Reverend Sweeny nodded at Duff and he inflated the bag. The first sound was from the drones. Then, fingering the chanter, Duff began playing the haunting tune, the steady hum of the drones providing a mournful sound to underscore the high skirling of the melody itself. It was beautifully played, and by the time he finished, there were many who were weeping.
After the interment, Falcon and Duff, who was still wearing his kilts, invited Lucy to have lunch with them.
“If we can have it at Fiddler’s Green,” she said. “I know that Biff had the cook do something special today to honor Annie.”
“That’s fine with me,” Falcon replied. “Duff?”
“Aye. I can think of no place I’d rather be right now,” he said.
When they returned to Fiddler’s Green, it was draped in black bunting. A sign on the front said, “IN MEMORIAM, MALTILDA ANN GILBERT, OUR ANNIE.”
Biff brought the meal to the table: roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and freshly baked bread. When Duff and Falcon attempted to pay for it, Biff held out his hand and shook his head.
“No. This is for Annie,” he said. “But, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking my dinner with you as well.”
“We don’t mind at all,” Duff said. “’Tis welcome company you’ll be.”
“I left my plate on the bar. I didn’t want to presume,” Biff said. He stepped back to the bar, then returned with his own plate.
“Tell me, Biff, why do you call this place Fiddler’s Green? Have you fiddlers who play here from time to time?” Duff asked.
“Colonel MacCallister, suppose you tell him about Fiddler’s Green. I know you know what it means.”
“Colonel MacCallister?” Falcon looked across the table at Biff for a moment, then he smiled and snapped his fingers. “You are Sergeant Johnson! You were with Custer at Ft. Lincoln!”
Biff smiled and nodded his head. “I knew you would remember it,” he said. “I was in D troop with Benteen.”
“No wonder you call this place Fiddler’s Green.”
“I still don’t know what it means,” Duff said.
“It’s something the cavalrymen believe,” Falcon said. “Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call ‘Boots and Saddles’ will, when they die, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, they will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before them, and they will greet those who come after them as they await the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler’s Green.”
“Do they really believe that?” Lucy asked.
“Why not?” Falcon replied. “If heaven is whatever you want it to be, who is to say that cavalrymen wouldn’t want to be with their own kind?”
“I like the idea,” Duff said.
“Many is the time we went into battle with the promise to a friend to be waiting at Fiddler’s Green,” Biff Johnson said. “I’ve many friends there now, waiting for me, and I’ve no doubt but that Custer and his brother Tom and Captains Calhoun and Keogh are there now.”
“And Isaiah Dorman,” Falcon added.
“Custer’s black scout,” Biff said. “That’s right; he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“He was indeed.”
“’Tis a good thing to hold on to,” Duff said. “I’ve many friends of my own who were killed in battle. Perhaps they have found their way there as well.”
“If they were good men, warriors who died in battle, you need have no doubt about it. My lads will invite them over, to sit and visit,” Biff said.
“I hope they behave like gentlemen when they see Annie,” Lucy said.
“You need not trouble yourself, Lucy,” Biff said. “All in Fiddler’s Green are gentlemen.”
“Tell me what you knew about the lass we buried this morning,” Duff said.
Biff shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that I know very little about her. She came into town on the stagecoach one day, came straight here from the stage depot, and asked me for a job. She was attractive and had a good sense of humor. The men liked her. I was glad to see that the whole town turned out for her funeral, but I wasn’t all that surprised. We are very isolated out here, and to a degree each one of us is dependent upon the other.”
“She was from Memphis,” Lucy said. “She had married into one of the wealthiest families there, but she was raped one night while her husband was out drinking. The rapist was one of her husband’s friends, but her husband blamed her and said he couldn’t live with her anymore because she was soiled. So she decided that if she was going to have the name, she would have the game. She came here with the specific intention of becoming a soiled dove.”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Biff said. “All of you girls had lives before you came here. I’ve never tried to find out, because I’ve always thought that you deserved some privacy.”
“We know that, Mr. Johnson. And we appreciate you respecting us in that way.”
After they finished eating, Duff and Falcon went down to the R. W. Guthrie Lumber and Building Supplies Company. There, they were met by the owner, a short, stout man with a round face and a somewhat oversized nose. Guthrie took Duff and Falcon out into his lumberyard to show them what he had.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve got everything you might need to build a house, from the studding, to the outside planking, to the inside walls and floor. I’ve got the roof trusses, the roof shingles, doors, and windows. I’ve got all the nails you will need.”
“That is good to know,” Duff said.
“I even have some building plans if you would like to see them.”
“I’ve no wish for something grand. I want to build a one-room cabin.”
“How large?”
“It need not be too large,” Duff said.
“We have plans for one that is fifteen by twenty feet. That will give you three hundred square feet of living space. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds just right,” Duff said.
“Good, then we’ll start gathering up what you need. Where will you be building this cabin?”
“On my ranch, or what is going to be my ranch,” Duff said. “It is ten miles south of town at the junction between the Bear and the Little Bear creeks.”
Guthrie looked surprised. “Did you say at the junction of the Bear and Little Bear? You are really going to try and settle there, are you?”
“Try? What do you mean by try?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Guthrie said. “That’s really quite a nice piece of land out there. It’s just that . . .”
“Just that what?”
“Well, sir, that’s where the Little Horse mine was.”
“Little Horse mine?”
“Yes, it is an old, abandoned gold mine that was dug by the Spanish more’n a hunnert years ago. There was stories told about it. Some Cheyenne Injuns brought in some gold nuggets to a trading post that they say had been in the tribe for a long time. It was supposed to have been played out, but about ten, maybe fifteen years ago it is said that a man named Elmer Gleason found gold in the mine. He showed up in Denver with a bagful of gold nuggets tryin’ to sell the mine, but he didn’t have no proof that he had got the gold at the Little Horse Mine. There’s all kinds of stories as to where he might have got the gold; some say he picked it up in the Black Hills, some say he got it California during the gold rush of forty-nine. At any rate, nobody bought the mine and Gleason never come back. There don’t nobody know if he is dead or alive, ’cause there ain’t nobody heard anything from or about him since that time. But most folks think maybe he come back to the mine and died. They never found him, but they found a mule, its bones picked clean by buzzards and such. They figure he was kilt, and the critters dragged his bones off.”
“Killed? By who?” Duff asked.
“Don’t nobody know that,” Guthrie said. “And that’s part of the mystery, ’cause you see, there was a couple of fellas, Lonnie Post and Sam Hodges, who went out there to see if there was any gold to be found, and the nex
t thing you know, both of them turned up dead.
“By that time folks was gettin’ just plumb skittish about goin’ out there, gold mine or no gold mine. But Arnold Brown said the whole thing was foolish, and if there was some gold out there, he intended to go find it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Duff said. “Mr. Brown turned up dead as well.”
“Don’t nobody know. Didn’t find a skeleton or nothin’ like that, but ain’t nobody ever heard from him since then. And there ain’t nobody gone out there since. They say the place is hainted. ’Course, I ain’t sayin’ that I believe in haints, you understand. But that is what they say. Some say it wasn’t the Spanish, that it was Injuns that first found the gold, but they was all kilt off by white men who wanted the gold for themselves. But what happened is, after the Injuns was all kilt, they become ghosts, and now they haint the mine and they kill any white man who comes around tryin’ to find the gold. Now, mind, I don’t believe none of that. I’m just tellin’ you what folks says about it.”
“Where is this mine, anyway? We didn’t see anything that looked like a mine,” Falcon said.
“Didn’t you say you was betwixt the Bear and the Little Bear creeks?” Guthrie asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, that mine is just south of the Bear in a butte that you see there. The butte is called Little Horse Butte. It ain’t all that high, a hunnert feet or so, and it’s flat as a table on top.”
“Aye, I remember seeing that,” Duff said.
“The mine is dug into the west end of that butte. You can’t see it from a distance I’m told, but if you get right up close, you can see it real clear.”
“That’s quite an interesting tale,” Duff said.
“But it ain’t goin’ to stop you from goin’ out there, is it?” Guthrie asked.
“No, sir.”
Guthrie chuckled. “I didn’t think it would scare you away. I heard how you handled Pig Iron, and then how he come back in blazin’ away with his shotgun. And I heard how you kilt him, Mr. MacCallister,” he said to Falcon.
“I’m afraid I had no choice,” Falcon said.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. MacCallister. I sure ain’t puttin’ no blame on you. They ain’t likely to be nobody that’ll blame you for it. Truth to tell, and near ’bout ever’one will say this, Chugwater Valley is a heap better off without him. But, I know you didn’t come in here for all this palaverin’,” Guthrie said. “You decided what you want to do, Mr. MacCallister?”
“How much will it cost me to buy enough material to build a cabin?” Duff asked.
“You’re wantin’ the one that’s fifteen by twenty?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be wantin’ a front porch to it? And roof over it, so’s you can sit in the afternoon out of the hot sun?”
“That might be nice,” Duff said.
“I can sell you ever’thin’ you are goin’ to need, supplies and tools, and I’ll ship it out there for you, too—it’s goin’ to take two wagons at least—for . . . ”—Guthrie began figuring on a piece of paper—“a grand total of one hunnert and three dollars and fifty cents,” he said.
“It will take two wagons?”
“Yes, sir, I think so. We might be able to get it all on one wagon, but it would put quite a strain on the wagon and the team.”
“No, two wagons are fine. But I shall have some additional purchases to make and ’tis wondering I am if there might be a little room on one of the wagons.”
“If we use two wagons, there will be plenty of room,” Guthrie said. “You’ll be goin’ over to the mercantile, I take it, so just tell Fred, he’s the owner, Fred Matthews, just tell him to get in touch with me. I’ll see to it that your stuff gets on one of the wagons.”
“Thank you. When I make my additional purchases, I shall so inform the merchant,” Duff said.
Reaching into his pocket, Duff pulled out a wad of money, then began counting it out.
“How soon can you get the material out to my site?” he asked.
“I can have it all out there by noon tomorrow,” Guthrie replied.
“Good. Please do so.”
“Yes, sir,” Guthrie said as he picked up the money. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“I have fifty cents in change,” Duff said.
“Yes, sir, don’t you worry, I wasn’t goin’ to forget that.”
From the Guthrie Lumber and Building Supply, they went to the Chugwater Mercantile, a large store that had a sign out front boasting that they sold “GOODS FOR ALL MANKIND.”
“You’re the fella that played the music for Annie’s funeral, aren’t you?” Fred Matthews, the proprietor said.
“Aye.”
“That was some kind of pretty, real mournful, like it should be for a funeral. That instrument you used, a bagpipe?”
“Bagpipes, though often we just call it pipes.”
“Yes, sir, well, I’ve heard of them things, but this is the first time I ever actually heard one played. Has kind of a strange sound to it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s real pretty, but it is kind of strange sounding.”
“I agree that the music the pipes make is quite unique.”
“Unique. Yes, sir, I reckon that’s what I’d call it, too. Unique.”
Here, Duff bought the things he would need to furnish the house. He bought a potbellied wood-burning iron stove that would serve both for warmth and as a cookstove. He bought an iron skillet, two pots, a coffeepot, a water bucket and a dipper, and two plates, two cups, and two sets of flatware. He also bought a washbasin, a small table, two chairs to go with the table, and a rocking chair and footstool. Finally, he bought a Winchester .44-40 lever action repeating rifle, six boxes of .44-40 cartridges, a double-barreled Greener shotgun, and six boxes of twelve-gauge shotgun shells.
“Would you be for having any .47-caliber ammunition?” Duff asked.
Fred Matthews stroked his chin for a moment. “Mister, I not only don’t have any of that, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of .47 caliber. Don’t know as they make such a thing.”
Duff pulled a round from one of the bullet loops on his belt and showed it to Matthews. “This is a .47-caliber bullet,” he said.
“What sort of gun would use such a bullet?” Matthews asked.
Duff pulled his pistol and showed it to him. “This is an Enfield Mark 1,” he said. “I’m told that it is the weapon of choice for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
“Is it now? The Royal Canadian Mounted Police? Well, in that case, I expect I’ll be able to find some. I don’t have it now, but I will put some on order for you.”
“You have my gratitude, sir.”
“How do you plan to get everything out to your place?” Matthews asked.
“Tomorrow Mr. Guthrie will be taking all the building supplies I need out to my place. He has agreed to let me ship additional purchases on one of his wagons.”
“Fine, I’ll see R.W. and get it all set up with him.”
“I’ll be taking the rifle and the shotgun with me,” Duff said.
“Of course.”
While Duff was busy making his purchases at the mercantile, Falcon had been over at the general store, buying food they would need over the next several days. He came out of the store with two large cloth bags that he draped over his horse, just forward of Lightning’s saddle.
“Did you get everything all taken care of?” Falcon asked.
“Everything will be delivered tomorrow,” Duff said.
“Well, then all we have to do is ride out there and wait for it.”
They had ridden for at least two miles before Falcon brought it up. “Are you going to do it?” he asked.
“Am I going to do what?”
“I think you know what I’m talking about. I just want to know if you are going to do it.”
“You are talking about the mine, aren’t you? The gold mine.”
“Yes, I’m talking about the gold mine. Are you going to check
it out?”
“I thought I might.”
Falcon laughed out loud. “Well, I must say, you would have disappointed me if you had said otherwise.”
“Do you think there is anything there?” Duff asked.
“Now I don’t know what you are talking about,” Falcon replied. “By anything there, are you talking about ghosts? Or are you talking about gold?”
“I’m talking about the gold.”
“What about the ghosts?”
“Let them get their own gold,” Duff said.
Falcon laughed.
They made the ride from town in just over half an hour. Then, after taking care of the horses and the supplies they brought with them, they used the cabin plans Guthrie had given them and began laying out the outline where the house would be. They did that by use of the engineering stakes and string Duff had also purchased at Guthrie’s Building Supply.
By sundown, the cabin was well laid out, including the place where the porch would be. They cooked bacon over an open fire and had that with a can of beans for their supper. By then it was too late to check out the mine, and Duff didn’t want to go to the mine the next day either, because he didn’t want to take a chance on being gone when his supplies and building materials were delivered.
It had been a tiring day, and Duff was asleep within minutes of stretching out on his bedroll. Falcon was asleep just as quickly, and added to the sounds of the night creatures were the soft snores of the two sleeping men.
Chapter Twenty-two
Cheyenne
The Bucket of Blood Saloon was the least attractive of all of Cheyenne’s saloons. The bar consisted of nothing but boards stretched across two upright and empty beer barrels. It served only two types of drink, beer and a local whiskey that got its color and taste from rusty nails. The women who worked there were on the bottom rung of their profession, tired and scarred by rough treatment and dissipation.
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Page 19
