Summer of the Star

by Johnny D. Boggs

  After unsaddling Sad Sarah, rubbing her down, and turning her loose with the remuda, I went to the chuck wagon, filled a cup with black coffee, and let Larry McNab stare at me long and hard.

  “You win that fight?”

  I shrugged. “You might could say that.. Well, Morco hadn’t arrested me. That, I guess, might be considered a victory.

  The old belly-cheater laughed, and tossed me an empty bucket. “Head down to the river, son, and fill this bucket.”

  I didn’t want to do that, but André Le Fevre rode up, so I left my coffee near my bedroll, and made a beeline for the Smoky Hill River.

  Why had I lied to Sheriff Whitney. There was nothing wrong with my memory, or so I thought. That scratch on Le Fever’s face looked deep and ugly, scabbed over by now, and I remembered him blaming it on a briar patch. I should have told Whitney the truth. By grab, I didn’t even like Le Fevre, but I was protecting him. Well, I’d have done things differently, had I known what all would happen, but that’s always the way, I guess.

  Le Fevre had killed that farmer’s daughter. I felt that with all my heart. Turn him in, I argued with myself, and like as not he’d never know it was me that had pointed him out to the law. But I just couldn’t do it. Not because he rode for Mr. Justus’s brand. I don’t think so, anyhow. I could imagine that farmer from Holyrood choking the life out of Le Fevre the same as he’d done to me, close to sending me to some potter’s field. I could picture Sheriff Whitney shooting Le Fevre down with a shotgun when he refused to surrender. I could see Le Fevre kicking as that piece of hemp tied to the gallows pole stretched his neck.

  Just like that, however, I’d see Marcelo Begoña.

  Poor old Marcelo, who had never done anybody wrong, had always worked and rode, never complaining, never shirking his duty, and who had died under all those hoofs. He was the first dead man I ever saw. I didn’t want to see another. I certainly didn’t want to help a man die, even a rotten man-killer like André Le Fevre.

  So I kept silent.

  By jacks, a fellow couldn’t miss that deep scratch on Le Fevre’s face. That’s what I told myself. Sheriff Whitney could see a cut like that for himself. Probably would, at some point, even after Le Fevre’s gash had healed. A scratch that deep was bound to leave an everlasting scar. So let Chauncey Whitney do his work. He got paid to bring in criminals. I just got paid to nursemaid beeves. After Whitney had arrested the man—no, the woman- killer, Le Fevre—the Ellsworth County sheriff would know me as a liar, but I could live with that.

  Getting a man killed, though. I wouldn’t sleep nights if I said what I knew.

  That became my justification.

  I couldn’t sleep that night, anyway. For the rest of my stay in Ellsworth, I slept fitfully. Bad dreams. Dreams about Le Fevre and that massive farmer. Once I even dreamed that Le Fevre killed Estrella O’Sullivan, murdered her in her store, with me staring through the window, unable to scream or help.

  That nightmare almost sent me to the sheriff’s office, but the major asked me to go hunting with him. Some fresh meat would hit the spot, I told myself, and it wasn’t every day that the major asked me to do anything except push cattle. I went with him, and he bagged a fine antelope. Which sure tasted better than burned biscuits and bad beans.

  Didn’t make me sleep any better, though.

  * * * * *

  Since returning with my busted nose, I kept close to camp. I’d get asked to go to town, but I always shrugged and shook my head. Mr. Justus said he wished all his hands acted like Mad Carter MacRae, saving money for home, instead of spending it. That was June Justus for you, always thinking better of folks than he should have. I let him think that way.

  André Le Fevre said I’d likely gotten my plow cleaned by somebody in town, and that I was scared to go back to Ellsworth or Nauchville. Picking a fight, he was, or trying to, but I wouldn’t bite. I let him think his way, too.

  July came, and Mr. Justus’s herd still hadn’t sold. He had not sold off any more beeves since, and didn’t seem to mind waiting. Most herds usually didn’t start selling till mid-July, he let us know, though he always hoped they’d sell earlier. A lot of cattle hadn’t sold yet, he went on, and that was certain sure. More kept coming every blasted day. We’d only been in Ellsworth maybe two weeks. Felt like two years. To me, anyway.

  On July 3, 1873, we moved our herd back across the Smoky Hill to find some fresh grass. That took some doing, and pushed us farther from town, but I kind of liked it that way. Kept us far from Sheriff Chauncey Whitney.

  But we weren’t far enough from Hagen Ackerman.

  That giant Mennonite came walking up to our herd late that afternoon. I was keeping an eye on those mossy horns. I reined up, watching him come. He was just a speck in the grass at first, sunlight reflecting off something he carried. Still, it took a good long while before I realized who it was. When it hit me, I reached down and touched the .36 I wore, trying to remember if I’d capped those nipples. Couldn’t recollect the last time I’d even cleaned or fired that relic.

  About that time, Fenton Larue and Tommy Canton rode up, shouting my name, sliding their horses to a stop in front of me. Our beeves, so contented and drowsy in the heavy heat, barely even noticed them.

  “What is it?” Tommy said.

  My eyes kept trained on the approaching sodbuster.

  “Who is that?” Fenton asked, and tipped back his hat.

  “Walkin’?. Tommy snorted, then spit.

  Well, I figured even a big cuss like Hagen Ackerman wouldn’t dare try to kill all three of us, but I shot a quick glance at my revolver. It was capped. That would give me some advantage. Maybe.

  “Criminy,” Fenton Larue said, “that fella’s wieldin’ an axe.”

  “Huntin’ firewood, you reckon?” Tommy asked.

  “No, Tommy. He ain’t got no wagon, no burro to haul no wood,” Fenton said, and whistled. “He’s a big guy.”

  I’d not spoken a word, and Tommy and Fenton fell silent, letting the farmer come the last hundred yards, which he covered mighty fast. He stopped, lowered the axe, and studied each one of our faces a long time. Sweat glistened on his face, drenched the underarms of his shirt. The rag he wore around his neck looked as if it had been dunked into the river.

  His eyes found me again. “You,” he said in that rough tongue. “You ... I know.”

  Without thinking, I touched my busted nose. The bandage and cotton balls I’d removed, but it was still swollen, and my throat still felt sore and bruised.

  “What do you want?” I said, and lowered by hand toward the Griswold and Gunnison’s butt. He could see I was heeled, and, unless he was a complete idiot, he knew I wouldn’t let him get any closer to me with that double- bladed axe.

  He faced Fenton Larue again, staring at him the longest, then Tommy Canton, but only briefly.

  “Nein,” he said, bringing up the axe and resting it over his shoulder. “You not him.”

  He made a beeline toward the river, and the next herd, splitting between Fenton and me as he walked on, giving the cattle a wide berth.

  “What was that about?. Fenton Larue directed the inquiry at me, but I just watched Hagen Ackerman and dared not reply.

  “Maybe I should follow him,” Tommy said. “Make sure he ain’t here to kill one of Mister Justus’s steers with that axe. Pa always says you can’t trust no sodbuster.”

  “He’s not after a steak,” I said.

  “Who is he?” Fenton repeated. “Seems to know you.”

  I sighed. The Mennonite didn’t look so imposing that far away. Just looked like a broken but determined father who had buried his only daughter with his bare hands.

  “Just a crazy farmer,” I said. “Ran into him in town.”

  “Pa says all farmers are crazy,” Tommy said.

  “That one beats ’em all,” Fenton added.

  I
painted a smile on my face, and looked back at my mates. “What brings y’all out here, ridin’ at a lope in this heat?”

  “Goin’ to town,” Fenton Larue said. “Well, you are. I went last night. I’m just here to relieve you. You and Tommy’s goin’.”

  “I don’t want to ....”

  “You gots to,” Fenton said. “Major’s orders. Even Mister Justus says it ain’t fittin’ for you to be workin’ all the time. You and Tommy’s gonna see Miss Kitty Leroy. Mister Justus bought tickets.”

  I had to push up my hat brim. “Who the blazes is Kitty Leroy?”

  Tommy answered with a wide grin. “I don’t know, but she’s a dancer!”

  chapter

  12

  That evening I rode the dapple in my string, Lazy Lucia, to town. I had my excuse for not taking Sad Sarah all ready—“She deserves a rest.”—although I hadn’t worked her for two days. But nobody asked me a thing, not even Tommy. Truth was, I feared Sheriff Whitney might recognize Sad Sarah, and I wanted to go unnoticed in Ellsworth.

  We returned to the bathhouse, got ourselves scrubbed and perfumed, and rode toward Nauchville, Tommy cussing me for not giving Lazy Lucia her head. He was raring to go, but, up until then, I hadn’t realized that Kitty Leroy was performing in The Bottoms. On the other hand, I figured since practically anything was allowed in Nauchville, Sheriff Chauncey Whitney was less likely to be found there.

  Encouraging the dapple with a cluck of my tongue, I made Tommy happier as we trotted toward The Ellsworth Theatre. When we got there, Tommy reined up, turned to give me a sheepish look, and reached into his vest pocket. He flashed a piece of gold at me, and said: “Let me have your ticket to the show, Mad Carter?”

  “What for?” I said.

  He shook his head in exasperation. “This is a three-dollar gold coin, Mad Carter. That ticket was a gift.. He flipped the coin, and somehow I managed to catch it, staring at the Indian princess on the front. It sure wasn’t new—1854, turned out—but it was real. “Three days’ wages,” he informed me, as if I were daft.

  I looked at the coin again, then back at Tommy.

  “Criminy, you didn’t even want to go,” Tommy insisted. “Took Pa’s orders to make you come.”

  “Well, you were mighty jo-fired for me to tag along.”

  “On account I wanted your ticket.”

  Now I did feel daft.

  “Mister Justus or my pa,” Tommy said, “was certainly not about to give me two tickets and let me take someone.”

  “Who you planning on asking?”

  “Bertha.”

  I blinked. Mouthed the name.

  “That gal we was drinkin’ with.. Shaking his head, he unsuccessfully tried to wipe the grin off his face and, voice cracking, added: “No, I don’t reckon you’d remember her ... or that toothless gal you was wooin’.”

  “I wasn’t wooing anybody,” I fired back at him.

  “How about the ticket?”

  I slid the coin into my pocket, and pulled out the ticket. He almost fell out of his saddle reaching for it, but I jerked it away from his fingers, asking: “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You got three dollars,” he said. “Do I have to draw you a map?”

  “Where we supposed to meet?”

  “Back in camp. Listen.. He had to mop his face, which was breaking out in sweat. He spoke to me like I was a simpleton. “This dance show’ll probably be over at ten o’clock. So you do whatever you want to do, till then, and, after ten, you mosey on back to camp. Tell ’em I decided to have a beer or two. Pa won’t mind. He knows that I’m a man.. He let that little insult stick in my craw. “And, you ... skinflint and Mama’s baby that you’re becomin’ ... are a good boy and would come right back to Mister Justus.”

  I should have told him that words like that would drive the price of my theatre ticket up to $5, but, instead, I just sat in the saddle, fuming in silence.

  “C’mon, Mad Carter!” he barked after several seconds.

  “And when I’m back in camp, when the major asks me how was Miss Kitty Leroy?”

  “Tell anyone who asks that it was a great show. That Kitty Leroy dances divinely. Better even than Giuseppina Morlacchi ....”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Listen”—Tommy was about to blow his lid—“I ain’t got time to give you no history lesson. Give me the ticket. If someone asks, you say you’d never seen nothin’ like it. And you thank Mister Justus kindly for the opportunity to get a little culture in your life.”

  “If this woman’s playing in Nauchville, I doubt if she’s very cultured.”

  “Well, I ain’t debatin’ you no more. Give me back my three dollars, and we’ll both go see how cultured Kitty Leroy is.”

  He looked plumb broken-hearted, so I handed him the ticket. Tommy didn’t even thank me. He spurred his roan, and tried to find a place to tether his horse.

  For a while I just sat there, saddle leather squeaking, watching The Bottoms return to life. I couldn’t just go back to camp.

  A sour-faced Bluebelly in a buckboard called me a dirty name, so I eased Lazy Lucia out of his way, watched him pass, him glaring at me and me matching him eye for eye. Wasn’t anything else to do, so I rode out of The Bottoms.

  The town was packed. It seemed like more folks just kept pouring into Ellsworth every day. I passed a crap game on one corner, and wondered how long Happy Jack Morco would let that vice continue before he ran some Texans and the brocade-vested gambler to jail. Almost as soon as I’d passed that scene, I reined in the dapple, and turned in the saddle.

  “Hey, Phineas!” I called out, having recognized the cowboy among the group.

  No response. All I heard was the rattling of dice in a tin cup, and then shouts and cusses as Phineas O’Connor let the lead dice fly onto the boardwalk.

  “Lucky seven!” Phineas cried. “Boys, I am hotter than hell’s hinges tonight!. He stuffed some greenbacks into his hat, and picked up the dice again.

  “Phineas O’Connor!” I yelled once more, but he still didn’t hear me. Too caught up in his dice game. I scanned the crowd for Byron Guy, but didn’t see him. Maybe he’d gone south to Texas.

  I watched as Phineas rolled the dice again, cutting loose with a Rebel yell. I decided to let him enjoy his glory. Perhaps I’d catch up with him later. I even contemplated joining the game, but I knew nothing about dice, and didn’t want to waste my 1854 gold coin on a game being run by a slick operator like that dude in the brocade vest. Besides, I didn’t want to be anywhere near those gamblers when the city police found them.

  Or Chauncey Whitney.

  * * * * *

  Well, I guess it shouldn’t come as any surprise to you that I wound up on Walnut Street. I’d ridden first to the stockyards, watched some Negroes, working for the K.P., shovel sand out of railroad cars into the empty pens. Debated grabbing a bite to eat. Even rode over to Mueller’s boot shop, thinking that the Bavarian could fix my heel or even measure me up for a new pair, but he was closed. A note on the door said:

  Gone to see Kitty Leroy.

  Back Saturday,

  8:30 a.m.

  Saturday? I thought. Today was Thursday. Was it going to take him a whole day to recover from watching Kitty Leroy. I began regretting having sold my ticket so cheaply.

  So I eased Lazy Lucia to the hitching rail in front of the Star Mercantile. It was still open. I watched a lady come strolling out, followed by two little girls and a boy whose face was sticky with remnants of the peppermint candy he was gnawing on.

  Your shirt has bloodstains on it, I told myself. You sure can use another one. A dress shirt. It won’t cost you all of that $3.

  Well, maybe I didn’t have to persuade myself that hard.

  Two more people hurried out of the store as I was going in, and it struck me that maybe the place had closed. But then I saw
Estrella O’Sullivan behind the counter, talking to someone. Her pa was over in the far corner, helping out some sodbuster’s wife. And a handsome woman was studying the patterns in a catalog.

  I eased my way to the shelves of collarless shirts, but didn’t look at any. I just stood admiring the store. Back home, we did our buying at a cabin. More often than not, however, we’d just trade with a peddler. Or sometimes Major Canton, more often Larry McNab, would bring us supplies, usually just about when we were on our last spoonful of salt or cup of flour. I knew there was a fine store in Pleasanton, and many even bigger and better up in San Antone, but the Star Mercantile seemed finer than frog’s hair cut eight ways.

  Clothes of wool and calico and denim and silk and brocade and broadcloth and duck, and stacks upon stacks of bolts of fabrics. Plowshares and plow handles, saddles and axes and hammers. Chisels, mallets, augers. Oil cans and scissors and china and silver. Powder and shot and rice and flour. More candies in more jars than I’d ever seen. I saw boots and shoes, but they were too close to where Estrella was talking, so I pulled my hat down, and left the shelf I had been studying, holding a red shirt with a star print, and moved to a counter. Boxes and packages filled it. Soaps that made my eyes water. Remedies for hay fever and heart ailments. For tobacco and asthma. I passed laxatives, carbolic salves, and something called Orange Wine Stomach Bitters. I read the label on a blood builder, saw the Sure Rheumatic Cure and found nerve and brain pills. I looked at Reliable Worm Syrup and Worm Cakes for the longest time. I moved over to the next counter, and began reading all I could about Folgers coffee. I could smell the coffee. And tobacco. Then I understood that someone had just fired up a cigarette. Next, I heard the voice. My heart leaped into my throat.

  “I’d be right proud, Star, if you’d accompany me to see Kitty Leroy.”

  That Yankee accent, I’d never forget it. In a panic, I looked down at my waist, expecting to find my pistol holstered, giving a ruffian lawdog like Morco reason enough to jail me if not kill me. If I’d violated the town ordinance ... but I was unarmed. Of course. I remembered that I’d left my rig and .36 rolled up and stored in my sougans. Mr. Justus never let any of his riders go to town heeled.