The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  Joe Perry, on Ray’s left, was a Kentuckian by birth, maybe twenty-eight or thirty, lean and muscular. He had coal-black hair, a thick beard, a quick smile, and a temper that was just as swift. He’d learned the mule trade during the war, hauling freight for the Confederacy, and had stayed with it afterward. It was rumored that Joe’s father owned a sizable chunk of farmland along the Rolling Fork River below Louisville, and that Joe stood to inherit about five hundred acres of it if he would give up his wayward life as a muleskinner and return home. Those who knew him best doubted if he ever would. They said Joe liked his freedom too much to settle down where the horizons never changed.

  The muleskinners stopped beside Peewee, facing Buck in a semicircle. Looking almost embarrassed, Ray shoved the parcel he was carrying into Buck’s hands. “Here,” he said gruffly. “This is yours.”

  “We all decided, Buck,” Peewee added quickly. “It ought to belong to you.”

  Buck unwrapped the bundle slowly, but he already knew what he would find inside. He could feel its coils through the coarse sacking like a resting snake. Peeling back the last fold, he stared numbly at Mase’s twelve-foot bullwhip, purchased so many years ago from H.K. Knight, out of Chicago. The last place he’d seen it had been on top of Mase’s casket, where he’d assumed it had been interred with the body.

  Buck turned the whip over in his hands. The black, tightly woven lash slid smoothly through his fingers, cool and alive to the touch, leaving the slightly oily trace of well-cared-for leather on his fingers. Twin poppers of soft lead, encased in slim leather pouches at the tip, added weight and crack to the whip’s snap, and a basket-weave design on the hickory handle ensured a firm grip. The hard knob of woven leather on the butt was crowned with a silver concho, and on that had been engraved the image of a span of mules, their knees bent, heads low as they leaned into their collars. The initials M and C had been added on either side of the team.

  Buck took a deep, wrenching breath, then looked up to meet the muleskinners’ eyes. Joe and Nate were grinning broadly. Ray looked half peeved, as if he expected rejection. Peewee’s demeanor was more optimistic, although he was clearly aware of the emotions the gift had dredged up.

  “You don’t have to use it,” Peewee said. “It was just an idea me ’n’ the boys had.”

  “What!” Joe exclaimed. “Sure he’s gotta use it. That’s why we grabbed it off Mase’s casket. We sure as hell ain’t gonna go back and bury it with him now.”

  “No,” Buck agreed, “it’s too late for that. Besides, I’m … I’m glad you kept it. I appreciate it.” He twisted part way around to fasten the whip to a leather thong on his gun belt, just in front of the knife he wore on his left hip and where, on the trail, he normally carried his own plain but sturdy ten-footer. Dropping the hem of his coat over the coiled lash, he said: “Tell the boys thanks. Tell them I’ll talk to them about it tomorrow.”

  Ray grinned as if in relief, and Nate and Joe laughed, slapping Buck good naturedly on the shoulder before turning away. Ray and Peewee followed them across the tracks, but Buck took a moment to collar the sudden stab of anguish within himself, before heading into town to see Jock.

  It had been a pleasantly warm day after what had turned out to be a long, damp spring, but, with the sun already down, the desert’s chill was creeping into town like a banished thief. Buck pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders as he trod the familiar path to the Box K office. A lantern hanging from an iron hook above the main door partially illuminated the bright green lettering of Kavanaugh Freight, arched boldly across the front of the building. Inside, a clerk was working late, wrapped in a cocoon of yellow lamplight. He looked up when Buck entered, then nodded to the rear door, where a small brass plaque read: PRIVATE. At his knock, Jock called for him to enter.

  There were three men inside the office. Jock sat behind his desk with a tumbler of bourbon on the leather pad in front of him. Walt Jepson stood beside the desk with a sheaf of papers in one hand. And in a chair in front of the desk, filling out even more paperwork, was the Kansas muleskinner, Milo Newton.

  Milo gave Buck a guarded nod, then returned his attention to the form in front of him. From its heading, Buck recognized a standard Box K contract. Jock lifted his chin in question and Buck closed the door. “It’s done,” he said. “It was tight, but it’s all on board and buckled down. We’ll be ready to pull out at first light with your say-so.”

  “You’ll have it,” Jock promised, then indicated the new man with a tip of his head. “I believe you’ve met Mister Newton.”

  “Uhn-huh, last night.”

  “I hired him in part because he says you recommended he come here. I had in mind to either assign him to you as your ramrod, or have him carry express to some of the Sawtooth camps. I still need a packer for that contract.”

  “I’ll take him,” Buck said, crossing the room to shake the Kansan’s hand. He hadn’t forgotten the feelings Milo had stirred in him last night over the Chihuahua tales, but he’d decided later that Newton had made no accusations, and Buck couldn’t fault a man for curiosity. “Besides,” he added, “he’s got too much experience to tote second-class mail over the mountains on a jackass.”

  Milo smiled in gratitude. “I was hoping for a job handling a jerkline. I hardly expected to be made a ramrod.”

  “None of the old hands wanted the job,” Jock informed him. “I wouldn’t have offered it to you if they had.”

  “Well, just the same, I’m glad for the opportunity.”

  Nodding to the papers in Walt’s hands, Jock said: “Are those Buck’s?”

  “Yes, sir, but I haven’t finished them yet.”

  “Go ahead and get ’em done. Buck and I have some business to discuss.” He glanced at Milo. “Questions?”

  “No, sir.” Milo handed the signed contract to Walt, then stood and shook Jock’s hand. “Thank you for the job. You won’t regret it.”

  Jock’s expression was inscrutable. “I hope not.” He nodded to the back door that led to the wagon yard. “I’ve got a team of sorrels in the stable … horses. Hitch them to my carriage and we’ll drive out to the camp in a few minutes. I’ll introduce you to the men.”

  Milo nodded and flashed Buck a grin as he made his way to the rear door. Buck stiffened as he passed, his gaze drawn to the cuff of the Kansan’s tan trousers, where the hard heels of a pair of drover’s boots rapped hollowly against the wooden floor.

  Buck walked to the door to watch Milo cross the wagon yard to the stables, recalling the solitary heel print he’d found behind the flat-roofed stock shed the night before.

  “Something wrong?” Jock asked.

  “You don’t see a lot of muleskinners wearing drover’s boots.”

  Jock shrugged without interest. “Let’s get down to business,’ he said. “Walt, leave the contracts for the independents with me, and when you’re done with the invoices, leave the ones Buck will need on your desk. I’ll find them when I want them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walt replied, hurrying out of the room.

  Buck dropped into one of the ladder-back chairs in front of the desk, and Jock said in a suddenly annoyed tone: “I won’t make a habit of this, but, under the circumstances, I’ll honor the request.” He fixed Buck with an unblinking stare. “Dulce asked that you not come by to see her tonight.”

  Buck’s head came up in surprise. “Why not?”

  “I delivered her message,” Jock replied brusquely. “I won’t speculate upon hidden meanings.” His expression softened then. “It’s not as bad as you imagine. If it were up to me, I’d tell you, but I promised Dulce I wouldn’t.” He picked up the contracts for the independents that Walt had left behind. “You’re probably familiar with some of these men.…”

  Jock’s voice faded as Buck mulled over Dulce’s message. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d done something wrong, maybe hurt her feelings somehow.

  “… Kroll will probably try to wrestle some kind of leadership with the drivers. It’ll be your
job to.…”

  “Kroll!” Buck exclaimed, straightening in his chair. “Mitchell Kroll?”

  Jock hesitated and his lips thinned irritably. “If I hadn’t once courted lier mother.…” he started, then sighed. “What didn’t you hear?”

  “I guess I didn’t pick up that Mitch Kroll was one of the independents,” Buck admitted self-consciously. “Who else is signed on?”

  Independents owned their own rigs and hired out to whoever offered the best contract. They were a varied lot, nearly all of them tough as nails. Most were good* hard-working men, but the freedom of the road attracted a rougher element, too, teamsters who weren’t opposed to doing whatever they felt was necessary to guarantee a profitable load. Mitch Kroll fell into that category—a large-framed man of incredible strength, cruel and dark. A rumor some years ago claimed Kroll had once taunted a competitor along the Denver Trail into a fist fight, then deliberately broke the man’s spine. Two days later, when no one else could be found—or were too afraid to attempt it— Kroll had contracted to haul the crippled teamster’s load of perishables into Denver at triple the going rate.

  Shuffling through the contracts on his desk, Jack said: “I hired Keho Kona. You know Big Kona, don’t you?”

  Buck nodded. Keho Kona was a Sandwich Islander, from the big island called Hawaii. He was a large man, too, although on a different scale than Kroll, who was all muscle, thick hide, and bone. Big Kona was shorter and fleshier, with jet-black hair and a dusky complexion. He had legs as solid as oak stumps, but so short they stuck out on either side of his big nigh wheeler’s barrel at an almost comical angle, rather than hanging naturally along the mule’s side. He was a good man, though, and well thought of in the business.

  “Lyle Mead?”

  “I know who he is. Peewee says he’s new to the territory.”

  “Claims he’s from back East,” Jock said distractedly, a frown creasing his forehead. “He’s a strange one. I can’t help thinking.…” He shook his head, letting whatever he was about to say trail off. “I know even less about these last two. Little Ed Womack’s got that Mexican swamper, Manuel Varga, that some say is jinxed.”

  “Does that worry you, hiring a Jonah?”

  Jock snorted dismissingly. “Then there’s Garth Lang, who says he just came up the trail from San Diego with a load of oranges, lemons, and avocados for the Salt Lake City market. I hadn’t heard of either him or Mead before a couple of days ago.” He tossed the contracts on his desk. “I admit it bothers me to hire men I don’t know.”

  “What about swampers?” Buck asked, meaning the second man, hired out of the teamster’s own wages, who helped with the stock and manned the brakes on downgrades. Not many teamsters used them any more. Among the Box K drivers, only Nate kept his son on, at least when Rossy wasn’t night hawking the remuda. The rest manned their own brakes with long cotton ropes strung between the brake levers and the saddle horn of their near-wheelers.

  “Mitch Kroll has a man called Bigfoot Payne, who’s supposed to be a simpleton,” Jock said. “Womack has Varga.”

  “Are they all already across the river?”

  “The independents were there as of sunset yesterday. You sent the last Box K wagon over tonight.” He gave Buck a wry look. “As I was saying, Mitch Kroll will probably challenge Pee-wee for leadership among the drivers, especially the independents. He’s not to get it, under any circumstances.”

  Buck nodded, although he wasn’t worried. “Peewee’ll put him in his place if he tries,” he said.

  Jock grunted, then smiled grudgingly. “You may be right. For a small man, Peewee carries an extraordinary amount of authority. Still, if it looks like Kroll is up to something, stop him … any way you have to. I don’t care for his reputation. I wouldn’t have hired him at all if my back wasn’t against the wall with Bannock Mining.”

  “What about Bannock’s representative? Has he shown up yet?”

  Jock hesitated. “There’s some confusion right now as to who BMC’s representative will be, but I’ll have it sorted out by tomorrow.” He drummed his fingertips thoughtfully atop his desk. “Walt will have your bills of lading ready within the hour, but there’s no point in you waiting around for them. Come by the office in the morning, before you head out to camp. You can pick up your paperwork then and … there may be some kinks we’ll need to work out at the last minute.”

  “What kind of kinks?”

  “Just stop by the office in the morning. It might not be anything.”

  “All right,” Buck said, heading for the door.

  “Buck,” Jock called, stopping him. “Don’t worry about Dulce. You’ll see her tomorrow, too. I guarantee it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The soft tread of footfalls in the hall outside Arlen’s door caused the flesh across the back of his neck to crawl as if his collar had suddenly become infested with fleas. With the rusty Manhattan clutched tightly in hand, he moved swiftly to the far corner of the room he was renting above 25th Street, in Ogden, and ducked behind a rickety pine highboy.

  From a lumpy chair across the room, the whore known as Mousetooth Millie cackled loudly. “Wasamatter, honey?” she quizzed. “You ’fraid of that ol’ bogeyman?”

  “Shut up!” Arlen hissed as the footsteps came to a stop outside his room. A single, heavy rap seemed to rattle the door on its hinges, and Arlen’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently.

  “Open up, Fleck.”

  Recognition didn’t ease Arlen’s fears one bit. “It’s open, Nick,” he returned. “Come on in.”

  “Open this god-damn’ door, you half-witted son-of-a-bitch!”

  Slouched loosely in her chair, fat Millie brayed laughter and spittle with equal abandon.

  Arlen’s face grew warm as he stepped clear of the highboy. Sheepishly returning the Manhattan to an inside pocket of his coat, he crossed the room and opened the door.

  Nick Kelso stood across the hall and to one side, out of the line of fire from a bullet blasted through the door. Ignoring the gunman’s obvious gesture of distrust, Arlen said: “Hello, Nick.”

  Nick stepped inside, his gaze drawn immediately to the ratty whore in the ratty chair. Then he looked at a slowly writhing figure wrapped in a vomit-encrusted quilt and grimaced. “What?” Arlen asked nervously.

  “It stinks to high heaven in here is what. You got some kind of aversion to water?”

  “Hell, you get used to the smell. Besides, it’d be a waste of water to soak him down. That boy’s pukin’ every couple of hours.”

  Nick’s gaze shifted back to the whore. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Honey, I’m the pacification for when the opium don’t work,” Millie informed him haughtily.

  “The kid likes her,” Arlen added in an apologetic tone. “He’s pretty doped up most of the time.”

  “Hey,” Millie protested. “I ain’t that over-the-hill.”

  But even Arlen, whose standards had never been especially high, had to admit that Mousetooth Millie looked fairly used up. She claimed to be twenty-nine, but he’d guess her closer to fifty. She was vastly overweight, with massive breasts and jowls that shook obscenely whenever she laughed. Her two upper front teeth, slanted sharply inward, were the inspiration for her name. Arlen didn’t like her, but he hadn’t been able to get rid of her since she’d lured the kid upstairs a couple of nights ago.

  Nick didn’t seem interested in her reason for being there, and said flatly: “Get out.”

  Millie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Honey, I don’t abide that kind of talk from no one. If you.…”

  Nick’s Colt slid from its holster like butter off a hot blade, the hammer snicking back coldly. “If you’re not out of here in two seconds, I’m going to blow that ugly head of yours off your shoulders,” he snarled.

  Millie blanched visibly under her war paint. Arlen almost laughed, then thought better of it. Two seconds later the only part of her that remained was her odor, a kind of fetid, rose-like aroma created out of cheap
perfume and sweaty flesh that hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks.

  “Damn,” Arlen said, staring through the open door until Nick kicked it shut.

  Nick crossed to where the kid was lying on the floor and pulled the quilt back, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “How much dope have you been feeding him?”

  “Just what you said … about every six hours.”

  “Cut it back a little,” Nick said uncertainly. “I don’t want him to die.” He glanced at the small, teakwood box on top of the highboy. “You got enough tar there to keep him out of sight for another couple of days?”

  “Sure, that won’t be a problem.”

  “You ain’t been leaving him alone, have you?”

  “Well, I got to fetch grub and such. I been lettin’ Millie sit with him while I was gone, but.…”

  Dropping the quilt back over the kid’s shoulders, Nick said: “I have to go up to Corinne for a few days, maybe a week.”

  “A week! That much opium’ll kill him.”

  “You won’t have to keep him doped up that long. Just feed him what’s left, then you’re free to go. Hang around Ogden until I get back. I’ll find you.”

  “Ah.… ”

  Nick’s expression hardened. “You worried I’m not comin’ back?”

  “Naw, it ain’t that, it’s just that a man like me’s got to keep movin’ if he ain’t got no money. You know what the law’s like. If they think you’re a bum, they run you out of town on a rail.”

  “Don’t let ’em think you’re a bum,” was Nick’s curt reply. He walked to the door, then paused and muttered a curse. Pulling a handful of coins from his pocket, he tossed them onto the rumpled bed. Arlen eyes widened as he counted the silver. There was at least $40 there, twice what Nick had promised him for keeping the kid out of sight. “This is important, Fleck.” Nick’s gaze bore into his like hardened steel. “Don’t muck it up.”