Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition

by Richard Jessup

  The detachment of armed guards had escorted the money boxes to the pay tent and gangs worked and sweated under the urgings of their buckos to unload the rails and new equipment. To one side, nearly a dozen newly arrived painted tarts joked with the men while waiting to be transported to Watson's tents. The mail had been taken off and carried to the general's office to be sorted and, with the mail, a column of engineers had marched off to be introduced to the general.

  Further to one side, a group of nearly fifty raw labor recruits in ill-fitting city clothes threw nervous, excited glances over the sprawling tent city. It was to this group that Kelly attended.

  “You've sold your souls into hell, lads,” he bawled. “From here until the rail is down and tied to the earth at the Pacific shore, you're Johnny-Jacks! And you work until you break your backs!”

  The men grinned awkwardly at each other. “We're building a railroad, lads, and we've come a hell of a long way without you, and I reckon we'll make it if you decide you can't take it. You're here to work and work you will, and I'm the bucko that can see there'll be plenty of it for you. We do one thing, and one thing only: we lay the rails down, lads, thataway—” Kelly turned and pointed toward the west. “Now you're to work in gangs and you've got a boss—a bucko who knows you haven't had experience, so he'll be patient with you—for one hour! Then you start working. All right, McCoy, call out your gang!”

  A thin, deathlike figure in faded homespun trousers, battered hat and Confederate boots stepped forward and began reading off names.

  The men fell out into a group, and a second bucko stepped up to collect his gang. Kelly stood to one side looking them over as their names were called, by and large quite pleased with the size of most of them. His eye fell upon one lean, bony-faced new arrival sitting on a Texas saddle, wearing Texas boots and hat. The man appeared to be ignoring the buckos forming up their gangs.

  The man got up slowly and Kelly was surprised to see he was as tall as he himself was, though less bulky and given to the leanness and stringy muscles of Texans. Then Kelly saw the heavy black Colt anchored in a holster slung low and tied down to the thigh. Picking up the saddle, the man turned from the other laborers and started to walk away.

  “Just a minute, lad,” Kelly said. “Your name’s not been called yet. You'll get lost if you don't know your gang.”

  The tall man turned slowly, his voice gentle, his eyes steady on Kelly's face. “I don't reckon he's going to call my name.”

  “Didn't you come out here to work on the Union Pacific?”

  “No,” the man said, “I didn't. But if you'll tell me where I can find Jeremy Watson's place, I'd be much obliged.”

  Kelly snorted. “Another worthless drifter come to scavenge around the railhead while honest men labor.” Kelly spat a stream of tobacco juice in disgust. “Watson's place, eh! You'll find that easy enough. Just follow the worst stink in camp and you'll be home. That'll be Jeremy Watson's.”

  “I've heard stories about big Irish mouths but I never believed them, up to now,” the tall man said.

  Kelly's head snapped up as if on a string. “And I've heard that gunslingers quiver in their own spit when they unbuckle their irons and drop them in the dust.”

  Smiling tightly, the bony-faced man lowered the saddle to the ground and unbuckled his heavy gunbelt. His eyes never leaving Kelly's face, he unleashed the tie-down of the holster.

  Men stopped in their labor to watch as the two moved toward each other. It was not often that Kelly found anyone who would argue on a second breath with him, but from the size of the tall Texan and his ham-like fists, there were Johnny-Jacks in the crowd who thought they were going to see Kelly meet his match.

  A circle had been made and the onlookers began to chant to mix it up. Kelly advanced, alert and ready. The Texan waited for him, arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  “Mr. Kelly!” a voice yelled from the circle of men. A boy of fourteen slithered through. “Mr. Kelly, the general wants to see you right away. He said right away!”

  “Boy!” Kelly roared. “Can't you see I'm about to mix with this no-good son of a bitch? Now git outa here!”

  “But, Mr. Kelly! The general said right away!”

  The Texan straightened up and backed off. “I wouldn't want you to lose your job, Irishman. You better hop to it before you get slapped on the wrist for neglect of duty.”

  Kelly's face went crimson. He spat out his cud. “God damn it! Come on, come on and fight! Hang the general!”

  But the Texan was smiling openly now, and so were many of those in the circle. “Naw, I ain't going to fight you. You come look me up after you've polished the general's brass.”

  Kelly nearly exploded. “You promise me that!” he demanded. “You give me your word as a worthless skunk you won't run out until we meet—man to man—you promise?”

  “I promise.” the Texan said, buckling on his gunbelt. “You'll find me at Jeremy Watson's.” And then with a twinkle in his eyes, the tall Texan looked down at the boy. “Son are you sure the general sent you after this Irishman?”

  Kelly stamped with rage and disgust. Then he turned and pushed through the laughing men. “Boy,” he said and bit down on a fresh chew of tobacco. “If'n the general don't want me as bad as you say, I'm goin' to tan your sittin' place.”

  “Oh, he wants you all right, Mr. Kelly. There's an Injun fighter in buckskin wanting to see you,” the boy replied, trotting alongside him. “And Mr. Kelly, sir.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This Injun fighter—is a woman.”

  * * *

  Kelly stared at Liza Reeves and couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. “You're Jake's brother—” Kelly said. “I mean, Jake's your sister—”

  “You don't talk good, do you mister?” Liza Reeves said tartly.

  “I—I'm sorry, ma'am,” Kelly said, searching her person with his eyes and taking in her worn buckskin trousers and buckskin blouse with half the fringe gone, used long ago to lace something or other together. She wore a battered Texas hat and her jet-black hair had been pulled back over her ears to hang in a tangled mat on the nape of her neck. Her face was burned nearly brown-red from the plains’ sun and the color accentuated the flashing blue eyes. Her teeth were white and strong. Kelly figured she couldn't be more than twenty-two or -three. And even underneath the grime and the buckskin, he could see there was a strong, hard body. A very womanly body. And Kelly thought, looking at her, wanting desperately to hold his nose, if she didn't smell so bad she might even be pretty. He glanced toward Billy Brighton, who stood at a safe and respectful distance, holding the tent flap open for fresh air. No wonder the general said hurry!

  Kelly snorted. “Well, ma'am, Jake ain't come back from his night's scouting yet.”

  “Perhaps,” Brighton added quickly, “the lady would like to freshen up a bit. She would be welcome to use my quarters.”

  Liza Reeves stood up. “I reckon I could do with a wash,” she said, hefting a heavy rifle and easing the weight of her Colt. “I feel like I'm carryin' ten ton of the dust with me from the ride down from west of the badlands.”

  Brighton and Kelly looked at each other. “You rode down from the badlands—alone?” Kelly gasped.

  “Why, sure,” Liza said easily. “When you figure Jake will skiddle into camp?”

  Kelly forgot about how Liza Reeves smelled and impulsively grabbed her by the shoulders. “Then you came down through—”

  “Take your hands off me or I'll blow your guts out,” she said, and Kelly felt the press of her gun in his stomach. He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back.

  “No offense, ma'am, I just got excited.”

  Billy Brighton grinned widely.

  “Well, don't go 'round gettin' excited with me,” Liza said in a steely voice. “Now, what was you askin'?”

  “How did you come down? What route did you take to get here?”

  “I just tramped down the Powder River as far as the Belle Fourche, then lit straight down t
o the North Platte and followed it on in,” Liza said.

  “Did you meet any Cheyenne?”

  “Are you teched in the head, mister? Sure I met Cheyenne, and some Crow huntin’ parties and Arapaho.”

  “Did you meet any large groups of Cheyenne?”

  “You don't meet large groups of Cheyenne these days, mister,” Liza Reeves said. “You stay downwind from ‘em, or ain’t you heard of Sandy Creek yet and how Black Kettle feels about it?”

  “I didn't mean that. I meant—”

  “Then say what you mean. I'll swear, you don't sound right.”

  “We heard Goose Face was close by.”

  “I didn't see him,” Liza said seriously. “You think he's around here?” Her eyes flashed, and then she broke out into a dazzling grin. “Well, if he is, ol’ Jake will know about it. As for me, I didn't see that child.”

  Words failed Kelly.

  Liza hefted her rifle. “All right, now that you finished questionin’ me” —she turned to Billy Brighton— “this good-lookin’ fellow can show me where I can wash some.”

  “I'd be delighted, ma’am,” Billy Brighton said. “If you'd just follow me.” And he hurried out of the tent to keep well ahead of Liza Reeves.

  “You tell ol’ Jake his sis is here if he comes in ‘fore I get back,” she said to Kelly.

  “Yes’um, I’ll tell him.”

  She flashed the big Irishman a grin. “I left my horse with a boy the general sent for you. Is he trustin’?”

  “He'll take good care of your horse, ma’am,” Kelly said and turned away quickly to the flap, and fresh air.

  * * *

  It was close to seven in the morning when Kelly moved through the camp. Up ahead, Watson's tent with the ten-foot flaps opening into the lantern-lit interior was already beginning to rouse itself and serve whisky to shaking old men and drunkards.

  Simpson and Garrity, two of Watson's gang, sat on either side of the huge opening, their Colts low and ready, and watched Kelly approach.

  “Morning, Kelly,” Simpson, the larger of the two, said, a small grin forming on his thin lips.

  “How do, Kelly,” Garrity said.

  Kelly ignored them and marched into the tent. He stopped to let his eyes grow accustomed to the light and stared around, searching for Slocum and Little. In the middle of the tent were three rough wooden planks laid side by side and stretched across sawhorses in a rough circle. This was the bar, and behind it, on still other planks, was row after row of cheap whisky in bottles of every imaginable size and color. Red-eyed bartenders in undershirts had begun laying in the day's supply of drink in anticipation of the night's crowd. The grassy floor had been stomped into a mire for ten feet around the bar where the Johnny-Jacks had pushed and shoved their way to the front the night before. In one dark corner several men lay flat on their backs sleeping off heavy loads of grog. In another corner, wearing knee boots and gingham dresses and clustered around rough tables, the women sat on rawhide stools, waiting.

  Slocum and Little were seated at a nearby table, and it was obvious that Little would not ride scout that day. His head lay peacefully on his arms and Slocum stood beside him, looking down uncertainly at the inert figure. He looked up at Kelly's approach, and relief passed over his face. The big Irishman moved down the side of the bar toward the table, unseen by Watson and the half-dozen of his men clustered together on the other side of the circle of rough planking.

  “I see you kept your word, Irishman.”

  So intent was Kelly on the tableau of an unconscious Little and a hovering Slocum that he did not notice the tall Texan leaning against the bar. The Texan pushed forward and barred Kelly's way. “I reckon you want satisfaction now,” he said. He was grinning good-naturedly and he began to unbuckle his gunbelt.

  Kelly was staring absently at the slumped figure of Little, already thinking of what man he could send out as scout to relieve Jake Reeves and be depended on to bring an honest report. There wasn't a one. “Not now, Texas,” he said gruffly. “I'm busy.”

  He pushed past the tall man, who looked after him with thoughtful eyes. “Can't you sober him up, Slocum?” Kelly said.

  Slocum glanced at Watson and his men. “He ain't drunk, Mr. Kelly. He's been pistol-whipped.”

  Kelly jerked up. “Who done it?”

  Slocum nodded in the direction of Watson.

  “Get him over to the doctoring tent, lad,” Kelly said grimly.

  Slocum nodded and hefted Little over his shoulder. His boots sinking into the mud, he struggled past the tall Texan and out of the tent.

  “Who did it?” Kelly demanded of Watson and his men. “Which one of you yellow-bellied scum was afraid to shoot—but beat that lad with his gun?”

  “Hold on Kelly,” Watson said harshly. “There was a little misunderstanding, and then your scout tried to pull a knife.”

  “Asa Little would never give a man a chance if he had pulled his knife,” Kelly said. “And I said if he pulled his knife.”

  “Come on and have a drink, Kelly,” Watson said with a shrug.

  “Who whipped my scout!” Kelly roared. “Step out and whip me, if one of you dares to face up to a man!”

  The men glanced at each other. Then one of them stepped out, a thick-set, wide man. “Kelly, I've had enough of your bellowing. I whipped your scout. Now what'n hell you think you going to do about it?”

  Watson had moved a safe distance away. The Texan leaned at the bar, sipping his whisky and watching the scene.

  Kelly moved in on the thick-set man and knocked him sprawling. “Get up!” he roared.

  At a sign from Watson the other men circled Kelly, removed their guns, and reversed the butts. The big Irishman charged, his fist catching one man and knocking him cold. But as he moved, the others got behind and around him and began to hammer at his head.

  The Texan finished his drink, removed his hat and stepped into the fray. He reached one man on the back of the head with his own gun-butt, and was slugged in return by one of Watson's men. Kelly slammed a man back against the planking, and tore down a whole section. The Texan landed heavily against the inner bar, and bottles and crocks of whisky fell with a crash. He bulled his way back to where three Watson men were hammering at Kelly and, in turn, began methodically chopping at the Watson men.

  A reeling man fell hard against one of the thick tent poles and half the tent fell in on the fighters. The women began to scream, and when neither Kelly nor the Texan could find anyone to swing at, they scrambled out from underneath the canvas. They stood outside the stricken tent and looked over each other solemnly, sucking at their knuckles.

  “I forgot my saddle and hat in the tent,” the Texan said gravely.

  He turned and scooped up one edge of the tent and disappeared.

  Kelly waited. There were sudden loud smacking sounds, a crash of bottles and the heavy thud of a man going down. Then silence.

  The edge of the tent was lifted and the Texan emerged with his saddle and his hat, replacing his Colt in its holster. Kelly's face was heavy with chagrin.

  “I want you to know, I didn't ask you to help me!” Kelly said, “I could have handled those toughs without your help.”

  “I know you didn't ask me,” the Texan said mildly.

  “And it don't change anything between us,” Kelly insisted.

  “Not a thing,” the Texan said agreeably. He dropped his saddle into the dust and began unbuckling his belt. “Now be all right?”

  “No, I got work to do.” Kelly said regretfully.

  “All right, I'll be around somewhere, I reckon.” The Texan picked up his saddle and began to walk off.

  “Wait a minute!” Kelly called as he hurried to the man's side. “You told me you was working for Watson. How come you lit in against him?”

  “I didn't say no such thing.” The Texan said.

  “You asked me how to get to Watson's.”

  “That's what I asked you.”

  “God damn it, man!” Kelly roared. �
��I ain't going to stand here and quibble with you—”

  “Then don't.”

  “If you didn't come here to work for Watson, and you didn't come here to work on the railroad, what in hell did you come here for?”

  “I don’t figure that’s any of your business, Irishman,” the Texan said politely but firmly. “But it won't hurt none to tell you. You might know the man I'm after.”

  “Oh, are you lookin' for somebody who works in this camp?”

  “That's right.”

  “Who?”

  “He calls himself Lefty Hayes.”

  “Lefty Hayes!” Kelly said. “He works for Watson. He's Watson's right-hand man.”

  “That's what they told me down in Independence and in Omaha,” the Texan said levelly.

  “Whatcha want with him?”

  “Goin' to kill him.”

  Kelly shook his head sadly. “Son,” he said, “you're a big, strapping lad, and you've shown yourself to be fair-minded and capable with your fists, but Lefty Hayes is faster than a rattlesnake with that gun of his'n.”

  “I heard.”

  “Are you fast?”

  “I ain't dead yet.”

  “No, you ain't, lad, but you might be if you try to kill Lefty Hayes.”

  “Well, one way or the other, I'm gonna try.”

  “I can't stand here talkin' to you. I've got work to do. You got anyplace special to go while you're waitin' for Lefty?”

  “Nope.”

  “Walk with me over to the doctorin' tent while I see how my scout is farin'.”

  “All right,” the Texan said.

  “I could sure use a man like you.” Kelly eyed the Texan. “It's a great thing, lad, to be part of buildin' a railroad—not just any railroad, but one that will build a strong country.”

  “Seein' as how I just spent nearly five years doin' everything I could to tear that country apart; I don't guess I got much interest.” They moved through the tents.

  “You wore the gray, eh, lad?” Kelly's voice was gentle. “I can't say that I blame you for feelin' bitter. It was a hard-fought war.”

  “I don't feel bitter,” the Texan said simply. “I just ain't a railroad man.”

  “We have a lot of Confederate lads workin' side by side with their former Union foes.”