The Long Trail Home

by Stephen A. Bly

  Sam smiled. “I reckon that all depends on who is in town.”

  “We ain’t got a marshal. The last one took off with Cammie Woodell after that big wrestlin’ match. He’s probably dead by now. You know how Cammie is when she gets moody.” Dillerd retreated toward the arched front door of the adobe building. Halfway past the prickly pear cactus, he turned back. “You boys come in and have a drink before you go out on the plains.”

  Sam stepped around to the back of the wagon. “I presume you heard all of that?”

  Kiowa Fox continued to lay flat on his back. “How’d he know I was in here?”

  “I don’t know.” Fortune chuckled, “Maybe he smelled you.”

  Kiowa propped himself up on his elbows. “That might be more true than I want to admit.”

  In the distance, Sam watched a man stagger out of the Armadillo Cafe, spin around, and stagger back inside. “You gettin’ out now?”

  “You seen any bounty men?”

  “I haven’t looked.”

  Kiowa laid back down. “I think I’ll wait here for Ladosa to bring back some food.”

  Sam ran his fingers across the chipped gray paint on the tailgate of the paneled wagon. “Did you hear what Dillerd said about Piney?”

  “Yep.” Kiowa laced his hands behind his head for a temporary pillow. “I wonder if she still likes to dance?”

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing. When Ladosa comes back with the goods, tell her about Piney. They were close when they lived at Fort Smith. You two wait here at the wagon. It can’t take me too long to find her.”

  “She’s totin’ your Sharps.”

  Sam tugged his black, beaver felt hat down in the front. “She’s totin’ Daddy’s Sharps.”

  To the west, dark clouds swirled in the hot June sky like an evil potion in a witch’s cauldron. In Antelope Flats the fine alkali dust kept eyes squinted and vision limited. No one moved. All seemed to be watching and waiting to see what the weather did next.

  At first, Sam avoided the saloons and searched the stores, shops, and restaurants for any sign of Piney Burleson. Everyone he talked to had seen her, but no one knew where she was. He had just stepped outside the Red Pearitt Café when he noticed a commotion across the street in the path that ran between Cranby’s Saloon #1 and Cranby’s Saloon #2.

  Sam yanked his stampede string tight under his chin as he stepped out into the street. Dirt blasted his face and pricked his eyes. As he scooted down the narrow dirt path between the two saloons he sized up three cowboys that badgered a six-foot tall, thin woman with long, uncombed blond hair wearing an ankle-length, black dress. She waved a single-shot Sharps carbine in front of her.

  “Back off, boys!” Fortune shouted from behind the men.

  All three spun around, hands resting on holstered pistols. They blocked his vision of the woman.

  “Who do you think you are?” A smear of fresh blood donned the cheek of the clean-shaven man.

  “I want to talk to the lady. Go find yourself a nice saloon to ride out this dust storm.”

  “Like hades we will.” The second man sported a thick mustache that hung like branches on a weeping willow tree. “You can wait your turn ’til we’re through with her.”

  Sam stepped toward the woman with wild, blue eyes. A black-bearded man blocked his way. One glance from Fortune caused the man to slide sideways up against the unpainted board and batting of Cranby’s Saloon #2.

  “She’s got my Sharps carbine,” the man mumbled.

  Without pulling it out of the holster, Sam cocked the hammer of his .44 and pressed his chest against the shorter man’s shoulder. “That’s not your carbine, and you know it.” Sam positioned himself between the woman and the men.

  The bearded one backed toward the street, as did the other two. “I paid her a cash dollar for it.”

  “That’s right, mister . . . I seen him,” one of the others concurred.

  Fortune reached into his vest pocket and felt his last coin. He shoved it into the man’s hand. “Here’s your dollar back.”

  The man threw the silver coin to the dirt. “I don’t want no dollar. I want the Sharps .50.”

  “Pick up the dollar, and get out of here,” Fortune growled.

  “You think you’re man enough to take us all on?” the third man challenged. He wore a tattered, brown felt hat that revealed a two-inch hatband of sweat.

  “It won’t take a man to do that.” Sam slipped the hammer down on his cocked Colt pistol. “The lady was doin’ fine without me.” He turned his back to the men and faced the frightened woman.

  “Howdy, Piney, darlin’, . . .” he tipped his hat. “Have you missed me?”

  A wide, dusty grin broke across the pale, narrow face of the woman, revealing straight white teeth. “You’re late, Sam Fortune!”

  He ignored the men behind him. “I know, darlin’. My horse took a tumble, and I had to hitch a ride.”

  “It’s OK, Sammy. I was waitin’ for you,” she explained.

  He offered her his arm.

  She straightened the mud-caked lace collar of her black dress and took his arm with her left hand. In her right, she still clutched the carbine by the receiver. They walked toward the three men in the alley.

  “Did she call you Sam Fortune?” Sweaty Hat asked.

  “Yep.”

  They backed up. “We didn’t know it was you, Mr. Fortune. Nobody told us you was in town,” Drooping Mustache explained.

  “Pick up that dollar, and get out of our way.”

  The man with the beard scooped up the coin. “Yes sir.”

  “We heard you was dead,” the one with the blood-smeared cheek mumbled.

  Sam laced his fingers into Piney’s. They felt bony, sticky, and warm. “Now who would tell you somethin’ like that?”

  The man stumbled, but his compadres caught him as the trio continued to back out of the alley. “Johnny Creek.”

  “Johnny Creek got hung last month in Choteau,” Sam informed them.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Drooping Mustache muttered. They scurried into the street and into Cranby’s Saloon #1.

  When Sam and Piney reached the dusty street, she pushed her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. He pulled her shoulders to his chest and ran his calloused fingers through her tangled hair.

  “I got hurt, Sammy.” Her voice was tight, like a violin out of tune.

  “That’s what I heard, darlin’.”

  “Some days I cain’t even remember my own name.”

  “It’s OK, darlin’ . . . it’s OK.”

  He rocked her back and forth, while several faces peered at them from the saloon window.

  “They took away my bullets.”

  “For the carbine?”

  “They said I might hurt someone. All I have is this one brass casing.”

  Several men came out on the saloon porch and stared at them.

  “Is that my daddy’s carbine?” he asked.

  She pulled back. Her eyes romped. “I’ve been savin’ it for you.” She shoved the Sharps into his hand.

  “Did it come bundled up in a package?” he asked.

  “Brown paper and ever’thing. I have it all saved for you over at my cabin.”

  “Was there a letter with the package?”

  “Nothing. Just the carbine wrapped in brown paper. But I saved it for you.”

  “Well, let’s just waltz over to your cabin, darlin’.”

  “I can dance good, you know,” she bragged.

  “Piney, you’re the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you tell that to all the girls?”

  “Only you, darlin’. How about you and me dancin’ down this dusty street and showin’ all these boys some of your fancy steps?”

>   Her eyes widened. “Is this dance #5?”

  “I believe it is,” he nodded.

  “I’ll have to check my card, sir.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was just takin’ a chance to ask you at this late date.”

  She opened up the palm of her hand as if reading something written on it.

  Sam could see dried blood, or jam—or both. When she threw her shoulders back straight, she was almost as tall as Fortune. “This is your lucky day, cowboy. Dance #5 is my only opening all evenin’.”

  He grabbed her right hand with his left and held the carbine behind her back. Piney leaned into him and he danced her out into the street.

  Two men on horseback stopped to watch, and customers drifted out of the shops and saloons to squint at the swirling dust of Antelope Flats.

  “You dance pretty good, cowboy,” she sang out.

  “With you, Piney, ever’ man is a good dancer.”

  Across the street he spotted Kiowa and Ladosa watching them from the back of the paneled wagon. He waved down toward the row of white cabins and kept dancing.

  They were in front of the Real Nice Hotel when Piney stopped dancing and began to sob. Fortune cradled her against his chest. “What’s the matter, darlin’?”

  “I don’t know where I live, Sammy!”

  “What?”

  The tears cut deep tracks down her dirty cheeks. “Some days . . . I cain’t remember where my cabin is. I got hurt, Sammy. I got hurt real bad, and some days I can’t find my way home.” She gasped for breath while he took his bandanna and wiped the corner of her eyes. “I’m too ashamed to ask. So I just wander around ’til dark.”

  He put his hand to the back of her head and pulled her close. “It’s OK, darlin’. I know which one it is. It’s the second one. Come on; you haven’t finished my dance.”

  She drew back and raised her chin. “You’re real pesky about that dance, ain’t you, cowboy? I’ve got a whole line of other men who want to dance with me too.”

  “Come on, Piney. Dance with me just a little more—please?”

  “I hate to see a grown man standin’ around beggin’ like this, but it’s the only dance you get tonight. I told you, my card is full.”

  They danced down the dirt street to the second in a row of white one-room cabins. He led her over to an uncovered wooden porch not more than three feet by four feet. He swung her around, and they sat on the porch steps.

  She dropped her chin to her flat chest. “You’re goin’ inside with me, ain’t you?” she murmured.

  “Why, look who’s walkin’ this way,” Sam said. “It’s Ladosa and Kiowa. Let’s invite them to come in with us, darlin’.”

  “It will be like havin’ company!” Piney giggled. “We ain’t had company in a long time, have we, Sammy?” She rested her head on his shoulder and began to weep.

  He gently rocked her back and forth.

  “This ain’t no way to live, Sammy. I prayed and prayed that the Lord would give me one bullet so I could end it all, if I mustered up the nerve.”

  If you hadn’t burned all your bridges, Sam Fortune, you could at least pray for Piney. Whatever happened to your middle son, Mama? How did I get here? I’m barely a step ahead of Piney. He stood up and tugged her to her feet.

  “Ladosa, how nice of you to stop by. And who is your gentleman friend?” Piney blurted out.

  Ladosa had to stand on her tiptoes to give Piney a hug. “You remember Kiowa, don’t you?”

  “He had the fourth dance at the Harvest Ball and stepped on my corn.” She addressed Kiowa, “How nice to see you, Mr. Fox, but I’m afraid my dance card is full.”

  Ten minutes later the two men exited the small, stuffy cabin. Sam carried the carbine in one hand and a scrap of heavy, brown, folded paper in the other.

  Kiowa pushed his black hat to the back of his head. “Seems strange that your daddy would send you his gun without a note explainin’ it.”

  Sam examined his own name on the paper. “This isn’t Daddy’s writin’: a woman wrote this. Maybe Rebekah wrote it.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “My brother Todd’s wife.”

  “How about your sister? Maybe she wrote it,” Kiowa suggested.

  Sam ambled to the middle of the street where a hand-pump water well was boxed off with graying, cedar one-by-twelves. “Nah, she’s just a girl . . . she wouldn’t . . .” He propped the carbine against the well casing.

  Kiowa surveyed up and down the street. “How old is she?”

  “Dacee June is thirteen years younger than me. That would make her . . .” Sam yanked off his red bandanna and jammed it in his back pocket. Then he unbuttoned his shirt halfway down his chest.

  “That would make her twenty-one, amigo. She is no little girl.”

  Sam stuck his head under the spout of the red pump and cranked it. “You’re right. Maybe Dacee June sent this,” he called out, then straightened, water streaming down his neck and shirt. “But why? Why send it to me?”

  “Maybe your daddy wanted to give you a present.”

  Fortune tugged out his bandanna, shook the dust out of it, and wiped his face dry. “He’s dead, Kiowa.”

  “What do you mean, ‘he’s dead’? They would have wrote you about that.”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe Piney can’t remember the letter.” Sam pumped some more fresh water and drenched the bandanna. “Daddy hasn’t been ten feet away from this carbine since we left Brownsville. I know he’s dead. What I don’t know is why this didn’t go to Todd. He’s the oldest. Maybe . . . he’s dead too.”

  “When’s the last time you heard from ’em?”

  Sam rung out the bandanna, then retied it around his neck. “I didn’t exactly want them to know I was in prison.”

  “When’s the last time you heard from them?” Kiowa pressed.

  “Four or five years, I reckon.”

  Kiowa plucked up the gun and studied it. “It’s a nice carbine, partner. When they converted them over to single-shot, .50 cartridges, they made a powerful saddle gun.”

  “And I don’t own a horse or even a bullet for it.”

  “Yeah,” Kiowa handed him the carbine, “but the people standin’ at the other side of that barrel don’t know that. Maybe we ought to rob the hardware since we don’t have a dozen .44 cartridges between us.”

  Sam held the gun by the receiver and looped the barrel over his shoulder. “I’m not goin’ to hold up anythin’ with Daddy’s carbine. He was a righteous man every day of his life. He was stubborn: He was wrong about the war; he was wrong about abandonin’ the ranch to carpetbaggin’ bankers; but he was a righteous man. It wouldn’t be right to use his gun for a robbery.”

  “OK, that eliminates one option,” Kiowa conceded. “But what are we goin’ to do, amigo? We didn’t do a very good job about keepin’ out of sight—what, with you dancin’ like a fool down the street.”

  “You got any money left, Kiowa?”

  “Two bits. You’re the one who had a dollar.”

  “I had to use it to get this carbine out of pawn.”

  Kiowa pushed his black hat back and let it dangle by the braided horsehair stampede string. “Ladosa told us we could try to sell the rest of that tonic.”

  “Let’s pack it all into that mercantile and see what they’ll give us in trade.”

  “It would be less work to rob a bank.” Kiowa bent under the red hand-pump and cranked an uneven stream of well water over the back of his neck.

  Then Sam pumped the handle while Kiowa washed his face. “Antelope Flats doesn’t have a bank.”

  “You know what I mean,” Kiowa called out from under the flow of clear water. “It don’t seem right for Fortune and Fox to trade patent medicine for bullets.”

  “Ladosa wanted to help Pin
ey get cleaned up and settled down. I’m not goin’ to stir up town while she’s doin’ that.”

  Kiowa shook his shoulder-length, wet, black hair like a dog after a bath. He surveyed the entire length of the Antelope Flats business district. “You know, partner, some towns is so pitiful, they just ain’t worth the effort to rob them.”

  Most of the customers in the mercantile seemed to be waiting for something to happen. A store full of eyes followed Sam Fortune’s every move. “We brought you six crates of that patent medicine, twelve bottles to a case, and that’s all you’ll give us in trade?”

  The bald man with white hair above his ears and a crisp white apron forced a small smile across his narrow mouth. “Boys, I can sell one bottle to ever’ family in town and still have five crates left over. There’s a limit to how many bottles of General Marsh’s a family needs. Two boxes of .44s, two pairs of spurs, one pair of socks, and one bandanna—that’s all I can give you.”

  “And a box of .50s for the Sharps,” Sam added.

  The stocky man fanned himself with a long, narrow bill of sale. “You boys are tryin’ to drive me out of business. I can’t give you one thing more. I really can’t. I just don’t need the stuff. Maybe you can try at some other store.”

  Sam surveyed the mirror on the wall behind the counter. I need a shave, a haircut, and a bath, and I’m buyin’ bullets? “How much for one of those amber bottles with the cork stoppers?” he asked.

  “A nickel apiece,” the man replied.

  “Good, we’ll take one pair of spurs and all sixteen of your amber bottles. That’s the same price I believe as two pairs of spurs,” Sam calculated.

  “What are we goin’ to do with those bottles?” Kiowa pressed.

  An older woman in a gray- and yellow-flowered bonnet leaned across the yardage counter trying to hear his reply. Sam almost shouted, “Take ’em out in the street and bust ’em.”

  “You’re not serious!” the storekeeper gasped.

  “Mister, as soon as we were out that door, you were goin’ to pour General Marsh’s into those amber bottles and sell it as fancy liquor for five dollars each. But I just bought the bottles, so you’ll have to keep it as patent medicine, won’t you?”