“What about the pelts, hides, and such, that I brought this time?”
“The southern states will be under some kind of restriction,” Roberts said. “For instance, a Texan may need permission to take a herd across the state line, but I can’t see any of this affecting Jesse, since he’s there in Indian Territory. Besides, the government will be forever indebted to him for his scouting and treaty-making with the plains tribes.”
“I aim to gather a herd in Texas,” said Ten.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble bringing them out,” said Roberts, “but your least expensive and most dependable means of getting them to northern markets is to trail them northeast, to the nearest end-of-track. When things return to normal here, if they ever do, herds can be shipped by boat.”
“Well, thanks,” said Ten. He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Finding St. Louis, Ten followed it north three blocks to Bourbon Street. He was still able to read “Magnolia Hotel” on the sign above the door, even though the letters had long since faded from black to washed-out gray. The inside, however, was far more impressive than the outside. When he told the desk clerk his name, he was immediately given a key, and found he was in Room 12 at the head of the stairs. At the other end of the hall there was a back door, and on the wall beside it, a bracket lamp burned. But even with the lamp, the far end of the hall was in shadow, and the breath of air he felt would have been too late. The door eased open so slowly, he wasn’t aware of the movement, but with the sudden guttering of the lamp’s flame, he threw himself belly-down in the hall, his Colt roaring before he hit the floor. Two slugs slammed into the door frame, chest high, where he’d stood just seconds before.
Doors opened along the hall, and were just as quickly closed. He waited, offering as little target as possible, should there be more shots. Cautiously, he got to his knees, and then to his feet. He’d ejected the three spent shells from his Colt and was reloading when a big man, gone to fat, came panting up the stairs. By the time he had caught his breath enough to speak, Ten had holstered the Colt.
“Mister, I’m the manager here, and we don’t allow the firing of weapons. What’s your room number and for how many nights are you registered?”
“Room twelve,” said Ten. “I don’t know how many nights I’ll be here. Why don’t you ask the gent that registered me?”
His words had the desired effect. Mathewson had some influence.
“I’m sorry,” said the manager, “but the shooting—”
“See that splintered door frame? Somebody threw some lead at me from that back door, and when I’m shot at, I shoot back. Even in your hotel. But if you want me to leave, I will.”
“No, sir,” said the manager. “Your room has been guaranteed for an indefinite stay. Forget what I said. Should I report this to the police?”
“No,” said Ten. “If anybody gets curious about the shooting, just tell them a half-breed Injun had too much to drink.”
4
Ten locked the door and cleaned his Colt. It was still early, not yet six o’clock, and he was hungry. But he had some thinking to do. He held out his hands, and they were steady, and despite the narrow escape, he was neither nervous or afraid. In fact, he felt better, more sure of himself than at any time since leaving the Chisholm ranch. Then, without any awareness of how he knew, it came to him, and he understood the change in himself. Without time to think or plan, his reflexes had taken over and he’d survived under fire! Being honest, he realized the experience could have had exactly the opposite effect, leaving him skulking about like a scared coyote, jumping at shadows. Instead, he now had the strength of his convictions. From the tin in his saddlebags he took a handful of extra cartridges, stuffing them into the pocket of his Levi’s.
After leaving the hotel, he paused for a moment on the street corner. He wasn’t more than three or four blocks from the riverfront, and somewhere among all the saloons there had to be a place to eat. As he walked down Bourbon Street toward the river, a question dogged his mind. While he had no doubt LeBeau hated his guts, he didn’t believe the attempted ambush was the result of his having shown the man up for a cheat. There had to be some other reason why he had become enough of a threat to justify being shot at. He reviewed everything that had happened following LeBeau’s disgrace in the saloon. Finally it hit him, and so startling was the impact, he just stopped cold, considering the implications. Sneed had witnessed Ten’s brief meeting with John Mathewson. If Mathewson’s suspicion of LeBeau was well-founded, and LeBeau was involved in smuggling, then Sneed and LeBeau would certainly know who Mathewson was. What they didn’t know was where Tenatse Chisholm fitted into the picture, and that would account for them trailing him to Mathewson’s office. Even with LeBeau away for the weekend, Sneed could still trail him to the LeBeau house for his meeting with Priscilla. Under these circumstances, Ten wondered if his involvement with Priscilla might not do more harm than good, and he wished he could talk to John Mathewson again. But suppose Mathewson still wanted him to fulfill his promise?
He decided he wouldn’t risk a second visit to Mathewson’s office. Mathewson had been right. He could protect the girl only by her being unaware of his real reason for being there. If Priscilla didn’t know anything, she couldn’t be made to tell anything. They would have to come after him. He paused, looking around him, and went on. Near the end of Bourbon Street, facing the river, he found a hole-in-the-wall eatery called the Blind Goose. Instead of tables, there was just a row of backless hard stools strung out along the counter. He took a stool near the end, as far from the door and windows as he could get. The cook poured a cup of hot black coffee and slid it sloshing down the counter toward him.
“Roast pork, potatoes, bread, butter, pie, an’ coffee,” the cook said. “Ten cents, an’ you pay in advance.”
“You took a chance, trusting me with the coffee,” said Ten.
He slid two bits along the counter in the trail of spilled coffee. The food was leftovers from dinner, and the coffee likely from breakfast, but Ten finished it all. Stepping out the door, he closed it quickly, for the light made him an excellent target. Rather than return the way he had come, he took a different route along the river. If he was being trailed, then he wouldn’t make it easy for them. He passed a dimly lit rooming house, its ROOMS FOR RENT sign illuminated by a bracket lamp beside the door. Behind the house there was a narrow alley, its interior black as the ace of spades.
Ten paused. Somewhere down the dark corridor there was a scuffing, not unlike the sound of leather against stone. In an instant the Colt was in his hand. He waited, straining his ears, but the sound wasn’t repeated. He was about to proceed when he heard a low moan that trailed off into a whimper. Somebody was hurt, or doing a mighty convincing imitation. His back against a rough brick wall, he inched sideways into the darkness, relying on his peripheral vision. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the intense darkness. His boot touched something, and he froze. There was a groan that ended in a sigh. Perhaps it was just a drunk, suffering the aftereffects of his folly, but he doubted it. He’d seen his share of them, heard them whine piteously for some hair of the dog. But this seemed more a genuine cry of physical pain. When he heard it again, he was near enough to see the dim outline of a man, lying on his back.
Still suspicious, he inched his way past until he was able to see the end of the dark passage. What had at first seemed an alley was only a gap between two buildings. Farther down, the next structures were back to back. Ahead, the narrow passage came to a dead end, like a box canyon. A perfect trap. He paused, looking back toward the dim entrance, half expecting to see the gray outlines of men coming for him. But there was only darkness. Cautiously he knelt, extending his free hand until he felt the man’s hair. It seemed stiff, sticky, bloody. Touching the face, he could feel the swelling around the eyes and the lips. The man’s shirt seemed wet, but the dew hadn’t yet fallen and the ground was dry. Blood.
He hurried back to the street, rounded the corner and
found a saloon he had passed earlier. It was a nondescript place called the Blue Anchor, and for fifty cents he bought a quart of rotgut whiskey. He returned to the dark corridor and again made his way to the injured man. Regretfully, he holstered the Colt. He would need both hands. He soaked his bandanna with the whiskey, gagging at the vile fumes. It seemed potent enough to revive a dead Comanche. He set the bottle down and spread the bandanna over the man’s face. The man’s breathing was ragged, irregular, but he began to cough and wheeze almost immediately. Ten removed the bandanna.
“Sorry, pardner. I had to bring you out of it somehow. I don’t know how bad you’re busted up, but you can’t stay here. See if you can move.”
He tried to rise, but lay back, gasping.
“I’ll take hold of your shoulders,” said Ten. “If you can sit up, edge your back up against the wall, and I’ll give you as much of the firewater as you can stand.”
Slowly he lifted the man to a sitting position, the man’s teeth grinding as he resisted crying out. By the time his back was to the wall, his breathing was more ragged than ever. Ten fumbled around until he found the whiskey, and pulled the cork from the bottle. The wounded man’s head sagged and again he seemed unconscious.
“Raise your head some,” said Ten, “if you’re still with me. I can’t get you out of here without your help. Here’s the whiskey.”
Slowly the head came up. Ten couldn’t see well enough to position the bottle so he could drink. Uncertainly, the right hand came up and guided the bottle. He took only a little, gagging it all out. Finally he swallowed some, coughing and choking. Either he wasn’t a drinking man or he was accustomed to better whiskey. He took one more swallow, then pushed the bottle away. His breathing became more regular, less labored. Finally the man spoke.
“Who…are you?”
“A friend. Do you feel any broken bones?”
“I…don’t think so.”
Speaking through swollen lips his voice was a raspy rumble that Ten could hardly understand.
“I’ll help you to your feet,” said Ten. “Let’s see if you can stand.”
The man got to his knees on his own. After a few seconds of rest, and with Ten’s help, he stumbled to his feet. He staggered against the brick wall, and Ten steadied him.
“Dizzy,” he mumbled. “Head…hurts.”
“You need a doc to look at you. Where can I take you?”
“Texas,” he said. “Crockett…Texas.” Between a bitter laugh and a sob, his voice broke. “No,” he said. “No more. Nowhere…”
“Then I’ll get you a room. We’re behind a rooming house.”
“No,” he said. “No…no money.”
“Pardner, you’re in no shape to be prideful. I’ll stake you to a room. Now, let’s find out if you can walk.”
His left leg wouldn’t support him, and he almost fell.
“Get your left arm over my shoulder,” said Ten. “Lean on me.”
Slowly, and in that manner, they reached the front door of the rooming house. The wounded man was breathing hard. Ten turned the knob and booted the door open. The parlor was shabbily furnished, with a rocker, two cane-bottom ladderbacks, and a horsehair sofa. Two men sat on the sofa, and a tall, gray-haired woman stood in the dining room door, glaring at them.
“I’m Velda Kendrick, and I own this place. I don’t cater to drunks, so turn him around, boy, and walk him right out of here.”
“He’s not drunk,” said Ten. “He’s been beaten. He’s bad hurt, needin’ a room and a doctor.”
As though in mute appeal, the wounded man lifted his bloodied face, and the woman gasped. Blood from his head wounds had crusted, reddish-brown, from his hairline to where the collar had been ripped from his shirt. The rest of it hung in tatters. His trousers had been ripped to above the knees, and he was barely decent. But for his heels-out socks, his feet were bare.
“The upstairs rooms are cheaper,” she said.
“He’s in no shape to climb stairs,” said Ten. “If you’ll trust me until I get him in bed, I’ll pay you.”
She flushed, and without a word led them out of the parlor and down the hall. She opened a door, and Ten got the wounded man to the bed. When he turned to Velda Kendrick, the hostility had left her.
“See to him,” she said, and closed the door.
With a sigh, the man stretched out gratefully on the bed. He didn’t resist when Ten peeled off his socks, what was left of the shredded shirt, and the ruined trousers. He was left only his drawers. He was tall, well over six feet, and should have weighed close to 200. But he was gaunt. In places where his hair wasn’t bloodied brown, it was corn-silk white, and his eyes were just a bit darker blue than Ten’s. From knee to ankle his left leg was little more than bone. The little flesh that remained was a mass of scars. What passed for a grin on his smashed, swollen lips was ghastly.
“Left the rest of it…somewhere in Virginia,” he said. “Knee hurts. They kicked me…when I…was down.”
“I’ll find a doc for you,” said Ten.
Velda Kendrick and her pair of male boarders waited in the parlor.
“He needs a doctor,” said Ten. “Who can I get, and where do I find him?”
“Doc McConnel,” said one of the men. “He’ll be in one of th’ saloons.”
“Oh, not that old sot,” sniffed Velda.
“I’m not bothered by his personal habits,” said Ten, “long as they don’t get in the way of his doctorin’. Has he got a favorite hangout?”
“One of th’ saloons near th’ docks,” said the man who’d recommended him. “He’ll be in th’ Amsterdam, Mother Burke’s Den, or th’ Baltimore. He’ll be all right. He gen’rally don’t git petrified until aroun’ midnight.”
Ten turned to Velda. “How much for the room?”
“Dollar a night. Meals is extra.”
He dropped a gold eagle on a table next to the chair in which she sat. “He’ll be needin’ some food. I’ll be back with the doc.”
He found McConnel in the Amsterdam. The doctor was a mild little man, bald except for a gray fringe, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles. He seemed accustomed to unusual hours, perhaps preferring them, for he had his satchel with him. He seemed unconcerned with what the town in general, and Velda Kendrick in particular, might think of him. He stalked through the parlor without a word to anybody. He studied his bloodied patient for a moment, and turned to Ten.
“Hot water, soap, and towels,” he said.
When Ten returned with the requested items, he washed his hands and set to work. Once he had washed off the dried blood, it appeared most of it had come from severe lacerations of the scalp. McConnel took a razor from his bag, shaved off enough hair to get to the wounds, and deftly sewed the torn skin together. The rest of the cuts seemed minor. His chest, shoulders, and arms were yellowed and purpled with bruises, and there was a particularly livid bruise on the side of his left knee, just above the mutilated calf.
“Stay off your feet,” said the doctor, “until you can move that knee without it hurting.”
Given the two dollars he asked for, the doctor departed, promising to return on Friday. Ten turned to the man on the bed.
“I reckon you’ll be all right here, unless somebody’s got a grudge. Will they be looking for you?”
“No,” he said. “I’d never seen them before. I’d stopped in a diner for a bowl of stew, and they…trailed me when I left. They wanted my money, my pistol, and my boots. There was four of ’em, but I…didn’t give up without a fight. They got hurt, and they got even.”
“You asked me who I am,” said Ten. “I’m Tenatse Chisholm, from Indian Territory. My friends call me Ten.”
“I’m…from Texas, but I…told you that. My name is Martin Brand, and my friends, when I got any, call me Marty.”
“We’ll talk when you’ve rested and healed some. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll count on it,” said Brand. “Mucho gracias.”
Ten returned to the Magnolia
Hotel, utilizing shadows and side streets, making it impossible for a potential bushwhacker to get a clean shot at him. The same darkness in which his enemies stalked him allowed him to elude them, and the time would come when it would be Tenatse Chisholm’s turn to deal the cards. Before he was done, Ten vowed the hunters were going to become the hunted. His room was on the second floor, but he latched the window, bolted the door, and put a ladderback chair under the knob. He put the Colt under his pillow. But he wasn’t disturbed, and he awoke feeling a bit foolish for all his precautions. When he reached the rooming house, he found Brand sitting on the edge of his bed. Despite the beating, Brand had already begun to heal. Much of the swelling around his eyes had diminished, and his battered lips had healed enough for him to talk without mumbling. Ten decided there was more to the man than met the eye. On a bedside table there was a pot that had soup stains and a glass still faintly colored with milk.
“Well,” said Ten, “at least she fed you. That woman’s got a disposition like a cactus patch.”
“Can’t say I blame her. When I come in, I didn’t have much goin’ for me. She’s been nice enough. Last night I wasn’t sure I’d ever eat again, but I just finished a pot of soup and a big hunk of corn bread.”
The silence between them grew uncomfortable. Brand seemed to be mustering up his courage. Finally he spoke.
“I’m beholden to you, but I got a confession to make. Even before I was robbed, I was lower’n a man can go and still think of himself as a man. I barely managed to keep myself in grub. Since Lee put down the sword, I’ve been half starved, afoot, and I’ve slept everywhere ’cept in a bed.”
“I’d hate to have to keep myself alive in this town,” said Ten. “Likely, I’d end up loading and unloading steamboats.”
“I did that, but with this bad leg, I couldn’t keep up the pace. They said I was too slow.”
“You’re a Texan,” said Ten. “If you know cows, you oughta be working from a saddle, a good horse under you.”
The Chisholm Trail Page 5
