Wildfire

by Ralph Cotton

  “That’s four tents,” he said. “You only told me to have three ready.”

  “I know that’s what I said,” said Cheyenne, staring at him. “But now I want four tents. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, I’ve got four tents,” said Bagley, “but only three of them have been smoked out and cleaned, if that’s all right for yas.”

  “Give the one that’s not been smoked out to the men,” said Cheyenne.

  “I’ll do that,” Bagley said. He lowered his voice and said just between the two of them, “Who are these folks and what are they doing with you?” He darted his eyes toward Caroline Udall, who stood behind Cheyenne.

  “These two are newlyweds,” said Cheyenne. “This woman was a widow. I knew her and her first husband. They once saved my life. We happened upon her and her new husband coming across the high trail.” His voice lowered even more. “You won’t believe what they were doing out there.”

  “Oh?” Bagley leaned and looked around him at Caroline, then looked back in his eyes. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Yes,” said Cheyenne. “Just as soon as I escort her to their tent and see to it she gets settled in.” He gave Bagley a look and said, “Does that drunken Ute still live out back—still help out with wagon repairs?”

  “Little Foot?” said Bagley. “Yeah, he’s here, unless he’s got drunk and wandered away again. He can’t go too far without walking in a circle and coming right back. What do you want him to do for you?”

  “I want him to help Segan grease his axles. Tell him not to get it done in any hurry. We don’t want a shoddy job, do we?”

  “No, sir-ree, we don’t,” said Bagley.

  “Good.” Cheyenne smiled. “Now go take care of that while I accompany the lady to her tent. Tell Little Foot when he’s through with the wagon, I’ve got some more work for him.” He paused before saying, “Does he know this country pretty well?”

  “Better than anybody I know,” said Bagley.

  “He knows all of the main trails running north of here?” Cheyenne asked.

  “There’s only three, but yeah, he knows them, and all the game paths leading to them,” said Bagley. “You want him for a scout, a trail guide?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” said Cheyenne.

  * * *

  Inside the trading post, Lou Elkins stepped away from the bar long enough to look out the window and see Cheyenne and Caroline Udall turn and walk toward a row of sun-bleached canvas tents. As he stepped back over to the bar, he shook his head.

  “I hope Cheyenne ain’t up to his old weakness,” he said to anyone who cared to listen.

  Behind the bar, Dewey Fritz set up shot glasses and unopened bottles of whiskey in front of each of them.

  “Oh . . . ?” said Dock Latin. “And what weakness might that be?”

  “Women,” Elkins said bluntly. He jerked the cork from a bottle, passed the bottle back and forth under his nose, breathing deep, then filled his shot glass.

  Latin and Tarpis just stared until he threw back the shot glass, emptying it into his mouth.

  “All right, Lou,” said Latin, “are you saying any more on the matter, or just leave us standing here?”

  Elkins and Riggs both looked at them.

  “Then you don’t know?” said Elkins.

  “Damn it, Lou, know what?” said Latin. “You’ve known him longer than we have. Tell us what you’re getting at here, else keep your mouth shut.”

  “Cheyenne is a hell of a man,” said Elkins. “But just between us four, he can’t leave the womenfolk alone.”

  “So what?” said Latin. “That just makes him as red-blooded as the rest of us.” He threw back his own shot glass in a gulp.

  “Yep, but the problem is he’s got to have every one of them. And he gets too tangled up with them, doesn’t know when to cut one loose.”

  “We just saw him cut one loose,” Dock Latin said. “It didn’t seem to bother him any.”

  Elkins shrugged and said, “Maybe he’s over it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have,” said Tarpis in an unfriendly tone of voice. “We haven’t been riding with him long, but so far he’s done a good job running things.” He pulled the cork from his bottle of rye with his teeth and blew it away, staring at Elkins all the while.

  “I’m just saying he plays too much with the womenfolk,” Elkins said almost under his breath. “He brings them in too close. Mixes them in with business—which to me is never a good idea. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know he’s doing it until it’s done.”

  Tarpis and Latin looked at each other, thinking about Gilley Maclaine. Cheyenne could have set up horses with anybody. Why the young woman?

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Latin said to Elkins, “women and business don’t mix. Not in this robbing business anyways.”

  * * *

  Inside the dusty canvas tent, Cheyenne and Caroline looked around at a battered chest of drawers, a ladder-back chair, a shaving mirror hanging on a tent pole, a wide cot covered with a lumpy but thin feather mattress.

  “It’ll do nicely,” Caroline said over her shoulder, Cheyenne standing right behind her.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her shiver slightly at his touch.

  “You deserve better than any of this, Caroline,” he said softly, raising his hand a little, seeing the thin switch mark on her exposed shoulder.

  “Oh, no, George—I mean Cheyenne—this is fine, really.”

  “Turn around, look at me, Caroline,” he said close to her ear, so close she could feel his warm breath on the skin below her ear.

  “Oh dear . . . ,” she murmured to herself, his voice sounding warm, compelling, moving over the skin of her throat like honey. She turned around, her head lowered, eyes closed.

  “No, look at me,” he persisted, raising her chin gently with his fingertips until she opened her eyes and looked into his. “What are you doing with a man like this Segan Udall?” he asked, just saying Segan’s name seeming to sour his stomach a little.

  She shook her head without answering, closed her eyes and tried to turn away.

  “Don’t look away, Caroline,” Cheyenne said, drawing her face back to his. “He switches you like you’re some unruly child. What else does he do to you?”

  “That’s all,” Caroline said, looking ashamed. “And that’s just until we get things settled between us.”

  “And consummate your marriage,” Cheyenne said, finishing the explanation for her.

  “Yes, just until then,” she said.

  Cheyenne shook his head as if in disbelief. He reminded himself that it was none of his business, but that didn’t stop him from prying further. He looked at her closely and wondered just for a moment why he always seemed to find peculiar women. Peculiar women in peculiar circumstances, he told himself. He needed to give it some more thought when he had some time. For now . . .

  “He’s not a man, Caroline,” he said almost as if he couldn’t stop himself. He held her close to him.

  “He’s young, I have to admit,” Caroline said, “but he’s starting to understand—”

  “He’s not the kind of man you need, Caroline,” he said, cutting her off. “What’s next, if switching you doesn’t do any good? What will you allow him to do then to make himself full? Will you let him slap you around? Is that what you want? Do you need a man who treats you that way?”

  “No, no, please,” she said, almost swooning as she shook her head slowly, her eyes closed.

  “There’s women who like that sort of treatment,” Cheyenne said, watching her reaction to his words as he spoke softly, persistently. “Do you need him to play rough with you? Slap your bare bottom until it’s red and stinging in pain? Maybe use a belt? A paddle?” He observed the flushed look co
me over her face as he spoke.

  “Oh God, no, Cheyenne!” she said, almost sobbing. “I’m not that kind of woman, really, I’m not.”

  But he’d seen that he reached something in her—the look on her face revealed as much.

  “Than what kind of woman are you—?”

  She grabbed him and pressed his mouth to hers, hard, almost before he’d gotten his words out.

  Whoa . . . ! Cheyenne stood stunned for a second, taken aback by her sudden abandonment. But he caught up quickly; he returned her kiss, hard and deep.

  “Oh God, what am I doing?” Caroline said in a breathless whisper, moving across the dirt floor, off her feet now, clinging to Cheyenne, his face buried in her bosom, guiding her toward the cot.

  But Cheyenne stopped suddenly when Gantry called out from the other side of the tent fly.

  “Cheyenne, are you in there?” he said.

  “Jesus . . . !” The two separated enough for Caroline to straighten her clothes and fluff her hair. Cheyenne wiped away his tortured face and collected himself.

  “Yes, come on in, Red,” he called out, seeing the tent fly already being pulled back, the top of Gantry’s battered hat preceding him into the tent.

  Gantry stood up inside the tent, trying to hide the knowing look on his face. He held out a coiled rope in his left hand. In his right he carried a bottle of rye whiskey.

  “I brung the rope like you asked,” he said. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Obliged,” said Cheyenne, stepping forward, taking the rope from him.

  Caroline eyed the rope closely, raising a hand as if checking to make certain her dress was properly buttoned.

  “I want to send you on a little ride, making sure everybody is off our trail, and keep them off it until the rest of us are safe out of the territory. Are you up to that?”

  Gantry gave him a haughty but puzzled look.

  “I think I can handle it well enough,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “I thought we were in good shape already, though.”

  “It never hurts to make sure,” Cheyenne said. “Now listen close. I want you to go to the wagon shed and tell Segan to stop greasing his axles long enough to get over here. Tell him I want to talk to him. Him and the Ute guide are going with you, in the wagon.”

  “That drunken Injun, Little—whatever?” Gantry asked, sounding prickly.

  “Little Foot’s his name. He knows this country like the back of his hand,” said Cheyenne, embellishing what Bagley had told him.

  “He’s a damn drunk and a dope eater,” said Gantry, always ready to take issue. “One foot’s small as a goat’s hoof! He can’t walk a mile without making a full circle.”

  “Go get Segan,” said Cheyenne, dismissing him. “Bring him here and be ready for anything I tell him.”

  “Back your play, in other words,” said Gantry.

  “Is that all right by you?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Damn right it’s all right,” said Gantry. “Far as I care, I’ll gut that young boyo like a Christmas goose, after what he done to me.” He looked at Caroline. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he added humbly, “for talking ill about your husband.”

  Cheyenne stared at him until he backed up, stooped and left through the tent fly.

  “My goodness, that was close,” said Caroline, fanning herself with her hands. “Not that I can say I minded one bit.” She gave Cheyenne a coy smile. “Although I guess you could say I’ve been a naughty girl?”

  Cheyenne just looked at her.

  “Want me to kill Segan for you?” he asked flatly.

  “Why, no! Good heavens no!” exclaimed Caroline. She noted his eyes staying fixed on hers. “I mean, I don’t love him, but I don’t want him dead.” She paused. “I mean . . . not really, that is.”

  Cheyenne continued staring in silence. “I’ve got something I want him to do for me,” he said. “But after that, say the word.”

  She paused, clutching the neck of her dress in contemplation. “I have to admit, I’ve thought about it.”

  Cheyenne smiled a little and uncoiled a length of the rope in his hands.

  “I understand,” he said. “Now I want to ask you to do a little something for me.”

  “Oh . . . ?” Caroline eyed the rope again, curiously. “And what might that be?”

  Cheyenne stared up at her from under his tilted brow.

  “Does it matter what it is?” he asked, testing her. “Would you do anything for me, whatever I asked?”

  “What is it?” she pressed timidly.

  “Oh, nothing really,” Cheyenne said. “If you let a man switch you all over, what I’m asking should be an easy thing for you to do.” He stared at her and repeated firmly, “Would you do anything for me, whatever I asked?”

  “Yes,” she said in a lowered tone, her voice turning hushed and submissive. “Anything you asked of me, I’ll do it. That’s how I feel right now, Cheyenne—anything at all.”

  “Good,” he said. “Come over here, turn around.”

  Chapter 9

  Inside the wagon barn, Little Foot stood leaning against a barn post, holding a large bucket of black axle grease. He watched as Segan Udall raised the rear of the wagon on a steel wagon jack. Bagley had told him to take his time, see to it this young, board-faced white man didn’t get his wheels greased too quickly. So that was what he intended to do, he reminded himself. He didn’t understand why Bagley wanted him to take his time, but it didn’t matter in the least. White men had peculiar ways.

  As he stood thinking about it, he spotted another white man, this one carrying a big pistol in his hand. He walked in through the open front doors and straight toward the unsuspecting Udall.

  Uh-oh. . . .

  Little Foot backed away a step without warning the young white man. Behind Udall, Red Gantry stopped, his large Colt hanging down his side, his thumb over the hammer. Starring down at Udall’s back, he cocked the Colt deliberately loud, wanting the big young man to hear it.

  “I hope you give me some guff over this, Segan,” he said as Segan turned to face him. Still stooping beside the wagon jack, he looked up at Red Gantry as the battered gunman continued. “Because there is nothing would suit me better than to paint your brains all over the wall.”

  Little Foot kept himself from smiling, thinking how much he would enjoy seeing something like that—one white man killing another, his brains splattered all over the wall. He stood and watched in rapt silence.

  “What do you want?” Segan asked Gantry, dumbfounded.

  “On your feet,” Gantry demanded. He wagged his gun barrel, bringing Segan up from the floor. “Cheyenne wants to talk to you, right now.”

  “But he sent me to get my wagon—”

  “That’s just the guff I was hoping for,” Gantry said cutting him short, leveling the Colt toward his chest.

  “Wait! I’m coming!” said Segan, standing, his hands chest high in a show of submission.

  Gantry looked disappointed, but wagged him toward the barn door.

  “All right, get going,” he growled. “Make one false move, I’ll kill you. I haven’t forgot what you done to me.” His free hand touched the puffiness around the cut under his eye. His eye had turned the color of fruit gone bad.

  Little Foot had moved farther to the side for a better view of the two as they walked out the door. But Gantry swung the Colt toward him quickly.

  “What are you looking at, cripple?” Gantry growled, seeing Little Foot stagger on his withered foot, caught off guard, trying to regain his balance.

  “Don’t shoot,” Little Foot said, hopping like a man stepping on tacks, both arms up, the bucket of grease in his right hand. His next move, he would swing the bucket around full strength and break Gantry’s head open like a hollow gourd. Swear to
God! he thought. He felt his blood begin to race. It felt good.

  But Gantry lowered the tip of his gun barrel, knowing Cheyenne wouldn’t take it well, him killing the Indian right after Cheyenne telling him Little Foot would be his trail guide.

  Trail guide, ha!

  All right, he decided, settling himself, he needed to go along with Cheyenne’s plans. But it didn’t hurt to let both these two plugs know he was the one who’d be running things.

  “Don’t worry, lo,” said Gantry with a nasty grin. “I wouldn’t waste a good bullet on you.” He nodded at the wagon sitting on the jack. “Get this wagon up and ready to roll. My boss has work for you.”

  “Work . . . ?” Little Foot just stared at Gantry, let-

  ting go of the idea of crushing his skull for the mo-ment. He allowed the bucket of grease to slump in his hand.

  “That’s right, work,” said Gantry, following Segan out the barn door. “You know what work is, don’t you? Do-em work, make-um money, buy-em more firewater? You do want to get more firewater, don’t you?”

  This son of a bitch. . . . Little Foot stared at him blankly. He gritted his teeth and watched in silence as the two walked away, Gantry giving him a dark laugh back over his shoulder.

  Little Foot turned, set the grease on the ground beside the wagon and took up where Segan had left off.

  On the way to the tent, Gantry keeping his Colt in hand, lowered, yet ready to raise it to the center of Segan’s broad back and fire it at any second.

  “Good thing you came along with me peaceful-like, Segan,” he said, feeling his battered, mending face throb a little in its healing process. “One piece of guff out of you and—”

  “I know,” said Segan, cutting him off without looking around at him. “You would have painted my brains all over the ceiling.”

  Gantry fumed, his thumb itching on the lowered hammer of the Colt.

  “Now you’re going to back-talk me?” he said.

  “No,” Segan said stiffly, “I’m just repeating what you said in the barn.”

  “Yeah?” Gantry stared at the back of the young man’s head beneath a wide slouch hat. “It just happens I never said nothing about the ceiling. I said the wall,” Gantry corrected him. “What have you got to say about that?”