Sunday's Colt & Other Stories

by Randy D. Smith

  “I don’t know how we would manage the rent,” she said apprehensively.

  “No rent. We’ll manage your cattle until the fall or until such time that your husband can manage them himself. You’ll have no grass for several weeks and your cattle will scatter. You’ll need the income from the calves to make it through the winter.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Your offer is quite generous.”

  He smiled. “Have you any food in the house?”

  “We have a store in the root cellar. We’ll make out.”

  “I’ll send you a load of provisions from Dodge.”

  She trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. Her voice cracked. “God bless you, Mr. Olive.”

  He looked to the earth again, unwilling or unable to accept her blessing. “How many head do you have?”

  “Fifty and a bull. At last count there were thirty-five calves but there may be more by now.”

  “Thad will fetch them today.”

  She nodded but did not speak for fear of breaking down.

  He nodded. “Thad will have the supplies to you within the week.”

  She bit her lip and nodded again.

  “We’ll be on our way. My best wishes to you and your family.” He wheeled his horse and started back to Dodge.

  She watched them ride away and turned to her oldest daughter. “He is a most generous man. Never forget what he has done for us this day.”

  ***

  Louisa Olive watched her husband struggle to pull on his coat. She could tell that the old wounds were plaguing him. “Do you need some help with that?”

  He shook his head. “I’m getting old. It’s that shoulder wound from the war. It gives me more grief each year.”

  She thought of the ragged scar from Vicksburg on his shoulder, the four bullet scars in his chest and neck, the shotgun pellet scars on his hip from the Texas raid and wondered that he was able to manage as well as he did. He was still a powerful man and strong in spite of his accumulated wounds and years in the saddle. “Did you pack your salve?”

  He pulled on his hat. “Yes, I couldn’t manage without that. I shouldn’t be gone more than a week. Look for me to be on the Thursday train.”

  “We have the church dinner Friday. I’d like you to take me.”

  He nodded and smiled. “I’ll be back Thursday for sure. All I have to do is see that the town is ready for the herds. I’m taking Uncle Sam with me. It shouldn’t take that long.” He cast a look at the holstered Colt revolver and gun belt hanging on a coat peg next to the back door.

  “Surely, you won’t need that.” She said.

  “No, I gave my word. I’m through with the gun. It’s just habit, that’s all. Make sure that Thad gets that wagon of supplies delivered to Robert Irvine’s widow. She’ll need those supplies more than ever now.”

  “It’ll be done. Thad hitched the wagon this morning and went to Zimmerman’s to get those goods.”

  He gave her a brushing kiss, picked up his bag, and stepped out the door.

  She watched him walk down the street to the corner and turn south toward the train station. She thought of the twenty-seven years of struggle and toil that they had been together. First there were the years in Texas after the war when he built the herd, the murder raid by rustlers, and the death of his brother, Jay. Then there were the years in Nebraska, the murder of his brother, Bob, and the two years Print spent in prison for lynching Bob’s killers; their new start in Dodge City after the blizzard of ’85, the town house, the horse ranch in Logan County, and the cattle pool on the Sawlog. They were moderately wealthy in spite of terrible losses and cruel twists of fate. He had changed after the prison sentence though—softened, carefully gauging his words and his actions. Even when the blizzard took nearly half his cattle he accepted it stoically and rebuilt his herd again. He did not rage and curse his fortune as he would have in the old days. She knew his rage wasn’t gone, but he was a temperate man now compared to the old days…a better man…a good husband. She hoped he wouldn’t drink too much in Trail City. Sometimes, when he drank too much the old, dark Print came back. She liked this Print much better.

  ***

  Seven small-frame buildings and an enormous cattle loading pen next to the railroad tracks made up Trail City, Colorado, forty feet from the Kansas border. Olive owned most of the town—the saloon, the livery stable, and the dry goods store. The town had largely been his idea and he had convinced investors that the newly formed National Cattle Trail would pay off handsomely when Texas cattlemen drove their herds to the closest eastern point—the Tick Line on the Atchinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad. He hadn’t counted on the new railroad reaching Fort Worth as quickly as it had, causing most of the southern herds to go there instead. But, in spite of that, one good year would allow them to break even on their investment. After that the westward driving railway would end the days of the Texas drives north to Kansas. Then, like so many times in the past, he would sell out and invest his money elsewhere.

  Print and Uncle Sam stepped from the passenger car and walked the empty single street toward the saloon. The first herd was due in a week and when it arrived the place would be transformed for a few days. Lonely, bored, gaunt cowboys would fill the settlement looking for whisky, new clothes, and a good time. Print expected seven herds ranging in size from two thousand to thirty-five hundred head would arrive in quick succession. He wanted all to be ready. Twenty cases of whisky, forty barrels of beer, and four thousand dollars worth of clothing, hats, boots, gun leather, and tack waited to be consumed by the Texans. His prices would be high but with no other settlement of note within seventy miles, the cowboys would have little choice of where to spend their money. It had to be that way. He had just one season to earn his investment back. Seven herds spending five thousand a piece would do it—just seven herds. Any more would mean a profit and he knew of seven on the way for sure.

  Tom Bennet stood behind the empty bar of the Trail City Saloon when Print and Uncle Sam stepped through the door. He smiled when he recognized the forty-nine year-old and his “gun nigger.” He had worked for Olive off and on for nearly five years, ever since Olive first settled in Dodge City. He was glad to accept the chance to run the saloon for him. He was getting too old for cowboying. The position took him off the back of a horse and into a store—warm in the winter, dry in the rain, and plenty of whisky. “I expected you might come in on the train. What can I get you, Mr. Olive?”

  Uncle Sam cut his eyes warily toward Olive when he ordered a Red Eye. Louisa had told him to watch her husband and to keep him from drinking too much, but Sam said nothing. It would do no good if he wanted a drink. Sam had been with Print through it all. He felt he knew Print Olive better than she did. She only saw one side of him. He hid his pain and his worries from her. Sam knew that inside the rough and confrontational exterior of a cattle baron there was also the weaker man—the man with wounds—deep, dark, and unsettling. Print drank to control his pain. He also drank to confront his demons. One was just as bad as the other.

  Jim Kelly had been Olive’s real “gun nigger.” Most men considered Sam to be just a lacky—a black face to replace one nigger with another. Sam knew better. He wasn’t the gun hand that Kelly had been in the old days, but Sam had stuck it out with Olive while he was in prison after Kelly left. Kelly had the bigger reputation and fame, but Sam was Olive’s friend and would remain so until they shoveled the dirt in his face. So what if Print drank a little too much—he needed it to cut the pain. Sam would see that he made it to his bed all right. That’s what a friend did.

  Tom Bennet poured two fingers in a shot glass and turned to place the whisky bottle back on the display case behind the bar.

  “Leave it,” Print said abruptly. “This shoulder of mine is giving me fits and that damned laudanum makes me sick.”

  Tom cut his eyes to Sam for approval then said, “Sure thing.” He set the bottle and absentmindedly wiped the bar with his towel.

  “Do you have any help
lined up when the first herd arrives?” Olive asked as he downed his glass and poured another.

  “Bucky Tide is going to work the days and Al Shipman’s old lady is going to help me with the night crowd.”

  “What about law? Have they found anyone to round up the drunks and keep the peace?”

  “Starky said that old Bill Grover would act as Justice of the Peace. Old Bill worked with the Mastersons in Dodge and is hell to pay with that sawed off Greener.”

  Olive chuckled and poured another drink. “Old Bill will keep things in order. I’m glad they were able to get him. He’s a crazy old coot, though.”

  “Dale Reeves hired a couple from LaJunta to run the café for him. She’s a fat old heifer but damn she’s a good cook. You ought to try one of her breakfasts. Her biscuits and gravy are just plain larapin.”

  Olive turned and gazed out the front window toward the Reeves’ House Café across the narrow street. “Good. Sam and I will give her a try for dinner and breakfast in the morning.” He picked up his bottle and took a seat at the table closest to the bar. The whisky was beginning to have an effect and he was mellowing. He stared at the empty shot glass and danced it softly along the table’s edge. “I need to get over to the livery and see that everything is ready there.”

  Sam smiled. “There’ll be time for that by and by.”

  Print looked out the window but his gaze was on the past. “This’ll be the end of it. Won’t be anymore trail towns after this season. The old days are gone.”

  Sam cut his eyes to Tom Bennet before answering. It was going to be all right. Print was mellowing rather than getting mean. “Yes, sir, Mister Print, them old days is sure enough gone.”

  Olive poured another glass but did not drink. He chose to study the oily texture of the dark amber liquid as he gently swirled it round the edge of the shot glass. “You remember Ellsworth? Now that was a rough trail town. Folks talk about the days in Abilene, Wichita, and Dodge but that damned Ellsworth damn near got me killed. How many years did we drive to Ellsworth?”

  “Just two, Mister Print. Just two.”

  “That feller just couldn’t believe that I wasn’t cheating. Hell, he bid wild on poor hands and thought I was cheating when he lost. If it hadn’t been for old Jim I’d a-been a goner that day. He shot me three times before I got a round off.” He stared into the whisky. “I spent damn near six months getting over those wounds.”

  “Yes, sir. You was a lucky man that day. Old Jim killed him dead just in the nick of time.”

  Print downed his whisky. “We don’t want nothing like that to happen here. Not before most of the herds are in. We don’t want to be driving off business. You need to watch them games carefully, Tom. Don’t let anything get out of hand.”

  Bennet nodded. “Old Bill will keep a tight rein on the place.”

  “You got to do it, Tom. Bill might not be around. If a feller is losing big, watch close. Step in and settle ’em down.” Olive poured another drink. “We don’t want anything like that Ellsworth business happening here in Trail City.”

  “I’ll watch it close,” Bennet said.

  Print was satisfied with the answer. He squinted as he tried to recognize two cowboys going into the Reeves’ House Café. “Who’s them fellers over there?”

  Bennet looked and shook his head. “Joe Sparrow and Ben Tate.”

  Olive tensed. “Joe Sparrow? What’s that grub line rider doing in town?”

  “Looking for work, I guess. They need some men to work the pens when the cattle come in.”

  Olive shook his head and downed another glass. “Can’t we do better than that?”

  “Most of the good men are working,” Bennet said as he stepped past the bar and gazed out the window. “I don’t think any solid outfit will use either one of them, but we’ll need men to load out those cattle and the pickings are slim.”

  Olive looked back to his bottle. “I guess so. Watch that bastard. He’s no good. Don’t lend him any money no matter what his story. He still owes me twelve dollars.” He poured another glass. “I need to get over to the livery.”

  “You want I should go for you?” Uncle Sam asked.

  Olive shook his head. “No, I got to do it myself. We’re driving several good mounts down from Logan County as replacement stock for them cowboys. I need to talk to Travers myself. We probably need to get something to eat. I need to clear my head a bit.”

  “You want to eat now?” Sam asked.

  Print hesitated. “No, let’s wait until Sparrow leaves before we go over there. I don’t want to try to keep my dinner down and listen to that worthless bastard run his mouth.” He poured another drink. “Besides, I promised Louisa that I’d steer clear of trouble.”

  Sam smiled as he recognized the irony. There was a time when Print Olive would have gone straight over to the café and demanded his twelve dollars at the point of a gun. A promise to Louisa would have meant nothing then. “Times sure do change,” he thought. He thought it but he didn’t say it.

  “Looks like he’s coming over here,” Bennet said as he recognized Sparrow and Tate leaving the café and walking toward the saloon.

  Olive shook his head and poured another drink in silence.

  Sparrow bolted through the door with Tate immediately behind. He was a tall, fair-haired, thin man in his thirties. “Goddamned cheapskates. Seventy cents a day to work our asses off loading them cattle. I got me half a mind to ride out.” He held up when he recognized Olive. “Well, I’ll be damned. How are you doing, I. P.?”

  Olive was friendly but reserved. “I’m all right, Joe. How are you?”

  Sparrow blustered and made for the bar, talking as he went. “Them goddamned cheapskates only want to pay me seventy cents a day to load cattle. Goddamned cheapskates!” He thumped the bar impatiently for a glass.

  “Seems like seventy cents a day ain’t bad money,” Tom Bennet said as he brought the whisky. “Hell, it beats cowboy wages.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you do it and I’ll run this bar and tell fellows how to conduct their business?”

  Sam anxiously cut his eyes to Olive. He relaxed when he saw Print smile wryly, shake his head, and pour another drink.

  “I was only saying that seventy cents a day ain’t bad money for loading cattle,” Tom apologized.

  “Well, you keep your goddamned opinions to yourself,” Sparrow snapped as Bennet poured their drinks. “I don’t need to take any shit off’n the likes of you.”

  Bennet poured the drinks and accepted the money.

  “Sons a-bitches around here. I got me a good mind just to ride out,” Sparrow muttered as he downed his whisky.

  “You owe me twelve dollars,” Olive said softly.

  “What? What’s that you said?” Sparrow asked.

  Print turned in his chair. His black eyes whisky-glistened. “You owe me twelve dollars.”

  “So what if I do? I’ll pay you.”

  “I wouldn’t think that a debtor like you could afford to be so particular about his work. And you ain’t a patch on Tom Bennet’s ass, so you watch your mouth.”

  Sparrow’s posture weakened. “I know I owe you, I. P. I don’t know what that has to do with this.”

  Print’s frame trembled as he struggled to control his anger. “You come into my business a-bitching about having to do an honest day’s work for a day’s wages—wages that most men would be proud to take—and how you think you ought to just ride out, and owing me twelve dollars and talking to my man like that. Jesus damn! You are one worthless son-of-a-bitch!”

  Sam wanted to go to Print and settle him down, but he didn’t. When he was drinking there was no point in trying to intervene until after he had said his piece. It would only make him angrier.

  Sparrow’s eyes cut to Print’s right hand to see if he had a gun in it. He spoke quietly, almost apologetically. “I guess I have a right to an opinion.”

  Print remained in his chair. The anger was subsiding but his eyes remained black. “Not in her
e you don’t. You’ll show some respect by God, or get the hell out.”

  Sparrow nodded. “I don’t want no trouble, I. P. I was just a-thinking out loud.”

  Print looked at his glass and reached for his bottle. “That’s the trouble with you, Joe. You don’t think much at all. You just run your mouth.”

  Sparrow turned to the bar and downed his whisky. He stood quietly and allowed his anger to grow. “It’s easy for you to talk down to me, ain’t it? Especially, since you got your gun nigger watching my back.”

  Bennet stiffened and stepped away from Sparrow. Tate stepped back in the other direction. Sam’s eyes cut to Print fearfully before he remembered that he wasn’t armed.

  Print sat stiffly. His features hardened as he digested what Sparrow had said. “You think I need anyone’s help to take down a dreg like you?”

  Sparrow knew he had gone too far. He held his tongue and shook his head.

  “Maybe we ought to be getting something to eat, Mister Print,” Sam said.

  Print did not answer. His cold black stare bore through Sparrow’s back.

  “We used to be good friends, I. P.,” Sparrow finally said. “Hell, I used to ride for you. I don’t want no trouble.”

  Print seemed to relax. He cut his eyes to Sam. “Maybe we had ought to get something to eat.”

  Sam nodded and started for the door.

  Print stood and glared at Sparrow’s back. “The next time I see you, you better have that twelve dollars. If not, it will be the last time.”

  Sparrow nodded and looked down at the bar.

  Sam waited and followed Print out the door.

  They ordered their meal and ate in silence. Print was absorbed in his thoughts.

  Sam was sipping his after-dinner coffee when Print sighed. “I guess I got carried away in there.”

  Sam looked up and nodded. “Well, Mister Print, Joe Sparrow ain’t much of a man.”