Miami Gundown

by Michael Zimmer

  It was somewhere in that country between Istokpoga and the Indian that I began to get an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades. I’m not talking about a mosquito bite kind of discomfort, but a sense that something wasn’t quite right—don’t ask me what. It was the way I’d felt the previous week, just before discovering Jacob Klee and his boys were following us. As far as I could tell at that point, though, nobody else was showing any signs of unease, so I decided to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open, and see what developed.

  At the Indian River, we finally turned south toward the ruins of old Fort Pierce. [Ed. Note: Like Fort Dallas on the Miami River, Forts Pierce, Capron, Jupiter, and Lauderdale were constructed during the Seminole Wars in an effort to confine the tribe to the unpopulated southern reaches of the state.] There was a settlement of sorts near where the old fort had stood, consisting of a trading post, a saloon, and a blacksmith shop scattered among the huts and shacks. We made our cautious way down what passed as the main thoroughfare to the saloon and tied up out front. Our eyes were darting every which way as we climbed the steps to the veranda, watching not only for Jacob Klee’s men, but also for Federal troops. We were pretty close to the coast by then and more than a little concerned that Yankees might have slipped inland along the old military road that ran parallel to the Atlantic.

  I told Ardell to stay outside and keep an eye on the street, and he grabbed Punch as the youngster started inside, hauling him out of line to help watch. After entering, Jim moved off to one side like he always did, while Casey made his way down the length of the room to a rear door. He shoved it open and peered outside for a few seconds, then closed it and shook his head. With that, me and Roy and Pablo moved up center to the bar, while Casey took a position at its far end. There was no one else in the room save for the bartender, a lanky, sallow-faced individual well into his fifties, with a bald head, a poorly trimmed mustache, and crossed eyes that seemed to follow everyone at once.

  “You boys bounty hunters, looking for deserters?” he asked, to which Casey replied: “Nope.”

  “Bounty dodgers?” he persisted, then chuckled to make sure we understood that it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  “We’re cow hunters,” Roy said irritably. “Do we look like cowards?”

  The bartender shook his head. “No, now that you mention it, you look like cow hunters.”

  “You got any whiskey?” I asked. That might seem like a foolish question today, but you’ve got to remember that we were still dealing with the Union blockade in those years, not to mention the settlement’s isolation. If a port town like Punta Rassa ran consistently low on supplies, I’d hate to think what life was like at Fort Pierce. [Ed. Note: Although McCallister refers to the tiny community outside the ruins of the old military post as Fort Pierce, the actual city of that name wasn’t incorporated until 1901.]

  “I got brush lightning,” the bartender said. “It ain’t too bad to drink, just don’t spill any on your clothes, as it has a tendency to eat right through cotton or wool.” He paused to chuckle at his own joke, but sobered up when he didn’t get a reaction from us. Dipping his fingers inside several glasses at once, he toted them over, along with a half-gallon jug of liquor. His eyes drifted to where Jim was standing silently beside the door. “Your Negro can stay there if he don’t cause no trouble, but I don’t serve ’em in my establishment.”

  I guess I was feeling edgy that day, because my temper flared like kerosene spilled on hot coals at the bar dog’s words. He noticed it, too, and took a swift step back before he could even get those glasses set down.

  “It’s my damned place,” he snarled defensively, “and it’ll be me that decides who drinks and who don’t.”

  “Mister—,” I started to say, but Jim spoke up before I could get a good roll on.

  “It’s OK, marse,” he said quietly. “I’ll go stand outside with Mistah Ardell and Mistah Punch, if that be all right by you.”

  It took a moment for me to nod stiffly. I was still mad as hell, but reminded myself that I wasn’t there to start a brawl. I needed information, and in a settlement as tiny as Fort Pierce, I wasn’t going to have a lot of options. “Take Ardell’s place, and tell him to have a look around the trading post,” I told Jim.

  “Yes’um, I will.”

  I fixed my gaze on the bartender, my mood still bristly. “Pour,” I told him, jutting my chin toward the jug cradled in his left arm.

  Licking nervously at his lips, the bartender stepped forward and began filling glasses. I saw him hesitate briefly in front of Pablo, but I guess he decided he’d pushed his luck far enough for one day and tipped the chipped jug over the Cuban’s glass.

  “That’ll be six bits, in coin,” he said, stoppering the jug with a short length of corncob.

  I tossed the money across the bar, then pulled my drink closer. It smelled raw and tasted a whole lot worse. I don’t know where that ol’ boy was getting his liquor, but it didn’t hold a candle to Norm Wakley’s stuff, and that ain’t saying much. Steeling myself to the task, I managed to get it all down without choking.

  “Sweet . . . Jesus,” Roy gasped, slapping his empty glass down on the counter. Turning to me, he managed a hoarse, whispery laugh. “Get Punch in here, Boone. I want to see the look on his face after downin’ a shot of this ’gator piss.”

  Well, hell, that was Roy for you.

  “Punch is doing just fine where he’s at,” I replied, thinking the younger man had enough on his mind without a jackass like Roy Turner digging spurs into him.

  I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this yet, but Punch had taken Calvin’s death pretty hard. Being about the same age, those two had naturally buddied up, and even though we were all saddened by Cal’s passing, you could tell it was nagging at Punch a lot more than the rest of us.

  Nodding to the barman, I said: “Splash a little more whiskey in our glasses, friend. I barely tasted that last one.”

  The barkeep laughed at my cockiness, and I forced a smile, the ruffle between us kind of smoothing out. I drank the next glass slowly, and I swear my lips were starting to go numb by the time I got it all down, but I figured we owed the man that much—for the information I wanted.

  “Where you boys from?” the bartender asked, growing more congenial with the prospect of increasing the number of coins in his pockets.

  “West of here,” Casey replied. He’d eased down the bar to collect his second whiskey and was standing next to Pablo now.

  “If east is your destination, you’ve just about reached the end of the line. The Atlantic ain’t but a good, long spit to the other side of town, and there ain’t no cows that way that I’ve ever heard of. Not unless they’ve sprouted gills.”

  “We’re heading south,” I said, and noticed the change that came into his eyes.

  “Ain’t many cows south of here, either.”

  “We ain’t lookin’ for cows,” Roy said belligerently, the raw lightning in his belly already having its usual effect on him. “We’re lookin’ for some trash that came this way a few days ago.”

  “I ain’t seen no one to fit that description,” the bartender replied pointedly. He started to move off, and I reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Six men and a colored gal of about fifteen,” I said.

  Shrugging, he said: “That don’t ring no bell, mister.” He tried to pull free, but I tightened my grip, while Roy drew his revolver and set it on the counter in front of him. The bartender eyed that pistol for a long minute, then said: “Day before yesterday.”

  I couldn’t help a relieved sigh, having been half scared ever since we left the Flatiron that I’d guessed wrong and that Klee’s men had gone south, after all.

  “Was the girl hurt?” Casey asked.

  “She looked all right to me, but it was dark.” He paused with a smug grin, until I realized his reply was just a dig at the color of Lena’s skin.

  Letting go of his arm, I said: “When did they leave?”

  “Pull
ed out that same night, heading south to . . . well, wherever south takes ’em, I guess. They didn’t say.”

  Doing the math in my head, I realized that despite our detour to Dick Langley’s cabin, we’d still managed to shave a little time off their lead. “Did they say who they were?” I asked. “Any names?”

  “It ain’t my job to ask a man his name. I just pour the drinks. They had a couple at that table yonder, then bought a jug for the trail and left. I got no idea what they did after they walked out my door.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the business side of the bar. “Any of you boys want another drink?”

  “I reckon we’re done,” I replied and tipped my head toward the door for the others to follow me outside.

  Jim was standing at the edge of the veranda as we exited, one shoulder propped casually against the post. I noticed there wasn’t much for him to keep an eye on—a pair of shoats rooting in the weeds at the edge of town and the steady puffing of smoke from a bellows in the blacksmith shop as the smithy cherried his coals. Ardell and Punch were nowhere in sight.

  “They’s over to the tradin’ post,” Jim said, as if reading my mind. “Went to talk to the smithy first, but didn’t stay even a minute. They been at the post ever since.”

  Not wanting to interrupt, I had us wait in front of the saloon until Ardell and Punch emerged from the trading post some twenty minutes later. They sauntered over to where we were standing. Punch was toting a slab of cured ham over one shoulder, and Ardell had the neck of a burlap sack twisted around his fist. He didn’t offer any kind of explanation as to its contents, and no one asked.

  “The smithy saw them, but didn’t talk to them,” Ardell reported. “Said they spent a couple of hours in the saloon, then rode on. He said Lena was with them, and that she didn’t look like she’d been hurt, but he thought she was scared. Said it bothered him, but not enough to risk getting his head shot off for interfering in what wasn’t any of his business. The clerk at the trading post said about the same thing. He didn’t talk to them, either.” Tipping his head toward the post, Ardell added: “They’re not much better provisioned than Müller was, as far as guns and ammunition, but they had a few things Punch and I took an interest in.”

  Punch got a big smile on his face, but refused to elaborate when Roy asked him why he was grinning like an idiot.

  “You learn anything in there?” Ardell asked, nodding toward the saloon.

  “Just another Negro hater,” Casey replied stonily.

  We mounted our horses and rode back to the west until we were clear of town, then veered off to the south, ducking and dodging the tattered sheets of Spanish moss that hung from the oaks and magnolias like long-forgotten linens. There were trails all through here, made by local townspeople and feral hogs, but a lot of them seemed to wander without purpose. We pushed on doggedly until we came to a piney ridge running north and south along the coast. I didn’t say anything to the boys, but I was glad to find it. That ridge was about the only way there was to reach a lot of those old forts and trading posts and settlements along Florida’s southeast coast. It was a strip of pine woods maybe five or six miles wide in spots, but crammed in between deep swamps on one side and the Atlantic on the other. From what I’d heard, it ran almost all the way to Fort Dallas.

  Once we reached the pines, our journey became a lot easier. Things improved even more when we came to a well-marked trail, its moist soil marred by the prints of shod horses. I wasn’t much of a tracker, then or now, but no one lives on the frontier without picking up a little knowledge, and I was betting those tracks couldn’t have been more than forty-eight hours old.

  “I’ll be damned,” Casey said softly, eyeing the hoof marks gouged into the layers of pine needles. “We’ve found ’em.”

  I was inclined to agree, but dismounted anyway to run my fingers along the edges of the tracks, moving from one set of prints to the next. I could feel my excitement growing as the story left in the sod took shape before my eyes. Although not positive, I estimated at least ten horses had passed this way, but it was the tracks of a smaller animal that convinced me we were on the right trail—the gray filly Pa had been so proud of because of her long, clean lines. My mood was sailing high as I walked back to my horse, but it fell like a rock when I spotted a detachment of Yankee soldiers coming up behind us. Dick Langley rode with them, hands tied tight to his saddle, his face a mass of bruises and dried blood.

  Session Seven

  Years later, I would find out from Eric Burke, who I met again in Texas, that the officer sent out from Fort Myers to capture us was the same Lieutenant Hodges who’d tried to corral us there in Punta Rassa. That day outside of Fort Pierce, Hodges halted his command about sixty yards away, then ordered his men to spread out as much as the narrow trail would allow. Although he had eight troopers with him, they didn’t look especially dangerous. In fact, they looked more like a bunch of spindly legged kids sitting nervously astride their big cavalry mounts, sporting long Springfield rifles and apprehensive expressions. I’ll give them credit, though. As frightened as they appeared, they didn’t hesitate when Hodges told them to ready their weapons.

  I put my hand on my revolver but didn’t draw it. Real quiet, I said: “Spread out, boys. Let’s see what they want before we start shooting.”

  They did as instructed, and a couple of them—Pablo and Ardell—actually rode into the trees where they would be harder to hit, yet would have a clear field of fire down the middle of the trail. Hodges barked a command over his shoulder, and a skinny, little corporal rode forward, dragging Dick Langley’s marshtackie behind him on a lead rope. I recognized Dick’s horse right off as one of the Flatiron mounts we’d switched our saddles to after that hard ride in from Pete Dill’s trading post.

  “Which one of you is Bone McCallister?” Hodges called.

  Roy shook his head in disgust. “It’s Boone McCallister, you pecker-headed Yankee fool!” he shouted back.

  “Hold your tongue,” Casey said sharply. “This is still Boone’s outfit.”

  I appreciated the admonition. The truth is, I would have been real happy if those Yankees hadn’t known my name at all, but since they obviously did, there wasn’t any point in my denying it. Not with the muzzle of that corporal’s revolver pressed against the side of Dick’s chest.

  “I’m McCallister,” I replied, raising my voice to be heard.

  “McCallister, you may consider yourself and your men under arrest. Surrender your weapons immediately, then ride forward with your hands in the air.”

  Roy snorted in derision. “Is that boy daft, Boone? There ain’t a one of us here that don’t know what they’d do if we gave up our pistols.”

  “They’d hang us,” I responded bluntly, then lifted my voice to the watching Yankees. “We won’t surrender, bluebelly, but if you turn our man loose, we’ll let you live. You can ride on back to wherever you came from and tell your commanding officer how you tried to catch us, but couldn’t.”

  I’ll admit I was surprised by the fire in Hodges’s reply. “I will see you sent to hell, McCallister,” the lieutenant bellowed, leaning so far forward in his saddle I thought he might fall off, “and send your Secesh gang with you! Now throw down your arms and come forward with your hands raised.”

  Casey whistled softly. “That ol’ boy is primed for blood, Boone.”

  “He’s got us roasting over a slow fire, too,” I acknowledged. “We’ve got to mind our mettle as long as they’ve got Dick.”

  “Why do we worry about Langley?” Pablo asked suddenly, catching me off guard with his question. “He is not a Flatiron rider.”

  “What the hell, Torres!” Roy exclaimed. “He’s as much a Flatiron rider as any of us.”

  Pablo’s face drew down in a scowl, but he didn’t say anything else. I stared at him a moment longer, then turned away, faced with more pressing concerns. “Let’s ease forward a bit,” I told the boys. “We’re pushing our range from here.”

  A Colt Navy like the one I carri
ed in those days was fairly accurate out to about a hundred yards if you used a large-enough target, like the four-foot-tall oak stump Pa had left standing behind our house. Before the Union blockade made ammunition so precious, us McCallisters would stand on the back porch and fire away at that stump three or four evenings a week, until we nearly had the thing blown away. Sometimes Pa would shoot with us, just to keep his hand in, as he liked to say, although I suspect it was also to remind us who the he-’coon was on the Flatiron, and that it sure as heck wasn’t any of us boys. Pa was the best shot with rifle or handgun that I ever knew, although toward the end, my older brother Lew started to make him work a little harder to retain the title.

  There’s a big difference between shooting at a stump and firing at a living, breathing target, though. Particularly from the back of a frightened horse and especially when the target in question is shooting back—even at only sixty yards. Wanting to get closer, where our revolvers would be an advantage over the Federals’ single-shot muzzleloaders, I lightly tapped the bay’s ribs with the sides of my stirrups. The boys eased out behind me, but we didn’t cover more than a few feet when Hodges yelled at us to stop where we were and throw down our guns.

  “Do it now,” the lieutenant warned. “If you don’t comply immediately, I’ll order your man shot on the spot.”

  We quickly pulled up, our horses starting to fidget as the tension along the trail increased. It was like an electrical charge from a thunderstorm, tickling the hair along my arms. So far, no one in our bunch had drawn a gun, and the Yankees were keeping their muzzles pointed skyward, as well—all except for that skinny, little corporal holding his pistol on Dick—but we were all like kegs of gunpowder, ready to go off at the slightest spark.

  “Boone!” Dick shouted unexpectedly. “Don’t do it.”