Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  Across the bridge were Dern and his gang. They escorted us into town, halted us before the hotel, and surrounded our supply train. Fu Yu, still mounted, looked grim and held his fan like a dueling pistol. Isabel on her buckboard, biting her lip, looked in need of manly reassurance. Beauregard, tall in the saddle, watched his pigs as calmly and defiantly as an Irish wolfhound with its paw on a mewling kitten.

  I rode to the front. “Fu Yu: guard those chickens—and don’t make them disappear!”

  Dern said, “Well, I do declare, Marshal, you are the most unpredictable lawman I done ever hear tell of. You arrive with a travelin’ show and you return with a heap of pigs and chickens. You throwin’ a barbecue or somethin’?”

  “If it’s any of your business, Dern, I can assure you a hot time is on the way.”

  “Would that be soon, Marshal?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “With chickens, pigs, blueberry muffins, and coffee?”

  “And a whole lot more.”

  “And a show?”

  “Oh, a big show.”

  “I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  “No, you surely wouldn’t. Right now, though, we’re going to set up a pen and a smokehouse and whatever else we need behind the hotel.”

  “Behind the hotel? Where them spa waters are? I hear tell them dancing girls are there all the time.”

  I hadn’t thought about that, but the need for a taller fence for the girls played into my other plans.

  While I sat in the saddle thinking of the spa waters, the girls using them to rejuvenating effect, and the need to fence off our livestock, Dern said, “Marshal, just how big a corral you thinking about?”

  “Dern, I make it a habit to think big. We’re going to tear down buildings you don’t need—like that telegraph office—and use it for lumber.”

  “Now hold on there, Marshal . . .”

  “You told me yourself, Dern—no one here needs a telegraph, except for me. That office is a waste of good lumber. I’ll rewire the telegraph through the hotel and contact Washington as necessary.”

  “But that office ain’t your property.”

  “I’m commandeering it.” I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted: “Waka-waka Wolverines”—my war cry for our acrobats. They tumbled out of the hotel in their baggy, black, silk shirts and trousers, swords in their fists, purple scarves tied around their heads. I told Dern, “These men will disassemble the telegraph office and reassemble something more useful at the hotel. They have boxes of nails and hammers waiting for them—bought from your own general store—Larsen owns that too, doesn’t he?—so everything is present and correct.”

  “Mr. Larsen approved all that?”

  “He’ll approve it ex post facto.”

  “That Indian talk?”

  “Do me a favor, Dern. Tell Larsen I want to meet him—tomorrow. I’ve got a business proposition for him.”

  “A business proposition from a marshal?”

  “I expect he’ll want to see me—you go tell him.”

  “See you where, Marshal?”

  “At the saloon—he’s got an office there, doesn’t he? That’s as good as anywhere.”

  “Not the Trading Post?”

  “He afraid to come into town?”

  “You’re pretty cocksure, ain’t you, Marshal? I reckon men in your line of work don’t live long.”

  “Not in yours either, Dern. And that’s my line of work. You tell him I’ll meet him at the saloon. Any time—I never sleep.”

  “All righty, Marshal. You take good care of those hogs and chickens, you hear—even those dairy cows—and yourself. We’ll be seein’ ya soon, I reckon.”

  He tipped his fingers to his hat, and he and his desperadoes rode away. I chalked that up as a victory. A few browbeaten shopkeepers emerged—curious what we’d delivered.

  “Major, the acrobats are under your command—set them to work. Fu Yu, Hercules—keepee, keepee piggy-piggy, chickie-chickie together-together,” I said, motioning with my hands, in case my Chinese was not clear enough. “Keepee-keepee shop-keepers away-away.”

  Hercules did as he was bidden: foot-stomping the ground whenever a pig or a chicken took a wayward step, and folding his arms and scowling—like a sour-tempered genie protecting a seraglio—when a curious citizen got too close. Fu Yu for his part kept the animals together with deft stabs of his fan—much like a fencer with his épée—shooting it open when more emphasis was needed.

  I dismounted and helped Isabel off the buckboard. Once again, as I lifted her, I was taken by how tall, lithe, and long-legged she was. I took her hand, grabbed my horse’s reins, and led these two pretty fillies to the hotel, tying the horse to the hitching post and escorting Isabel to the parlor.

  “Smithers!”—we had kept him on as a clerk and waiter—“Bring us two sarsaparillas.” I regarded Isabel’s bottomless blue eyes earnestly and said, “We took every bottle in the General Store. If you don’t like sarsaparilla, we could squeeze your dairy cows—but, well, I figure they’re probably a mite tired.”

  “Oh, sarsaparilla’s fine, Marshal—it would be a treat.”

  And indeed, I must say that Isabel’s undisguised joy at being under my protection and her girlish, giggling enjoyment at her first few sips of sarsaparilla were, in some avuncular way, deeply rewarding. We were just settling down to sharing reminiscences of the trail when Miss Saint-Jean came sashaying into the parlor wearing a yellow spangled corset, black stockings, black high heels, and a yellow tricorn hat—all of which made her look like a queen bee. Her theatrical training leant itself to such bold entrances. She was accompanied by Rachel, whose company—I felt a sudden pang of guilt—I had too long neglected because of duty.

  “You must be Miss Isabel,” Miss Saint-Jean announced, without waiting for me to do the honors. “I’d like to introduce you to Miss Rachel, who is Mr. Armstrong’s ward; are you his ward too?”

  “His ward? Why no, no, but I guess you could say I’m under his protection.”

  “Oh, aren’t we all? Did he mention that you’ll be in my employ?”

  “He did say something about a cancan line—but I wasn’t quite sure . . .”

  “No, I expect you weren’t. I believe it was a bit of a surprise for his ward as well, which is why I thought you might find her a useful companion in the days ahead. She’s a regular member of our troupe now; she can help you find your way.”

  “Oh, well, thank you,” she said, looking at Rachel, “that would be most kind.”

  All three women then looked at me as if expecting me to say something, so I stood up, sarsaparilla bottle in hand, and said, “Yes, that would be most kind indeed—and I expect you have much to talk about. I’ll leave you ladies to discuss your business while I supervise the men.” With that, I made a hasty retreat to the front porch.

  There was a rocking chair out front, and I confess that after our long and dangerous ride I felt uncommonly weary; I wanted only a moment to sip my sarsaparilla; and the chair looked tempting as all get out. I plopped into it and rocked it gently back on its hind legs so that it leant against the hotel. I sighed, took a swig of sarsaparilla, and as always, my dear, thought of you.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In Which We Set About Digging In

  I needed only a brief interregnum of such peace to finish the sarsaparilla and creep warily back into the hotel to deposit the bottle behind the front desk. Then I was out on the street, striding down to where the acrobats, armed with claw hammers, were noisily ripping the boards from the telegraph office. Beauregard was handling the more challenging task of disconnecting the telegraph equipment.

  “We’ll have this done sooner than you can sing ‘Dixie,’ ” he said.

  That was an exaggeration, of course, but the men did work swiftly, and soon we were all gathered behind the hotel with stacks of boards, boxes of nails, and Beauregard instructing the acrobats using a combination of sign language and drawings he’d prepared. I had my sleeves rolled up
and was pitching in—I’m not one for inactivity—standing on Hercules’s back so that I could hammer down the roof of the chicken coop. Fu Yu was actually inside the coop, singing what I presume were Chinese lullabies to calm the birds, while Billy Jack secured the chicken wire. We had built a milking shed for the cows, and the pigs had a nice muddy area penned off with a sort of lean-to where they could hide from the sun. There was a small grove just within the farmyard fence, where we could occasionally shade ourselves during our labors. From a military point of view, this impromptu farmyard was virtually indefensible. We could erect a few barriers to slow an attacker and could perhaps, if necessary, keep a sentry on guard (as the chickens were the most easily affrighted, I considered Fu Yu for this duty, given his way with birds), but any attack in force would succeed. The sooner we had these animals converted into sustenance, the better.

  It was hot and I was yearning for another sarsaparilla when I heard a woman’s voice calling: “Oh, Marshal . . . oh, Marshal!” I finally recognized that it came from the bathing area, where one of Miss Saint-Jean’s showgirls was standing wrapped in a massive towel, like a squaw wrapped in an Indian blanket. We had built a tall double-sided picket fence to protect the women’s privacy, but from my perch on Hercules’s back I could just make her out.

  “Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?”

  “Is it all right if we take the waters? It’s so dreadfully hot—and the waters are so refreshing.”

  “Are they? Yes, well, all right then. Just a moment.” I noticed that others from the troupe were lining up behind her, so I had to work quickly. I hammered in a few more nails and was nearly done when Hercules grunted theatrically in what sounded rather like an enormous belch, and I looked over my shoulder. Dern was ambling towards us.

  “I took your message to Mr. Larsen. He’d like to see you tonight—and he don’t approve of what you’re doin’.”

  “Fortunately, we don’t need his approval,” I said, still standing on Hercules. “He doesn’t own this hotel, he didn’t own the telegraph office, he doesn’t own this chicken coop or the farmyard we’re building, and he certainly doesn’t own this town—even if he thinks he does.”

  “It’s a company town, Marshal. He’ll see you at the saloon—his office; nine o’clock.”

  “And you’ll be there?”

  “If Mr. Larsen wants me.” He motioned at Hercules. “What about him?”

  Funny, I hadn’t thought of that before; but a little extra muscle wouldn’t hurt. I nodded. When I turned to resume my hammering, I was greeted by the laughter of showgirls splashing in the spa.

  Unfortunately, Dern had not yet ambled out of earshot. “Well, howdy-do, Marshal. And will they be there? Looks like you got yourself a plum nice view.”

  “An educated man,” I said, “is not afraid to see a lady in a perfectly respectable bathing costume. There is work to be done, and I am doing it; and part of my work here is to protect them from you.”

  “From me, Marshal? I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I reckon they might like me.”

  “Well, you reckon wrong. We’re a traveling troupe—no time for romance with cowhands.”

  “I ain’t exactly a cowhand, Marshal—I got me a good job; one of the best around, in fact. I work direct for Mr. Larsen. Probably more future in that than bein’ a marshal.”

  “If that’s a threat, Dern, you should know that I’ve already survived the great war, a mess of Indian fighting, and much else besides. It will take more than you or a trumped-up Indian trader to put me in my grave.” I pointed my hammer at him. “Let me give you a bit of advice—don’t even try.”

  “Well, surely not, Marshal. I keep tellin’ ya, I’m a peaceable sort of man. I’ll let Mr. Larsen know you’ll be seein’ him.”

  Hercules and I were punctual. Larsen’s office was up a flight of stairs on the side of the saloon away from the stage. Dern and another gunman were standing by the door, waiting for us.

  “Howdy, Marshal. We could order you up a beer, if you like. Mr. Larsen won’t care. He does some of his best negotiating over whiskey and beer.”

  “We’ll go straight in, if you don’t mind.”

  “This here is Wyeth,” Dern said, and the other gunman—a stubby, dirty, loutish-looking sort—didn’t offer his hand or nod but simply stared at me in a dull, bored, sneering way until Dern added, “he’s here just to even up the numbers,” at which point Wyeth still said nothing but pointed to the door, as if asking me to open it.

  So, I did, and walked in followed by Hercules and Dern. Wyeth came in last, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, which I suppose was meant to scare me—cutting off any escape route. But retreat was not on my agenda.

  Larsen sat behind a very large desk of swirling pine, the swirls matching the contorted look of repressed anger on his face. He seemed to have drunk too much coffee and to need someone to shout at—and sure enough he did. He shot up from his chair, pointed at Hercules, and said, “Is that your negotiator? Marshal, I don’t know what you’re up to—but it sure as blazes isn’t the law. You’re a troublemaker, and I don’t like troublemakers. And I don’t want you in my town.”

  “Well, Mr. Larsen, I don’t think this is your town. You don’t own it, you’re not the mayor, and as I recall, you’re supposed to be running a trading post under a federal government contract. It seems to have grown quite a bit—like taking over that Delingfield place . . .”

  “Delingpole!”

  “. . . taking over this saloon; taking over the General Store; and I hear you’ve got other businesses.”

  “I don’t own the General Store; I let Mathis keep it; I only supply it. And what’s that to you? It’s called enterprise; it’s called working for a living.”

  “Well, for starters, I’m buying this saloon.”

  “You’re what? It’s not for sale,” he bellowed and thrust himself back into his seat. “Get out of here—you’re wasting my time.”

  “You’re selling it to me for a dollar. I’ve got it right here.” I pulled a dollar from my pocket and held it up.

  “What’s your game?”

  “That’s the wrong question, Larsen. The real question is what’s yours? The federal government has had its eye on you for a long time. I could make them quite a report, the sort of report that could put you away for years, probably forever. So, I think you’re going to want to sell me this saloon for a dollar.”

  “Get out of here! Dern, get him out of here!”

  “He touches me,” I said, “and your whole trading company comes down around your head like a wagonload of manure on a mouse. I don’t have to do anything. The report is written—and unless I get this saloon for a dollar, and get it right now, I’m not going to be in any position to stop that report from reaching Washington.”

  “Report what? You’ve seen nothing criminal here—except what you’ve done yourself: gunning down Indians, knocking down the telegraph office.”

  “And the mine? I wonder what President Grant, let alone the governor of this territory, would think of your mining operations? And I wonder what your foundry does? I wonder where all the children are? I wonder where Indians get Winchester repeating rifles—you have any idea? I sure as heck do.”

  “Those guns are for hunting—I’m allowed to sell them.”

  “They’re for intimidation.”

  “Marshal, you’re a fool—and you’re wasting my time.”

  “Am I? I figure you’d rather have me running a saloon than running a report out of here right now, wouldn’t you? Answer me that.”

  “I don’t have to answer anything. People in this town know me. No one here would ever testify against me. In fact, I could sue you, Marshal, for defaming my character.”

  “You could try that,” I said, “but I think you’ll come to a different conclusion. Your lawyer might too. You can have him look at this. This here is a bill of sale made out to Miss Sallie Saint-Jean. There are four drafts: one for me; one for you; one in Latin for your lawyers,
should you wish to get them involved; and one for Miss Sallie Saint-Jean. You’ll note I’m not a signatory to the contract. I’m merely acquiring the property acting as her agent. That doesn’t violate my official role as a U.S. Marshal, but it does ensure that everything will be done according to the law. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come back here to take possession on her behalf, and you’ll have my copy and her copy signed and waiting for me on this desk. If it’s not here, you’re going to be in hotter water than a boiled rabbit in an Indian stew—and I mean one that’s got a basket of cabbages dumped on its head. You got that? I mean every word of it. That’s all, Larsen. Goodbye.”

  The dastardly bully sat there speechless, brooding, his lower lip jutted forward in a sort of fat boy’s pout. I turned to Wyeth, and he looked past me at Larsen. Larsen merely scowled and waved us away. Wyeth grudgingly rolled his heels aside. I opened the door, turned to Larsen, and said, “I’ll be back in the morning; have those papers ready.”

  I closed the door behind us, and Hercules and I walked slowly down the stairs. The saloon was doing a roaring business with the Largo men. No one looked our way; they were absorbed in gambling and drinking and telling tall tales. If Larsen signed those papers, the saloon would be deserted tomorrow. I looked to see if we were being followed. The door was still closed.

  In the hotel parlor I found Beauregard, examining what looked like an account book. “Evening, Yankee General, sir. I’ve got Billy Jack training the Chinamen in night fighting behind the hotel. If he’d like to join them,” he said, pointing a pen at Hercules, “he’s welcome, though I reckon he can take care of himself.”

  “Every man can use extra training,” I replied and nodded at Hercules, motioning to the rear of the hotel, saying, “Cluck-cluck, oink-oink, moo-moo helpy-helpy fighty-fighty chop-chop,” which was the best I could manage in Chinese. It was apparently good enough, as Hercules turned his massive bulk and stepped out of the parlor