by Tim Champlin
"For what?"
"Everybody in town, including the bank, will give you five percent more for this in gold than its face value."
Our faces must have registered a blankness, because he went on. "Paper money is scarce here, but it's more valuable because it's lighter and easier to carry around than gold dust or nuggets."
He pulled out a soft buckskin bag with a drawstring and went around behind the counter to the delicate balance scales and carefully sifted out our change. "You got anything to carry this in?" We shook our heads. "Here, this is on the house." He tossed a small buckskin bag, similar to his own, on the counter.
"Thanks."
We came back out into the bright sunshine and started down the street.
"Let's get a hotel room and go for some food," Curt suggested. This time Wiley agreed readily.
"How about that one?" I pointed to a wooden building across the Street.
"The Merchants Hotel. Now that's an original name," Wiley remarked dryly as we picked our way among the wagons and mules to cross the street.
We rented two adjacent rooms on the second floor. Curt specified that we get front rooms, overlooking Main Street. Cathy's room was on the corner and ours was in the center of the building. The roof, which formed one wall of Cathy's room, sloped inward, but despite this awkward feature, the room was plenty spacious. The bedsteads were of wood, apparently homemade and hastily knocked together. There was one crude wooden chair in each room and an empty hogshead that served as the only table. This table held a coal-oil lamp and a tin basin and pitcher. In place of closets, three wooden pegs were affixed to a wall in each room. The unpainted board walls still smelled pleasantly of pine resin.
"I'll bet this place is mighty cold in the winter," Curt remarked as we stood in Cathy's room looking around at the unsealed walls and noting the lack of any type of Stove.
"Maybe you're just supposed to wrap yourself in that," Wiley said, pointing at the thick feather tick on the bed.
"Let's get some extra blankets," Curt said. "Our room has only, one bed, too, so somebody'll be sleeping on the floor."
"At least there's a rug covering part of the floor."
"Yeah, I'll bet it's really clean," Wiley said with a grimace.
"For somebody who's been sleeping in tents and on the muddy ground for weeks, you're mighty particular," his sister shot back.
The one practical amenity that softened the appearance of the two rooms were some gauzy-looking curtains at the windows.
The desk clerk recommended the Grand Central Hotel Restaurant as a good place to eat. "They're not really my competitor, since we don't serve food here," he explained.
Within the hour we were seated in the commodious dining room of the Grand Central, about a block away, enjoying a meal of elk steaks, fried potatoes, corn, peas, brown bread, coffee, and stewed apples. To our way of thinking, it was a feast fit for royalty. And nobody better deserving of it than ourselves.
Since it was mid-afternoon, there were only a few other patrons in the place. Once the waiter had brought our food, he disappeared—except when called for an occasional refill—and left us free to talk without being overheard.
"Well, what do we do now?" Wiley asked, pushing his chair back from the table, crossing his legs, and lighting a long, slim cigar. "We could probably get out of here and head on down to Cheyenne if we can get some horses, or if there's a stage line out of here."
"There's nothing in Cheyenne I want to see," I answered. "Speaking for myself, I'd like to stick around here for a few days to see what's going on. But I'll have to get myself a grubstake. From what I've seen of the prices here, my thirty dollars won't last past tomorrow."
"Well, you know what's mine, is yours," Curt answered. "If it hadn't been for the three of you, I'd be facing a court-martial right about now."
"Would that be any worse than being branded a deserter?" I asked.
"Yes. I'd have had the disgrace of a publicized trial and probably a dishonorable discharge from the service. And there was a good chance I'd have been sentenced to a term at that new federal prison at Leavenworth."
"But you were an officer."
"Just so. And the senior court officers would have been all the more eager to make an example of me, to discourage any such insubordinate notions among the other junior officers."
"Well, your military career is over, just the same."
"That was my own free choice. I gave them more than six years of faithful duty in exchange for my four-year education at the Point, so I guess we're all about even."
He finished his stewed apples, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and pushed his plate aside with a sigh. "That was delicious." He leaned back in his chair and looked across the table at Cathy. "So now I'm putting all that behind me and I'm ready for a fresh start."
"At what?" Cathy asked, catching his eyes.
"I'm not real sure. But after spending all that time in the Third Cavalry trying to defend these crazy civilian prospectors from the Indians, I may try a little prospecting myself." He grinned, showing his white, even teeth. "I feel like a kid who's just been let out of school for summer vacation. What about you, Wiley?"
"No plans. But as long as we're this close to all this gold, I'm all for giving it a try. No sense letting somebody else have it all." He blew a thin stream of blue smoke at the ceiling. "Picking up gold sure beats mule packing for a living."
"I was hoping you'd say that. I've never had friends Eke the three of you in all my adult life," Curt said. He stopped, as though he couldn't trust himself to go on.
I was somewhat surprised. I had come to know him as a steady, reliable friend, but he seldom showed emotion.
Maybe he was finally beginning to show his true personality, cracking the shell he had formed around himself as a company commander.
"Then it's settled," Curt continued, looking around at us eagerly. "We'll throw in together, buy some gear, and try our luck on some of the creeks around here."
"Done!" I held out my hand, and the four of us gripped hands together.
"How about a drink to seal the bargain?" Wiley suggested. "I need something to cut the trail dust out of my throat."
"Dust? You haven't seen any dust in at least six weeks."
"Welt, mud then."
We paid for our meal with more of our greenbacks and then stepped across the street to the Golden Eagle Saloon.
It was a deep, narrow, high-ceilinged room, with the heavy, dark wooden bar running most of the way along one wall. There was no foot rail, but three brass Spittoons were set at convenient spots. As my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and began to take in more details, I saw the bartender break off his conversation with one of his customers and come toward us. "What'll it be?"
"I don't suppose you have any cognac, do you?" Wiley asked without a trace of a smile.
"Not at the moment," the bartender answered, also deadpan, so I couldn't tell if he thought Wiley was joking or serious. For all I knew, he might have just run out of cognac.
"Whiskey, then."
The bartender pointed at the rest of us and arched his eyebrows.
We ordered beer. We leaned on the bar and watched the bartender work. He was a barrel-chested man with massive arms and shoulders, but he moved with the grace and economy of motion of a man who is completely at home in the Small space behind a bar. He wore a full, dark beard tinged with gray on the sides, and a drooping walrus mustache. His hair, thinning on top, was worn somewhat long on the sides, curling around his ears and just brushing his collar in back.
The white shirt he wore was set off by a maroon vest and matching maroon sleeve garters. The shirt was open at the collar, but the short neck was hidden behind the beard. His sleeves were rolled up on the forearms, revealing thick, curly black hair. The whole impression I formed in a matter of seconds was of a genial bear of a man with great physical strength.
"There ya are, gents," he said, sliding the foamy mugs across the polished wood toward us. He had alre
ady poured Wiley his whiskey. He glanced at Cathy and then back at us. "I don't want no trouble in here, now."
"Whatdya mean?" Wiley demanded, instantly on the defensive.
"No offense," he replied, holding up his hand, "but we don't serve many ladies in here. And a lot of these men haven't seen a good-looking woman for quite a spell. You know what I mean."
"Don't worry. She's with us. And we won't be staying long," Curt said.
"We'll stay as long as we damn well please," Wiley said belligerently, tossing off his drink and pouring himself another from the bottle on the bar before Cathy pulled him toward a table.
"Be quiet!" she scolded. "Anyone would think you're drunk already. He was just giving us a friendly warning. And I, for one, am glad he did." She looked around at the other men in the place. There were only about three tables occupied—maybe eight or nine men, some of them playing cards and some just drinking and talking. Several of them had looked up at Wiley's outburst, but had now resumed their own pursuits. One or two stared boldly at Cathy, then said something to each other and they all laughed.
We sat and drank our beer down quickly before lingering over a refill.. Wiley had the bartender bring the bottle to the table.
"We'll need some picks and shovels and pans, and some tools to build some kind of a shelter," Curt was saying. "Even with the prices as they are around here, we should be able to afford the basic necessities for long enough to see if we're going to show enough color to stake a claim."
"I imagine most of the creeks in this area that are any good are already staked out," I said.
We discussed the items we would need and tried to figure in our heads the approximate cost. We plotted and planned and dreamed of the coming days and weeks. The longer we talked, the more gold fever seemed to grip us, even though the only gold we had seen was the small number of fine grains we had received as change.
The pendulum -clock on a shelf behind the bar was pointing at 4:40 when I suddenly became aware of a commotion outside. People were yelling and shouting, and I heard what sounded like cheering and whistling. Horses galloped past the door. The sound of running feet thundered hollowly on the boardwalks.
The bat-wing doors flew inward and a man burst in. "C'mon, Burnie, they're here. They're coming up the gulch!"
The bartender started around the end of the bar, and then stopped, as if remembering the unguarded cash drawer.
"Who's coming?" he hollered.
The man had jumped back outside and was looking down the street. Then he stuck his head back inside.
"Dammit, Burnett, come on if you want to see General Buck! By God, the whole damn cavalry is a comin' up Main Street right now!"
CHAPTER 4
I jumped to my feet, nearly upsetting our table, as the other men in the room rushed past us toward the door.
"Come on, Curt, let's get out of here!" I urged.
Wiley and Cathy were getting to their feet, startled looks on their faces.
But Curt hardly moved. He acted almost as if he hadn't heard. He sipped his beer and continued to stare straight ahead.
"What's wrong? Let's go."
He finally looked up. Then, without hurrying, he drained his mug and stood up. "Okay. I'm ready. But I just hate to hide like a hunted animal. It really galls me. I've never had to tuck my tail and run in my life. I just hate to start now."
I could see he was getting his back up and might do something stupidly defiant, so I tried another tack. "Look, we're just using common sense. We'll just step over to our room and stay out of sight for a while. We don't want any trouble with them. It'll ruin all our plans."
He didn't answer, but I could see the set of his jaw as we walked toward the door and pushed our way outside.
It seemed the whole town was rushing toward the lower end of the gulch. The yelling and cheering continued, while some exuberant riders wheeled their horses in a circle, firing their guns into the air.
But the blue-coated saviors they were welcoming were a sorry-looking bunch of heroes. The bedraggled column that approached was in even worse shape than when we had left it. The men were thin, ragged, and bearded.
Most of them were walking, leading what few horses they still had. And the horses were shuffling along, their heads hanging, looking as if they could barely put one foot ahead of another. As they came closer, I could pick out three or four individuals I recognized, before the crowd of townspeople surrounded them.
We were still standing in the doorway on the shaded boardwalk, and bartender Burnett had come to the door and was looking out, talking to another man near us.
"Dawson and some of the boys rode out to meet 'em with a couple wagonloads of food and a few cattle yesterday afternoon," the man was saying. "They been havin' a pretty tough time of it."
"Yeah. They look it," Burnett agreed.
"I hear they been fightin' Crazy Horse all summer. By durn, we won't have to worry about them Injuns while they're here, at least. I feel a lot safer already. By durn, nothin's too good for those boys!"
I was getting nervous, and pulled Curt's arm, but he hung back, staring down the street as if fascinated by the sight of his former outfit. Then I saw what he was looking at. General Buck was mounted on his black charger and was still visible above the heads of the crowd. And close beside him was Curt's old nemesis, Major Zimmer.
"You might know he'd be riding," I said to Curt. "He sure as hell isn't going to walk as long as there's one horse left standing."
The troops and the surging crowd overflowed the entire street and the sidewalks. We were rather well covered by the bodies milling around us. The whole mob crawled to a stop in front of the Grand Central Hotel about three doors down and across from us. General Buck dismounted and shook hands with a tall man in a black coat and hat whom I took to be some local dignitary, possibly the mayor. Major Zimmer and a few of the other officers and men remained mounted. The rest of the companies continued to stream in from the north end of town in ragged groups of twos and threes.
We were probably no more than thirty or forty yards from the front of the Grand Central. Zimmer had his hat on, throwing his face in deeper shade, even though the late afternoon sun had already dropped behind the western ridge, throwing the whole street into shadow. In a minute or so Zimmer's horse sidled around until he was facing our direction, and Zimmer appeared to be looking right at us. I felt a tingle up my spine until I realized that he couldn't see us as we stood far back under the shelter of the boardwalk. Then he took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. Apparently, Wilder was having mixed feelings, because he half turned toward me and said, "You know, there are a lot of my old friends and comrades-in-arms over there, but I feel a curious detachment from them, as if I had been away from them for years, instead of just three days or so."
I thought his face bore a sad look, lonesome for a time that would never come again. Curt continued watching for a few more seconds, and then seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and become his old, practical self again. "From the looks of their mounts, they're going to be buying up every available horse in town. If we want something to ride, we'd better get down to the livery stable—fast."
"What about that Indian pony herd they captured at Slim Buttes?" Wiley asked as the four of us headed toward the opposite end of town and the stable.
"They'll probably use them until they can get a replacement supply of full-sized horses from the Department of the Platte. I'm sure General Buck'll send a wire for some before the day is out."
We found the livery stable operator in the process of locking up his business so he could join the general celebration, and he was a little irritated when we showed up.
"We want to sell you that Indian pony we left and buy two horses," Curt said. "And we need saddles too, if you've got 'em."
He hesitated, looking down the street. "Well … okay, come on in." He swung the big door open and we went inside. "Haven't got many," the stable operator said.
"Only need two," C
urt replied.
"Two?" Wiley asked.
"We can get by with two," Curt answered, speaking aside to us, quietly. "We need to watch our expenses so we won't have to work while we do some prospecting."
"Here's a fine-looking animal here," the owner was saying, leading out a sorrel Morgan from a stall.
Wiley and Curt went over him carefully, feeling his legs and baking at his teeth. I was a complete novice at horse-trading, but he looked like a fine animal to me—well fleshed and not swaybacked.
"Well?" I asked when they had completed their inspection.
"How much?" Curt asked, without replying to my question.
"A hundred dollars," came the prompt answer.
"Including saddle and bridle?"
"No. That'd be a hundred and thirty-five."
"Highway robbery."
"No, it's not. A good used saddle and bridle is worth every bit of thirty-five."
"2 mean the horse."
But that's as fine an animal as you'll find in the Hills!"
"What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing."
Curt said nothing—just eyed the animal again, and then walked slowly over to him and ran his hand down along the length of his back. The horse swished his tail and shivered a muscle at a fly, but otherwise didn't move. Curt walked around behind him and came back and stood in front of the Morgan with his hands on his hips. Then he drew my .44 Colt from his belt, aimed it at the ceiling, and fired two quick shots. The explosions were deafening in the closed space.
All the horses in the stalls jerked their heads up, but the Morgan went absolutely wild. He reared on his hind feet, lunged, and made for the nearest door. Finding his way blocked, he brought his hooves crashing down against the wood, knocking splinters from it. Then he came down on all fours and aimed a vicious kick out behind him and raced toward the other end of the stable. He reared and let out a whinny that was almost a squeal, then came tearing back toward us. We all scattered and ran for the walls and climbed the sides of the stalls.
"What the hell'd you do that for?" the owner was screaming over the commotion.
