A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

  Vienna didn’t give Doris or John time to respond before she interrupted. “Well, there you go. That’s the most sensible way to do it. I need help and you folks need room. It’s all settled, then. I’m pleased as punch that we worked it all out.” She leaned close to Mary Beth and whispered, “But we still got room for Luke Sunday if you were of a notion.” She winked and gave her a playful punch on the shoulder for emphasis.

  John and Doris exchanged glances of astonishment. “Wait a minute,” John protested. “Is this what you want, Mary Beth? I feel an obligation to take care of my brother’s widow.”

  His remark, though clearly not meant as a negative, was the final piece in Mary Beth’s decision puzzle, because she clearly did not want her presence in John’s house the result of a feeling of obligation. “If Vienna can stand it, I can stand it. I think it’ll be the perfect answer to the problem.”

  Shaking her head as if exasperated by the whole thing, Vienna reminded them, “Hell, she’ll just be across the garden. She ain’t goin’ to Bozeman or somewhere.”

  Mary Beth’s spirits were immediately lifted with the knowledge that she had a home that welcomed her. “I know Luke is probably getting anxious to get settled up with me,” she announced. “So I’m gonna go out to the barn and pay him what David and I promised.” She got up to leave.

  “You want me to call him in here?” John asked.

  “No,” Mary Beth replied. “I have to pay him out in the barn. That’s where my sack of corn is.” With that, she left them to wonder.

  “Dang!” Vienna muttered. “If I’da known he’d work that cheap, I wouldn’t have given up so easy.”

  Mary Beth found Luke and Jack about to lead the horses down to the river to drink. They stopped and waited when they saw her approaching from the house. “Go ahead and take ’em to water,” Luke told Jack, “and I’ll be along directly.” The boy did as he was told, while mumbling under his breath that everybody was afraid he was going to hear something he shouldn’t. “Is there somethin’ you need me to do, ma’am?” Luke asked when Mary Beth came to him.

  “I thought you might be wondering about your pay for bringing me here,” Mary Beth said, “so I came out to get it for you.”

  “Well, I’ve been studyin’ on that,” Luke said. “I’m thinkin’ that your husband said he’d pay me one hundred dollars to get you two out here on the Yellowstone. But seein’ as how I only got one of you out here, maybe the price oughta be half that.”

  She couldn’t help smiling in the face of his simple honesty. “No, Luke, we agreed on one hundred, and I think you surely earned your fee, so a hundred it is.” She started for the barn. “Come on, you know where it is.”

  He followed her into the barn, talking as they walked. “I’m gonna leave you those two horses we picked up from those two bushwhackers. That’ll replace the horses you lost back on the Powder. I was thinkin’ I’d leave you that little mare we used as a packhorse if you want her. She’d be a better ridin’ horse for you than either of those other two. I’d like to take the paint and the gray with me. Is that all right?”

  “Why, yes, that’ll be fine,” she replied, surprised that he would not be planning to take all the horses he had captured. The two shod horses might be a welcome addition to Vienna’s stock, if she had any. “I’m going to be staying with Vienna in that cabin on the other side of the garden.”

  He nodded, then said, “I’ll tote those packs over there for you.” Then he stood and waited while she dug into the sack of corn.

  After a few moments, she found what she was groping for and pulled out a small cloth sack, tied with a drawstring. She opened it and took out five twenty-dollar gold pieces and placed them in Luke’s open palm. He stared down at the money as if he had not expected to be paid with double eagles, although he knew there was hard cash in the sack. “Seems like a lot, now,” he said. “Maybe you should keep some of it.”

  “I want you to have it,” she said, smiling as she placed the empty bag on top of the coins. “It’s not your fault that David was killed. You took good care of us, and you’re a good friend. David and I were lucky to find you, Luke Sunday.” She rose on her tiptoes and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. “Now you’re free to go back to your prairies or mountains, or wherever you’re bound, and good luck to you.”

  He was speechless for a few moments, his cheek still burning with the imprint of her kiss. He wanted to tell her that he cared about her, and that he wanted her to always be safe, but he was afraid words would fail him, and she would think him a fool. So he finally said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You don’t have to call me ma’am, Luke. My name’s Mary Beth.” Then she couldn’t resist adding, “There ain’t no Mary Beth Ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied before he caught himself. “I’ll tote your things over to your new house now.”

  She remained there a few minutes longer, watching him as he left to get one of the horses to carry the packs. A stud cougar, she thought, recalling Vienna’s words, a truly wild thing. It would be a sin to break a beautiful animal like that to walk behind a plow. Then she thought about the first time she saw him and recalled that she did not see the natural animal grace of the Indian. All she could see at that time were the cold gray eyes of a lethal predator. Suddenly she felt a chill as if she had lost her protector. She tied her corn sack and returned to the house.

  * * *

  Luke slept that night in the barn, and shared one last meal with the Freemans. Mary Beth and Vienna Pitts were in attendance as well. It was a cheerful affair with invitations to Luke to stop by if he found himself in the vicinity again. Of the participants, Mary Beth was the only one to feel a real sense of regret for seeing him go. When she thought of the many times before she really knew him, she had simply wished to reach her destination and be done with the fierce-looking man, it amazed her that now she felt a deep loss with the departure of her guardian angel. If David were alive, she thought, he’d be telling me, “I told you so.” It was only natural, she supposed, that she should feel the loss of her protection, but it was time for everyone to move on. After her first look at her new home with Vienna, she saw that there was a lot of work to be done to make the rough cabin a fitting home for two ladies. She would be much too busy to let her mind dwell on the unfettered hawk that was Luke Sunday.

  His horses already packed with his meager belongings, Luke wasted little time in good-byes. He lingered only a moment to wish Mary Beth well; then he was crossing the yard at a comfortable lope, heading for the little settlement of Coulson. An interested observer, Vienna Pitts studied Mary Beth’s face as she gazed after the broad back with the single twist of sandy hair bobbing gently between his shoulder blades. The young widow seemed to be wrestling with her feelings regarding this untamed spirit. That’s something you might come to regret, honey, Vienna thought.

  * * *

  As John had reported, Coulson was a lively little settlement. Perched right on the side of the river, it seemed to be an ideal steamboat landing, as well as a prime location for a station when the railroad got around to pushing their tracks that far. Already there were stores, saloons, a sawmill, and several other businesses. Luke had no need for anything the town offered other than supplies and ammunition, so he guided his horses toward a newly constructed building with a rough sign that proclaimed it to be a general store.

  The proprietor, a grizzled old man with a gray beard streaked with brown from tobacco stains, got up from an armchair next to the stove when Luke walked in. “How do?” he greeted Luke, and spat at the stove. He paused a moment to watch the tobacco juice sizzle right next to a coffeepot on the hot stove. “Don’t recollect seein’ you around here before,” he said.

  “How do?” Luke returned. “Ain’t never been around here before.” He paused to look around him at the merchandise on the shelves. “At least since this town was here,” he finis
hed.

  Having dealt with many trappers who looked a lot like this stranger, the storekeeper walked over to the door and took a quick look at Luke’s horses, expecting to see a load of pelts he was hoping to trade. When he saw the lightly packed horses, he asked, “What can I do for you, neighbor?”

  Luke, still looking about him to see if there was anything he needed beyond basic supplies, replied, “I need some forty-four cartridges, three boxes, a sack of salt, one of those sacks of roasted coffee beans, a sack of dried beans.” He paused to look around the shelves again until one item caught his eye. “And give me that coffeepot there. I reckon that’s about all right now.”

  The merchant pulled each item from the shelves and placed it on the counter as Luke called it off. When the last item was on the counter, he peered at Luke over the top of his spectacles. “Think that’ll do it?” he asked. “That’s a right smart list of supplies. Whaddaya plannin’ on using for money?”

  “Money,” Luke answered. “Add it up.”

  Not without suspicion that he might be the victim of a holdup, the man took a pencil from behind his ear, wet the lead with his tongue, and started listing each item on a piece of brown wrapping paper. “This might add up to more’n you figured,” he cautioned. When he had finished, he checked his list to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, tapping each item with his pencil as he checked it against the list. Sliding down the counter a couple of feet until he felt the butt of his shotgun with his hand, he said, “Mister, all this stuff you got here is gonna come to forty-three dollars and fifty cents. You know, those cartridges ain’t cheap.”

  Luke appeared to think that over for a few seconds while not speaking another word. The storekeeper watched him carefully, his hand tightening around the stock of the shotgun just under the counter. Luke reached inside his shirt and pulled out the bandana that held his money. Carefully untying the knot, he picked two double eagles out, retied the bandana, and stuffed it back inside his shirt. Then he laid the two coins on the counter, still without saying a word.

  The storekeeper relaxed at once, spreading his whiskers with his smile. “Well, you’re three dollars and fifty cents short,” he said, and paused. When Luke said nothing, but continued to fix him with the gaze that earned him his Cheyenne name, the merchant relented. “But, hell, you’re payin’ with gold. That’s worth a discount, I reckon. I’ll help you carry it out.” He quickly raked the gold pieces off the counter and put them in his pocket.

  With help from the merchant, Luke carried his purchases out and loaded them on his packhorse. It was not the first time he had earned a discount for himself, a practice he had learned from the Indians. It was hard to bargain with someone who would not bargain in return, responding only with looks and one-word answers. “What’s your name, young feller?” the storekeeper asked.

  “Luke Sunday,” was the reply.

  “Glad to know you, and appreciate your business. My name’s Floyd Garner. You plannin’ on stayin’ around Coulson for a while?”

  “Nope,” Luke answered, and finished tightening the straps on his packs. When he was satisfied that they were secure, he climbed on the paint and turned the horse away from the hitching rail.

  Floyd lingered for a few minutes to watch his tight-lipped customer ride toward the saloon at the end of the short street. He idly wagered with himself that Luke would pull up to the hitching post in front of the saloon, but had to admit he would have lost that bet when Luke rode on past. Those two double eagles were not the only ones in that bandana, and Floyd was accustomed to seeing any drifter with money in his pocket spend most of it, if not all of it, in a saloon. As wild a man as any critter in the woods, he thought. Ain’t no telling how he came by that money, and who got shot in the process. Unfortunately, that was the type of men who had been drawn to the fledgling little town. He and some of the other businessmen were gambling on the hope that the recent arrival of a few solid farming families in the valley would in time help build a proper town. However, he could not help wondering sometimes if he had made a mistake in thinking there would come a day when a man could walk down the street in Coulson without wearing a gun. Reprimanding himself for the negative thought, he reminded himself that John Freeman, one of the recent settlers, had been in his store a week ago. Freeman was building a house, and he said his brother was on his way to join him. That’s the kind of folks we need to build Coulson, he thought.

  Passing the saloon at the end of the street, Luke only glanced at the two drunks sitting out front on the short wooden stoop. He considered stopping in for one quick drink, but decided against it, thinking it a bad idea to waste his money on something that would gain him no more than a few moments of pleasure. Sixty dollars would not last forever and he would be back looking for work as a scout, or trading for pelts with people like Floyd Garner. The thing he had to decide now was where he was going from here. He could return to find Black Feather’s village. They had probably moved from the North Platte, and maybe Black Feather and Little Bear had returned to join them. He had to admit that he felt no enthusiasm for that option. Maybe it’s time I started collecting pelts again, he thought. I need the meat, anyway, and it’s been a long time since I’ve hunted in this territory. That option suited his mood better than going to look for the Crow village. That settled, he nudged the paint with his heels and headed for Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone. A few years back, he had found deer and antelope in plenty along that river.

  Chapter 11

  “Well, I’ll be go to hell—Lem Sloat,” the huge man with the reddish-brown whiskers exclaimed. “I thought you was dead.”

  “Bill Kunze,” Sloat returned, equally surprised. “I thought they hanged your big ass back in Oklahoma Territory. I know they was lookin’ for you for shootin’ that deputy in the back.” He shifted his gaze to scrutinize the weasel-faced man at Bogart’s elbow, who was looking at Bill with a confused expression. “Who’s this you got with you?”

  “Shake hands with George Wylie,” Bogart said, grinning broadly. “Course you’re gonna have to take your hand off that shotgun you’re holdin’ on to under that counter.”

  Sloat’s hand came up at once. “Howdy, George,” he said, then cocking a mischievous eye toward Bogart, added, “It ain’t a shotgun. It’s a forty-four Colt.” They both laughed. “Hell,” Sloat confessed, “I didn’t know who you was, ridin’ up to my porch. I shoulda known it was you when you filled up the whole door when you walked in.” He turned his head toward the back of the store and yelled, “Come on in, Pearl. They’s friends of mine.”

  “Kunze ain’t my name no more,” the big man said. “It’s Bill Bogart now.” He grinned again. “’Cause of that little matter with the deputy marshal.”

  “Bogart, huh?” Sloat remarked. “Well, I ain’t surprised.” Wylie nodded his understanding, no longer confused.

  In a few minutes, the stoic Crow woman came in the front door carrying a rifle, causing Bogart to chuckle once more. “I swear, Lem, you don’t take no chances, do ya?”

  “This here’s Pearl. She’s been with me for a few years now.” Turning to her, he said, “Go see if you can rustle up some grub for these fellers. I expect they’re hungry.”

  “I could eat the south end outta a northbound mule, and that’s a fact,” Bogart allowed. “How ’bout you, Wylie?” Wylie just grinned in reply.

  Sloat chuckled. “Will beans and bacon do? We’re fresh outta mule—maybe Pearl can make up some corn cakes to go with it.”

  “Anythin’ will do right now, long as there’s plenty of it,” Bogart said.

  “Come on, we’ll go in the house,” Sloat said, referring to the tent beside his store. “I might have a little drink of somethin’ to cut the dust while Pearl’s cookin’.” He led them to a table with two chairs and a three-legged stool. Being the proper host, he took the stool for himself, although he claimed it was because Bogart’s big ass migh
t break the legs on his stool.

  Pearl placed a bottle of whiskey on the table with three cups, and Sloat poured. “Does she ever talk?” Bogart asked, eyeing the Indian woman.

  “’Bout as much as your friend there,” Sloat countered.

  His remark brought a foolish grin to Wylie’s face. “I can talk,” he said. “Bogart can tell you that. I just ain’t got nothin’ to say right now.”

  The three of them killed more than half of the bottle before the silent Crow woman removed it from the table and filled the cups with coffee. She had no intention of preparing food that the three men were too drunk to eat. When Wylie started to protest, she declared, “No more whiskey, eat now.”

  “There you go, Wylie,” Bogart roared. “She can talk when she’s got somethin’ to say.”

  “You never said what brung you to this neck of the woods,” Sloat commented when Bogart quit laughing.

  The big man became serious for a few moments when he answered. “I’m lookin’ for somebody,” he said, “and I’m thinkin’ he had to come this way.”

  “Judging by that look on your face, I’d guess this somebody ain’t gonna be glad to see you.”

  “I s’pose not,” Bogart went on, “’cause when I catch up with him, I’m fixin’ to hang his guts up on a fence post.”

  “What did he do to get your dander up like that?” Sloat asked.

  “That damn light-haired Injun crossed me too many times, and he’s carrying somethin’ that I figure belongs to me.” The mere thought of Luke Sunday caused the scar in Bogart’s side to sting.

  The description struck a chord in Sloat’s mind. “He wouldn’t by any chance be travelin’ with a woman, would he?”