Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Yeah, his!”

  “For all we know, he’s waiting just outside of town to pick us off—and I mean us, not you. If you cowhands had any manhood in you, you’d volunteer to be our escort out of town tomorrow mornin’!”

  “We need to hang these Chinamen first!”

  I boomed out, “You’ll do no such thing. I’m a U.S. Marshal. I’ve been tracking that man for months. He isn’t any Chinaman. He’s a plumb no-good killer, the worst this side of the Mississippi. That woman’s right, we ought to give her an escort out of town. And if it wouldn’t trouble you, ma’am, I’d like to ride alongside for a spell, in case he’s tracking you like I’m tracking him.”

  “Well, thank you, Marshal, that would be most kind.”

  “Good: now some of you men—bury these boys. Whoever runs this saloon—get it cleaned up. The rest of you—go to bed. Ma’am—you and your troupe be packed and ready to leave at sunup.”

  “Yes, Marshal, we surely will.”

  I stepped between the cowboys dragging the dead desperados away and said to Miss Saint-Jean, “Ma’am, I would appreciate it if I could see you privately. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course, Marshal.” Miss Saint-Jean led me outside to her wagon. I sat across from her.

  “You know it’s me.”

  “Yes, of course, I know it’s you,” she said.

  “And the woman is in your closet back there.”

  “I hope she can dance.”

  “I reckon I owe you an explanation.”

  “That would be nice—especially as our engagement here has ended now and I don’t have another.”

  “Any town would be happy to have you.”

  “Aren’t you a romantic? There are no towns around here—and if there were, they’d happily hang my Chinamen.”

  “You protect me—I’ll protect them.”

  “You’re handy with those revolvers, I’ll give you that. And you’re a big, strong, handsome brute. But how can you protect anyone? You’re one word away from a hanging.”

  “Ma’am, those men were out to kill me. One of them, at least, wanted to disgrace that woman. And, ma’am, I can assure you that I’m here to do what’s right. I’m seeking justice as surely as any man ever has. The woman in the closet knows who I am—and I guess that’s a secret I’ll have to share with you as well. Maybe it’ll make you trust me: I am Colonel George Armstrong Custer, late of the Seventh Cavalry. My men were massacred at the Little Bighorn River. We were betrayed. But that woman in the closet—the white captive of an Indian warrior—rescued me, and I rescued her, helping her escape the Sioux. Now I need you to help me—and her—escape these men.”

  Miss Saint-Jean is not a woman easily shocked, but she regarded me with wide-eyed wonder. “Custer, General George Armstrong Custer?”

  “Colonel now, ma’am, thanks to that jackanapes Grant. But yes, Custer of the West, that’s what I am now—or actually, I’d rather you call me Armstrong. I have to travel incognito.”

  “But why?”

  “I have my reasons, ma’am. The world thinks I’m dead. If I came out now, alive, they would think me a coward or a fool. Before I return, I need to find the man who betrayed us into the slaughter. I need to have proof. I intend to do that.”

  After a moment she said, “Why don’t you tell your girl to come out.”

  I walked to the closet, opened the door, took Scalp-Not-My-Woman by the hand, and helped her up.

  “Miss Saint-Jean, I have the honor of presenting…” I paused, thinking about exactly what I should call her. Scout wouldn’t do. Scalp-Not-My-Woman did not fit her circumstances. There was nothing else for it: “I have the honor of presenting, Rachel, Rachel Armstrong, my ward.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  In Which I Discover a Company Town

  Disguising Rachel was not so very hard. She was, after all, white to begin with, and not an unprepossessing woman. The ladies of our troupe dressed her and powdered her nose and rouged her lips so that she looked as they did, which meant like a dancing nymph. As for me, I was safe behind my star, my absence of Oriental features, and my hair being now neither bootblacked nor fully gold but a sort of murky brown after I had scrubbed my scalp with water.

  We were quite a wonderful sight that morning: our wagons formed up; Chinamen at the reins; honorable cowboys ranged up on either side of us; and I riding to the front. “Forward ho!”

  Needless to say, we were in no danger from a mythical Chinese sharpshooter, so after a few miles I told the fine men of Applejack (for such was the name of the town) that they need see us no farther and waved them farewell.

  Our course wasn’t aimless. Ever the businesswoman, Miss Saint-Jean had pinpointed what she assumed would be the next—and safest—entertainment-starved town, the bustling metropolis of Bloody Gulch, population unknown but smaller, she assumed, than Applejack because there were no sizeable settlements this side of Bozeman. Rachel had recommended it; there was an Indian trading post nearby, which she had visited as a member of the Boyanama Sioux, who would surely not be headed back that way; and while Applejack was full of drifting cowhands and prospectors and the like, Bloody Gulch was trying to establish itself as a town of settlers and small businesses, or so she’d heard. That sounded safer, perhaps, but to my novice ears less commercial as well. A cowboy and his money are soon parted—not so much a small-town businessman.

  Still, it was a pleasant several days’ ride. The country was ramblingly beautiful, the food as good as anything that old Eliza used to make, and my evenings were spent playing cards with the Chinamen (the magician was a tricky one) and watching the girls teach Rachel the art of the cancan (which, as I can attest from close study of their rehearsals, is most definitely an art).

  The showgirls’ performances were wonderful, evocative reminders of civilization, and I valued them highly. But as we rode along I couldn’t help but think: if I weren’t a white man, with all the benefits of civilization before me, I would happily opt to be an Indian. I know I’ve said this many times before, Libbie, but how wonderful life would be as a Crow scout or a Ree scout for the U.S. Cavalry, living on the open plains, serving the cause of civilization, but living like the savage that I essentially am. The only penalty would be that you could not be part of such a life—and that is a penalty too severe to be contemplated. I remind myself of that now as I write, glancing down at your image on my arm, while Rachel brings me a welcome cup of coffee.

  Our wagon-borne troupe ambled along the lonesome Montana prairie until the outline of Bloody Gulch was etched on the horizon. There were the buildings—and sure enough, there was the gulch set around the town, a muddy reddish-brown stream serving as an ineffectual moat, easily fordable, and even if it hadn’t been, there was a rickety bridge directly ahead of us and another visible on the eastern bend. We chanced our wagons to the bridge, which creaked and swayed a bit but met the challenge, and we rolled along the dusty approach into town.

  Rachel and I had drawn stares in Applejack, but nothing like the yawps of amazement that greeted Marshal Armstrong and the wagons of Sallie Saint-Jean’s Showgirls and Follies. I led the wagons up to the front of the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa, a euphonious name if ever I heard one.

  “I’ll deal with the hotel,” Miss Saint-Jean said as I helped her from the wagon. “You go to the saloon and drum up some business.”

  I did as I was bidden and sauntered down the street. Bloody Gulch looked like a town yearning for commerce but with no customers, just cowboys who wandered like bored, undisciplined sentries. They looked me over and said nothing. At the clapperboard shops the proprietors, wide-eyed at our arrival, now lounged about, listless—like a people beaten down by vanquished dreams. Even the saloon was quiet as I passed through the swinging doors, though it did have a few customers whisperingly minding their own business. In one corner, sitting alone, playing solitaire was the man I now know as Beauregard Gillette. He winked at me in a most peculiar manner and tapped his whiskey glass rhythm
ically on the table. It was only later that I learned he was winking and tapping in Morse code, trying to warn me of danger. I spotted it anyway—a cocky-looking good-for-nothing peckerwood in a stained sweaty shirt with beer-wet stubble, sitting at a table with a group of four Indians who despite the summer heat were wrapped in blankets. I saw why: the butt of a rifle rested between each pair of moccasins on the planks of the saloon floor.

  “Howdy-do, Marshal,” said the white man. “Looking for someone?”

  “Matter of fact I am—a vicious killer; been tracking him for days.”

  “You always travel with a circus like that? Don’t seem so inconspicuous.”

  “Something to drink, mister?” interrupted the bartender.

  Much as I could have used a glass of milk, I asked him for a shot of water, given what trouble sarsaparilla had gotten me into last time. “Riding shotgun. The killer is a Chinese sharpshooter.”

  “A what?”

  “He might have an accomplice. The other man I’m looking for is bearded, disheveled, likes a drink and a cigar, and could use a bath.”

  “That describes most everyone here.”

  “Name is Hiram Grant.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Count yourself fortunate.”

  “What makes you think he’s around here—or that Chiner feller?”

  “The Chinaman killed a passel of men southeast of here; and he threatened the folks in those wagons.”

  “Well, there ain’t no trouble here, Marshal. Never had none; never will. And before you came into town we ain’t had no Chinermen neither. Maybe you should pack ’em off back to China so that they don’t go hurtin’ folks.”

  I took the shot of water and downed it after swishing it around to wash the grit from my teeth.

  “These Indians work for you?” I said finally.

  “Yes, indeedy. I guess you never heard of the Largo Trading Company? We got ourselves a government contract. We work with the Injuns and the people of Bloody Gulch; keep everybody happy. You stick around here, you’ll see plenty of us. But I reckon you’ll be headin’ on. No need for a marshal here.”

  “Oh, I figure I’ll stick around for a short spell; until I know those theatre people are safe.”

  “Oh, they’re safe all right. Largo Trading Company will see to that—trouble’s bad for business. We don’t want no trouble; and we take precautions to make sure there ain’t none. That’s why we hired these redskins—and a bunch more besides. They keep the tribes happy; me and my boys, we keep the white folks happy. You won’t find a more contented town than Bloody Gulch. Buy you another drink, Marshal? I reckon I heard it was water—I can pony up for that.”

  “Not just now, thank you. I think I’ll stroll around the town and stretch my legs.”

  “Suit yourself. Anything you need, look me up. Tim Dern’s the name. I’m usually here.”

  I nodded to him and passed through the swinging doors. I expected I’d have trouble with him soon enough, and with those Indians too. In the meantime, I thought I’d reconnoiter and see what intelligence I could gather. I didn’t like the look of this town or of Tim Dern or of those Indians with rifles under their blankets, and I didn’t like the sound of the Largo Trading Company.

  I strolled casually, but not so casually that I didn’t notice the three men who followed me out of the saloon. I decided to lead them on a merry chase, but maybe not the one they expected. A short way down the street was a telegraph office. I strode up to the counter and tapped the service bell, and a little man, bald, or mostly so, and perspiring as though he’d run a mile rather than just emerged from his glassed-in partition, hurried to my service. He wore a green eyeshade, and pencils poked out from behind his ears. He looked like a midget Hermes with a winged helmet.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to send a message to Washington, D.C., office of the president, the White House.”

  “Office of the president? Why, yes, sir—you’re a U.S. Marshal!”

  He licked his pencil and applied it to the paper.

  “Dear, Mr. President, No man here named Hiram Grant. Expect he doesn’t exist. A bogeyman to frighten children. Have met representative of Largo Trading Company. Will report later.”

  At the words “Largo Trading Company” the clerk shivered visibly. “Yes, sir, will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, make sure that gets off right away—official government business.”

  He would have tugged his forelock, if he had one. My three shadow companions were waiting for me outside. One of them ducked into the telegraph office.

  “Anything we can help you with, Marshal? We heard you were looking for someone.”

  “You’d like to be deputized?”

  “No, nothin’ like that. It’s just that we know the town real well, and if you’re lookin’ for someone, or somethin’ in particular, we can help.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll let you know. I might be onto something but need to ruminate. I’ll be at the hotel.”

  “To rummynate?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “And you wouldn’t want us rummynating with ya?”

  “I don’t know how to rummynate,” one of them whispered.

  “Gentleman, no need to trouble yourselves; I’m content to ruminate alone.”

  “Suit yourself, mister—I mean, Marshal. We’ll be around if you need us.”

  I winked. “I betchya will, and it’s a great comfort.”

  I strolled down to the hotel where I found that the ever-practical Miss Saint-Jean had booked our rooms, tucked our wagons behind the establishment, and seen our horses to the livery stable.

  “Drum up any business, Marshal?”

  “Let’s talk inside,” I said. We walked into the hotel parlor, which was appointed rather well, I thought. The wallpaper looked new, the chairs plush. We were alone and took adjoining seats.

  “Well, was I right?” she asked. “Are we going to draw a crowd?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll draw customers—of a sort, anyway; but not the sort who will fully appreciate the balletic art.”

  “They don’t need to; if they’ve got the money, we’ll learn ’em.”

  “Not sure I like this place. Armed Indians at the saloon—I take that as a bad sign.”

  “I take this hotel as a good a sign. There’s money behind this place. And as for your Indians, fair’s fair: if they buy tickets and stow their guns, they’re fine by me. That’s a lesson you could learn, by the way—don’t shoot the customers.”

  “Happy to oblige, ma’am—if they’ll let me.”

  “Oh, they’ll let you, all right. You’re an educated man, Armstrong, even if you were a soldier. Not everything has to be settled by violence.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yes, we will—and don’t you go shooting off those guns again without my permission. Look, I’m no blushing daisy. I know the value of a strong man. But gunplay is bad for business. And if you get antsy for trouble, just remember: I’m the one woman standing between you and a noose. You’re a wanted man—wanted in Applejack and maybe wanted in Washington. If they knew you were alive, you’d have some awkward questions to answer, wouldn’t you?”

  I felt my face flame red at her impudence. And when I heard a cough at the entry to the parlor, I inwardly cursed her recklessness. Standing there was the man with a rebel-battle-flag eyepatch.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am; pardon the intrusion: Beauregard Gillette, at your service. I could not help but notice your wagons as they came into town, a wonderful display. I take it you are Miss Sallie Saint-Jean, the proprietress?”

  She cast an appraising eye upon him. “Yes.”

  “And you, Mr. Marshal, sir, I saw you in the saloon. I might be of service to you both.”

  “Well, Mr. Gillette,” I said, “a man who can serve both a U.S. Marshal and Miss Sallie Saint-Jean’s Showgirls and Follies must be a man of many talents.”

  �
��And so must you, sir, to be riding with them.”

  “That’s my affair, Mr. Gillette.”

  “Oh, no offense meant, sir. I can assure you, if I meant any offense you’d know it. I believe in staying on the right side of the law.”

  Miss Saint-Jean intervened. “State your business, Mr. Gillette.”

  “If you’re in need of another attraction, ma’am, I am a master of card tricks. Also, I have a keen eye for figures—by which I mean, I could keep your accounts.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. Now, Mr. Gillette, how might you be of service to the marshal?”

  He adjusted his eyepatch slightly, and his exposed blue eye bore in on me with an intensity I did not expect. He handed me a card, which read, BEAUREGARD GILLETTE, Gentleman of Cards, Richmond, Virginia. “I’m an itinerant card player, Marshal. After the war, a deck of cards was about all I had left. That’s how I make my living, and I don’t complain. When my winnings exceed my welcome, I mosey on. I’m pretty observant. I have to be, in my business—and I get the impression you are too. Those Indians with the rifles—you noticed the rifles—they don’t live on a reservation. The real reservation is this town. The people here are trapped. I don’t know how; I don’t know why. I do know they’re scared—too scared to even play cards. Dern—you met him at the saloon—he’ll play, and so will his Largo Trading Company friends, but no one else. The Largo boys walk around the town like they own it—and I reckon in some way they do. You’ve noticed how awful quiet it is around here. Wouldn’t a wagon show like yours attract children? Seen any? Ever seen a town where the school’s boarded up—and the church? There are homesteads north of here, but you rarely see the homesteaders, and then it’s only women who scamper away when you spot them. This is a town of shopkeepers—but only proprietors, no help. And nine times out of ten, their only customers are from the Largo Trading Company. I’d call that mighty peculiar, wouldn’t you?”

  I went to stroke my moustache, only to be reminded it wasn’t there. “Mighty peculiar indeed, Mr. Gillette, but you’ve not pinpointed any crime, and as I’m already in pursuit of a killer…”