“A hundred and twenty-five dollars worth of defense,” Story said. “I paid for the damage to the saloon and had the sheriff release the soldiers.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Dutch Mayfield. “We escaped.”
“You don’t escape from anything, where the army’s involved,” Story said. “You only delay things until they catch up with you. By tomorrow, a company of soldiers would have been looking for you. I have important business here that will involve the army, and I can’t very well negotiate with them if they’re filing charges against half my outfit.”
“Damn it,” said Cal, glaring at the escapees, “you’ve ruined any chance the rest of us had for getting into town.”
“Not necessarily,” Story said. “They won’t be going in again, but the rest of you can go tomorrow. Just stay out of trouble with the law and with the military. The rest of you end up in the juzgado, you’ll have to escape, because I aim to leave you there.”
It was after dark when Greener, Slim, and Shadley finally rode in.
The following morning, the second half of the outfit headed for town, with the exception of Coon Tails, who declined to go.
“I’ll stay here an’ keep this bunch from gittin’ in trouble,” said the old mountain man.
“Damn,” Hitch said, “we ain’t never gonna live that down.”
“We knowed better,” said Arch, “but Mr. Story’s right. He went to a hell of a lot of trouble, gettin’ us out of Texas, for us to get in trouble with the Unions over a damn saloon fight.”
“Maybe it was a fool thing to do,” Gus Odell said, “but it was almost worth it, seein’ Quickenpaugh pull that trick with the fireworks.”
Story rode back to the fort, knowing better than to approach Captain Ferguson with his request for the Remington rolling-block rifles. Instead he appealed to Jenks McCarty, the civilian freight agent.
“Thirty? My God, Nels, I ain’t got that many drivers,” said McCarty.
“Does the army actually know how many bull whackers you have?”
“No,” McCarty said, “but—”
“You can get the Remingtons, then,” Story said.
“Well, yes, but some of my teamsters still don’t have one.”
“But all your teamsters aren’t on the trail,” said Story, “and my men are going to be. You have some time, and I don’t. If the army’s testing this weapon, it means they’ve ordered a bunch.”
“Ten thousand, I hear,” McCarty said.
“Damn it, Mac, I need those rifles. I’ll make it worth your while. Do you have any freight for Virginia City?”
“Some. Nothin’ even close to a full load. It’ll have to wait till I do.”
“No it won’t,” said Story. “You get me those rifles, and you can load your Virginia City freight on one of my wagons.”
“Check with me tomorrow,” McCarty said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When the second half of Story’s outfit reached town, the men reined up at the barbershop.
“Lorna, Curly, and me are going to the mercantile,” Jasmine said.
“It’s near dinnertime,” said Cal. “When we’re lookin’ human again, let’s find a fancy place and get some town grub. One of us will come and get you.”
“You reckon they’ll look any better?” Lorna asked as the three of them rode away to find the mercantile.
Jasmine laughed. “Probably not, but it makes them feel better.”
When they entered the huge store, Lorna and Curly followed Jasmine to the area that featured women’s clothing.
“I aim to have some muslin for that bad time of the month,” said Jasmine. “The three of us can share a bolt.”
“What—” Curly began, and then recognition hit her. “Hell’s fire, they sell stuff . . . for that?”
“God, Curly,” Lorna said, “you was better off bein’ a man.”
The ladies’ dresses were long and flowing, their hems sweeping the floor. Jasmine held one of them in front of her, and Curly swore.
“You get all gussied up in that, and you’re naked under there. Just how in tarnation do you aim to squat or sit down, without—”
“Pantaloons,” said Lorna, snatching up a pair. “You wear them under the dress, to cover your bottom.”
“Levi’s cover my bottom,” Curly said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in . . . in that thing.”
“Then if you ever wear a dress,” said Jasmine, “be careful how you sit, and don’t ever squat.”
Curly had stopped to look at a pile of flesh pink corsets in varying sizes, displayed on a table.
“Looks like somebody scraped a bunch of hogs,” Curly said, “gutted ’em, and then laced their bellies up again.”
“When you get old—maybe thirty—and you’ve had too many younguns,” said Lorna, “you tie yourself up in that, and it keeps you from looking so big.”
“I don’t aim to get old or have younguns,” Curly said, “and if I did, I’d take a Colt and shoot myself ’fore I’d stuff my carcass into somethin’ like that.”
“Well,” Jasmine sighed, “we’ve ruled out all the finery. What are we actually going to buy?”
They had attracted the attention of a female clerk who had begun to wonder the same thing. Hearing Jasmine’s words, she approached.
“I want some denim shirts and Levi’s pants,” said Lorna.
“In what size?”
“My size,” Lorna said.
“We have nothing like that for ladies,” the woman said primly. “You’ll have to go to the men’s department.”
Curly found that hilariously funny, and when the three of them headed for the other side of the store, the mystified clerk seemed relieved to be rid of them. Lorna bought two shirts and two pairs of Levi’s pants, and from there Jasmine led them to the bolted cloth and sewing goods.
“Needles, thread, buttons, and some shears,” said Jasmine. “I reckon the rest can wait until we reach Montana Territory.”
“Let’s ride back to the barbershop,” Curly said. “I don’t like the way this bunch in here keeps lookin’ at us.”
Story found a wagon yard and made arrangements to buy four wagons. From there he went to a livestock dealer and bought four team of oxen, to be picked up when he had hired his teamsters. Neither could he load the wagons until he had drivers for them. He rode back to the Plains Hotel and had dinner with Jubal Holden and Handy Lemburg.
“I knowed you’d git them Remingtons if they was to be had,” Lemburg said, laughing, “and you won’t be sorry.”
Story had just stepped out the hotel’s front door when a slug slammed into the doorjamb, just inches from his head. The shot had come from across the street, and before he could make a move, a freight wagon had driven between him and the position from which the bushwhacker had fired. By the time the wagon had gone, there was nobody in sight. Angrily, Story recalled the trying days on the Brazos, a killer stalking him, and finally the fateful, stormy day when the bastard had gunned down Cal Snider. If this one was of the same stripe as the man he had shot on the Brazos, Story thought, then this bushwhacker might make their lives miserable along the trail until the man stopped playing games and killed him or one of his riders. The solution was simple, Story decided. His bull-whacker friends, Levi Puckett and Waddy Summers, wouldn’t return until the twenty-sixth. His only defense against the bushwhacker was to catch him in the act and gun him down. The gunman had tried once, and given the opportunity, he would try again. While he waited for Puckett and Summers, Story thought, he would make himself a target, but not the kind of target the bushwhacker would expect. A rattler-swift target, with a blazing Colt in each hand . . .
There were only two barbers, and it seemed forever before the riders were out of the barbershop. Cal Snider and Tom Allen were the last to leave, and when they came out, except for Bud McDaniels, the rest of the men were gone.
“We should have eaten first,” Jasmine said. “For the time it took, none of you look that much better.”
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“Thanks,” said Tom. “It always makes a man feel nine feet tall, blowin’ six bits tryin’ to look human, only to be told he’s wasted his money. Does anybody else aim to insult me, or can we go eat?”
“Let’s go eat,” said Lorna. “We can insult you anytime.”
“Let’s try the hotel dining room,” Cal said.
They mounted their horses, but Curly hadn’t made a move.
“Come on, Curly,” Bud begged. “Let’s go with them.”
“Come with us, Curly,” said Jasmine. “If Bud gets smart with you, I’ll spank him.”
Bud reddened but said nothing, for it had won Curly over. Laughing, she mounted her horse, Bud mounted his, and they rode off toward the Plains Hotel.
* Fort Leavenworth was built in 1827 to protect those who traveled the Santa Fe Trail. The town of Leavenworth, settled in 1854, flourished as a supply point on westward travel routes.
*The Remington rolling block rifles were the first modern breechloaders made, and were manufactured virtually without change from 1866 to 1933.
16
The day before Puckett and Summers were to return, Story spent another day in town. He hadn’t told the outfit of this new ambush threat, nor did he intend to, unless he was forced to leave Fort Leavenworth with the man still on the loose and stalking him. In the past several days, he had ridden out of town occasionally, hoping he would be followed, but the bushwhacker hadn’t taken the bait. His kind preferred to kill from cover, taking the victim by surprise. One of the inherent problems of stalking a man in daylight was the possibility that the hunted might lay an ambush of his own, thus becoming the hunter. So if the bushwhacker were to be tempted, he must be made to feel safe, to believe that ultimately he would have an opportunity to waylay Story in darkness.
Story decided to make it appear that he intended being away overnight, perhaps for several nights, and alone. He went to the livery, rented a mule and packsaddle, and rode from there to the mercantile. There, he loaded the mule with trade goods he would later transfer to one of the wagons. With the mule fully loaded, Story tarried around town until the day was well-spent, knowing that the bushwhacker must have time enough to become aware of his intentions.
When Story eventually rode out, it was to the south. If his adversary stopped to try and make any sense of the move, he likely wouldn’t follow, but if he had a reason for wanting Story dead, he would get no better opportunity than this. Story kept to the plains, where there was little or no cover, knowing this wouldn’t antagonize his pursuer. If the killer was following, he wouldn’t make his move until he felt secure in darkness. An arroyo with a creek and some sheltering willows provided exactly the setting Story sought, and he stopped there, supposedly for the night. He unsaddled, picketed his horse, and unloading the mule, picketed the animal near his mount. He then started a fire, put on some water to boil, and made coffee. He presumed that the odor of coffee and the smoke from the concealed fire would enable the bushwhacker to find him.
Once it was dark enough to conceal his activity, Story arranged his blankets and bedroll in such a way that it appeared he was sleeping, head on his saddle, hat over his eyes. Moving back into the shadow of the arroyo’s overhang, he settled down to wait. The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, and with the starlight, it was enough. It was exactly the kind of setting that appealed to a western man, and Story dozed to the sound of the horse and mule grazing.
He was instantly alert when the grazing abruptly ceased. The bushwhacker—or something—was approaching. In the starlight the killer would be skylined, but Story didn’t need even that. Once the killer fired into his bedroll, Story knew he would have all the target he needed. The horse snorted, and Story held his breath. If the animal became too alarmed, only a fool would expect a frontiersman to sleep through that. But the horse and mule again began to graze, and Story settled back to wait. But the wait was short, and he sensed the man’s presence before the shots came.
Story had his Colt cocked and ready, and when two shots blasted out of the darkness, Story fired. Once at the muzzle flash, and a second time to the right of it. The horse nickered, the mule brayed, and then there was only the sound of the animals grazing as they again settled down. Story got to his feet, and when there was no response to his movement, he walked to the point where he could climb the bank of the arroyo. A pale quarter moon was on the rise, and by the time he neared the bushwhacker’s position, he could see the dim outline of the man. He lay on his back, both arms flung above his head, and there was no sign of a gun. Story hunkered down, lighted a match, and found himself looking into the dead face of Ken Tanner.
“You escaped the rope at Alder Gulch,” Story said. “You were a damn fool not to quit while you were ahead.”
With a sigh, Story got to his feet. Surely this would be the end of it. He turned Tanner’s horse loose, loaded the mule, and rode back to town. It was still early, and the night man let him into the wagon yard, where he transferred the load of goods from the mule into one of his wagons. He then returned the mule and the packsaddle to the livery, left his horse there for the night, and took a room at the Plains Hotel. He was suddenly tired, but having had only coffee for supper, his belly was lank. It being Sunday night, the hotel dining room was open, so he had steak, potatoes, and coffee. He returned to his room, blew out the lamp, and went to bed.
Dinner in the Plains Hotel dining room was an event to be remembered, especially for Curly. She laughed, talked, and didn’t swear even once. Bud McDaniels was encouraged, while Cal, Lorna, Tom, and Jasmine were amazed.
“Maybe we can do this again, a kind of celebration,” Jasmine said, “when we reach Virginia City. That is, if Virginia City has a hotel with such a fancy dining room.”
“Of course Virginia City has a hotel with a dining room,” said Tom, with a laugh. “Having you imply that we’re not at least as good as Leavenworth wounds me deeply. Fortunately, though, I heal quickly.”
“You talk like that slimy lawyer my daddy’s always meeting with,” Lorna said.
“Well, thanks,” said Tom. “If one of you will lift my rock, I’ll crawl back under it.”
Around the same time, leaving the barbershop, Manuel Cardenas, Bill Petty, Oscar Fentress, Smokey Ellison, Mac Withers, and Shanghai Wolfington began looking around for something to occupy them. The town had an abundance of saloons, but it seemed there was little else.
“After a man gits a bath and his ears lowered, there ain’t nothin’ left but the saloons,” Smokey said.
“There’s whorehouses,” said Mac. “Shadley, Slim, and Greener spent the day in one yesterday.”
“They must’ve rented a room and slept there,” Bill Petty said. “Otherwise, I doubt the three of ’em would have been there more’n ten minutes.”
“I stays outta dem places,” said Oscar. “I ’fraid I git somethin’ I don’ pay fer.”
“There are the saloons,” Manuel Cardenas said. “Riesgo.”*
“That’s likely safe enough,” said Shanghai. “It’s early in the day, but there’s more’n enough of us fer a good poker game.”
They chose a likely looking place called the Bullwhip. There were plenty of tables, for the saloon was empty, except for a sleepy bartender. The six riders went to the bar and ordered beers, and the bartender came to life long enough to serve them.
“Business kind of slow, ain’t it, hoss?” Shanghai observed, in the way of conversation.
“Too damn early for drinkin’,” said the bartender. “ ’Cept for them that likes drinkin’ early,” he added hastily.
The riders pushed a pair of tables together and sat down. Manuel had a deck of cards, brand new. He broke the pack, pouring the cards from one hand to the other in graceful spirals.
“No wonder he wants to gamble,” Smokey said. “He’s a damn cardsharp.”
They all laughed, but before they’d played the first hand, two men came into the saloon that brought all play to a halt. One of them was Paschal Stewart, the re
negade who had escaped the canyon ambush.
“We don’t want no trouble,” said Shanghai quietly. “Ignore the varmint.”
But Stewart wouldn’t be ignored. Once his eyes became accustomed to the dim interior of the saloon, he stood with his back to the bar, openly staring at the six men seated at the table. Glass in hand, Stewart walked over to the table and stood there facing Bill Petty.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before, pilgrim, and it wasn’t a happy meetin’.”
“I doubt it,” Petty said coolly. “I’m choosy about the company I keep.”
Stewart leaned across the table and deliberately poured the remainder of his beer on Petty’s poker hand. Bill Petty moved like chain lightning. He snatched a fistful of Stewart’s shirt, dragged him across the table, and drove a hard right to his chin. He then took Stewart by the back of his belt and dropped the renegade facedown, raising a cloud of dust.
“Hey,” bawled the bartender, “no fighting in here.”
“Who’s fighting?” Petty asked. “This hombre’s lackin’ in manners, and I just showed him the error of his ways. If he comes to and wants a fight, we’ll do it outside.”
Stewart’s companion still stood at the bar, making no move, saying not a word. It was Shanghai who spoke, and his voice seemed loud in the stillness.
“He’s lookin’ fer trouble, Bill. Mr. Story ain’t gonna like this. Maybe we oughta ease out, while we can.”
“I’ve known Nels since vigilante days in Alder Gulch,” Petty said, “and he wouldn’t run from this. Neither will I. I’m my own man, and I’ll take responsibility for whatever I have to do. The rest of you back off, and when this varmint’s able to stand on his hind legs, it’s his move. But if there’s any runnin’ to be done, he’ll be the hombre doin’ it.”
The bartender was easing toward the door, and Petty stopped him.
“If you’re goin’ for the sheriff, don’t bother. I want you here, with your eyes and ears open, when this coyote wakes up. If he needs some more education, we’ll go outside, but I want you to witness his intentions.”
The Virginia City Trail Page 22
