  “Don’t worry about your pard,” the barkeep said. “He’s having a good time.”

  Usually Lefty’s liaisons with whores were a matter of five minutes. Kiowa couldn’t figure out what was taking him so long, but decided not to worry for the moment. “You’re prob’ly right,” he said.

  “Sure I am,” the man said. “The gals in this bar know how to make a feller enjoy hisself for a long, long while.”

  But by the time Kiowa was halfway through the fresh beer, his instincts took over and he became concerned. He walked toward the stairs.

  “Hey!” the bartender hollered. “Where the hell are you going?”

  “That’s none o’ your damn business,” Kiowa said as he hurried over to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he got to the landing and went to the first door. It opened into an empty room. The second was the same, but the third was locked.

  “Lefty!”

  His friend’s voice answered in a desperate tone. “Get me outta here!”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Kiowa asked.

  “Kick the damn door down!” Lefty begged.

  Kiowa did exactly as he was asked, booting in the flimsy door. He rushed inside to see his pal backed up against the wall with his hands up. The whore was off to one side, and a big hulking man with a knife was closing in on Lefty. The whore shrieked and rushed at the Indian boy. He knocked her aside and drew his own blade.

  The man, now confused and now worried with two opponents facing him, turned toward the Indian.

  Lefty delivered a roundhouse kick into the man’s crotch. The robber, howling in agony, bent over and slipped to the floor.

  “Let’s go!” Kiowa yelled.

  They charged toward the door for a quick exit. But the barkeep and a couple of other hard types were already standing there. Since that was the only exit, Lefty and Kiowa had no choice. They bowled into the three men as the whore shrieked and the man on the floor blubbered.

  All five, punching and yelling, rolled out to the railing and broke through it, falling down to the floor ten feet below. A couple of locals enjoying a beer were startled to see the men crash into their table. They yelled in fury at this uninvited interruption that spilled their whiskey.

  Both Lefty and Kiowa tried to extract themselves from the crawling, grasping, punching, kicking pile of humanity but they could not escape. Forced to fight back, they became fully embroiled in the brawl. Other patrons, mostly mean drunk, dove into the riot just for the hell of it, and the violence quickly escalated. People on the street stopped and stared into the saloon at the fracas. It seemed a wonderful way to stimulate what had been a boring afternoon.

  The mêlée continued until the arrival of the local marshal and his deputies. Pistol barrels were slammed against skulls, arms twisted, and finally shots fired into the air before everyone involved was properly arrested.

  Like Wichita, Denver’s law enforcement procedures wasted no time. A one-sided trial was held the next day as the local witnesses lied and perjured themselves outrageously. The outcome of the hearing was inevitable.

  Lefty and the Kiowa Kid got thirty d
ays.

  Almost a week later, slammed down in the city jail, Lefty summed it all up. “There ain’t no justice.” He was sitting on one of the cell’s bunks.

  “Fine thing,” Kiowa said. “A feller gets a knife pulled on him, his pal goes to help out, and they get thrown in jail and ever’body else is let loose.”

  A new arrival, a man picked up for public drunkenness the night before, stood leaning against the bars. Now sober, he looked at his younger companions. “Sounds like you fellers is from out o’ town.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty said.

  “Oklahoma Territory,” Kiowa said.

  “Always remember, boys, when there’s trouble someplace, it’s the strangers that get the worser treatment,” the stranger said. “Even if you’re the wronged party. As long as you’re gonna be drifters, you might just as well get used to it. So don’t expect no favors and don’t bother to ask for ’em.”

  “I don’t like towns no more,” Lefty said.

  “Let’s find some jobs out in the wild country,” Kiowa suggested.

  “What’s your usual line o’ work?” the stranger asked.

  “We ain’t got one,” Lefty said.

  “We went to Texas to try our hand at cattle ranching, but that didn’t work out,” Kiowa said.

  “So somebody in Wichita says we ought to come up here to Colorado where they need outdoorsmen,” Lefty explained.

  “How come you went to Texas and got told in Wichita, Kansas, to come to Colorado?” the confused man asked.

  “On account o’ Texans is mad at Kiowa here for scalping ’em,” Lefty said,

  “Hey!” Kiowa protested. “I didn’t scalp nobody.”

  The other prisoner realized he was going to have a tough time getting a logical story out of the two so he gave it up.

  “What kinda work can you do, boys?” Lefty answered, “We’re purty good at hunting.”

  The stranger looked at the Indian and nodded. “I’ll bet you are.” He walked over and sat down beside Lefty. “I’m a guard on the Northwest and Canadian Railroad. My outfit is laying new track up north. They’re looking for some hunters to keep the crew fed. Think you might be inter’sted?”