High Rider

by Bill Gallaher

  John felt a searing heat wash his face, and as Rufus walked off, called after him, “Rufus!”

  The cowhand stopped and turned around, his movements slow and deliberate. Their eyes met. Despite the anger that filled him, John kept his voice well-modulated. “There ain’t no nigger boys in this outfit. Only drovers. Best you remember that.”

  John wondered what the future with Rufus Pauley would bring. He was from Alabama and had fought for the Confederates during the war, hence his attitude toward Negroes. Afterwards, he’d drifted into Texas, ending up in Austin, where he had learned to work with cattle. He had cut his teeth with Charles Goodnight and had ridden swing and point on Emmett’s learning drive, where Emmett saw and admired Rufus’s hard work and dedication to the job. And since you can’t be around a man for a couple of months and not get some idea about where he stands on most issues, Emmett knew of Rufus’s lack of tolerance for coloureds. Yet he saw a natural intelligence in the man, and felt that given the opportunity, he would outgrow his antebellum attitudes. He also thought that John might provide the stimulus for that growth. So far, Emmett’s idea didn’t seem to be working.

  •

  Emmett waited two days before he decided that crossing the Canadian would be safe, and they did so without incident. The sun had returned and dried out everything that the downpour had soaked. The thirsty ground had sucked up the water and became hard and dusty again.

  During the layover, John had stewed over the point man’s rudeness and disrespect, and felt angry enough to want to demand an apology. If he wanted a fight, John had a good four inches in height and fifty pounds in weight over Rufus, and even if the man seemed as solid as oak, John felt he could beat him. Yet something about Rufus suggested that he was not a fair fighter, that in a pinch he would resort to that equalizer strapped on his hip called a Colt .45. In the end, John thought of Emmett and the need to maintain good relations in the outfit. He also remembered Sebastian Chambers and decided that revenge was more hurtful to the soul than satisfying. It was best to let it go.

  They were stopped for a lunch break and to change horses above the Canadian when the Indians came, but not in the way anyone had expected. Rufus spotted them first, a dust cloud in the distance that materialized into a small band of Kiowa. A couple of hundred yards away, the band rode in a small circle before continuing.

  Emmett said, “Looks like they want to parley, boys, so let’s not frighten ’em with a show of guns. Better keep awake, though.”

  But the Indians weren’t interested in a fight, despite outnumbering the outfit two to one. They looked emaciated and demanded a toll of one longhorn to cross their territory.

  Emmett instructed John to find a dry cow and cut it out for them. “It’s a small payment for a trouble-free passage,” he told the men, reiterating Corwin Doan’s advice. “We ain’t had much trouble so far and I aim to keep it that way.”

  Before they reached the Cimarron River and crossed over into Kansas, small, starving Indian bands stopped them two more times. Emmett paid each of them a dry cow. While some men complained, he still felt he had a bargain. He said to them after the last band had left, “Three beeves ain’t nothing, boys. You seen what was left of the buffalo. Nothing but miles and miles of bleached bones. A man has to feed his family the best way he can.”

  Rufus, who knew what subtraction could do to a man’s pocketbook, groused, “Hell, we didn’t kill no buffalo, Emmett.”

  Emmett shrugged. “It don’t matter, Rufus. As far as they’re concerned, we might as well have.”

  •

  It was the beginning of June and there had been enough rain that the grass-covered Kansas prairie was still a vibrant green. They had put the Oklahoma Territory behind them; another week would see them approaching Dodge City. They had been on the trail for nearly two months and deserved a break, so Emmett had promised everyone a pay advance and an evening in town. From that point on, all conversations around the campfire were concerned with the relative merits of whorehouses, saloons, and gambling halls, and in which of the three it would profit them most to spend their time. After much discussion, they agreed that the best establishment would include all three.

  Emmett decreed that half of the men would go into town on the first day, the other half on the second. The outfit would leave for Ogallala early on the third morning regardless of the severity of any hangovers. Any man who did not show up would be a man left behind. It was a thinly disguised bluff, of course, because if half the crew failed to show up, the herd wasn’t going anywhere; nevertheless, it needed saying. Emmett found a good bed-ground with plenty of grass about five miles southwest of Dodge, not far from the Arkansas River, where the men could bathe if they wished before enjoying the town’s amenities. They drew straws to see who would go first, and Emmett gave each man an advance of whatever he asked for, up to a month’s pay.

  SIX

  Eddie Foy’s playing over at the Comique.

  John Emmett, Ben, Rufus, Nathan, and Pepper all drew short straws. Even so, Emmett and Pepper took the wagon in on the first day and resupplied it; their fun, however, would be had the next day. John spent the time trimming horse hooves, replacing shoes where needed, and cleaning tack, finding in these small tasks an escape from the apprehension he felt about venturing into town. The first revellers straggled in late the following morning, exhausted and for the most part glad to be back on the open prairie where they could recover, and where temptations of the flesh were temporarily beyond their reach. Even Duffy, who had more energy than most for non-stop revelling, was happy to be in camp.

  John and the others saddled up for their turn. Pepper, who had a pot of salt pork and beans simmering by the fire, left explicit instructions as to what the men could or could not do with the chuckwagon. Any man who violated these orders might as well go ahead and shoot himself, and save Pepper the trouble of doing it.

  When asked about Dodge City upon his return from his supply visit, Emmett had said little, except that after two months on the trail it seemed a busy place. Other than the occasional herd continuing north, the town was the terminus for most drives out of Texas and was better than most towns at lightening the loads of drovers weighted down by a couple of months’ pay and bonuses. Indeed, Emmett had never seen so many drovers gathered in one spot, not to mention an abundance of establishments offering precisely what they craved.

  They loped toward town in the mind-dulling late-afternoon heat, passing other herds grazing on the rich Kansas grass to regain some of the weight they had lost on the trail before they were to be sold in Dodge and shipped to points east. When the outline of the town became distinct on the horizon, the concern John had experienced the previous evening reappeared—he had no idea how his presence would be received. Emmett had told him, “No need for worry, John. I think you’ll be pleased by what you find.” But it was at best a modest reassurance that did little to lessen John’s misgivings. On their approach to the city, he and the others paid ten cents each to a nearly fingerless, limping man to use a toll bridge to cross the Arkansas River.

  Front Street, Dodge’s main thoroughfare, was a broad dirt road split down its length by a railway track that came from the east and ran west as far as Colorado. The men crossed the track to the north side, their destination a gigantic livery stable named the Elephant Barn. As they rode, John’s anxiety eased. He noticed several black drovers strolling along the boardwalks and entering and leaving businesses along the street without any apparent problems. He derived no small sense of satisfaction from the fact that it might be a revelation for Rufus, who had not appeared happy about riding into town with a black man, though he had kept his counsel about it.

  The men left their horses at the livery stable and, because the owner said that all the hotels were full, paid two bits extra for a space to sleep in the hayloft. As they took to the boardwalk, passing false-fronted buildings, Pepper rubbed his hands together and exclaimed that his first priority would be a frolic with one or more of the to
wn’s many “soiled doves.”

  Emmett laughed and, knowing that the men needed a break not only from the trail but also from each other, said, “Well, boys, it’s every man for himself. But don’t forget that you’ve got a job to do and that other people are depending on you to do it. Try to avoid a dose of the clap and for God’s sake don’t get yourself shot. Maybe I’ll see you around town.” On that note, the men parted company.

  They had passed a barbershop with a sign that read WILLIAM DAVIS, PROP. The door was open and John had seen a black man, presumably Davis, sitting in the barber’s chair reading a newspaper, waiting for customers. John decided to start the evening with a beard trim and maybe obtain information about the town before he tramped its streets alone. He retraced his footsteps and went in.

  The man got up from the chair so that John could sit in it, and they exchanged pleasantries. Davis, short, thin, and balding, threw an apron around his customer and went to work, asking him where he was from and where he was going. They talked about cattle for a bit and John asked about the town and its coloured population.

  “Not many coloured folks actually live here the year round,” Davis said, above the sound of the snipping scissors. “Maybe forty or fifty. Most do service work, but that’s what this town is built on. You want your hair cut or your laundry done, a coloured will do it, although the Chinks are horning in on the washtub artists. Most of the coloureds you see on the streets are drovers like yourself, passing through. Around here it ain’t the colour of a man’s skin that counts, it’s the colour of his money, and the entire town’s set up to empty his pockets before he leaves. Money’s the glue that holds Dodge together. Take that away and white folks would soon put us coloureds in our place, which wouldn’t be anywhere near them unless it was at their beck and call. In the winter, we go to our respective corners and tolerate each other while we wait for the next herding season. But don’t let that concern you. You’ll find that you’ll get the respect you deserve, whether it’s from the white townsfolk or the black, in any establishment. This is not to say that you won’t be the butt end of a rude comment or two, but they’re more likely to come from white drovers sorrowfully short on good manners. Luckily, the police try to be impartial and if they get wind that someone’s causing you trouble because you’re coloured, there’ll be hell to pay. It’s important to them that you want to stick around long enough to spend all your money, not to mention that they get two dollars for every arrest they make.”

  When he was finished, Davis brushed the cut hair off of John’s neck and removed the apron. “That’ll be four bits for making you presentable to something other than a cow. And by the way, if you’re interested in a good poke, the sporting houses are all across the Deadline, which is what they call the railroad tracks here. It’s wilder and rowdier over there than it is on this side. That’s where Forrester’s Black Beauties are. He has six women in his employ if black’s your colour of choice. If white skin gets your poker up, you can try Dodge’s Dazzling Dolls, farther down from Forrester’s. You can’t miss ’em.”

  John gave a half laugh as he paid Davis, bemused by the names. “Don’t sound like they’re on the wrong side of the law here. Wouldn’t get away with that back in Fort Worth.”

  “They wouldn’t get away with it here, either, if they didn’t pay to keep their doors open. The town fines them on a regular basis to keep up appearances. It’s easy, dependable revenue, and besides, it’s the town councillors who use them most in the off-season.”

  Davis walked with John to the door. “What else can I tell you? Oh, Eddie Foy’s playing over at the Comique Theater and he puts on a great show twice a night. You’ll have to get there early if you want a seat. And you won’t find a better place to eat than Aunt Sallie’s, a few doors down to your left.”

  John thanked the barber for the information and the haircut, and left the shop. He felt conspicuous on the boardwalk, until he realized that no one was paying him any attention. He turned into Aunt Sallie’s and was lucky to find a seat among a crowded mixture of drovers, both black and white, dance hall girls, and men and women of respectable society. The food—roast pork with potato dumplings and green peas followed by a thick slab of pecan pie, all washed down with a cool beer—was excellent. So good, in fact, that John decided he would be wise not to crow about it front of Pepper.

  The heat of the day was dissipating as he left Aunt Sallie’s, and Front Street was swarming with throngs of people out to take the cooler evening air. He slipped across the train tracks to the south side of the street where the brothels were located. At Forrester’s, he spoke to the pimp himself, describing the kind of woman he wanted.

  “Ah, if you want some lovin’ with your fornicatin’,” Henry Forrester said, “then Annie’s the girl for you. She’s two bucks extra. It’s the time involved, you understand. Meantime, why don’t you put your gun on the shelf by the door? It’s the law here and it’ll still be there when you’re done. You’re welcome to have a drink in our house saloon while I get things arranged.”

  John waited for an hour and had three drinks, which he supposed was simply another way of dipping into a man’s pocket, then paid the pimp seven dollars, wondering how much of it Annie would see.

  However much it was, he thought afterwards that she had earned every penny, as well as the extra three dollars he gave her to tuck away for herself. He was euphoric and reckoned that if he ever found a wife with her warmth and talent, he’d be a fortunate man. Yet on the outer edges of that euphoria lurked a feeling of loneliness. Annie had made him realize what he didn’t have and might never find: a wife. The prospects of finding one were disheartening, and he feared that the farther north he travelled, the more dismal his chances would become.

  He came to a bathhouse and went in for a hot soak. Then he walked by the livery stable to ensure Cat was being well cared for. Next on his list was a saloon with a card game.

  The first he came upon was the Green Front. He pushed through the batwing doors, placed his gun on a rack, and made his way to the bar at the rear, where he ordered a whisky. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung thick in the air above circular, baize-covered tables, each with its full quota of gamblers playing faro or stud poker. A couple of roulette wheels clacked over on one side and a piano player, who might have missed a lesson or two, played a song that might have been “Lorena” on an upright piano that needed tuning. Turning his back to the bar, John watched gamblers so focused on their games that they paid him no mind. He thought he recognized the dealer at one of the faro tables and wracked his brain to put a name to the face. As it turned out, he had forgotten the man’s name but felt certain it was the dentist he had visited years ago in Dallas. What was the name on the sign? Simpson? Sinclair? The only differences in his appearance were that his moustache was fuller and he had a small goatee. Rather than a smock, he wore a cream-coloured suit with a light purple shirt and dark blue tie. Otherwise, there was no mistaking that ash blond hair, sallow face, and subdued but unrelenting cough.

  John had never played faro but it was similar to the game called skinning that he had learned as a slave. He also knew that the odds of winning were reasonable, as long as the dealer was not cheating. Thirteen cards from ace to king were pasted on a board. The players could put chips on any of the cards, and the dealer then pulled out two cards from a box. He won any chips placed on the first card, while the second card was a winner for the players. All ties went to the dealer, which gave him an advantage, as did the usual carelessness of drinking players (and drinks here were cheap). Chips were available from fifty cents to ten dollars. John watched the dentist closely but could not detect any sleight of hand, which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t doctored the cards.

  When a player rose and left the game, John bought ten one-dollar chips and took his place, having decided that if he lost the ten dollars he would leave. The dentist seemed to take his measure, but if he recognized his new opponent, he did not let on. He smiled that thin smile of his and said,
his genteel Southern drawl recognizable, “You are welcome to the game, sir, and good luck.”

  It would have been an orderly game if not for the man sitting on John’s right, who had brought a bottle of whisky to the table and was being generous to himself with it. He was also becoming more belligerent with each round that he lost. John figured the man was a fool, because large quantities of alcohol did not mix with a game like faro where it was to the player’s advantage to keep track of the cards played. On the table there was an abacus-like board called a casekeeper, which allowed players to do exactly that, but it was not easy for a brain fogged by alcohol. The dentist, though, looked happy enough to ignore the man’s drunkenness because of his haphazard betting and persistent losing.

  John played for an hour and managed to win enough to pay for his frolic with Annie and his meal. He was glad to be winning because he loved the thrill of the bet and found gambling infectious. He might have dipped deeper into his pocketbook had he been losing, just so he could continue playing. The dentist’s face had remained passive throughout the game, except that he winced whenever the piano player hit a wrong note and he coughed from time to time. He would then take a sip of whisky, which seemed to subdue it, but John reckoned that the cigarillos he smoked probably did not help matters any. And he still had that sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

  A fair-haired, full-figured woman with eyes the colour of robins’ eggs, whose large nose detracted from an otherwise pretty face, brought the dentist a drink when he wanted one and sometimes stood behind him watching the play. Now she came up beside him and leaned over far enough that John and the other players could see most of her breasts. She spoke with an accent that John recognized as European, though it was nothing like the German accents he had heard often in Texas. “It’ll be showtime soon, John Henry.”