The man ran his eyes over Griff and his horse in a way that made the taller man think he was taking inventory. The man looked at the dog and hollered, "Oh, go lay down, Beulah!"
The dog ceased its yammering and the man turned back to Griff with a friendly smile. "Evenin', mister, what can I do for ya?"
"Well, sir, I was just passing through. A friend of mine back in Virginia City told me there was a trading post hereabouts where a man could get a bite to eat. My name's Griffith McAllister, but most folks just call me Griff."
"You heard right, Mr. McAllister. I'm Enoch Bradman," the man said as he jerked a thumb back toward the cabin, "and this here is Bradman Mercantile." Bradman chuckled as he continued, "It's not much compared to the store I had back East, but I get enough for the furs I trade for to get by. Supper's about ready, and you're more than welcome to join us."
Bradman's eyes drifted down to the guns on Griff's hips. "You don't look like a trapper or a prospector, what brings you to these parts?"
Griff started to launch into one of the many stories he had developed for these occasions, and then felt oddly compelled to simply tell the truth. "I'm a bounty hunter," he replied.
For a split second Bradman's face lost all expression and then his smile returned, wider than ever. "Well, we haven't seen any desperadoes around these parts in a while," he said with another chuckle. "Hell, where are my manners? You look like you've spent most of the day on the trail. Let's get you cleaned up and fed."
The fur trader glanced back at the cabin and then continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "My wife has a low opinion of those who make their living through violence, regardless of which side of the law they're on. If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon she didn't know what you did. I'd appreciate it if you left your weapons in the barn."
Griff sighed. He'd encountered this sort of reaction before. He gave the man a tired nod, unbuckled his gun belt, and stashed his pistols in the top of his saddlebags.
"Great." Bradman turned back toward the cabin and hollered, "Maggie, Lizzie, we've got a guest for dinner. Come on out and help him get his horse put up in the barn."
A small, blonde girl about the age of nine appeared in the doorway almost instantaneously. She gave the bounty hunter a shy smile. Griff guessed that she was the one who had been watching from the window. A few seconds later an older girl in her late teens emerged. She had blonde hair just like her sister.
"The small one's Lizzie, the older one's Maggie," said Bradman with some pride. "Girls, help Mr. McAllister with his horse and show him where he can wash up."
The two girls escorted Griff and Charger to the barn where Maggie showed him an empty stall his mount could use. The older girl responded hesitantly to Griff's questions about life in the mountains and then suddenly excused herself. "I've got to go help Ma get dinner ready," she said as she rushed out of the barn, her face blushing.
Lizzie giggled. "She likes you." The small girl grabbed a stiff brush and began grooming the horse, even though she could barely reach its back.
Griff crouched down beside her to uncinch the saddle, and the harsh smell of charred wood and the sickly-sweet smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils. He fell back against the side of the stall in shock.
He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, the barn ceased to exist and he was again in the Wilderness. He was running, fleeing both the pursuing Rebs and the wild forest fire that threatened to consume all of the soldiers, blue and gray. The branches and vines tore at his clothes as if trying to hold him back. He heard his pal O'Ryan call out for help. He looked back and saw his childhood friend on the ground, his legs hopelessly entwined in heavy vines. Griff turned back to help him, but a wall of flame washed over O'Ryan, hiding him from sight. Although he couldn't see him, Griff could hear his friend's screams as the fire burned his flesh.
Griff felt a persistent tugging at his arm and opened his eyes. He was back in the barn. Lizzie stood over him, tugging at his shirt and repeating, "Mr. McAllister, are you all right?"
Griff struggled unsteadily to his feet. "Yeah, I'm fine. I guess the heat just got to me," he told the worried girl.
The smell was still there, but fainter now. Griff sniffed a few times to locate its source. Lizzie saw what he was doing and sniffed herself. A look of embarrassment crossed her face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. McAllister. I helped Pa smoke some ham this morning and I haven't had a chance to take a bath yet."
Griff, now somewhat embarrassed himself, patted the girl on the head and changed the subject. "Hey, enough with all of this Mr. McAllister stuff. Just call me Griff."
Lizzie's smile nearly split her skull in two. "Okay, Griff."
The two returned to grooming the horse and they were soon finished. Lizzie led Griff to a small pump and trough around the side of the barn. "You can wash up here if you'd like," said his diminutive guide as she plopped down on a nearby stump.
Griff filled the bucket sitting beside the pump and peeled off his shirt. Lifting the bucket above his head, he tipped it and let the water slowly run down his face and chest. He sighed with pleasure as the cool liquid washed away the dried sweat and trail dust. He opened his mouth and took a large swig.
"Griff, how many men have you killed?"
The question caught Griff in mid-swallow, and he nearly choked. He stood there for a few moments coughing and spluttering before he looked in Lizzie's direction. She looked back at him solemnly, her eyes as big as saucers.
"Enough," Griff answered slowly "I'm guessing you heard what I told your father. Let's make sure your ma doesn't find out, okay? It'll be our secret,"
"Okay," Lizzie agreed. "Were they bad men?"
"Yeah," Griff muttered. "They all got what they had coming to them." Don't you wish you believed that, Griff thought to himself.
His answer seemed to satisfy the girl, because no more questions were forthcoming. Griff ran some more water over his hands and face and put his shirt back on.
As the pair walked back toward the cabin, Griff felt a small soft hand slip into his large, callused one. With a pang of regret, he thought back to the wife and daughter he had left behind in Massachusetts. His daughter would be about Maggie's age now, nearly a full-grown woman. He wondered what she looked like.
Griff felt the old anger begin to rise-anger at himself, at the war, at the universe. He had seen and caused too much pain and suffering, too much death, too much inhumanity to ever return to the quiet farm life he had known. He couldn't bear the thought of bringing the taint of that anger and pain back to his family. When his enlistment papers had run out, rather than return home, he had bought a horse and headed west.
At first he had made his way as a cowhand, but it wasn't long before he discovered that he could make a better living employing the deadly skills he had learned on the battlefields of the East. First as a town marshal, and then as a bounty hunter, Griff dedicated himself to helping others, and possibly in the process helping himself.
Griff looked down at Lizzie, who looked back up at him with trusting eyes. If only you knew, he thought.
"It'll, be okay," said Lizzie solemnly.
"What?" said Griff.
"Should we give Charger more hay?" repeated the girl.
"No, he's fine. Let's go see what your mother's put on the table."
***
"This is stupid, Boyd. If we get caught, they'll string us up for sure."
"I don't recall asking for your opinion."
"But, Boyd, we..."
Boyd Shank swiveled around in his saddle to face the speaker, Clevis Harmon. His hand rested lightly on the butt of his pistol. "One more word, Clevis, just one more word..." said Boyd. His eyes swept over the other three horsemen who accompanied him in a baleful glare. "Anyone else who's got a problem can clear out now. It just means a bigger share for the rest."
When no one spoke, Boyd continued, "Now, if it's all right with the rest of you ladies, I plan on getting on with this trip. The sooner we get there, the
sooner we can get the Hell out of this territory." Boyd turned back to the front and spurred his horse forward, his ears cocked for the sound of creaking leather or the click of a cocking pistol. When he heard nothing after a few seconds, he allowed himself to relax.
After a few minutes had passed, Clevis piped up again, "Boyd, are you sure that prospector knew what he was talking about?"
Boyd reigned in his horse and turned around. He gave Clevis a look that left little doubt that the gang leader's patience was wearing thin. "Look," he said, "How many times do we have to go over this? That prospector back in Shan Fan used to be a trapper in these parts, and he knew the fur trader. He's positive that the man used to hide his money under a stone near the fireplace. The trader told him as much one night when they got drunk together. That trader moved to Colorado to escape the law Back East. He swindled his business partners and took off with the money. Now all we have to do is go up there and collect it."
Boyd looked around the group. Clevis' face still bore a sour expression, but the rest of the men appeared eager to move on. "That's the last I'm saying on the subject," said Boyd with a glare in Clevis' direction. He turned his horse around and started up the trail again.
Although he'd never admit it, Boyd shared some of Clevis' misgivings. He and his gang were in Colorado, a state where they were wanted for murder by both Union and Confederate lawmen. The only reason they had returned here from their lawless life in California was the same reason he and his men did anything: money.
Boyd also knew the truth about the gold they were looking for. He hadn't learned about it from some old prospector, that was simply a story he had concocted to get the others to follow him. The location of the fur trader's hoard had come to him in a dream. Over the past few months, he had had the dream nearly every night. Each time it occurred, it was more detailed and vivid than before.
The thought that he and his men had missed such a valuable treasure began to haunt his waking hours. He became convinced that, despite the risks, they must return to Colorado and retrieve the gold. Now that they were only a few miles from their destination, Boyd knew he'd made the right choice.
***
"Would you care for some more ham, Mr. McAllister?" inquired Carol Bradman.
"No ma'am, I couldn't eat another bite. Thank you, though," replied Griff.
Griff sat back in his chair and slowly sipped at his coffee. He couldn't remember the last time he had enjoyed a good, home-cooked meal. He felt content and relaxed for the first time in quite a long while. As he watched the Bradman's finish their meal, he couldn't help but think of the many lonely nights he had eaten alone by the campfire or in some dark, dirty saloon. He again felt regret over that fateful decision he had made so many years ago.
Griff also felt some rising gas. He began to let out a loud belch, and then remembered that he was in polite company and stifled it. A strangled "urp" escaped his lips, followed by a quick, "Excuse me." Lizzie had been watching him the entire time, and she began to giggle.
"Elizabeth May, what is so funny?" said her mother.
Before Lizzie could answer, the light jingle of a horse's tack and the clop of hooves on hard-packed dirt came from outside. Beulah began to bark loudly.
"Sounds like we have more company," said Enoch as he rose from his seat and turned toward the door. He froze in mid-stride as a shot sounded from outside and Beulah's barking abruptly stopped.
It took a few seconds for the reality of the situation to penetrate the food-induced haze around Griff's tired brain. Once it did, he stood and pushed his way past the stunned fur trader. Before the bounty hunter could reach the door, it burst inward and three men forced their way into the cabin. There was a crash and a scream behind him, and Griff whirled to see two more men enter the cabin through the back door.
One of the men who had entered from the front leveled a revolver at Griff. "Sit! Now!" he ordered.
Griff backed away slowly, grabbing Enoch's arm as he did and guiding the bewildered man back to his chair.
Once both men were seated, one of the intruders spoke, "Don't try anything, and you might live through this."
"What is it you want?" asked Griff.
"That's not really your concern, mister," replied the man Griff took to be the leader. "We'll take what we want and then we'll be on our way. You keep your mouth shut and don't make any sudden moves, and I might not kill ya'."
Griff quickly surveyed the newcomers. They all kept their distance and handled their weapons with an easy confidence; none of them appeared nervous. That was good news because it meant they were less likely to panic and open fire unexpectedly, but it was bad news in that it meant making a move against them would be difficult. Each of the intruders carried a pistol; three had them drawn, the other two covered them with a rifle and a scattergun. One of the outlaws held a pick in his off hand.
The bounty hunter turned toward the Bradmans. Lizzie and Maggie held each other tightly, tears streaming down the older girl's face. Lizzie saw Griff glance in their direction and shot him an imploring look. Carol Bradman sat as motionless as a statue, as if she was afraid to breathe. Enoch sat quietly with the dazed expression of a man who has just been smacked between the eyes with a two-by-four.
The leader of the desperadoes walked over to Enoch and shoved him out of his chair. The stunned man retreated against the wall while his antagonist plopped into the chair with a heavy thud that raised a cloud of trail dust from his clothes. The outlaw leaned back and propped his feet up on the table.
"I gotta tell ya'," he said, "this is a surprise. I figured after we killed the last family that lived here, no one would be foolish enough to set up shop here again. But here you are, with a house right smack dab where the old one used to be." He glanced around the cabin. "I like what you've done with the place."
He turned to his gang. "You boys hungry?" This was met with a chorus of affirmative grunts. "Ma'am, would you be so kind as to carve some meat off that fine roast for my men?" the outlaw said to Carol with a laugh.
Carol continued to sit unmoving and glared defiantly at the man in her husband's chair. The smile left the bandit's face. He raised his pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at Lizzie's head. Griff felt a cold wave of fear run down his back. "I'm through being polite," the outlaw growled, "The next time I say something, you jump, or you'll be picking your daughter's brains off the wall." Mrs. Bradman fought hard to stifle a sob and began cutting slices of pork.
One of the other men who had come in the front door spoke up, "Hey Boyd, you know, we've been on the trail for a while. We could do with some other types of hospitality." The man cast a meaningful look toward Maggie.
"Well, Clevis, seeing as how you've gone and used my name, you might as well go ahead and do whatever you like. Just be quick, 'cuz we ain't stayin' long."
Clevis began to move toward the girls. This snapped Enoch out of his stupor and he moved to stop him. Without even slowing, the outlaw brought his pistol down across the enraged father's head. Enoch staggered back against the wall. A line of blood welled up along the edge of his hairline and began to flow freely down his face.
"Next time I'll shoot you, old man," said Clevis as he reached for Maggie's arm. The girl gave a short shriek and pulled away.
Griff knew he had to do something to take the initiative before the situation degenerated any further. "Wait a second," he said, "maybe we can make a deal."
That got a laugh from Boyd. "Mister, you ain't in much of a bargaining position."
"Look, I don't live here. I'm a courier for Smith & Robards. I just finished my deliveries and I'm on my way back to Salt Lake City. I've got nearly $10,000 in cash in my saddlebags."
"Well thanks for telling us, friend. I'd have hated to have left that behind." Boyd raised his pistol and aimed at Griff's head. Lizzie began to sob.
The bounty hunter quickly continued, "The money is in a ghost-steel combination safe. If you enter the wrong combination or puncture the safe, boom, no more money. I'l
l unlock the safe and give you the money if you promise to leave here."
Boyd sat for a few moments as if considering the idea. "I've got a better offer," he replied, "I think you and Rafters are going to go out to the barn, and you're going to unlock that safe for him. If you don't, I'll start lopping off parts of the missus' anatomy, one joint at a time, until you do. Comprende?"
You can never overestimate the power of greed, thought Griff. He let his eyes drop and his shoulders slump as if in defeat. "Uh, yes sir," he stammered. Without looking up, he knew there was a big grin plastered on Boyd's face-bullies always grinned.
"Rafters, take this joker out to the barn and see if he's telling the truth. If there's no money, shoot him."
Rafters turned out to be the one with the scattergun. He had a sallow complexion that made him look sickly, and a long scar running from the corner of his mouth to his right ear kept his face twisted in a perpetual scowl. As he got closer, Griff could tell that the outlaw wasn't much for personal hygiene; it smelled like something had died in his clothes.
Rafters gave Griff a not too gentle shove and motioned toward the door with his gun. "Let's go," he said in a rough, gravelly voice.
Griff got up and walked slowly out onto the porch. The sun was little more than a red glow on the horizon, and the tall pines cast long shadows in the yard. He spotted a dark lump surrounded by a dark puddle not far from the porch—Beulah.
A scattergun poked Griff in the ribs. "Move," rasped Rafters.
The pair were about halfway to the barn when a woman's scream came from the cabin. It sounded like Maggie. Griff paused for a second, and this prompted Rafters to jab him hard in the kidney with the barrel of his gun. Red-hot pain shot through the bounty hunter's lower back. This was quickly replaced by an ice-cold ball of rage that settled into the pit of Griff's stomach. He put his hands in his pockets so that the outlaw couldn't see that they were trembling.
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 5
