Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Reckon it must be for you then, General,” said that hound Beauregard.

  The envelope was addressed, “To: Marshal Armstrong.” I grunted and ripped it open. It read, “Must see you after show. You are in danger. Sallie Saint-Jean.”

  I didn’t want to worry Isabel so I said, “It’s merely a reminder about the show. We should be off.” And I slipped the note into my pocket.

  “Shall I ride for pony soldiers or stand guard? I follow orders, but there is great danger everywhere. We need to be ready.”

  “We’ll be ready, Sergeant. And I take your point. Stand guard for now.”

  I realized he was a marked man—and so were we all.

  The saloon was packed like a jar full of pickles—luckily, we had a table reserved for us, front row on the right. I noticed Dern sitting at a front-row table on the left with a couple of other cowboys and a large man, tall and wide but not exactly fat, grey-haired but not old, boisterous in conversation with the cowboys but obviously set apart by his self-important manner and more formal dress (a vest, a ruffled shirt, a string tie, and a pale cream jacket that matched his pants and felt hat). He was the man in charge, all right. I put him down as a politician, and you know how badly I’ve always done with them. Miss Johnson told me that was Seth Larsen.

  When the curtains went up, I gave him no more mind. The room thundered with applause and boot stomping and yahooing—and with good reason. The show was a masterclass in the theatrical art—from the perplexing drama of the magician and his tricks, to the Samson-like demonstrations of force by the strongman (whose performance silenced the early catcalls from the local Goliaths), to the awe-inspiring feats of the Chinese acrobats who seemed nearly capable of flight, to the stunning array of high-kicking dancers, among whom—as Beauregard was quick to point out to Miss Johnson—I had many good friends, including Rachel, who in skill was now indistinguishable from her colleagues, all of whom drilled with a perfection I have rarely if ever seen in a military formation. I was, I must say, greatly moved.

  When the show was over and I was still basking in its reflected glory, a sudden cloud seemed to settle over me and I looked up to see the large form of Seth Larsen. “Well, Miss Johnson, glad you could come into town and see the show. Things are certainly livening up here in Bloody Gulch, aren’t they? And you must be the marshal I’ve heard so much about. If there is anything I can do to help you in any way, Marshal, just let me know. The Largo Trading Company is a proud recipient of contracts from the federal government, and we are proud to support all lawmen who come our way. In fact, I heard that my man Dern was able to assist you in a gunfight with some troublesome Indians. Don’t usually have trouble in Bloody Gulch. In fact, that’s the first trouble I can remember.”

  “Funny,” I said, “I seem to recall something about an Englishman, Delingfield or something, killed by Indians about a year ago.”

  “Oh, him, Delingpole—deserved a pole up his backside if you ask me. He was an effete scoundrel—one of those snooty types who thought we were still a colony. Fought with the rebels during the war, thinking it would be fun. Later came out here thinking he could lord it over us. The Indians did us a favor. That was their land he had—or actually ours, under a government contract to manage it for them—not his. Whatever the Indians did to him, he deserved. So that wasn’t trouble; that was just cleaning up a mess. You know our ways out here, Marshal; in the West, law might not always be sure, but it is certainly swift. And Dern is usually pretty good at keeping the peace. We want every Bloody Gulch visitor to leave with happy memories. And you, Marshal, when will you be moving on?”

  “Oh, soon enough; I’ve become this traveling troupe’s sort of guardian. We’ll move out together.”

  “Shame to see them showgirls go, but they might need some protection after all—even though this is a quiet, peaceful community, as I’m sure Miss Johnson can attest.”

  In her silence, Beauregard piped in, “I can surely confirm that. Beauregard, Beauregard Gillette’s the name. Trying to raise a card game around here is like trying to raise the dead—excerpt for a few daring bodies like Dern.”

  Larsen looked like he’d stepped on a cow pie and couldn’t get the stench from his nostrils or shake the manure from his boots. “We don’t have much use for gamblers here. You might want to mosey along to another less respectable town.”

  “Yes, my profession is an itinerant one. I won’t be staying long.”

  “Miss Johnson, would you care to join me for dinner?” Larsen asked.

  She looked down and was silent.

  I quickly defused the situation. “As I’m sure you have recognized, Miss Johnson has the most admirable figure—why, she could have been on that stage tonight, and not had to blush at all. But like those talented young women, she needs to train, to keep in tip-top shape, and as she dined, delicately as a bird, with us earlier, I cannot imagine she would be inclined to dine again, however polite she might be.”

  I thought that put matters rather succinctly and diplomatically, but Larsen looked at me as if I had just passed wind.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he said.

  “What the Yankee Marshal is saying, is that the young lady has no need of your hospitality; she has ours.”

  I saw red fire flash in Larsen’s eyes for a moment; he looked at me and then at Beauregard.

  “I could take that as an insult, mister.”

  “You can take it as you please. I believe the Yankee Marshal and I are going to see Miss Johnson safely home. We’ve heard there are Indians about.”

  “Yes, Indians,” said Larsen, and his eyes turned on me. “I’ve heard the same. One is with you, isn’t he, Marshal?”

  “That’d be a fact,” I said. “On official government business; acting as my deputy now. I assume your men will extend him every courtesy.”

  “We’re used to dealing with Indians. We run a trading post. The government knows we treat them well. You’ll find no complaints here from anyone—will he, Miss Johnson?”

  “I guess the only complaint would have come from Delingfield,” I said.

  “Delingpole,” he scowled.

  “Well, she did tell me,” said Beauregard, “that for a young charming lady like herself, there is a terrible shortage of equally charming young men, balls, and dances—the sort of thing that livened many an evening in Richmond before the war.”

  “I was never in Richmond before the war . . .”

  “I could see that; but it was something . . .”

  “But I was there after, teaching you damn rebels a thing or two about respect.”

  “Why, respect is something that is earned.”

  “I demand it—and I can’t stand you fake gentlemen. Your darkies did all the work, while you sipped bourbon and talked treason. In this land, every man needs to work. Nothing is inherited; nothing is given.”

  “And poor Miss Johnson has no social life.”

  “If Miss Johnson would like a more active social life, I’m sure that can be arranged; and if you need help packing your bags—that can be arranged too. Goodnight, Miss Johnson; goodnight, gentlemen; and watch yourselves; as you noted, there are Indians about.” He stepped away and his praetorian guard of cowhands went with him.

  “He’s a Yankee as sure as Sherman.”

  “Major, I’m a Yankee too.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir, but beggin’ the general’s pardon, there are Yankees and there are Yankees—and that one’s a Yankee. If he isn’t an arrogant, scheming scoundrel who’d sell his mother to a glue factory, what is he?”

  “Well, apparently the sort who would lock up a town, imprison its men, make hostages of its women, and enslave its children. That sounds bad enough to me. Yankee or no Yankee—that doesn’t much matter; the question is, can Billy Jack Crow break through their lines?”

  “I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Not now. If we bolt—your Indian or any of us—they’ll just shoot us down and bury us; no witnesses. That’s what they wa
nt. Too bad he knew about your Indian.”

  “That’s all right. We’ll have surprises for him later.”

  “He might surprise us sooner—I reckon we should skedaddle before he figures a way to bushwhack us.”

  I thought about Miss Saint-Jean’s letter.

  “I was rather hoping to congratulate Miss Saint-Jean on the evening’s performance.”

  “I’m sure you were, General, but personally, I mean to congratulate myself on seeing Miss Isabel safely home. So, if you’ll excuse us . . .”

  “Hold your horses. I’ll come with you, Major—safety in numbers. And I’ll grab Billy Jack Crow—we could use an Indian’s eyes and ears.”

  We rode out together—Billy Jack and I and Beauregard and Isabel. I reckoned we were reasonably safe, but of course every hooting owl, every critter scurrying in a bush, kept us alert. My wager, though, was that Larsen wouldn’t want to kill us in front of Miss Johnson—even a villain likes to look respectable to a woman.

  The Indians? Well, that might be another story. He could always explain that away as a renegade attack.

  We rode in silence—or nearly so. Billy Jack and I led the way. Beauregard rode alongside Isabel. I knew that was a risk. There was a big shiny moon in the sky, and I could hear his soft molasses whispers and her stifled flutterings, but I tried to ignore them; duty is my mistress—whose only rival is you, darling Libbie.

  We made it back to Isabel’s farm without incident and stabled our horses in the barn. Then we had a brief council of war. I thought it best to post guards.

  “Sergeant, take cover behind the water trough by the front gate. Major, resume your billet here in the barn and keep your eyes open; you’re our rearguard. I’ll guard the parlor of the house. No one will get by me.”

  “No, Yankee General, sir, I reckon they won’t, no matter how hard they try.”

  It was good to hear his vote of confidence—not that I needed it.

  Beauregard rolled up his sleeves and shifted hay bales to the barn door. He’d take his position behind them. Billy Jack trotted in a low crouch to the water trough. Indian scouts tend to be cautious like that.

  I walked boldly as you please through the moonlit night, the crook of my arm offered as a comfort to Isabel and accepted as such. I knew she valued it because she gripped it tightly, admiring its strength, I reckoned, as I patted her hand.

  She opened the front door and lit a kerosene lamp. I accompanied her on a tour of the house, just to make sure no intruders lay hidden. When she was assured we were quite alone, she said, “Well, Marshal, thank you for everything—for a lovely evening, and for your protection.”

  “No need, ma’am. Pleasure was all mine. That’s what marshals are for. I’ll camp out here in the parlor. You’ll be safe.”

  “Good night, Marshal.”

  When she bade me adieu, I again smelled blueberries and scented coffee, even if it was only a fond memory.

  I was awake most of the night, attentive to the creakings of the house. But there were no alarums from Billy Jack Crow or Beauregard; no feathered flaming arrows crashing into the walls; and I did eventually find myself catching brief snatches of sleep. Still, my mind stayed active, and dawn was swiftly upon us. I got up and looked out the windows. I saw nothing but the natural beauty of Montana. My eyes took it in, the vast panorama, the glowing rising sun, and I found myself daydreaming about coffee—and then a cup was gently placed in my hand.

  “Good morning, Marshal. Did you sleep?”

  “Too well, ma’am, didn’t mean to. You’re as silent as an Indian.”

  “I heard you rustling. I was already awake. I had the coffee made.”

  I sipped it gratefully and we moved together into the kitchen.

  “It’s good to have a man about the house again. It does get lonely, Marshal.”

  “Call me Armstrong.”

  “Is that your Christian name?”

  “Er, yes, ma’am.”

  “And your last name?”

  “Uh, Armstrong.”

  “Your name is Armstrong Armstrong?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you’d rather call me Marshal that’s fine. I’m afraid my parents weren’t very creative.”

  We stood there, awkwardly, looking at each other for a moment—admiration (I for her coffee making; she for my manly form, I assumed) competing with perplexity. There was a knocking on the front door, but it wasn’t insistent or threatening and neither of us moved. Needless to say, Beauregard appeared.

  “You told me to keep an eye on things, General. Noticed movement in the kitchen—wasn’t likely to ignore that.”

  Isabel shook her head as if dispelling a dream. The spell broken, she said politely, “Coffee, Major?”

  “Beauregard, ma’am, Beauregard, and bless your soul, yes; and if you have any more of those blueberry biscuits and that delightful honeyed butter, well, ma’am, I reckon I’d stay awhile.”

  “No doubt of that,” I said.

  Inevitably there was another knock at the door and Billy Jack Crow slipped inside in his stealthy Indian way. “They’re watching the house,” he said. “Sioux. All around.”

  “How many?”

  “Small war party: maybe a dozen men; here to make sure no one leaves.”

  “Another noose,” I said.

  “Another noose,” he repeated.

  “Maybe we should invite ’em in,” Beauregard said. “Let ’em know they don’t have the drop on us.”

  “They apparently had the drop on you, Major. You didn’t see them?”

  “No, Yankee General, sir, I was keeping an eye on the house; I figured that’s where the greatest danger was.”

  “Well, you got here safely—that’s something. But I can’t remain—noose or no noose. I must return to Miss Saint-Jean and her showgirls.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” said Beauregard, smiling at Isabel as she handed him a cup of coffee and a hot buttered biscuit wrapped in a napkin.

  “It’s our army, Major; that’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “No doubt, sir—lost without their commanding officer.”

  “Well, they do have Miss Saint-Jean—but I had intended to discuss strategy and tactics with her after the show.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “But there was no time—not after Larsen’s threats.”

  “No, I reckon there wasn’t. No time to chat with Miss Sallie, or with Miss, uh, and the other one, Miss, uh . . .”

  “Sergeant, you think they’ll attack us if we leave?”

  “Cannot say; they might just report back to the Largo Trading Company. But they have guns.”

  “So do we; if it’s a dozen, we can take ’em.”

  “Uh, Yankee General, sir, if they have repeaters—that’s an awful lot of lead flyin’ around.”

  “A trained man with a revolver is better than a wild Indian with a Winchester.”

  “Twelve Indians, twelve Winchesters; I’m not scared, mind you, sir; just want to make sure you’ve got the math figured nice and proper. Now, if I was planning the attack—”

  “Theirs or ours?”

  “Ours, naturally—I’d see two scenarios, maybe three. One, you go—with Billy Jack as your interpreter—nice and cordial; and try to powwow a safe passage.”

  “And the other?”

  “We surprise ’em: hit ’em from three directions; drive ’em off; make our way out.”

  “I take your point, Major. Safest option: smash ’em with a surprise attack.”

  “Actually, sir, safest option is scenario three, you and Billy Jack ride out fast as you can, forcing your way with pistoleros, as necessary, and I stay here, guarding Miss Isabel.”

  “I see.”

  “Her safety is our priority, sir.”

  “No doubt, Major.”

  My baleful scowl shifted from that Southern chancer to Miss Johnson, and immediately my manly heart was overwhelmed by the periwinkle glow of her big blue eyes; the shining radiance of her long blonde hair;
the rosy tints rising in her sun-kissed cheeks. I sensed a woman in distress, and I tried to set her at ease. “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am. I doubt you’re in danger here—or at least not much.” I shot another baleful glance at Beauregard. “But I’ll gladly take you into town; you can stay at the hotel.”

  “Might be danger there, too, Yankee General, sir.”

  “Major, there can be no greater safety for Miss Johnson than on the cancan line of Miss Sallie Saint-Jean’s Showgirls and Follies—of that I can assure you—and you, ma’am.”

  Isabel moved her lips, but no words came out. Beauregard filled the gap.

  “Yankee General, sir, I mean no disrespect when I say your general idea of strategy seems to consist of having everyone you know join a traveling circus.”

  “Do you have a better plan, Major?”

  “No, sir, I don’t reckon I do. I hope to join that circus myself. You’re not the only one who wants another conversation with Miss Sallie.”

  “Miss Saint-Jean,” I insisted.

  “Marshal Armstrong,” said Billy Jack. “Three by the fence posts; one by the trough.”

  “Major, check that window behind us. I’ll check the one in the kitchen.” I kept low and as I raised my head to peek over the sill, a satanic Indian face, looking like a human gargoyle, baring its teeth, eyes enraged with bloodlust, rose directly in front of me on the other side of the window.

  A hatchet came crashing through the glass; his arm with it. The blade missed, and I seized his wrist and elbow. Applying all my weight and leverage, I brought him smashing through the window and onto the kitchen floor. Before he could recover himself, I had the knife pulled from my belt and was about to ram it into his chest when I remembered my pledge to kill no more Indians forever. I turned the blade away and, clenching my fist around the knife handle, punched him in the face, once, twice, three times. I stood up and backed away. “Major Gillette!”

  He skidded into the room like a horse pulling up at a cliff—stopped by the sight of the Indian, who breathed heavy as a bull, blood foaming from his nose and mouth. The red man roared his defiance, pulled out his own knife, and leapt to his feet. He lunged for me and I dodged. Then he saw Beauregard and stabbed for him. Beauregard shot him twice, which was enough to put him down permanently.