by John Hansen
Josh sat upright. He could hear Lester moving about in the cabin. A light bluish white smoke was drifting from the stovepipe. “Shouldn’t be too long before the coffee’s done,” he said matter-of-factly.
There was a sense in the air of politeness and superficiality. Josh and Sarah were both aware of yesterday’s events and why Josh had come to Lester’s camp. They were like white elephants before them that neither wanted to admit were there. Sarah was the first to take them on. “So are you going to kill the men on your friend’s claim?” she said with concern in her voice.
Josh’s gaze was fixed across the canyon. There were several mule deer making their way down the slope towards the creek for water. “These guys are late,” he said, purposely ignoring her question. “I woulda thought, being this close to Lester’s cabin that they’d have come for water in the dark.”
Sarah stared at Josh in silence; finally after what seemed like a long time, Josh turned towards her. “It’ll be their call. If I know for certain that one or the other of ‘em killed Seth, then I aim to use my authority as a deputy marshal and arrest them. If they go along peacefully then nobody’ll get hurt. The choice will be theirs. But at this point I don’t even know if they had a hand in killin’ Seth.”
“Won’t you be going against what the marshal wanted you to do, at least for now anyway?” asked Sarah.
Josh tossed his blanket back and reached for one of his boots. “As far as I’m concerned riffraff is riffraff,” he said as he pulled on his boot. “A man’s gotta deal with it ‘fore it spreads. Besides, I ain’t all that certain that the marshal’s harebrained plan is gonna work.”
“Maybe you should give it a chance before you tip your hand,” replied Sarah.
Josh glanced over at Sarah as he reached for his other boot. He had an annoyed look on his face. “You know, ya’ll sure do seem like you’re sidin’ pretty heavy with the marshal,” and then he added: “Maybe ya’ll are spreadin’ your bedroll in the wrong camp.” The words weren’t even completely out of his mouth and he was regretting them. But they were like an avalanche; once it starts there was no stopping it until it reaches flat ground. The energy for it had begun to build yesterday when they’d met the marshal on the trail and he’d seen the way the two of them had looked at one another. It was a telling, unmistakable look that only two people who have shared the ultimate physical intimacy have. Josh had done well to suppress his anger and disappointment up until now, but it was inevitable that he was going to say what he had at some point. It was as if the emotion that spawned his words had been continuously poised, just waiting for the slightest provocation.
Sarah had a hurt look in her eyes. She hadn’t meant to be argumentative, and she certainly didn’t want to give the impression that she cared for the marshal; in fact, her intent was just the opposite. She was concerned that Josh might get killed going after his friend’s killer. She just wanted to go someplace else and start over in life, but now she had jeopardized the one glimmer of a chance that she had of doing that. “Josh,” she began apologetically, “I didn’t mean…”
“Sarah,” interrupted Josh. “Just let it go. I didn’t mean to speak out the way I did. We can talk later.” He paused with a frustrated look. “I don’t need my mind all cluttered today.” And with that he turned and walked towards the cabin.
Chapter Seven
Most of Bear Creek’s residents were still asleep or just now disengaging from the night. The sun as yet was still a faint promise of what it would be later in the day. Sheriff Hollis, however, was up noisily sipping his first cup of hot coffee. He had no prisoners in the one cell at the sheriff’s office, but he had told his wife that he did and needed to go in early to relieve one of his deputies. It was a small white lie to perpetuate a much bigger one—that being he was there to protect and serve the good citizens of Bear Creek. Hollis had made himself comfortable. He had his feet up on his desk and was tilted back slightly in his chair. He hadn’t wanted to get up this early and leave the comfort of his bed and wife, but he also didn’t want the person he was going to meet coming to his house. The person that he was meeting was an informant—a reliable one that he had used in the past. For a price he could be counted on to keep his mouth shut. Hollis harbored no illusions that his informant’s loyalty was due to any other reason save for the money and the possibility of a well-placed bullet. He wasn’t totally certain what information the man had for him other than it had to do with Ben Stevenson, the merchant from Boise. Hollis had met the man in passing on the street yesterday; neither had spoken except the informant, who nodded his head as a greeting of respect to the sheriff and mumbled two words that were barely audible: “Dawn tomorrow.” The sheriff’s office had a front door that most everyone used and a back door that provided access to the privy behind the office. There was a shallow draw that originated near the privy and ran away from the sheriff’s office for several hundred yards before curving back towards the creek bottom. Both the draw and creek bottom were heavily vegetated with willows, sagebrush that in places was as tall as a man, and rye grass that was the equal of the sage in height. Between the poor morning light, the topography, and the vegetation, it made for an almost ideal situation for someone to enter and leave the sheriff’s office by way of the back door totally undetected.
Hollis had already unlocked the back door, so it did not alarm him when he heard the doorknob being worked and the slight squeak of the hinges as the door opened and then slowly closed. And then it became quiet—too quiet. A short hallway ran from the back door to the front of the office, where the sheriff’s desk was located. Hollis could not see down the hall. Slowly, he drew his pistol and pointed it at the hallway. “Come out and show yourself,” he commanded.
“Sheriff, it’s me, Rudy,” came the response in a hushed tone.
Hollis recognized the voice immediately. It was the man he’d been waiting for, Rudolph Holchek—or Rudy as he was generally called. He sighed in exasperation and laid his pistol on the desk. “Well, get your ass on in here,” he said, somewhat perturbed.
Shortly, Rudy presented himself before the sheriff. He was of average height with a well-developed paunch, attributable in large part to his fondness for beer. He had a full beard, red in color, that did little to hide his jowls and ruddy complexion. His crumpled slouch hat complemented his overall scruffy-looking appearance. He carried no sidearm, preferring a rifle instead, which he had left back at the merchant’s camp. “Mornin’,” he said, seemingly oblivious to the sheriff’s aggravation with him.
Totally ignoring Rudy’s greeting, Hollis said curtly: “What the hell are ya doin’ sneakin’ up on me like that. I coulda shot ya.”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” said Rudy. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t walkin’ in on some stranger. All this secret meetin’ stuff makes me nervous.”
Hollis looked Rudy in the eye and said sternly: “Ain’t nobody but me or my deputies gonna be in here at this time ah day, and you can trust them.”
“OK,” said Rudy meekly.
The sheriff eased off a little in his tone with Rudy. “Well, I suppose a man’s gotta be careful,” he said, just wanting to put the incident behind them. Changing his demeanor to one of business, Hollis continued: “So when’s Stevenson leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning,” replied Rudy, “but there’s something you otta know.” Rudy paused almost like some schoolgirl who had some juicy gossip that she’d be willing to share but only after the proper amount of envy had been demonstrated by the potential recipient.
Hollis looked at Rudy. He was almost gleeful. “So what is it, Rudy?” he asked curiously.
“Stevenson has been ridin’ outa camp ever’ day in the late afternoon. He always goes to the west, up Chokecherry Creek, and comes back just about dusk. Said he’s just talkin’ to potential customers and takin’ orders for next time we come back, but I wasn’t buyin’ it so I followed him yesterday.” Seeing the anticipation in the sheriff’s eyes, Rudy deliberately paused, knowing tha
t he was about to come to the good part. Rudy smiled. “Old man Stevenson has been meetin’ a United States marshal outa Boise. I wasn’t anywhere close enough to hear what they was sayin’, but I seen Stevenson give the marshal some small bags that sure looked like what he’s been keepin’ gold in.”
The look on Hollis’ face was initially concern that was quickly giving way to an angry excitement. How dare the damned feds meddle in my jurisdiction, he said to himself. It was an insult that one of them would come to Bear Creek and not check in with him. It could mean only one thing: they were on to him. Hollis looked Rudy hard in the eyes: “Are you certain the guy you saw was a U.S. marshal?”
“Sheriff, I’m tellin’ ya as sure as there’s fish in the creek the guy I saw was the same guy I seen in Boise, and that fellar had a star on his chest,” replied Rudy emphatically. “I seen his horse too. Same big ole gray. No doubt about it.”
Hollis eyed Rudy for a moment. His candle didn’t burn too bright, but he was making a pretty convincing argument about Stevenson meeting this marshal. As ludicrous as it was, Hollis felt offended that the citizenry had found it necessary to call in a federal marshal. But no matter—he would have the last say in this matter.
“You done good, Rudy,” said Hollis.
“Figured you’d wanna know ‘bout that marshal,” replied Rudy.
Hollis took another sip of his coffee. “So how much gold and money you figure Stevenson will be takin’ back to Boise?”
Rudy shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Stevenson’s bein’ purty tight-lipped ‘bout that. I heard once from one of the other mule skinners that we was bringin’ ‘bout thirty thousand dollars’ worth of goods from Boise, and since we been here business has been good.”
Hollis could only speculate on the amount, but based upon the price of manufactured goods in Bear Creek, he supposed it could be around forty-five thousand. It’d be a nice haul.
Rudy was hesitant to ask the sheriff for his money as he was intimidated by him. He saw Hollis as a man that was quick to anger with little patience for most folks. He was unpredictable. He was arrogant and felt that he was superior to most men—certainly Rudy. “It’s startin’ to get light outside,” said Rudy somewhat nervously. “I best be gettin’ back to camp.”
Under other circumstances Hollis might have quibbled with Rudy over the value of the information, but not today. He was as anxious for Rudy to go as was Rudy. The presence of the marshal from Boise could be a complicating factor in his current plans, and he needed to act quickly to correct this problem. Taking a key from an inside pocket in his vest, Hollis unlocked a drawer on the right side of his desk and removed a small metal box. He opened it, revealing a considerable amount of cash, and counted out a hundred dollars. Tossing the money on the desk towards Rudy, he said: “Here ya go.”
Rudy stepped forward and picked up the cash. He didn’t dare risk counting it in front of Hollis for fear of antagonizing him. Nonetheless, it didn’t seem right to him that Hollis and his cronies stood to make a lot of money while he walked away with pennies by comparison. It bothered him too that Hollis treated him with such contempt. In all of their dealings, at some point, there was always that look, that tone of the conversation that it was an effort for Hollis to tolerate his presence. But in the end, Rudy always took the money and agreed to do the bidding of Hollis for a few dollars more. At times he felt guilty about having sold his integrity and self-respect for such a paltry amount, but at least he could say that he hadn’t sold his soul. He may have betrayed his employer but he hadn’t killed anyone. Perhaps it was a fine line, but in his mind it allowed him to continue to take Hollis’ money. Rudy nodded in appreciation of the money. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
Hollis stood up with his coffee cup and moved towards the pot on the stove to refill it. It was an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Rudy. It was early and a cool morning. A cup of hot coffee would’ve tasted good, but did this uppity sonovabitch offer one? Hollis poured himself another cup of coffee. “Rudy,” he said, turning from the stove, “you be sure and keep a close ear to the ground between now and when Stevenson leaves. Let me know if you hear anything different. I especially want to know what’s going on with this marshal from Boise.”
Rudy wished he could just go now but he forced himself to say: “You can count on me.”
Hollis took a noisy sip of his second cup of coffee. “Damn, that’s hot,” he exclaimed, “but that’s the way I like it.” And then he added: “Rudy, on the second night try to convince Stevenson to camp at Sheep Springs. You can probably expect some guests for supper.”
Rudy nodded. “I’ll try but sometimes you never know about Stevenson. He gets something in his head and he can be as cantankerous as an old bull.”
Hollis looked sternly at Rudy. “Make it happen, Rudy. I’m sure you can find a way.”
“I’ll do what I can,” replied Rudy, and then he turned to leave.
“One other thing, Rudy,” said Hollis. “No heroes this time.”
Rudy’s mind flashed back to the last trip when one of the other mule skinners had gotten killed during the robbery. Sam had been his name. He’d been a friend to Rudy when a lot of other people treated him with indifference, or as sometimes happened in saloons, mocked him because of his weight and being a little slow. Rudy had hollered at Sam to not fight back, but his friend died in a hail of bullets just as he shouted, “It ain’t right, Rudy.” Rudy wasn’t a particularly brave man; he’d come west to avoid the big war back east. He’d rationalized, perhaps correctly, that it wasn’t good common sense to shoot it out with the robbers. Still, it gnawed at his conscience—especially when he was by himself and he had lots of time to think—how he had betrayed his employer and one of the few people in his life that he could actually call a friend. He was learning the hard way that there were some things that money couldn’t buy. And yet here he was taking Hollis’ money again. Rudy turned to respond to the sheriff. Hollis had that arrogant smirk on his face and there was evil in his eyes. He really didn’t care if Stevenson and his men died or not, but if they didn’t resist it would make it easier for his men. Rudy felt disgust, even a little shame. “I best be gettin’ back,” he said in a voice lacking energy, and with that he turned and left by way of the back door.
Hollis watched Rudy’s departure. He didn’t have a good feeling about their meeting. There was something about the fat guy’s demeanor that seemed off. He couldn’t put his finger on it; maybe a little disrespectful? He didn’t know—he would have to think on it.
Chapter Eight
Sarah knelt down beside the creek to wash her face and hands. She could’ve done that at the cabin, but she felt it best to give Josh some time alone with Lester to discuss today’s events. She was beginning to feel like her presence just complicated things. Sarah tested the water with her hand; it was frigid. Nonetheless, she looked for a place where the water flowed quickly over the multicolored gravel. There were shades of orange, red, white, purple, and black rocks intermixed with fine sand and, for some fortunate few, yellow gold. Sarah scooped up two handfuls of the icy cold water and brought it to her face; it took her breath away. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed aloud.
There was brief laughter behind her. “That crik water’ll darn sure get your attention at this time of the day,” said Lester.
Sarah gasped and turned quickly to see Lester standing there with a side of bacon in his hands. “Ya like bacon?” he asked in a rhetorical manner, as if who in their right mind wouldn’t like bacon.
Sarah blinked her eyes to shed the water from them and bring Lester into focus. He was smiling, and for a brief moment she wondered if he could see her nipples that had become erect in the cool morning air. But then she discarded this thought, almost as quickly as it had come, due to the heaviness of her shirt and Lester being a gentleman. Nonetheless, her upbringing dictated that she fold her arms in front of her as if to preserve her body’s warmth. “It’s chilly this morning, Lester.”
“Y
es ma’am, it is. I just been up to my ice house and fetched this here side ah bacon. Figured we’d have bacon and biscuits and gravy for breakfast.” It was obvious to Sarah that Lester was proud of the hospitality that he was able to afford her and Josh. He’d worked hard for what he had, but he didn’t mind sharing with people that he cared about. What she didn’t understand, though, was how he could be so seemingly unconcerned about what was on tap for the day. People could die and there was no telling who that might be. And now as the glow of the sun became visible on the eastern horizon, that reality was tying her stomach into a knot.
“You’ve missed your calling, Lester,” said Sarah teasingly. “You shoulda been a cook in one of them fancy San Francisco restaurants.”
Lester accepted this for the compliment that it was intended to be, but then humility caused him to reply with a laugh: “Well I ain’t poisoned anybody yet, but I reckon me and them snooty city folks wouldn’t get along too well so I suspect I’m better off where I’m at.”
Sarah smiled. She liked Lester and felt comfortable around him. She didn’t get the feeling that he was judging her. In a way he reminded her of one of her uncles back in Boston. He was a fisherman, a little rough around the edges but a good man. He’d worked hard to get what little he had in life but he didn’t mind sharing with those in need. “So you have an icehouse?” said Sarah.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Lester proudly. “Ya wanna see it? It’s just around the bend up this here path,” he said, gesturing towards the path that he was standing on.
Sarah paused briefly. It occurred to her that maybe she should go to the cabin—not to engage Josh in any more discussion about what he was going to do today, as he’d already made it pretty clear where he stood on that, but maybe just as moral support. On the other hand, maybe just giving him time to process things would be best, and so she said: “Sure, lead the way.” Sarah had noticed the path earlier on her way to the creek. It appeared to go up the canyon parallel to the creek, but since it disappeared into the ponderosa pines she didn’t know where it led to.
