by Ralph Hayes
Even though the hide company was located a short distance from town on a small stream called Whiskey Creek, Elias Walcott had chosen to build his two-story Victorian house almost in the centre of Ogallaia. Walcott had lost his wife Rebecca a few years back to influenza, and had tried to raise his young daughter Molly by himself. But he had been much too involved with the company to pay much attention to her, and she had grown up ‘spoiled rotten’, with almost no discipline or guidance.
At eighteen now, she had recently discovered the power of sexual good looks, and was becoming an irrepressible flirt, with company men and those from town alike. At this time, however, Molly was still virginal.
When McComb arrived at the Walcott house, it was dark outside and there was a soft glow of oil lamps coming from the downstairs windows. McComb tethered his mount to a hitching rail at the street and announced himself at the front door with a loud knocking. After a moment a black maid answered the door, squinting into the dark night.
‘Yassir?’
‘It’s Cyrus McComb, Annie. You going blind on us?’ A chuckle sounded in his throat.
Oh, Mr McComb. Mr Walcott, he not here. He at the office.’
‘I’m here to see Molly,’ McComb said patiently. ‘Is she here?’
‘Oh, yassir. Step right in, Mr McComb. She upstairs, I get her.’
McComb stepped into a long foyer with an oriental carpet on the floor and potted palms standing in corners. A broad staircase led to the upper floor, and within a short moment of Annie’s calling for her Molly Walcott came gliding down the stairs to the foyer.
‘Well I declare. If it isn’t Daddy’s backwoods foreman, Mr McComb.’ She was a fairly tall, slim girl who filled out her gingham with pleasant curves. Long, blonde hair hung shoulder-length, and a chiselled face held large blue eyes and a pouty mouth. She flirted at McComb now with those pretty eyes.
‘What brings you here on this quiet evening, Cyrus?’
McComb shrugged. In the few times he had visited her he had decided to play her flirty game. If she were not Walcott’s daughter he would have forced himself on her when he first saw her.
‘I thought we might sit and talk a little, Molly. And who knows what else?’ A sly grin accompanied this last remark.
She gave him a sexy smile, then reached and adjusted his shirt collar. In an intimate way. It was the way she flirted with every man who came courting. Molly loved the attention and encouraged it democratically, no matter who the man was.
‘There won’t be nothing else, silly’ she said in a purring voice. ‘Good heavens, you are such an impetuous man.’ She took his arm. ‘We’ll go into the library here, but leave the door open.’
McComb made a face and they went into the private room. McComb had been there before, but was always impressed. Another large oriental carpet covered the floor, there were several pieces of overstuffed furniture placed here and there, and a fireplace contained a low-burning fire. The wall in which that fireplace was set was otherwise filled with bookshelves, from floor to ceiling.
There were history books and biographies, among many others. There was an entire section devoted to various editions and translations of the Holy Bible, and several ancient prayer books.
McComb envied the man who owned all this, and in the back of his mind, he envisioned himself married to Molly and inheriting everything Walcott owned. He had no real feelings for Molly, except to get her into bed. She was merely a stepping-stone to bigger things.
Molly sat down on a soft chair near the fire and offered a similar one to McComb. McComb had hoped for the long sofa, where they could sit together.
‘Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?’ she asked innocently. McComb’s face clouded over.
‘Of course. I’ll see you there.’
She looked at the fire. ‘I kind of liked Sam. He said the sweetest things to me. Daddy liked him, too.’
McComb stared at his hands. ‘It was a damn awful accident.’
‘You didn’t like him, did you?’
McComb looked up quickly. ‘He was alright. A little stupid, maybe.’
‘You didn’t like him because of me.’ A coy smile. ‘Admit it. You didn’t like it that I saw him occasionally.’
‘That boy had clabber for brains, thinking that he had a chance with you.’
‘Who says he didn’t have a chance? I say anybody has a chance. I like it when men come to call on me. You ought to get used to it, Cyrus.’
McComb rose from his chair, bent over Molly and pulled her to her feet. He grabbed her close to him, and planted a hard, long kiss on her lips. It was the first time he had ever kissed her.
Breathless, blue eyes showing shock, Molly broke from his grasp and slapped him across the face. She had been kissed by boys since she was twelve years old, but had never been kissed by a mature man. It sent unexpected thrills of emotion through her, and she liked it, but she didn’t want McComb to know that.
‘Damn you!’ she gasped. ‘Nobody kisses me without an invitation.’
McComb was grinning pleasantly through the slap. ‘I knew it. You got some cougar in you, girlie.’
‘I want you to leave here right know,’ she said, still breathing hard.
‘You liked it, didn’t you?’ He grinned.
‘Cyrus McComb, I mean it. You should leave before I call Annie in here.’
‘If your daddy wasn’t Elias Walcott, I’d’ve had you on your back months ago.’
She blushed under the frank suggestion, but again, part of her liked it.
‘If Daddy heard you say that, he’d fire you.’
‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ McComb said easily. ‘I’m the best damn foreman he ever hired for this outfit, and he knows it.’
She walked over to the doorway. ‘You’ve had a big evening here, Cyrus. It’s time for it to be over.’
McComb grabbed his hat from his chair, and followed her to the door.
‘We’ll take this up some other time,’ he said genially. Then he was gone from the house.
The next day, the day of Spencer’s funeral, was sunny and warm. The funeral went well, with most of the company attending. Walcott quoted some scripture over the open grave, and Spencer was put under ground by mid-afternoon.
In late afternoon, Uriah Cahill and O’Brien rode into Ogallala, tired and dusty from a two day’s ride. Cahill stopped a cowpoke coming out of the Conestoga saloon and inquired where the hide company was located. Then he and O’Brien rode on out there without stopping to rest or eat.
The large compound was surrounded by a wire fence, with a high gate for entry. Passing through it, O’Brien was impressed by the size of the operation. The first building the two men encountered was the main work building, with Walcott’s modest office shed adjacent. Near by was the new tannery building.
They dismounted outside, tethered their mounts, and went into the main building. It was a high-ceilinged place, full of work benches where men laboured on the raw hides in various stages of production. Toward the rear of the building racks held hides that were curing.
‘Good Jesus!’ Cahill muttered. ‘I didn’t know his operation was this big.’
A scraper came over to them, his apron and arms smeared with dried blood and grease.
‘You looking for somebody, boys?’
‘We’d like to see Elias Walcott,’ Cahill told him. ‘We heard he was hiring.’
The fellow looked them over. ‘You know how to cure a hide?’
‘No, no. We want to hunt the shaggies,’ Cahill explained. The man gave him a sour look.
‘Oh. You only want the easy work. Go out and shoot a few buff and then laze around the rest of the time counting hides over in the warehouse.’
O’Brien was already wondering if this was right for him. He moved over close to the scraper, and stood three inches above him.
‘We asked where we can find Walcott. You going to tell us?’ he demanded in a hard, low voice. The scraper stepped back a half-step before responding.<
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‘Well, sure. If that’s what you want. I don’t know if he’s hiring hunters, though. You’ll find him in the office through that side door.’
Cahill grinned slightly and nodded. ‘Much obliged.’
The small office was just a corrugated-iron shed next door. Walcott was inside, at a scarred desk. A clerk with a green visor and sleeve garters sat at a smaller desk. Walcott looked up when he heard the two men enter.
He stared at Cahill for a moment, then a wide grin took hold of his face.
‘My God! Uriah Cahill.’ He rose and came over to Cahill, and they clasped hands for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. ‘What the hell are you doing here in Nebraska, you old horny toad!’
Cahill was grinning broadly. ‘I’m looking for work, Elias. Me and my friend here. This is O’Brien. He’s been working for Wells Fargo.’
Walcott grabbed O’Brien’s hand, and then was sorry he had done so. He winced under O’Brien’s iron grip and then looked him over.
‘My pleasure, O’Brien. You look very fit to work.’
‘I done some of everything,’ O’Brien said quietly.
‘We came to hunt the shaggies,’ Cahill quickly put in. ‘We can both shoot. And we got good mounts under us. O’Brien just saved my life with his rifle.’
O’Brien gave him a warning look and Cahill changed the subject. ‘We just rode two days from the Wyoming territory.’
But Walcott was assessing the tall young man a second time. ‘Well. We could use a couple more hunters. We just lost one a couple days ago. Got trampled by a herd.’ He smiled at Cahill. ‘Still interested?’
‘We sure are,’ Cahill answered for them both, looking toward O’Brien.
The clerk had quietly left, and now McComb entered the office. He glanced briefly at the two newcomers, then spoke to Walcott.
‘We got two hundred hides ready to ship off to Boston. That batch for New York needed some extra currying to look good.’
Walcott nodded. ‘OK, McComb. These boys here are looking for work as hunters. An old friend Cahill, and this young fellow calls hisself O’Brien.’
McComb turned to them sober-faced. ‘Oh. New recruits.’
‘This is my foreman on our hunts,’ Walcott told them. ‘Cyrus McComb.’
McComb was looking them over. He stared a long moment at O’Brien, who stood almost two inches taller than him. McComb didn’t like it if he had to look up physically to any man. He frowned slightly.
‘Where you from, boy?’ he asked O’Brien.
O’Brien disliked his looks. ‘All over,’ he said curtly.
McComb wasn’t pleased with his reply, or the manner in which it was delivered.
‘We wear plain old work clothes around here. Did you come dressed for a tribal dance or something, with the rawhides?’
O’Brien narrowed his eyes on McComb. ‘It’s what I always wear. They was made for me by the Lakota a while back.’
‘I know mountain men that wear them,’ Cahill intervened. McComb didn’t respond or even look at him.
‘Well, we can get you some work clothes if you’re hired. So we can tell you from the hostiles.’
Cahill looked quickly at O’Brien to see his reaction.
‘I don’t wear nothing but this,’ O’Brien said. McComb took a deep breath in.
‘I see. So you want to be different from the rest of us. A man apart.’
‘That ain’t it,’ O’Brien said stiffly. He turned to Cahill. ‘Maybe this ain’t for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside for you, Cahill.’
‘No, wait,’ Walcott spoke up quickly. He glanced at McComb. ‘We don’t care what you wear, O’Brien, as long as you can kill buffalo. Ain’t that right, McComb?’
They all looked at McComb. He just stood there looking sombre. He didn’t like Walcott undercutting his authority.
‘Can he kill buffalo?’ he said gruffly. ‘Wearing that thick ammo belt don’t tell me nothing.’
‘I saw him shoot,’ Cahill said. ‘I can vouch for him.’
‘Hell, I already decided to hire both of them, McComb,’ Walcott said. ‘Cahill and me go back a long way, and I’ve seen him shoot.’
‘Well, then we’ll just have to look at O’Brien here,’ McComb said deliberately. He caught Walcott’s eyes with a hard look. ‘Like we do with most recruits. I got my crew to protect. That suit you all right, Elias?’
‘Well, if you think it’s necessary.’ Walcott shrugged. ‘You don’t mind doing a little shooting for us tomorrow, do you, O’Brien?’
‘It’s your show,’ O’Brien told him.
‘We’ll go out to the range tomorrow morning,’ McComb said. ‘You can shoot against me.’ A small smile played over his lips. He was considered the best shot in the company.
‘He don’t have to be as good as you, McComb,’ Walcott said.
McComb grinned. ‘That goes without saying.’
Cahill and O’Brien got a good night’s sleep that night in the bunkhouse reserved for the hunters. Several riflemen came up and introduced themselves to the newcomers; one of them knew O’Brien’s name. McComb came in late and there was no further exchange with him that night.
The next morning was another bright and sunny day. Walcott, McComb, Cahill and O’Brien walked out to the rifle range adjacent to the corral, and Walcott put a hide man on paper-on-straw targets a hundred yards distant. Walcott sat on a hard chair while the others stood. McComb and O’Brien went to a firing line on a slab of concrete, while Cahill stood beside Walcott.
‘Now, Rawhide,’ McComb said to O’Brien, ‘let’s see if you can hit one of them bales out there.’ He turned and grinned at Walcott. Cahill had a slight smile on his face.
The target man signalled he was ready. McComb was holding his Henry 1860 repeating rifle and O’Brien had brought the Winchester from him mount’s irons.
‘You do much shooting for Wells Fargo?’ McComb said.
‘Not much,’ O’Brien replied.
‘You making excuses in advance boy? Your partner says you’re pretty good. You can’t carry water on both shoulders.’
‘Why don’t we let the shooting speak for itself?’ O’Brien suggested.
‘That’s just what I figured,’ McComb snapped. ‘Shall I start?’
‘Suit yourself.’
McComb assumed a shooting stance, raised the Henry, and squeezed off three fast shots in a row, the long gun barking out raucously in the morning quiet. At the target, a marker went up and showed two bullseye hits just off centre, and a third just outside the bullseye. Behind the two men, Walcott applauded the performance.
‘Good shooting, McComb.’ He turned to Cahill. ‘That’s why he’s my foreman out there.’
‘Just routine, Elias.’ McComb grinned smugly. ‘OK, Lakota man. Give it your best try. You don’t have to be embarrassed if you can’t mirror what you just saw.’
O’Brien made no comment, and faced the target area. He raised the Winchester to his shoulder and the long gun cracked out loudly in the cool morning air. He fired three times, just as McComb had. A moment later the target man stepped out from behind the bale.
‘There’s only one hole here, bigger than the others. I think he put three in the same hole. Dead centre.’
There was total silence for a moment as that news was absorbed. Cahill was grinning widely. At last Walcott spoke.
‘Good Jesus! I never seen nothing like that. Ever.’
McComb stood beside O’Brien, dark-visaged. He stared over at him for a moment, then strode out to the target area. When he got there he examined the target carefully. Then he threw it onto the ground.
‘He don’t like to be beat,’ Walcott confided to Cahill.
In a moment McComb was back at the firing line. He came up to O’Brien.
‘I bet you couldn’t do that again in fifty tries.’
‘Try me,’ O’Brien said levelly to him. McComb held his frustration in. He turned to Walcott.
‘Well, it looks like he can hit a
standing target. Let’s see how he does if it’s moving.’ He turned back to O’Brien. ‘Watch this and learn.’ He reached into his pocket, got a silver dollar out, and showed it to O’Brien. ‘See if you can do this, Rawhide.’
He shouldered the Henry rifle again, and threw the coin into the air, down the range ten yards. The rifle roared again. The coin jerked in mid-air, then hit the ground thirty yards away. When McComb retrieved it it had a hole in it, slightly off-centre. He grinned at O’Brien.
‘Match that.’
‘Jesus,’ Cahill mumbled from behind them.
O’Brien reached into a poke on his belt and pulled out two coins. Then he went over to Cahill.
‘You got any?’ he asked.
Cahill came up with two more. Three of the four coins were half-dollars and one was a quarter. O’Brien returned to the firing line.
‘What the hell are you up to?’ McComb growled at him.
‘Shooting,’ O’Brien responded.
In the next moment, he hurled all four coins high into the air. Then the Winchester banged out four fast shots as the coins began falling earthward. One by one they jerked as they were hit, and then lay scattered on the ground. O’Brien went to pick them all up. He brought them back and laid his palm open to show McComb. Three of the four had been centrally hit, the quarter had had a chunk taken out of its edge.
Walcott and Cahill hurried over there to see for themselves.
‘My God!’ Walcott murmured.
‘Sorry about the quarter,’ O’Brien said ‘It was hid behind another coin for a second there.’
Walcott grinned. ‘Is he good enough for you, McComb?’
‘I wish I’d seen them coins before he throwed them,’ McComb grumbled.
‘But he can obviously shoot. If you want him, you got him.’ Then he turned without any word to O’Brien, and headed back to the office building by himself. Walcott smiled at O’Brien.
‘He’ll get over it.’ He reached his hand out to him. ‘Nice to have you aboard, O’Brien.’
O’Brien took his hand and bruised it for the second time. ‘I reckon that remains to be seen,’ he offered.
