Emmy was surprised at his hurt reaction. She waited a few moments then held his hand. "I'm sorry, Anson. You don't know what I do here, do you?"
Anson remained silent. He realized his ignorance and really didn't know what to say without making a fool of himself again.
"Maybe you'd like to go upstairs with me," Emmy said softly.
"I guess so. It's awful loud down here."
She took Anson's hands and beckoned him to his feet. "Let's go upstairs. We can talk and be alone in my room."
Anson followed her up the stairway. Her smile urged him forward as he followed a step or two behind. They made their way down a narrow hallway with only a few dim coal oil wall lanterns.
"You got a nice room here?" Anson questioned as she opened the door.
"I think so. Come in and see." She opened the door to a small, neat, darkly lit room.
Anson saw that it contained a dressing table, a wardrobe and a small brass bed. A gliding rocker was in the corner next to a small round table with a dainty looking porcelain statue placed on it.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," Emmy said.
Anson removed his hat and stiffly sat in the gliding rocker.
Emmy shut the door and the noise of the antics below quieted considerably. "There, that's much better. Now we can talk. Are you thirsty?"
"A little." Anson looked at the porcelain figurine of a nude young woman, lying demurely on her side.
"I've got a little cider, if you'd care for that?"
"That would be fine," Anson said as he made an effort, however obvious, to see exactly what the figurine demonstrated.
Emmy took a small decanter from the dressing table and poured some of the red liquid into a pair of fragile glasses. She gave one glass to Anson then sat on the bed facing him.
Anson had some trouble deciding what to do with his hat then placed it on the floor beside him. He was afraid to place it on the table for fear of breaking the figurine.
"How old are you?" Emmy’s voice was soft and kind.
"I'll be sixteen this fall." Anson took a sip of the cider. It seemed both bitter and sweet at the same time.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's different. Not much like the cider my dad makes."
"I've got a sister somewhere just your age."
"Is she with your folks?"
"Oh, no. My folks died years ago of the smallpox. I think she helps out taking care of a family."
"Don't you ever get to see her?"
"No. I doubt if I would be welcome."
"Why not? Don't she like you?"
Emmy smiled and shook her head. "Drink your drink. It's hard to explain."
Anson took another sip. It seemed just as strong as the first taste, but different.
"What do you think of my room?" she asked with a smile.
"It's real nice." Anson looked again at the nude figurine. "You've got some real nice things."
"You've never seen anything like that have you?"
Anson felt embarrassed but he liked the girl and felt he could be honest. "No, it's kind a different. I mean, a girl with no clothes."
"It came with the room. I think she's very pretty. Don't you?"
"Sure. But she don't look very real does she?"
Emmy smiled.
Anson examined the figurine closely. "She's been broken. Somebody's glued her arm back on."
"Yes." Emmy became quiet. Anson thought she looked sad. "Yes, once they've been broken, they can never be the same again."
"Well, she's almost as good as new, isn't she?"
Emmy smiled and nodded. She placed her hand on Anson's cheek and softly gave it a stroke. Anson again noticed the dullness in her eyes. "Yes, but she'll never be the same. Never quite the way she was before."
There was a soft knock on the door. Anson herd Collier's voice on the other side. "Anson, are you in there?"
"Yes, sir."
Emmy sighed and rose from the bed.
As the door opened Collier’s form filled space. He was holding his hat in his hand. "I've come for the boy, ma'am. It's time we went back to our room at the hotel."
"Come in, sir. Yes, I believe he's ready to go."
Anson rose from the glider and looked for a place to set the glass. The girl smiled and reached for it. "I'll take that, Anson."
Collier smiled and put his arm around Anson’s shoulder. "Lets go, son, it's getting late."
"It was nice to meet you, Emmy. The cider was real good, thank you," Anson said.
"You're welcome, Anson. It was real nice meeting you, too."
Collier led the boy into the hall. As they started down the stairs, Emmy's voice came from behind. "Anson, you forgot your hat!"
They stopped and turned to see her coming down the hall behind them.
"Here, you wouldn't want to forget this."
"No, ma'am. I sure wouldn't. Thank you."
She impulsively kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."
Anson sputtered. "For what?"
She smiled and stroked his cheek. Her smile was very cheerful and loving. "For being such a gentleman, of course."
Anson didn't see McKnight as they made their way out of the Alhambra. They stepped out on the boardwalk and started toward the hotel. Anson could tell Collier had something on his mind.
“Is there something wrong?”
"No, not really. I just don't think McKnight was giving you much of a chance to grow up, that's all. I think he was pushing things a little bit."
Anson smiled. "Kinda like birthmarks, huh, Mr. Collier?"
Collier again placed his arm on the boy's shoulder. "That's exactly right, Anson. Just like that."
CHAPTER VIII
Breakfast at Delmonico's began quietly. Collier was absorbed in his thoughts and Anson did not want to intrude. Conversation was held to a minimum. An ample serving of pork gravy and biscuits seemed large even to Anson. They ate quietly as the busy establishment went about its business.
Finally, Collier broke the silence. "I've got something important I want to talk to you about. We have to make a decision that you may not like."
Anson tensed. "Mr. Collier, I'm real sorry about last night. It won't happen again."
Collier smiled, "Last night has nothing to do with this. Besides, you'll never be able to stay ahead of McKnight. Don't say never where he's involved. I've been with the man for five years and I never know what he's going to pull next. No, I just think you need to know how different this situation really is. You see, always before we've been able to hunt buffalo north of the Dead Line, that is the Arkansas River. South of the river is Indian territory and the Indians consider it their land. In the last few years, hunters have killed so many buffalo that they just aren't coming this far north again. It makes our choice pretty simple. Either we get out of buffalo hunting or we go into the nations. Once we cross that line, I feel it's just a matter time until there's a fight. We've pushed the red man as far as he's going to be pushed. We'll be killing all of the buffalo that are left this season and he just isn't going to stand for it. Those animals are his whole means of survival.
"Are you going to quit, Mr. Collier?"
"I should, but I'm as greedy as the next fellow and I would like to get in one more good season. That stock farm in Missouri came from the profits of hide hunting and if I have another good season, I'm set for life."
"So what are you saying, sir?"
"I know what I'm getting into. If I get scalped, it's my own business. But you're different. You've got your whole life ahead of you. It's a certainty, to my way of thinking, that all of us won't be coming back this season. I think you need to know that, because of your inexperience, there's a good chance you'd be one that may not make it back alive."
Anson sat quietly and swallowed. "Are you giving me a choice, Mr. Collier?"
Collier hesitated. "Yes, I am. I believe I owe you after building your hopes up."
"Mr. Collier, the last thing my mother said before I left was
that a winner never quits. I want to go home a winner or I'm not going home at all. There are things I can do with that money. I can get things for my folks they've never had. There are things I want. This is my chance. If I go back now, I'm just another mouth to feed. This way I can really succeed. I want to go, Mr. Collier, if not with you, then somebody else. I can't go back a quitter."
Collier sighed and studied Anson’s determined face. He smiled. "Spoken like a man. I appreciate your honesty. You better eat up. This may be the last decent meal you'll enjoy for quite some time."
Collier watched Anson set into his breakfast and smiled as he remembered a ragtag army orphan of twenty years earlier who had felt exactly the same way.
* * *
Three goodlooking heavy wagons lined on the outskirts of Dodge City. Each was pulled by fourmule teams. The chuck wagon was filled with supplies, covered with canvas and had wooden spooked wheels. The other two had a large flat bed made of steel plate and rolled on large nineinch steel wheels. A steel box that also functioned as a seat was mounted at the front. Large brine barrels were mounted on either side directly behind the box. Sitting in the seat of the covered wagon was Stub Moore, a peglegged man of middle age with a flowing beard. Beside him was Leo Grimes, a rather small, weather beaten man In the second wagon, scratching as usual, was "Bugs" Burton. Dirty and ill kept, one could easily see how he came by his nickname. Beside him was a quiet fellow of dark complexion known only as Coolman. A black man with gray hair and beard sat alone in the third wagon. His rugged features and weather beaten face told of a life of hard labor. His ruined left eye was bluewhite from a longago injury. On the ground checking harness was Axoll Mapes, an average looking man full of nervous energy. Beside him stood McKnight, talking. Mapes' activity seemed as much to get away from him as anything but McKnight was bent on bending Mapes' ear. Leading four extra mules and riding a fifth, Anson Jones followed Collier as he hurried to join the outfit.
"Here they come!" Mapes said.
"It's about time,” McKnight said. “Hell, it'll be midday before we get going."
Collier eased up his blazeface brown and handed the lead line of the four mules to Mapes. Anson jumped down from his mount and rushed to help Mapes with the mules.
"Jesus, Collier! We'll never catch up with the Meyers group lollygagging around here. What the hell kept ya?" McKnight said.
Collier leaned forward in his saddle. "Do we want to?"
"What the hell do ya mean? Charlie's group is big enough to provide us some protection."
"Yeah, and big enough to attract a hell of a lot of attention. Thirty wagons strikes me as a good way to attract Injuns rather than keep them away."
“This is a hell of a time to change plans! What do ya want to do if'n we don't go with Meyers?"
Collier stepped down from the tall brown gelding with the easy manner he had always demonstrated when around horses. "Strike off on our own. We can still sell our hides at their post but let's sneak in the back door."
McKnight shook his head. "It sounds good on the surface but if'n we're wrong, it's haircut time, partner."
Collier grinned. "It's just a hunch, Abe. I've been wrong before, but I just think too big a group is going to invite problems. Injuns are funny. If they're out to fight, they may chose the larger group to pick on. A small outfit like ours may have a better chance of avoiding trouble."
"Well, hell, you're the Indian expert," McKnight conceded. "If'n ya think it's best to go it alone, pard, then go it alone we will. Shit! I've been wondering what it was like to be knee deep in Injuns. Might be a good chance to find out."
Anson rushed up to them, eager and enthusiastic. "Where do ya want me, Mr. Collier?"
"I want you to ride with the black man, Anson."
Anson gazed at the disfigured Negro sitting alone in the third wagon. "The black man? Yes, sir, if that's what you want."
"He's our other hide man. He's good. You need to ride with him to learn what to do."
"Yes, sir. It's just that I've never been around niggers much."
"This nigger is named Washington and you'll be working with him all season. Best get used to the idea."
"Yes, sir." Anson rushed to the wagon. The old man sat in the seat staring ahead. Anson stuck out his hand. "My name's Anson Jones, Mr. Washington. I'm to ride with you."
The old man took the Anson’s hand and gave it a friendly shake. "If you're going to ride with me, you got to call me Tobe. Mr. Washington was my father's name."
Anson smiled and boiled up onto the box. "Yes, Tobe, and you can call me, whatever you want!"
Tobe laughed. "For now, how about Anson? It sounds good to me."
With two mules tied behind each of the flatbed wagons Collier and McKnight led the outfit toward the southwest and the Arkansas River. Each wagon, laden with supplies, creaked forward along the trail. Conversation was slight except for Anson asking a thousand questions of a patient old black man who was full of answers.
CHAPTER IX
The progress toward the buffalo herds seemed excruciatingly slow to Anson. Even so, just being with the group and seeing new country provided an excitement and adventure the boy had never experienced before. Staying north of the river the outfit worked toward the Cimarron Cut-off of the Santa Fe Trail. Two days out the group came upon the bones of the previous years' hunting. Thousands of buffalo skeletons were strewn across the prairie over a thousand yard plain that lay between the river to the south and the rising hills to the north. The buffalo had been skinned where they had fallen and most of the remains were left on the prairie to rot. It almost seemed possible for a man to walk a distance of several miles without touching the ground by simply stepping from one carcass to the next. Tobe explained that during that in the early spring the hunters would wait for the herd during the migration north and shoot them as they crossed the river. It had been possible to shoot for weeks without having to move the base camp. He told of the spring when Collier alone had killed two hundred and thirty of the beasts from one shooting position on less than forty minutes of shooting. He told of the time a greenhorn had shot too early while the herd was crossing the icecovered Arkansas and panic caused the animals to pile up on the frozen river causing the eight inch layer of ice to collapse beneath them. Thousands of the beasts had been wasted as they drowned. Bloated carcasses fouled the river for hundreds of miles downstream. Anson could only shake his head in wonderment. He could not imagine so many animals in one herd. But, here was the grizzly truth of the matter. A slaughter of unbelievable proportion had taken place in this valley. The bleachwhite evidence caused sobering and troubled thoughts to cross his mind.
"It can't last for long like this, can it, Tobe?"
Tobe shook his head. "Once we thought that it would but no more. It looks like our days of running buffalo are almost over. Mr. Collier says that this will be his last hunt. Says the economics are going out of it. I don't know about that. It can't last much longer with so many men huntin'."
Even for a lad yearning for adventure, the death and destruction surrounding him caused a sick feeling. He fell quiet as the party made a way through the killing plain.
After crossing the river, the party turned south into the Indian territories. The land stretched into a gently rolling ocean of short grass with only an occasional scrub bush or stunted tree struggling to survive along a dry stream bed. Sage brush became more common although the blue colored bush usually confined itself to the more sandy soil. Browns and golds with only the new grass of the spring providing any verdant color dominated everywhere. A daily routine emerged as the group traveled on. Up before dawn, the group traveled until midmorning when the men stopped to rest and water the stock. A heavy meal of beans was eaten at this time before the party traveled on until dusk. A second meal was then prepared, usually beans with biscuits and any small game that might have been taken. Each wagon was outfitted with shotguns. These inexpensive muzzleloaders were the main weapons of the work crew although several wore pistols.
Anson often ranged away from the wagons on foot to try to get some fresh game. It gave him a sense of importance and was appreciated by the men at meal time. Stub Moore was the cook and always soaking dried beans in a small iron pot. Moore’s flap jacks were Anson’s favorite but the simple food was always accompanied by the everpresent beans, usually never quite done.
The men enjoyed the boy and often made him the subject of good natured kidding. Only Coolman did not seem to make an effort to socialize. Anson was uncomfortable around the quiet, dark man who seemed to have a look to him that penetrated the soul. Coolman was younger than the rest but several years older than Anson. During the first week's travel, Coolman didn't say two dozen words. He knew his job and seemed to be constantly occupied with his chores, one of which was sharpening and preparing the skinning knives.
As bad as Anson thought McKnight had smelled when he first met him, he didn't come close to matching Bugs Burton. While the other men at least attempted to wash their hands occasionally, Bugs never went near water except to drink it. Bugs was also a tobacco chewer. The problem was that when he spat, the brown liquid never seemed to quite clear his beard. Streaks of dried and fresh spittle were always present. None of the men ever ate down wind of Bugs. He wasn’t the kind of company that went well with meals.
All of the crew were men of a working background. Except for Collier, none were married nor even talked of families. In the evenings their conversation dwelt on simple things of nature and work. Mapes, Grimes and Moore were all veterans of the Civil War. None fought for the Confederacy. Tobe said that he figured Collier thought it best that no Rebs were on the crew. Tobe was a slave until the end of the war. He came to Kansas to try to find work after the hostilities ended. Anson asked what it was like to be a slave. Tobe's only response was that it wasn't much of a way to live. Anson didn't press the issue.
McKnight was the bright spot of the group. Always talking, always being reminded of another story, he saw humor in everything that happened. Everyone liked him but no one except Collier ever seemed to take his opinions seriously.
Dodge City Page 4
