The Legend of Perley Gates

by William W. Johnstone

  “Good morning, Perley,” she greeted him sweetly.

  Startled, he almost dropped his rifle as he blurted “Martha!” before he could catch himself.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she quickly apologized. Fully aware that she had caught him by surprise and he was obviously embarrassed to have been caught, she graced him with a wide smile. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Well, I reckon I did,” he answered, “seein’ as how I slept half the mornin’ away.” In the warmth of her smile, he could see that she was not judging him, and he realized that he was being silly by letting himself get so worked up over his sense of pride.

  “I was wondering why Papa stuck you in that room with the hard mattress on that old bed. When he told me what room you were in, I was afraid you wouldn’t sleep at all.”

  “It sure beat sleepin’ on the ground, like I’ve been doin’ for a couple of months, so like I said, I slept so good I almost didn’t wake up till suppertime.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “That’s what Papa said when I complained about that room,” she said. “You probably needed a good night’s sleep.” She made a pretty little frown and teased, “You weren’t trying to sneak out without saying good-bye, were you?”

  He couldn’t believe how nice she was, but he still felt like a clod in her presence. “No, ma’am,” he said, even though that had been his intention. “I just wanted to get outta the room in case you needed it for a payin’ customer. And I needed to take my horses over to Mr. Baskin’s first thing, but I guess I just slept through ‘first thing,’ didn’t I?”

  She laughed again. “There’s not but a couple of people staying in the hotel right now, so you shouldn’t worry about that. Since you’re not going to be able to start out before daylight now,” she teased, “why don’t you wait until you’ve had breakfast?” When he seemed short of an answer, she pressed, “Are you in such a big hurry to get to Deadwood that you can’t wait until after you’ve had a good breakfast?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered after a few moments’ hesitation and coming up with no real reason to hurry. “I reckon it really doesn’t make a whole lotta difference how soon I get there, if we’re talkin’ about a day or two.”

  “Good, then why don’t you do this? Go down to the stable and take your horses to Mr. Baskin, and he can shoe them while you’re having breakfast back here.”

  “I would enjoy one more meal at your table,” he said, grinning. “That’s just what I’ll do.”

  She walked with him to the front door before turning around to head for the kitchen to tell Grace that Perley would be back for breakfast and she wanted to make sure he got one that he would remember.

  * * *

  When Perley pulled up to the blacksmith shop, Ralph Baskin was working on a wagon-wheel rim, but he put it aside when he saw Perley.

  “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” Baskin said.

  “Nope,” Perley said. “I meant to get here earlier, but I got tied up with some things at the hotel. I got to thinkin’ about that loose shoe on the sorrel. I know you offered to fix it for me for nothin’, and I appreciate that. But while you’re at it, I think you might as well check the bay’s shoes, too. He oughta be due before long, so you might as well do the job now. Of course, I’d pay you for that job. Whaddaya say, can you do that this mornin’?”

  “Sure,” Baskin replied, glad to get the business. “It might take me a couple of hours, though.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Perley said. “I ain’t had my breakfast, so I’ll go do that while you’re workin’ on my horses.”

  He started walking back to the hotel, having a little talk with himself on the way, afraid that he might be letting a pretty girl get in the way of finding his grandfather. He didn’t presume that Martha had any interest in him other than just being hospitable because she thought he saved her father’s life. She was just being friendly, and he could always use a new friend. He told himself that it was all right to enjoy a friendly conversation with a young lady.

  His thoughts flew to Lucy Tate, back in the Paris Diner, and the way her conversation was always flirty, causing his imagination to lead him to wrong conclusions. Martha was more like Becky Morris—friendly, but not flirty. He tried to summon an image of Becky but kept coming up with one that looked like Martha.

  When he walked into the dining room, he headed for the long table in the center but was intercepted by Martha and led to the same small table as the night before.

  “I’ll be back with some coffee,” she said, “and Grace will have your breakfast ready in a couple of minutes.”

  When she returned, she was holding two cups, and she sat down at the table with him, much to his delight.

  “Are your folks comin’ down to eat?” Perley asked.

  “Why?” she responded. “Are you ready for another speech from Papa about how big the Hat Creek Ranch is gonna be?” Before he could answer, she said, “Papa’s already at work in his office. He eats when the kitchen opens, and Mama won’t eat anything till noon, so you’re stuck with me for company.”

  That suited Perley just fine.

  The breakfast was as good as Martha told him it would be, and the conversation was light and enjoyable. It might have gone on longer than it did, but it was Martha who was the first to suggest it was time to get on with the day.

  “I know you’re anxious to get started,” she said. “But I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Perley Gates. I hope you’ll come back to see us sometime, and I hope you find your grandpa soon.” She got up and extended her hand.

  He jumped up and shook her hand. “Thank you for the visit. I feel like I made a friend.”

  “Why, of course you have,” she said.

  Unable to think of anything else to say, he blurted, “Who do I pay for my breakfast?”

  “Pshaw,” she replied in mock irritation. “You’re my guest, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “Thank you, Martha, I mean ma’am,” he said, grinning.

  She answered with a grin of her own. “You take care of yourself, Perley Gates,” she said, then watched him until he went out the door.

  He had been right when he said he had made a friend. She couldn’t help thinking that she might have been inclined to become more than a friend, but Perley Gates was one of a kind. He struck her as incredibly innocent and, consequently, vulnerable to blundering into dangerous situations, just as he had there in Hat Creek when Murdock drew on her father. Next time, he might not be so lucky—and I don’t look good in a black dress and veil.

  * * *

  Close enough now to feel the spirit of the mysterious mountains the Indians called Paha Sapa, Perley was impatient to ride up into the dark pine-covered hillsides before him. He imagined that his grandfather must have felt much the same attraction when he first approached the Black Hills. It would have to wait until morning, however, because his horses were tired after a long day on the rugged trail, and the wide stream he was about to cross might offer the best choice to make his camp. Looking left and right, Perley decided to follow it upstream, since there appeared to be a heavier covering of trees farther up the slope. He had been cautioned by Ralph Baskin to be aware of the outlaws that preyed on those who traveled the Cheyenne-to-Deadwood road, so with that in mind, he always tried to make his camp inconspicuous. After following the stream for what he figured to be a quarter of a mile, he decided that he should have gone downstream, but then, up ahead, he saw the clearing.

  Probably caused by a fire many years ago, the results of which left an open area of about an acre now covered by thick grass, it offered an ideal place to make camp. He pulled his saddle and packs from his two horses and left the animals free to drink and graze while he gathered sticks and limbs to build a fire.

  When he had enough wood, he took his little coffeepot to the edge of the stream to fill it with the cold, clear water. He had failed to notice, until he lifted the pot from the water and glanced upstream, that there were remains of an o
ld sluice box a couple dozen yards farther up. Curious, he set his pot down and walked up the bank to take a look at it.

  The only part of the sluice box left was a section that appeared to have been fashioned from a wagon box. Wonder if they found any pay dirt? He looked around, trying to imagine a couple of miners hovering over their pans, searching for their fortunes.

  Leaving the bank, he found the remains of the prospectors’ camp and decided they had picked a better spot than he had. They were obviously camped there for a while, and had set up a tent or a large canvas, judging by the marks left in the ground. And there was a small fire pit made of rocks taken from the creek. Ready-made, he thought, and went back to move his saddle and packs to the new location. Then he returned to pick up the firewood he had gathered and brought it back as well. Better protection, too, he decided, because of a section of the bank that rose about four feet behind the fire pit. It would make a good rampart in case of an Indian attack.

  From the looks of the camp, it had been abandoned for a long time. The prospectors who panned for gold here might have been run off, or killed, by Oglala Sioux. It wasn’t that long ago that all this mountain range belonged to the Sioux. Nowadays, however, there was more danger from outlaws.

  Once his fire was going, he set his coffeepot on a couple of crossed limbs to boil and fashioned a spit to roast some of his venison. When it was done, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the edge of the embankment to eat his supper.

  He had not finished his first cup when he heard Buck whinny. Long accustomed to paying attention to Buck’s communications, Perley became at once alert. When the sorrel nickered as well and Buck snorted, it was enough to cause him to slowly put his cup down and pick up his rifle, being careful not to move too suddenly. He had a feeling that he had company, and if he did, he didn’t want to let on that he was aware of it.

  Once he had his rifle in hand, he slid down behind the raised portion of the bank and scanned the trees in front of him, searching for some sign of movement. In a few minutes, he heard the source of Buck’s concern.

  “I ain’t lookin’ to cause you no trouble,” a voice called out. Perley quickly scanned the line of trees but could not determine where the voice came from. “You ain’t got no call to be worried about me,” it came again.

  The voice sounded almost childlike, or maybe it came from a woman—Perley wasn’t sure. “If I ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, how come you’re hidin’?”

  “’Cause you might shoot me if I come out.”

  “What would I do that for?” Perley called back.

  “’Cause you might be one of them friends of Mott Mason.”

  “I don’t know anybody named Mott Mason. What are you doin’ out here in the mountains?”

  “Hidin’ from Mott Mason.”

  I reckon I should have figured that out, Perley thought. I’ve got a feeling I’m fixing to step in another cow pie. “Are you hungry?” he asked, thinking that might be what instigated this discussion with the pine trees.

  “Yes, sir, I sure am. I could smell that coffee cookin’ way back up the hill, and I ain’t had nothin’ to eat but a frog I caught in the stream yesterday.” There was a pause of a few seconds, then, “What’s that you’re cookin’ on the fire?”

  “That’s deer meat,” Perley answered, “and I’ve got a gracious plenty of it.” He waited, but there was no reply from the pines. “You’re gonna have to come on outta your hidin’ place if you want any. I ain’t gonna throw good venison into the bushes, so whadda you gonna do?”

  The pause continued, but finally there came the question, “Are you gonna shoot me if I come out?”

  “Not if you behave yourself. I don’t generally shoot women and children, if I can help it.” He was convinced by this time that the voice belonged to one or the other. Why me? he had to ask himself. It seemed that God arranged for every woman in trouble to cross his path, and in places where most people would meet no one. It was inconceivable to think he might be facing another lost soul. He put his rifle aside, however, went to his packs, found his extra coffee cup, and held it up for her to see. “I’ve got an extra cup and plenty of coffee.”

  That proved to be more than she could resist, and after a minute or two, she stepped out of a pine thicket, then walked slowly toward him with both hands up in the air.

  A woman, he thought, then changed his mind. It was a girl, but it was hard to tell how old, for she looked to be in pretty rough shape. “You can put your hands down,” he said. “You ain’t under arrest.” He poured her cup full and held it out to her.

  He couldn’t help thinking it was like trying to get a wild dog to take food out of his hand. She reached out very cautiously, as if expecting him to jerk it away. When it began to look like she was never going to take the cup, he set it on the ground and backed away from it. Again, like a wild animal, she quickly reached down to grab the cup, spilling some of it before she took a step back and started sipping the hot coffee.

  “Here,” he said and held the improvised spit out to her, and she quickly pulled a strip of roasted venison from it. “Slow down, or you’re gonna choke on it,” he cautioned, but she continued to eat as fast as she could. “How long has it been since you’ve had anything to eat, besides frogs?”

  She shook her head while still chewing feverishly. “I don’t know,” she managed. “About a week, I reckon.”

  “Well, take it easy. It ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he said. “And you can stop bein’ scared—I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He let her eat in peace for a while, until she eventually seemed to calm down, before he asked her more questions.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Omaha,” she answered.

  “Omaha?” he responded with surprise. “What, on a wagon train or somethin’?” When she seemed confused, he realized why. “I don’t mean where were you born. I mean just now, back up that hill. Have you got a camp up above here? Is there anybody else up there?”

  “No, ain’t nobody but me, and I ain’t got no camp.”

  Perley was just before losing all his patience with the young girl. Finally, he threw his hands up in frustration. “Well, what in the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I told you—hidin’ from Mott Mason,” she said.

  “Who’s Mott Mason?” Perley asked, then stopped her before she could answer. “Wait, what’s your name?” He wanted to know if her name was also Mason and he might be stepping into a family squabble.

  “Lena Rooney,” she answered, hesitated, then asked, “What’s yours?”

  “Perley Gates.”

  She gave him a suspicious look, thinking he was japing her. “Pearly Gates?” Then she realized he was serious. “Damn, you’ve got a crazier name than me,” she declared. “Why’d they name you Pearly Gates?”

  “My pa’s family name is Gates. I’ve got two brothers and a sister, so they named me Perley so folks could tell which Gates I was.”

  He didn’t want to go into the whole story about his grandfather at this point. First, he wanted to find out who Lena Rooney was and how he happened to be so lucky as to have her cross his trail. He couldn’t help thinking about Ethel Steiner and the trouble she had caused him. Lena Rooney seemed about the same age, and she was evidently running wild in these mountains. What was he to do with her? “Who’s Mott Mason?” he asked again.

  Instead of answering his question, she asked, “Is deer meat and coffee all you’ve got to eat?”

  “It’s all I’ve got to eat tonight,” he replied. “I didn’t plan on havin’ a guest for supper or I’da fixed some beans and pan biscuits.” He couldn’t resist a bit of sarcasm. “I’m travelin’ to Deadwood. All I wanted was somethin’ to keep the sides of my stomach from rubbin’ together.”

  “Oh, I ain’t complainin’,” she hastened to say. “I was just wonderin’, that’s all. You say you’re goin’ to Deadwood? Can I go with you? I’m handy as can be. I can cook for you and do chores.”

  “Cow pi
e,” he blurted before he thought to stop it.

  “What?” she asked, not sure she had heard him correctly.

  “Nothin’,” he replied. “I don’t know if you can go with me or not, at least till I find out a lot more about how you happen to be runnin’ around out here in the woods. Besides, you don’t know anything about me. You might not wanna travel with me at all.”

  “It’d be better’n travelin’ with Mott Mason,” she said. “I can guarantee you that.”

  His patience left him. “Damn it, Lena Rooney, who is Mott Mason and why are you hidin’ from him?”

  “He’s a mean son of a bitch,” she replied, then finally went on to tell Perley her story. “My daddy sold me to Mott Mason for a milk cow and thirty-five dollars. I’ve got two brothers, but Mott didn’t want no boys, and Daddy was glad to get rid of me anyway. He said he could get milk and butter from a cow, and I didn’t give him anything but an extra mouth to feed.”

  “Why did this Mason fellow wanna buy you?” Perley asked. “Did he take you for a wife?”

  “Hell, no,” Lena protested. “He was wantin’ to make a whore outta me! He already had two women ridin’ with him. They’re older’n me and had experience whorin’, and he was on his way to Custer City. He was fixin’ to teach me how to please men. I told him I didn’t want to please no men. He said I didn’t have no choice, that I was his property, bought and paid for, and I’d do what he told me to. I told him in a pig’s eye I would, so he whupped me good with his belt and said if I ever tried to run away, he’d track me down and beat me to death. I promised I wouldn’t try to run, but I was just waitin’ for the right chance, and that came along when that horse of his couldn’t pull the wagon up a steep trail that was supposed to lead to the wagon road to Custer City. He made us all get outta the wagon and get behind it and push, so I pushed as hard as I could, until my feet went out from under me on some loose gravel and I landed right on my face.” She made a pouty face for him then. “Do you think they’da stopped and helped me up? Well, you’d be wrong. They just left me a-layin’ there, my dress tore and blood runnin’ outta my nose, and they kept goin’.”