Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5)

by Brad Dennison

He continued on. About a mile later, he saw another rabbit. This one was off to his left, between the trail and the river, and was about the same distance as the first one had been. It took off, running in a zig-zagging path through the grass, but Charles knew the ways of rabbits, and knew it would run at a dead sprint for a short ways and then stop. The rabbit did as expected. Charles brought the rifle to his shoulder, and this time he didn’t miss. He would be roasting rabbit for supper tonight.

  Charles had heard Mister McCabe saying once that you couldn’t drink the water from this river. It was drinkable only if you boiled it for coffee water. Charles remembered the chuck wagon cook on one of the trail drives from Texas saying the same thing. There were little islands that were wooded, islands the water spilled around, so he rode Chance through the water to one of these islands and he used a small hatchet in his saddle bags to cut wood for a fire. He boiled river water for coffee and roasted his rabbit, and he and Chance stayed there for the night.

  From what Charles had heard, it took wagons a good two months to make it from the Missouri River to where the town of Cheyenne now was. But wagons traveled slowly, at walking speed. The settlers had their wagons packed full of supplies, and the wagons were pulled by teams of oxen or mules, and the settlers walked along beside them. Walking speed, all the way from Missouri to Cheyenne. Fifteen miles was a good day. Any mishaps along the way would limit them to only five or six miles. A man on a horse could cover a lot more ground, and in ten days, Charles found himself sitting in the saddle looking off at the skyline of St. Louis.

  Calling it a skyline made him chuckle a little. Nothing like what you saw in Manhattan.

  No sense to put this off, he thought as he sat in the saddle and looked off at the rooftops. He was here to attend to business. Might as well get to it.

  He gave Chance a nudge and they started in toward the city.

  65

  St. Louis was a city unlike any Charles had ever seen. Part full-fledged urban, and part frontier town. The street he rode along was paved with cobblestones, and along one sidewalk, a man in a tie and jacket and with a bowler on his head walked along arm-in-arm with a woman in a long dress with a lacey neckline and a hat that looked like it was out of a Parisian catalogue. But riding along the same street and passing Charles was a man in buckskins, with hair to his shoulders and a beard that fell to his chest, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat that looked like it had seen a lot of sun and rain.

  Charles reined up in front of the Missouri. A three-floor building of brick, with a green awning that stretched out and over the front door and the sidewalk, all the way to the street.

  A boy of maybe twenty stood in front of the door. He was in a military-style green jacket with gold braid on the shoulders and a green felt cap. A porter.

  Charles swung out of the saddle and walked up to the porter. Charles knew how things worked in the city, and he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a dollar bill.

  He said, “I need to know if an Adolphus Cole is still staying at this hotel.”

  The boy looked at him curiously for a moment. Charles supposed he did look a little ragged. Over two weeks on the trail, in the same clothes. The only bath he had received was when he and Chance were hit with a downpour a couple of days ago. Charles now had thin, young-man whiskers that were maybe a quarter inch long, and his hat and vest were decorated with a layer of dust and his shirt was rumpled. He was sure the porter could smell him before he even got off the horse.

  The boy finally said, “Sorry, mister. The hotel doesn’t give out the names of its guests.”

  Dang. This was going to cost him more cash than he had hoped it would. He had eight dollars remaining from his last pay. He pulled out five and handed it to the porter.

  The porter said, “I think I just might remember someone here by that name, but let me go check the registry.”

  Charles waited under the awning. He watched a couple cowhands go riding by. Texans, he figured. Wide, boss-of-the-plains hats and thick mustaches. They each wore their shirts buttoned up to the neck. They were in the city, after all. They each wore a vest, and one of them had the vest buttoned tightly. One wore a revolver high on his hip, and the other like Charles, at his left and turned backward for a crossdraw. They wore spurs with big rowels.

  The porter returned. “Yes, sir. If you need to know the room, it’ll cost you a sight more.”

  Charles didn’t have a sight more.

  Charles said, “Do you happen to know how long he’s registered for?”

  “Seems to be indefinitely.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Charles needed to be able to move about the city, but couldn’t do it looking like a saddle tramp.

  He headed for a bath house, and spent two dollars more of his hard-earned money soaking in a tub, with a mug of beer in one hand.

  By sunset, he emerged from the bath feeling more civilized. He was clean-shaven, and in a white broadcloth shirt that he had brought along in his saddle bags. He had brushed the dust from his vest and hat as much as he could. His pistol was in place at his side—no need to be too civilized.

  He had left Chance at a livery, so he walked down the street. His boots were now also dust free, and his spurs jingled a little as he stepped along. He was walking toward the Missouri, but there was no need to hurry. A man hurrying draws attention.

  Two women walked along toward him, maybe a little older than he was but not much. One in a blue checkered dress and another in gray. They also wore hats that, after eight years of living on the frontier, struck Charles as a little much. Each had a parasol.

  He touched the brim of his hat, and they nodded politely and continued on without a word.

  It had been late afternoon when he rode into the city and was fully dark by the time he got to the Missouri. This was the high-end part of town, and gaslights had been installed, and the street was illuminated with a pale light.

  Charles stepped into the Missouri and walked through the lobby, stepping as though with a purpose, and into the small restaurant all high quality hotels had attached to them.

  He removed his hat and glanced about, and immediately saw who he was looking for. Dolph was sitting at a table, a drink in front of him. Dolph looked more than just eight years older. Charles thought he looked like maybe twenty years had passed. His face had filled out and his hairline had pulled back a couple of inches, but it was still Dolph.

  Charles hadn’t expected to find him so quickly. After all, St. Louis had a lot of restaurants, some providing dining as fine as anything you would find in New York or Paris. Dolph could have gone to any one of them. Charles had been expecting to have to order a meal and wait a few hours and hope to find Dolph on his way in or out of the hotel. But here he was.

  Dolph was sitting at the table with his eyes fixed straight ahead but not really seeing what was there. He looked like a man with a heavy weight on his mind. Charles remembered their father sitting like that a lot. Not only the weight of responsibility, but the weight of guilt for all of the betrayals he had committed along the way to grow and maintain the family fortune. All of the men he had ruined. If Dolph was truly capable of hiring his own brother killed, Charles had to wonder what his father had been capable of.

  The room was filled to maybe half capacity, and the sound of a couple dozen men engaged in various conversations filled the air, making a sound as though they were all saying wa-wa-wa with occasional laughter thrown in. Some were businessmen. There were a couple of men sitting with women. A few men were in wider-brimmed hats and looked like cattlemen.

  There was a host at a stand that looked like a lecturn. He was in a tuxedo, and said, “Dining for one? Or will someone be joining you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to join a man who’s already seated,” Charles said.

  He strode across the floor, the heels of his riding boots tapping on the wooden floorboards and his spurs giving a little jingle. He approached Dolph’s table, and if Dolph had seen the motion out of the corner
of his eye, he didn’t react.

  Dolph took a sip of whiskey and set the glass down. Charles reached for the glass and took a sip himself. This got a reaction from Dolph, who gave him a look of surprise and indignance. Dolph said, “Now, see here!”

  “Single malt,” Charles said. “Your tastes haven’t changed any.”

  Dolph sat looking at him. It took him a moment, then he said, “Jehosaphat?”

  “The one and only,” Charles said. “Except everyone calls me Charles, these days.”

  Dolph stared for a moment. Then he said, “You’ve changed a little. But you’re still one of the tallest men I’ve ever met.”

  Charles didn’t wait to be invited. He slid out a chair and lowered himself to it. He set the glass back in front of Dolph.

  Two men at the bar began over, but Dolph held out a hand to them in a stopping gesture. They nodded and went back to the bar but kept a careful eye on the table.

  “Body guards?” Charles said.

  “I would be foolish to travel without them. A man of my stature and importance. I own nearly half of New York, now. Of course, you would know that, had you not run off.”

  Charles nodded. “I suppose I would.”

  “And now you’re back. I suppose you want your portion of the inheritance.”

  “I’m glad to see you too, Dolph. How have you been? Are you well? I’m fine, not that you’ve asked.”

  Dolph didn’t seem to appreciate the sarcasm. He said, “Well, is that why you’re here?”

  Charles shook his head. “I’m here because I want to hear it with my own ears. That you have hired a man to kill me.”

  Dolph said nothing.

  Charles said, “Three men in recent weeks have been sent to kill me. One worked alone, and a friend of mine killed him. Two of them rode together, and I handled them myself.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your misfortunes, but there is nothing to tie any of that to me.”

  Charles didn’t want to indicate that Wellington had seen him. After all, Wellington lived and practiced law in New York, and if Dolph was the man Wellington claimed he was, then Dolph could easily afford to ruin him. Maybe even have him killed.

  What Charles said was, “Maybe one of the gunmen you hired talked before he died.”

  “Why should you be entitled to any of the money? You walked away from it all. But Father left your name in the will. I’ll never understand why.”

  “Guilt, maybe. A man like he was had a lot to feel guilty about. How about you, Dolph? Are you a man like our father?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to leave.”

  “I want you to understand something, Dolph. I don’t want any of your money. Not one red cent. I have a life now, and people I care about. If you send anyone gunning for me again, I’ll come after you. And you won’t find me the same boy I was, back in New York. Your last two gunmen—I took them both out by myself. Two men, two bullets. And I didn’t work up a whole lot of sweat doing it.”

  Not entirely true. It was closer to five bullets, and he was really sweating by the end of it, but he was trying to make a point.

  Dolph gave him a look that reminded Charles of a wild cat eyeing its prey. A look that reminded him of Father.

  Dolph said, “Are you threatening me?”

  Charles said, “Yep.”

  Dolph looked over to the bar and nodded, and the two men started over. They were large men, though not as tall as Charles. They were each in a tie and jacket, and Charles was sure they were armed. Probably short-barreled revolvers somewhere under the jackets.

  Charles got to his feet. “Tell your men to back off.”

  Dolph ignored him. He looked to his men. “Throw him out of here. And make sure you hurt him a little. I want him to learn a lesson about whom he is dealing with.”

  One of the men grabbed Charles by the shoulder, and Charles snatched the man’s wrist and stepped back, pulling him with him, and dug one thumb into a tender spot just north of the man’s hand. The way Mister Chen had shown him. The man gasped in sudden, unexpected pain and dropped to one knee.

  The other man reached for a gun, but Charles was able to maintain his grip on the first man with his left hand, and with his right, he grabbed his own gun and beat Dolph’s thug to the draw.

  “Drop it,” Charles said, “or I’ll give you a new eye socket in your forehead.”

  Charles then heard guns cocking behind him. Four of them.

  Dolph chuckled. “Really, Jehosaphat. Do you think I would travel this far from home with only two men?”

  66

  They then heard two more guns being cocked from further behind. Charles glanced back, and saw two men he hadn’t expected to see. Dusty was there, in his buckskin shirt and his long hair. He wore a layer of dust, and in one hand was his revolver. Josh was beside him, equally covered in dust. His gun was also cocked and ready to fire.

  Patrons at tables all about them were jumping to their feet and scampering away. One woman screamed, and chairs were knocked over as some people ran to the far walls or ducked behind the bar, and others ran out the door.

  Charles said, “I would suggest your men drop their guns. They’re outnumbered.”

  Dolph looked at him like he thought had lost his mind. “There are only two of them.”

  “Do you know who these two are?”

  “It doesn’t matter who they are,” Dolph said. He looked at one of them. “Take them all.”

  Charles saw the intent in the gunman nearest him. The man’s pistol was aimed at him, and he saw the look in his eyes. He was going to fire. Charles fired first, and the man’s gun went off and Charles felt the bullet slam into his shoulder. Then guns were going off behind him.

  Dusty fanned two shots, and caught two men. Josh held his gun in one hand and fired, taking one man. A second man fired at him, but Josh was already ducking to one side, cocking his pistol as he moved and fired from the hip. The second man went down.

  A cloud of gun smoke swelled out around them like a fog, dissipating slowly in the still air of the room.

  As the smoke cleared a little, Charles was standing with his gun cocked. Josh and Dusty were doing the same. All five of Dolph’s gunmen were down on the floor. The one who had first grabbed Charles by the shoulder was still on one knee, holding onto his injured wrist. It was all that had saved him from being the sixth man down.

  Men ran into the room. Four of them, and they were in dark blue uniforms and each with a badge pinned to the front of his shirt. Each held a scattergun.

  “Don’t move, boys,” one of them said. “Drop them guns and put your hands in the air.”

  Four hours later, at the police station, the sergeant was giving them their guns back.

  “You’re free to go, boys,” he said. “Enough witnesses testified it was in self-defense. The DA says there’s no need for an inquest.”

  The sergeant was a man of maybe fifty, with a few extra pounds filling out the front of his uniform. He had a bushy mustache that hid his upper lip.

  Dusty slid his revolver back into its holster. “Inquests. A DA. Things are so much more civilized here in the city.”

  “It’s the way of the world, boys. Civilization is working its way west.”

  Josh said, “Let’s hope it doesn’t work its way too fast.”

  The bullet that hit Charles’ shoulder hadn’t done much damage. It was more a deep graze than anything. With five stitches and a bandage tied around it, he was free to go. He didn’t need a sling.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s two bullet scars I’ll have.”

  They hadn’t found any time to talk, so as they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Charles said, “Not that I don’t appreciate you boys being here, but I’m kind of surprised to see you.”

  Josh said, “We got home just a couple days after you left. They told us all about what had happened while we were gone, so we lit out after you.”

  Dusty nodded. “We tried to catch you, but you can make good time when you want
to. We were about an hour behind you when you rode down into the city.”

  Charles saw the porter from the Missouri crossing the street toward them. “I wonder what he wants.”

  The porter said, “Mister Cole. I have a note for you.”

  Charles opened it. Written in a flourishing hand was,

  Please meet me in my room at the Missouri. Room 202. I’ll be waiting.

  It was signed, Dolph.

  “Well, boys,” Charles said, “doesn’t look like it’s over yet.”

  They found Dolph in his room. There was one other man with him. He was smallish and thin, with white hair and a white mustache, and spectacles were perched on his nose.

  “No bodyguards?” Charles said.

  Dolph shook his head. “I don’t have any left. Besides, I don’t think they’d do any good against you boys.”

  Dolph introduced the older man. “Mister Hollingsworth, my attorney.”

  It didn’t take long to replace Wellington, Charles thought.

  Dolph said, “I want to know where we proceed from here.”

  “I don’t want your money. Simple as that. Leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  The attorney said, “There’s nothing that can be signed that would hold up under extreme scrutiny in court. With the right lawyer, you could materialize years from now and tie up my clients holdings in court for years.”

  “Where I live now,” Charles said, “a man’s word is as binding as any contract.”

  Dolph chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I don’t live in any such fantasy land. But signing a contract will be binding only until it’s challenged. If it’s challenged successfully, then it’s only as good as the paper it’s written on.”

  Hollingsworth nodded sadly.

  Charles said, “Here’s the deal. I’m going to make it verbally. You can accept it or not. You stay away from me, and you’ll never hear from me again. But if you send any gunmen after me again, and if they hurt anyone I care about, I’ll find you even if you’re all the way back in New York. I’ll throw you out a third floor window. You won’t be safe from me. Violence seems to be the only language Father understood, and apparently you’re a chip off the old block.”