by Peter Grant
On Wallace’s advice, he also bought a spare axle and two spare wheels for the ambulance, and the same for each of his wagons, plus tools and supplies to make running repairs. “There aren’t any neighborhood blacksmiths or wheelwrights out on the prairie,” the sergeant pointed out. “You either fix your wagon yourself, or you abandon it and everything it’s carrying.” Walt had invested too much in his guns and gear to countenance that.
Walt drove the ambulance out to the barn. Samson and Elijah stripped out the litters and painted it, then helped him install a sturdy wooden shelf across the rear of the wagon bed, two feet above the floor and braced with struts. Rifles, ammunition and other items would be stored beneath it. On top of the shelf he laid two narrow horsehair mattress pads next to each other, then topped them with two more filled with cotton, and finally added a feather tick, for which he ordered a canvas protective cover. He and Rose would spread their bedding on top of the triple layer.
Walt bought two big, stout trunks for their more delicate clothes and possessions. They would ride in front of the bed, where their lids would do double duty as benches for seating. Carpetbags would hold their traveling clothes. He returned to the army depot to buy a conical Sibley tent and groundsheet, then took Rose shopping for all the bedding, cooking and camping gear they needed, including a folding canvas bath, with a privacy screen to erect around it. Walt wasn’t overly concerned about his own modesty, but he was pretty sure his new wife would be worried about hers.
When everything was ready, Walt and Rose settled into the tent next to the barn, while Samson and Elijah continued to sleep in the hayloft. Rose took over the cooking, much to the men’s relief, as she was much better at it than they were. Walt asked her to prepare a shopping list of food and other necessities for the journey to Kansas, and added to it sturdy, hard-wearing clothing for the trail for all four of them. He made several trips into town to buy everything and bring it back to the barn.
It occurred to him that Rose might not be entirely comfortable being left alone with the two servants, but when he asked her if she’d feel safer accompanying him on his errands, she merely smiled. “I’ll be fine with Elijah and Samson,” she told him. “They’re good men. I can tell.” She tapped the revolver he’d given her in Nashville. “If anyone else bothers us, I can deal with them, too. Now go, and don’t worry!”
Reassured by her confidence, Walt went into town alone to collect the last orders, driving the wagon around to the loading dock at the rear of the store. He checked off each item on his list as they were loaded, then nodded to the clerk. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was my pleasure, sir. Thank you for your business.”
Walt watched the clerk go back into the store and close its door behind him. He turned to mount the wagon seat—but froze in shocked astonishment as he found himself staring into the muzzle of a small single-shot pistol. It was held by the burly assistant of the gambler he’d unmasked on the riverboat. His boss was standing just behind him, holding a similar weapon.
“Thought you were clever, did you?” the gambler growled. “Thought your lady friend was going to get away with five hundred dollars of my money, did you? Thought you could hand us over to those soldiers to be beaten half to death, did you?”
Walt’s blood ran cold. Dammit, how could I have been so stupid? I know better than to take my mind off what’s around me, yet here I just walked into this, careless as can be!
“Yeah.” The big man’s voice was a snarl. “I left four teeth on the deck of that damn boat, thanks to those army bastards. I’m gonna enjoy pullin’ every one of ’em out of your mouth, real slow, while I listen to you scream!”
“Not yet!” the gambler warned. “We need to ask him some questions first. I want to know where to get my hands on that woman. She owes me five hundred greenbacks, and satisfaction besides. I know just how to take it out of her hide.”
“What about his gun?”
“Hold on. I’ll get it.”
Walt stood motionless as the gambler reached into the left side of his waistcoat and drew the short-barreled Colt from its holster. “Nice,” he remarked, hefting it. “I’ll put it to good use on the river. You won’t be needing it anymore.” He slid his own pistol into a clip inside his left sleeve, then climbed into the load bed of Walt’s wagon and cocked the revolver. “Now, get up on the seat and take the reins. Don’t try anything, because if Big Jim doesn’t get you, I will! Jim, wait until he’s up, then get in behind me.”
Walt sat down, stomach churning with anger, fear and apprehension. I’ve got to find some way to get the jump on them—but how? Trying to mask the tension in his voice, he asked, “How’d you know where to find me?”
“You told everyone on the riverboat you were heading for St. Louis. It was easy enough to trace you to the Lindell Hotel. Stood to reason someone dressed like you would stay at a fancy place like that.” The gambler’s tone was gloating, triumphant. “We knew your name from that letter you had the steward read aloud. The desk clerk told us you’d left the hotel driving a wagon, and were planning to go west. You didn’t have supplies for that on the riverboat, so I knew you’d have to buy them. We visited all the stores in town supplying travelers heading west, and asked the sales people whether they’d heard your name. One of them said you’d be collecting a big order here this morning.”
“How did you get away from the law in Clarksville?”
Jim answered as he climbed into the wagon bed. “Some riverboat gamblers look out for each other. One of them paid our fine to get us out of jail, and loaned us some money. We’ll pay him back double next time we meet, and do the same for him or another gambler sometime.”
“Yeah,” his boss agreed. “It took us a few days to get over the beating those soldiers gave us; then we caught the next riverboat to come along. Been here a week now, making some money in the saloons while we looked for you. Now, drive down that way, slow and easy.” He pointed further into the narrow alley, away from the road in front of the store. “No tricks!” He jabbed the abbreviated barrel of Walt’s revolver into his back.
Walt picked up the reins and clicked his tongue at the four mules. They leaned into the harness, and the wagon creaked away from the loading dock. With both of the men behind him, he knew they could not see the front of his body. He held the reins in his lap and slowly, carefully, eased his right hand down to his waistband. Sliding its fingers beneath his belt, he pulled the flat little Green River knife from its concealed sheath and reversed the twine-wrapped tang in his palm, holding the blade backwards along his wrist to conceal it.
After several blocks the gambler said, “Turn into those open doors on the right.” They led into an empty, run-down stable. It had a musty, unused air to it. Wisps of straw lay haphazardly across the floor, as if no one had swept it for some time.
“What is this place?” Walt asked as he halted the wagon.
Big Jim answered, “Once we found out you’d be coming here this morning, I looked for someplace nearby where we could ask you questions in peace and quiet. I found this. No one uses it right now, or the buildings around it.” He sniggered. “No one’s gonna hear you scream except us.”
While he spoke, his boss jumped down from the wagon and closed the creaking, groaning doors. Dark descended upon the stable as the sunlight was shut out, leaving only a few glimmers from cracks in the doors, walls and roof. Walt blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the suddenly Stygian gloom.
The gambler walked up next to the wagon’s left side. “All right, get down,” he ordered. “I’ve got this gun pointed right at you, so don’t try anything stupid.”
“Do it,” Big Jim affirmed from behind him. “We both got you covered.”
Walt tensed. If he was to have any chance at all, he had to take advantage of this sudden darkness at once, before their eyes adjusted. Right now, they probably couldn’t see the sights on their guns—or the knife in his hand. He slowly rose to his feet, turning towards the left side of th
e wagon. His eyes measured the distance to the gambler as best he could. It was a matter of only a yard or two, and the man was holding the revolver at arms’ length, pointing it up at Walt’s face. That’s a stupid thing to do, so close to me, he thought grimly, but I surely thank you for it.
As he put his left hand on the wagon’s side to steady himself, he let the knife slip down in his right hand, holding the blade below his fist. He jumped to the ground. In the instant his feet landed he grabbed the gun in his left hand, pushing the barrel away from his body while he slashed across the gambler’s face with his right. The man screamed as the sharp blade carved deep into the bridge of his nose, its point cutting into his left eyeball and scratching his right in passing. His finger reflexively tightened on the trigger, but by then Walt’s thumb was between the hammer and the percussion cap. The sharp edges of the hammer cut into it, drawing blood and sending a sharp pain up his arm, but it prevented the gun from firing.
From the wagon bed Big Jim shouted, “What the–!”
Walt spun around as the gambler released the revolver. He ducked beneath the edge of the wagon bed, dropping the knife and grabbing the gun with his right hand, re-cocking it. Above him there came a blast, thunderous in the echoing confines of the empty stable, as Big Jim pulled his pistol’s trigger. A flash of flame shot out of the muzzle, but the ball missed Walt, ploughing into the dirt floor of the stable. No sooner had he fired than Walt sprang out from beneath the wagon. Jim was desperately grabbing at his right wrist with his left hand, presumably trying to draw another weapon. Walt couldn’t see well enough to line up the sights on his revolver, but he didn’t need to. He simply reached up, pressed its muzzle against Big Jim’s left kneecap and pulled the trigger. The man screamed as his leg collapsed under him. He toppled headlong over Walt’s head to the ground.
Walt ducked to let Jim pass, then whirled around. The gambler was on his knees, wailing, holding his eyes with both hands, and Jim was lying doubled over, writhing, clutching his knee. Without a moment’s hesitation, he put the muzzle of his Colt to the back of Big Jim’s head and fired; then he walked over to the gambler, held the muzzle against his right ear, and pulled the trigger once more. Both men collapsed, lying limp and silent on the dirt floor.
Walt sagged against the wagon, breath rasping in his throat, feeling his heart pounding like an out-of-control trip hammer. How the hell did I get away with that? he asked himself. I sure didn’t deserve to, not after being such an idiot as to let myself get taken by surprise like that!
He shivered as he imagined how things could have gone differently. If the two men had tortured the location of the barn out of him, gone out there, killed Samson and Elijah, and gotten their hands on Rose… it simply didn’t bear thinking about. It would have been all his fault, too, for not foreseeing the likelihood that the gambler might want revenge and come looking for him, and not observing the basic precaution of remaining aware of and alert to his surroundings. Fine scout I am! he rebuked himself savagely. If Rose had been raped or killed, I’d have been to blame! I failed myself this morning, and I sure as hell failed her even more.
He couldn’t take the matter to the police, either. For a start, he’d just shot both men in the head at contact range. The gunpowder burns on their skin would prove that. Shots like that weren’t normally fired in self-defense, but to commit murder. Even if the police accepted his story, he’d have to tell them about the events on the Cumberland River Queen, to explain why the gambler had come after him. They’d doubtless ask the riverboat’s chief steward to confirm his account. He would, but he’d probably also tell them about the letter Walt had asked him to read aloud. If the police checked on that, they’d soon learn it was forged. Eventually, they’d start asking questions about the guns in the barn. If they compared their serial numbers to army depot records, they’d find out he’d stolen a hundred and forty revolvers and forty Spencer carbines.
With all that weight in the scales against me, they’ll never believe I killed those men in self-defense. I’ll be in so much trouble, I’ll be lucky if they hang me only once! They might even charge Rose, Samson and Elijah with being my accomplices. I never should have stuck my nose into that gambler’s business. It had nothing to do with me in the first place!
He felt bile rising in his throat, and glanced around desperately as if looking for a way to escape the bitter self-knowledge of his monumental errors of judgment, but there was none. He was going to have to face up to what he’d done, and deal with it, and he knew it. And, truly—he winced at the pain of his sudden self-knowledge—was he any better than the two dead swindlers at his feet?
If someone tried to take my gold or my guns, even though I stole them, I’d go after them too. I’ve got to get my head straight, and I’ve got to stop looking for the fastest ways to make money. Too many of them are crooked. If it was just me, it’d be on my head alone; but it’s not just me anymore. It’s Rose now, most of all, and Samson and Elijah too. I daren’t put them at risk. I can’t undo the past, but once the guns are sold—never again!
He listened intently. There were no footsteps outside, no one shouting questions. Perhaps Jim was right. Maybe there really isn’t anyone close enough to hear what goes on in here. He stood there for almost five minutes, mind racing, waiting in dread that someone would pound on the doors, demanding to know what had happened. At last he drew a deep, shuddering breath. It looks like no one heard—or, if they did, they don’t want to stick their noses into something that might get them hurt. Maybe there’s still a chance for us to get out of this.
He glanced at the gun in his hand. Its barrel and the front of the frame were splattered with blood from the contact shots. He grimaced, wiped it clean on the gambler’s shirt front, then checked the cylinder. The hammer had been down on an empty chamber to begin with, followed by five loaded ones, of which he’d just fired three. He wouldn’t be able to reload it until he got back to the barn.
He returned the Colt to his shoulder holster, then bent to search the bodies. The gambler’s single-shot pistol was still in the spring-loaded clip hidden in his left sleeve. Big Jim wore a similar clip for his pistol, and both men had stubby push daggers in their right sleeves. He removed all the hardware, picked up Big Jim’s fired pistol and the knife from the floor, and put them all in the back of the wagon, concealing them beneath his most recent order.
Jim’s wallet had about fifty dollars in it, but the gambler’s contained more than ten times that amount. He’d clearly been doing well—or, more likely, cheating a lot—in the saloons along the riverfront. Both wads of greenbacks went into Walt’s pocket. He tossed the empty wallets into a stall, then grunted with effort as he picked up each body in turn and deposited them in the same stall, where at least they’d be out of sight of anyone casually glancing into the stable in passing. He didn’t dare drag them, for fear of the highly visible marks that would leave on the earthen floor. He used his bare hands to brush dirt and straw over the bloodstains.
He opened the doors, wincing as the rusted hinges squealed in protest. No one was visible in the alleyway, but he knew that if he went back the way he’d come, there might be another wagon being loaded behind the store. If the clerks recognized him, they’d be bound to wonder what he’d been doing further up the alley. When, sooner or later, the bodies were found, they might become suspicious and inform the city police of his movements.
He tried to picture the layout of that part of town in his mind. If I go up the alley for a few more blocks, I should come to the rear of a feed store. I can stop there and buy a sack of oats for my horses and mules. The clerks won’t suspect anything’s wrong—it’ll be just another sale. I can load the sack out back, then drive down the alley next to the store onto the street, and head out of town with no one the wiser.
He suited his actions to the thought. Within fifteen minutes he was on his way back to the barn, still shaken at his folly.
I made so many mistakes this morning, I don’t deserve to still be ali
ve. It’s not Rose’s fault, but it’s because of her. I’ve been thinking too much about her and the fine time we’re having together, instead of concentrating on what’s going on around me. I’ve got to get my scout’s instincts back! There’s a long, dangerous journey ahead, and I’m the only experienced person among us. If I don’t shape up, I might make another mistake that’ll kill us all.
Briefly he considered leaving town immediately, but discarded the idea almost at once. Elijah was still not able to handle a wagon on his own, and there were too many preparations still to be made. Besides, if if he came under investigation over the deaths of the gambler and his sidekick, it would only reinforce the authorities’ suspicions if he gave the impression of having fled in panic. No, better to continue as he’d planned and brazen out any inquiry. He wouldn’t say anything to the others about this morning’s events, either. What they didn’t know, they couldn’t let slip to others, even by accident.
―――――
It took another week to prepare for the journey across Missouri. Every day Walt and Samson coached Elijah in how to handle a six-mule wagon, and Rose practiced driving the Rucker ambulance around local farm roads. Walt continued to teach both servants to shoot. He decided that with Rose, three wagons and their loads and teams to protect, they’d need good weapons, so he gave each of them a seven-shot Spencer to replace the single-shot Sharps each had been using. They were delighted with the repeaters, and made good practice with them. He also gave them an Army Colt and an army flap holster apiece, and taught them how to perform a cavalry twist draw.
“If you expect trouble, get ready for it before it arrives,” he told them. “Open the holster flap and tuck it behind your belt. Your draw will always be slower if you have to knock it out of the way first. Don’t grab at the gun, trying for speed. That’s a sure way to be slow. Practice taking a firm hold of the butt, drawing the gun smoothly, cocking the hammer with your thumb as you swing it into line, holding the gun dead on what you want to hit, and squeezing the trigger. Point your whole arm at the target, not just the gun, and use the sights. Forget all the stories you hear about shooting from the hip. You can try that at close range when you’re more experienced, but that’s a long way ahead for you yet. Move slowly enough to be smooth. Speed will come with practice.”
