by John Legg
“You got much call for a shotgun rider on the stage here?”
“Not near as much as places near the gold fields, of course. Never had one before. But we carry U.S. mail, sometimes payrolls for large companies, and even the Army now and again. Plus there’s always some villains want to hold up a stage just to rob what valuables the passengers have.”
“The world is chock-full of villains.”
Lawson cocked an eyebrow at him. “Sounds like you know something about this,” he said, suspicious.
“Far too much,” Bloodworth said with resignation. “Brought more than my share of ‘em to heel.”
“Lawman?”
“Not exactly.”
Lawson stood there thinking, appraising Bloodworth, then he nodded. “I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Bloodworth, but I figure I’m a pretty good judge of character, and you seem to me to be the right man for the job. When can you start?”
“Soon’s you need me.”
“Stage will be leavin’ for Clay Center first thing in the mornin’.”
“I’ll be here.”
“It’s a long trip. Takes about twenty-four hours to make the full run.”
“I can handle that, Mr. Lawson. You supply the shotgun?”
“Of course. A fine Remington.”
“Sidearm?”
Lawson looked at him a bit quizzically, then shrugged. “I can give you a chit to take over to Pettibone’s hardware and mercantile. He’ll give you what you need. The company’ll pay.” He paused, then added, “I’m takin’ some risk on you, Mr. Bloodworth. Puttin’ my trust in you.”
“You’ll find that trust is not misplaced.”
“I hope so.” He went to the desk, pulled out a pen, dipped it in ink and scribbled on a piece of cheap paper. He handed it to Bloodworth. “That’s all you’ll need.”
“Obliged, Mr. Lawson.”
He nodded curtly. “Just be here in the mornin’.”
“I will.” Bloodworth turned and left. He strolled down the street until he found Pettibone’s and went inside. One side of the place was full of every sort of implement man could devise, from simple plows to complex reapers. The other side held all manner of dry goods, foodstuffs, and devices for use in the home. And several cases of guns.
“I’m Niles Pettibone,” said a tall, potbellied man dressed in a starchy white shirt with sleeves garters, and striped wool pants. “What can I do for you?”
Bloodworth handed him the slip of paper.
Pettibone read it and nodded. “Come, let me show you what we have.”
Half an hour later, Bloodworth walked out with a Remington 10-guage shotgun, a .44-caliber Schofield revolver, a box of shells for each, a slim-jim holster for the pistol, a new pair of pants and boots, a new shirt and new hat.
** ** ** ** **
“Name’s Gil Adcock,” the driver said as Bloodworth tossed the shotgun up onto the stagecoach’s floorboard and climbed up.
“Harlan Bloodworth.”
“Glad to have you with me.”
“Had trouble?”
“Some. Just enough to make me appreciate someone ridin’ shotgun with me.”
Bloodworth nodded. He picked up the shotgun and rested it across his thighs. “Let’s hope my services ain’t needed.”
“Amen to that.” He snapped the reins on the six-horse team. “Giddyap, there, boys,” he shouted. “Let’s go.”
“I hope you got a good night’s sleep, Mr. Bloodworth,” Adcock said as they settled in for the ride.
“Why’s that? And call me Harlan.”
“Trip takes the better part of twenty-four hours. We stop near about every ten miles or so to change horses. ’Bout midway through, we’ll stop for an hour so we and the passengers can tie on the ol’ feedbag.”
“Sounds like a fun ride,” Bloodworth said dryly.
“You’ll get used to it—if you stay on.”
“Do we get any sleep?”
“Sure. When we get to Clay Center. Then we get the full day off. The next day, we head on back.”
“How long you been doin’ this?”
“Three years, maybe a bit longer.”
“Every other day?”
“Nah. I get a couple of days off back in Dodge. You might not be so lucky.”
“Why’s that?”
“Seein’ as how you’re our only shotgun rider, ’least for now, you might be making the trip with Les Parkes, our other driver.”
Bloodworth shrugged. “Reckon that won’t put me out none, at least for a spell. Long’s I get paid for it.”
Adcock laughed, then said, “Here, hold the reins for a bit.”
Bloodworth’s eyes widened in surprise, but did so. Adcock pulled out plug of tobacco and jackknife from his shirt pocket, sliced off a hunk with the knife and stuck the wad in his mouth. He folded the knife back up and put it and the tobacco back in the pocket. “Thankee, kindly,” he said taking back the reins.
It was a little difficult keeping awake after ten or twelve hours, but the jolting of the stage helped. As did the somewhat frequent stops and Adcock’s frequent chattering. And after the first few trips it got a little easier.
Chapter Three
“Don’t seem like much for a couple weeks’ work,” Bloodworth as he took a golden eagle and five silver dollars from Chester Lawton, the stage agent.
“Better’n many a man gets,” Lawton responded, looking a little offended.
“Reckon that’s a fact.” He wasn’t appeased much. While there were times he was mighty short on cash, he was used to larger paydays when he brought in outlaws. And that money usually lasted him a good long while. Still, though, this was better than having no spending cash at all.
“You’ll be back day after tomorrow for the regular run?” Lawson suddenly sounded a little worried.
“Reckon I will, boss.” It felt strange for him to say that; Bloodworth had not called anyone boss in many a year. He stuffed the coins into his shirt pocket, rested the shotgun on one shoulder, trigger guard facing the sky, and headed out.
He stopped just outside, savoring the early summer’s warmth. Then he marched off, heading up Front Street. He turned on Cheyenne Street and halfway down it, climbed the three stairs to the porch of Edith Wickline’s house. He hesitated a few heartbeats, then knocked on the door.
Moments later Hope opened the door. She smiled warmly. “Welcome, Mr. Bloodworth.”
“Good afternoon, Hope. Is Mrs. Wickline to home?”
“She is. Please, come in.” She stepped back allowing him to enter. “Why don’t you wait in the sitting room while I go fetch her.”
Bloodworth thought he detected a touch of coldness in her voice, but he mentally shrugged it off. “Thank you.” He went into the room off to the left and set his shotgun up against the wall just inside the door. He walked over to the window and looked out over the side garden, bursting now with a colorful array of prairie phlox, Indian paintbrush, ox-eye daisies, rose-pink, black-eyed susans, sunflowers and even dandelions.
He turned as Edith said, “Welcome, Mr. Bloodworth,” she said with a warm smile.
“Good day,” he responded, returning her smile.
“To what do we owe your visit?”
“I brought in some wages and thought I’d stop by and make a small payment on what-all I owe you.”
“As I told you before, Mr. Bloodworth, you owe me nothing.”
“I know that. But it’s a matter of — I reckon you could call it honor, with me. I always pay back what’s due. It don’t sit well with me to be in anyone’s debt.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Harlan Bloodworth,” Edith said with a small laugh.
“Reckon I’ve been called that before.” He grinned. “And a whole lot worse.”
Edith let out a throaty laugh. “I suppose that’s the truth, seeing as how hard-headed you can be.”
“Been this way a long time. Reckon it’s too late for me to change my ways now.”
“I expect no
t. But that’s not such a bad thing.” She paused, then said, “Where are my manners. Please, sit, Mr. Bloodworth. Do…”
“Harlan, please,” he said as he eased himself into a plush armchair.
“Of course. Would you like some coffee, Harlan?”
“That’d be welcome. After the slop I’ve had to drink at those stage stops and inns, Hope’s coffee will be a blessin’.”
Edith nodded. She picked up a small bell from the low table between Bloodworth’s chair and a matching one, and rang it. Moments later, Hope entered the room. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Coffee for us, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Edith sat. “So how is your work?”
“Mighty dull. Nothin’ but lookin’ out over all this flat land hereabouts and listenin’ to Gil Adcock flap his gums at me.” He grinned. “’Course, that’s a heap better than runnin’ into a passel of robbers.”
“I would certainly think so.” She hesitated. “Do you…No, it’s not right to ask.”
Bloodworth shrugged. “Go ahead and ask. Ain’t much I’d be afraid to answer.”
After a few more moments’ hesitation, she said, “Does it bother you to have to kill a man?”
Bloodworth thought that over for a while, then nodded slowly. “It does, yes. It’s never an easy thing takin’ a man’s life. Even a bad man’s. But sometimes it’s got to be done. The men I’ve killed, they’ve done some mighty awful things—robbed, raped, killed all manner of folk, includin’ women and children. They were deservin’ of the weight of justice, but sometimes they resist facin’ it.”
“And that’s where you—or others like you—come in?” She sounded more interested than accusatory.
“Yes’m. Most lawmen are overburdened with their duties, so men like me take on some of the duties they can’t perform.”
“It almost sounds like you enjoy it.”
“No, Edith, I most certainly do not enjoy it. Leastways not the killin’. Administerin’ justice, though, even at the point of a gun, that I do enjoy.”
“I…” Edith stopped when Hope entered the room with a tray on which was a coffeepot, silver sugar bowl and milk pitcher, two china cups, saucers, and spoons.
Hope put down the tray, and Edith said, “Thank you, Hope.”
“Will that be all, ma’am?” Again, Bloodworth thought he could hear a touch of coldness in the voice.
“Yes.”
Edith and Bloodworth were silent as she poured coffee, spooned in some sugar and a dollop of milk.
Edith took a sip, then placed her cup on the saucer on the table. “Were you ever scared, Harlan?”
“Frequently.” He shrugged. “It comes with the job, I suppose you could say. You just deal with it.”
“It would seem to be a handicap.”
“You learn to control it, instead of lettin’ it control you. If you can do that, you’ll have a good chance of doin’ the job well—which means bringin’ in the men you’re after. And,” he added with a small smile, “stayin’ alive while doin’ it.”
“That would be important, yes.” She paused, then asked, “How many men have you killed, Harlan?”
Bloodworth’s smile dropped like a stone. “That, Mrs. Wickline, is one of the few questions I will not answer,” Bloodworth said coldly.
“Ah, yes, that is understandable. I beg your pardon.”
“Apology accepted.”
They sipped coffee for a bit, quiet, not needing to speak. Finally, though, Edith said, “My offer still stands, Harlan.”
“What offer is that?”
“For you to stay here. In the room you had. And you may pay me for it, should you feel the need. I will charge a reasonable rate.”
A small smile tugged at Bloodworth’s lips. “I’m sure you will.”
“There could be…how shall I say this?…some additional benefits to such an arrangement.”
“Well, Hope’s cooking, for one. And her coffee.”
“Those would be fine inducements, I expect.” She paused. “And then there’s me.”
“Beg pardon?” Bloodworth thought he knew what she meant, but he wanted to be sure.
“I am a benefit, Harlan,” she said without embarrassment, keeping her gaze level on him. “And, I would think, a desirable one.”
“That you would be, Edith.”
For a moment she seemed a bit concerned. “My age would be no barrier? I am, as you might know, several years your senior.”
“No, ma’am, your age—which is not nearly all that great—would be no barrier. However…”
“Yes?”
Bloodworth hesitated, then said, “As before, I’d not like to displace George.”
Edith stiffened. “George is simply an employee, no more than that,” Edith said, her voice icy. “Now I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”
Mortified at having made such a blunder, Bloodworth rose, wondering whether he should apologize. But he realized right off that Edith was in no mood to hear one. He simply nodded. He placed the golden eagle on the table next to the coffee service, grabbed his shotgun and left, feeling Edith’s hot, angry gaze on his back, even as he was halfway to Front Street.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth returned to the stage depot office and left the shotgun; he had no use for it, really, at least now. Not knowing where to go, he decided on a visit to Helltown, the area south of the railroad tracks. Its name was well deserved, seeing as saloons, gambling halls and prostitutes were plentiful. And it was populated mostly by Texans, men who liked to whoop it up and raise hell. Bloodworth had spent considerable time in such areas of other towns and, while he was not particularly partial to them, they served their purpose at times. And right now, Bloodworth figured this was one of those times.
He walked into the first saloon he found, a place called the Pecos. At this time of day—well, late afternoon—it was relatively sedate, with only a dozen or so men in the place. Bloodworth strode up to the bar
The bartender, a tall, portly man with short dark hair parted in the middle, strolled up. “What can I get you?” he asked in a world-weary voice.
“Beer, if you got it. And if it’s cold.”
“We got it iced up. You want whiskey to go with it?”
“Maybe later.” Bloodworth laid a silver dollar on the bar top.
The bartender reached for the money, but Bloodworth clapped a hand over it. “The beer first,” he said quietly. “And change.”
“Change?” the man asked, feigning ignorance.
“If you’re chargin’ a dollar for a beer, I think I’ll just mosey on over to the Trinity across the street.”
“Beer’s a dime,” the barkeep said sourly.
“No reason to be surly, friend,” Bloodworth said evenly. “I just might be a regular here.”
“Ain’t likely.” He turned and left, returning moments later with a tall mug of beer.
“You got more foam on there than beer, friend.”
“Best you’re gonna get.” He slapped a pile of coins on the bar and scooped up the silver dollar.
Bloodworth turned and rested his back against the bar. He sipped his beer, watching over the saloon. Two faro games were going against the opposite wall. He tried to keep his mind off the insult he had given Edith Wickline, but he had little success. She had been considerably kind to him, and all he had done was to offend her in the most impudent manner. It was made all the worse by the fact that she had made an offer most men would have been thankful for. He would, he told himself, have to make this right. Trouble was, he didn’t know how to go about it.
A sweet voice broke him from his reverie: “Lonely, darlin’?”
“Not so much,” he said, turning to face her. She was short and thin with a doll-like face and ginger-colored hair in long ringlets.
“At least buy a girl a drink.”
“Reckon I can do that.”
Moments later she had a shot of whiskey, which Bloodworth figured was considerably watered
down. “You sure you ain’t interested?” she asked as she sipped.
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t you like me?”
“You’re a fine lookin’ woman. I just got other things on my mind. ’Sides, I’m a bit short on cash.”
The woman stared up at him for a bit, then nodded. “You change your mind, you come see me, y’hear?”
“I will certainly do that.”
Chapter Four
When Bloodworth collected his next pay, he steeled himself and strolled over to Edith Wickline’s house. He hesitated, surprised at his reluctance — he preferred to call it that rather than nervousness, which was actually more accurate. Then he shook it off and knocked.
Hope answered, expressions of surprise and pleasure dancing across her face in moments.
Bloodworth smiled. “Howdy, Hope. Is Miz Wickline available?”
“I’m…I’m…Well, I’m not sure she’s in for you,” she said not too apologetically.
“I suspected there was a chance of that. I’d be obliged if you was to check with her.”
Now it was Hope’s turn to hesitate. Finally she smiled. “Come in. You can wait in the foyer here.”
Bloodworth nodded and stepped inside, and Hope closed the door behind him. “Please stay here, Mr. Bloodworth,” she said, voice betraying some nervousness.
“If I don’t?” He managed a grin, trying to let her know he was joshing.
Hope did not see the humor in it. She hung her head. “If Miz Wickline does not wish to see you, and you are somewhere in the house besides here, I may lose my position.” She sounded fearful, though Bloodworth thought he could hear a bit of defiance in her voice.
“I meant nothin’ by it, Hope. I was just foolin’ with you.” He lifted her head with a forefinger under her chin. “I will in no way endanger your position here. Don’t you worry none about that.”
Relieved, Hope said, “Thank you, Mr. Bloodworth. I’ll be back in a moment.” She was true to her word. “Miz Wickline will see you, Mr. Bloodworth,” She looked around conspiratorially, then whispered, “She’s still most displeased with you.”
