by Ford Fargo
“Yes, private, of course,” she said, wobbling slightly. He closed and locked the door behind her, then went to his camera, drew out the precious photographic plate and hurried to his darkroom to develop it. This print would bring him a tidy sum by sunrise.
***
“Don’t let the men see you rubbing your ass, Cap’n,” said Corporal Sligo. “Bad for discipline if they think a cavalry officer can’t outride, outfight and maybe out-cuss ‘em.”
Captain Thomas Dent sank back onto the McClellan saddle that was killing his hemorrhoids. The saddle was good for his mount, terrible for his rump. The corporal was right, of course, about his actions in plain view of the twenty men in his command, but he felt peevish enough to complain about it, discipline or not. He felt he had a right. Napoleon had lost Waterloo because of a similar affliction, and he hadn’t been riding a bony cavalry pony most of the night.
“Too bad we couldn’t scrounge up some of that artillery Colonel Vine is always nostalgic for,” the Captain said. Fort Braxton’s commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Wilson Vine, had commanded a New Hampshire artillery brigade during the late Civil War. In order to remain in the Army when hostilities ceased, Vine had been forced to accept a reduction of two ranks and a transfer to the cavalry; no matter what the situation, Vine found a way to speculate on ways good artillery would improve it.
“Not much call for swingin’ a howitzer around on a Kiowa hunting party,” Sergeant Nagy said, and Corporal Sligo chuckled in agreement. “Dey ride like the wind,” the wiry Hungarian added, then picked at his front teeth with a broken fingernail.
“There might be call to roll out a caisson if Old Mountain can’t control his hothead braves,” Captain Dent said.
“No different now,” Corporal Sligo said. “Always been like that, Cap’n.” Sligo jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You got men all the way from sixteen to forty ridin’ there. The young’uns are the ones itchin’ to fight. Don’t matter if it’s Kiowa or each other.”
Captain Dent nodded. “The veterans don’t seek out bloodshed,” he observed. “They’ve seen too much in their lives.” He silently added his name to that roster. Seeing heads sheared off by cannon in the heat of battle at Glorieta Pass wasn’t anything he could forget easily—or ever. Not to mention what happened on the creek that other day… he shook away the memory.
“That’s the point, Cap’n,” Sligo said. “The youngsters ain’t seen it yet. Or enough of it to get a bellyful. They think they’re missin’ something. No amount of lecturin’ is gonna convince them different.”
Dent shifted again to find a more comfortable position astride the wooden saddle. He failed. The wood slats were worn as slick as a river rock, but riding all day still tore at his body. There wasn’t a muscle or joint that didn’t ache.
“Wolf Creek isn’t more than a mile off,” Dent said. “We can reach the town before breakfast.”
“You want the boys should ride on into town, or should we bivouac outside?” Sergeant Nagy asked.
“There’s an oxbow in the river that might provide for us.”
“Dogleg City dey calls it,” Nagy said, “the folks livin’ dere in tents.”
“Do tell,” Dent said. He alertly heard the unspoken warning in his sergeant’s tone. “Not the best part of town for the men to set up camp?”
“I’d recommend crossing the railroad tracks and finding a spot along Wolf Creek, maybe to the west of town a ways. We kin water the horses, find some forage and not . . .”
“Not disturb the locals in Dogleg City as they go about their pursuits,” Dent finished. The sergeant nodded sagely, obviously pleased his commander understood how much trouble they would cause for their small troop if the soldiers found 100-proof popskull and nickel whores this early in the day. “See to establishing the camp,” Captain Dent ordered. “I have to talk to the local lawman and warn him of the possible trouble brewing.”
“You might want to find a fellow to scout, too,” Corporal Sligo said. “The best we have now makes Wolf Creek his place of habitation.”
“Charley Blackfeather,” said the captain. He smiled wryly. “Don’t worry, corporal, I know the right man for this job.” He didn’t bother telling his sergeant that Lieutenant-Colonel Vine had ordered him to recruit the half-breed. Even if the commander of Fort Braxton hadn’t given the order, Dent would have sought out Blackfeather. There hadn’t been a single man he had inquired after that hadn’t sung the scout’s praises, some reluctantly, others loudly, but all had been impressed with the Black Seminole’s skills. Dent had learned, in dealing with the scout, that they were all correct.
He felt a moment of satisfaction in having such experienced noncommissioned officers. Nagy had fought in more wars than he could count, and Sligo was not far behind—the latter had made sergeant more than once, but a fiery temper kept getting him busted back. The two of them maintained a firm grip on the company. The men were always ready to travel—or fight—and the only grousing he overheard was half-hearted, not bitter. Sergeant Nagy would get the troopers to a camp west of town away from trouble, and Dent would ride straight in from the north to sound the warning. He tapped his heels against his mare’s flanks and trotted off from his command. Advancing by himself proved a relief. He managed to wiggle and scratch and rub his hindquarters as necessary without fear of the men under his command thinking less of him.
As he approached the northern scattering of Wolf Creek’s buildings, his keen brown eyes began looking for defensive points, places to fortify, where to abandon in favor of stronger bulwarks. By the time he rode past the AT&SF depot on Fourth Street, his back was straight, his shoulders square, and the pain in his butt a distant ache. Beyond the telegraph office he caught the beguiling fragrance of bread baking at the store on the corner of Fourth and Lincoln. It reminded him of Molly’s bread, but this couldn’t be half as tasty. His wife’s recipe had been handed down for generations, and her German mother had been about the best cook Dent had ever found. Except for her daughter. Dent experienced a momentary pang. He wanted to see his wife and their three children again, but Fort Braxton might as well have been on the other side of the world. Sometimes he wondered if Colonel Vine had it better than he did, or worse—the colonel’s wife and children refused to join him at his frontier outpost, preferring to remain in Washington.
Steeling himself against memory and the delicious scent of fresh bread, Dent was once more the dashing cavalry officer, not the family man. The sheriff’s office at Washington Street was still a relief, giving him an excuse to dismount.
***
Wil Marsh stared at the picture of Mrs. Pettigrew, nakedly revealing acres of bare flesh. A thin smile came to his lips, then he gripped the middle of the print at the top and carefully tore the photograph in half. Her face and one breast, along with ample leg almost to the thigh, glistened on the print. He crumpled the other half and threw it aside, then placed the half photograph between two sheets of paper he had ripped off a roll of newsprint when David Appleford wasn’t looking. Blotting the last of the fixer from the photograph, he tucked it under his arm and set out for the office of the Wolf Creek Expositor. Appleford would be hard at work setting type for the next day’s edition and would likely be alone in his shop at the corner of Third and Lincoln.
The morning was blossoming like some diseased flower. The sunlight filtering through storm clouds that had sprung up quickly on the eastern horizon carried a peculiar butterscotch hue to it that Marsh loathed. Photographing in such ambient light always proved difficult, not that he had any work at the moment. Portrait work proved elusive lately, and Elijah Gravely at the funeral home hadn’t come on any likely candidates for a photograph in the past month. Families losing small children usually wanted a keepsake to remember the deceased.
Marsh had taken more than one photograph of a child a year or younger who had died. Gravely gussied up the ones that died from disease. Others had simply . . . died.
If commerce didn’t pick up soon, M
arsh feared he would have to help along the natural course of life—and death. Photographs of a dead child, especially a son, could earn him ten dollars or more. And that was after splitting the fee with Gravely.
He saw that the door to the Wolf Creek Expositor was propped open in the vain hope of a vagrant morning breeze to whisk away the interior heat. Poking his head inside, he saw Appleford bent over his desk, tiny bins of lead type stretching up in front of him. The man labored quickly, cursing quietly as he worked.
“You’re running out of E’s,” Marsh called. He kept from laughing as Appleford jerked bolt upright, sending lead type dancing across the floor.
“Don’t do that, Wil,” the editor said. “Knock first. It’s only polite.”
“You know I’m not the polite sort.”
“You sweet talk all the women in town. Save some of that politeness for your dealings with everyone else.”
Marsh stepped into the shop and closed the door behind him. Appleford started to protest the cessation of even the tiny zephyr and then clamped his mouth shut. Marsh enjoyed the slow peeling back of the newsprint on the photograph, the gradual revelation of the photograph, the surge of lust so quickly masked as Appleford recognized Mrs. Pettigrew.
“I have another one for you. Better than all the others. Much better.”
“There’s only half there,” complained Appleford. He licked his lips. As much as anything else, Marsh enjoyed this part of the negotiation.
Both of them knew how Appleford lusted after the widow. Just as both of them knew he was married and unlikely to ever gain a divorce, not when divorcing the daughter of a pastor out in Wichita would destroy his reputation. Appleford might as well nail boards across the Wolf Creek Expositor’s windows and take the train west, never to be seen again.
But lusting after Edith Pettigrew in a photograph? That was something to do in private, away from the wife, her pastor father and polite society.
Marsh almost laughed. “Away from polite society.” He was anything but polite. And he furnished the blue photographs.
“How much?”
“Ten dollars for this half. Another ten for the entire photograph.”
“Twenty! You road agent! You thief! You—”
“It’ll take me a few days to get the entire photograph. I don’t suppose you want this—for ten dollars now—rather than waiting for the entire photograph later?” He knew Appleford would rip his intestines out and strangle him with them if he tried to deny him his photograph. His half photograph.
“All right, all right, you robber. You son of a bitch.” Appleford went to his desk, unlocked the center drawer and took out a thin wad of greenbacks.
“Specie,” Marsh said. “Paper money’s not something that travels well outside of Kansas.”
“Where are you going?” Appleford asked suspiciously.
“Wherever I have to go if you need photographs for your newspaper. You have any work for me?”
Marsh’s disappointment rose when the editor shook his head. Appleford pawed through the desk and found ten silver dollars. He dropped them one by one on his desktop. From his expression he might as well have been leaking his life’s blood. Marsh placed the torn photograph back between the sheets of newsprint and laid the discreet package on the desk, then carefully slid the cartwheels off one by one, as if counting them to be sure of Appleford’s arithmetic. He tucked them into his vest pocket, where they made a satisfying bulge.
“In a week?” Appleford asked.
“Sooner,” Marsh said.
“Good. Now skedaddle. I have work to do.” Appleford’s eyes darted to the hidden photograph.
“Work before pleasure,” Marsh said, slipping from the office with a broad grin on his face. He didn’t bother leaving the door open to the fitful, humid breeze. He knew Appleford’s dedication to the next edition would fade in a few seconds as he thought more of setting his gaze on Edith’s bare limbs and bare, swelling bosom.
Marsh straightened his vest and brushed off his coat. It was threadbare, and stains from his photographic chemicals turned to outright burn holes, but he strutted along like a prince. His head held high and the morning breeze stroking through his sparse blond hair like a feathery comb, he made his way toward the laundry owned by Li Wong. With the way his luck ran so far, Marsh figured good fortune would stay with him long enough to ensure Li wasn’t in the laundry but his lovely daughter Jing Jing was. She fancied him almost as much as he did her exotic beauty, he could tell. If only her father would stop watching her like a hawk. . . .
“You go away. Run, run!”
Marsh reached for the bone-handled short knife he kept sheathed at the small of his back, then stopped. Killing Li Wong would be satisfying, but his daughter would never have anything more to do with him if he did.
“She too young for you! Go away, picture man!” Li Wong waved his broom about, then began thrusting the handle in Marsh’s direction as he tried to poke him in the gut.
Marsh let his fingers slip across the slick bone handle and then come away empty.
“Top of the morning to you, Mister Li,” he said, staying just beyond the Celestial’s range with the broom handle. “Is my laundry ready?”
“You no leave laundry,” Li cried, moving to stand sentry at the door to his laundry. He placed the broom in the crook of his left arm, a soldier standing guard. “I tear it all up if you do! You not to see Jing Jing—ever!”
“I’m sure I left some. Shirts to be washed and starched.”
“You go! Go or I call Sheriff Satterlee!”
“If you send Jing Jing to fetch him, I’ll be happy to accompany her.” Marsh shouldn’t nettle Li this way, but he couldn’t help himself. He jumped away as the short man charged for him.
Marsh avoided several powerful thrusts with the tip of the broom, then kept walking. The money in his vest pocket was burning a hole there. Ten dollars. With that much more to come.
He turned west on South Street, saw that Gravely had yet to open the funeral parlor for the day, glanced south down Second Street toward the Lucky Break Saloon where business was already brisk. But he had scant taste for whiskey. An occasional beer was all he partook of. Marsh walked on until he reached First Street where he could see the Mt. Pisgah Methodist Church. The parsonage was immediately to the south. He walked past it, as if a single footstep might bring Pastor Hyder rushing out to berate him.
Marsh stopped at the whitewashed gate on the path leading to the church’s main door. He looked around. Unlike the saloon, it was still too early for these parishioners to congregate. He opened the gate slowly, knowing the pastor needed to oil the hinges. He didn’t want a squeak betraying him. The gate grated open, and he slipped through quickly, leaving it ajar so he could beat a hasty retreat.
Steps quick, he went to the front doors and gripped the handle. A slow turn, a shove and the dim interior beckoned to him. Marsh ducked in, turned to his right and saw the poor box. Hands shaking just a little, he lifted the lid and peered in. Six dollars rested inside, money that went to help orphans. He knew. He had asked around town repeatedly, and everyone he had interrogated said Pastor Hyder reserved the money for orphans, then the indigent if the homeless children had been properly taken care of.
His trembling fingers traced around the rims of the coins, then quicker than a striking rattler, he took six of the silver dollars he had received from Appleford and added them to those in the box. Carefully stacking the additional coins on those already in the box, he studied the small two-coin towers for a moment, then closed the lid. It wasn’t much but made up for some of his sins.
He paused at the door, wondering how much he had to leave for the orphans before his guilt was expiated. It had been twelve years of donations, and he still felt the need, the psychic burden after doing what it took for him to stay alive.
A sudden noise at the church’s altar sent him scurrying away like a rat. Marsh darted through the gate and didn’t try to prevent it from squeaking on the rusty hinges
as he closed it. Stride long and his heart trip-hammering, he walked north along First Street. He slowed as a cavalry soldier galloped past him, coming from points south, then made a quick turn east a few blocks away along Washington. The only place the soldier might be heading with such grim determination was Sheriff Satterlee’s office.
Marsh broke into a run to find out what was going on.
***
The coffee was so bad it threatened to close Captain Dent’s throat. He took another sip, keeping his face as neutral as possible so as not to insult Sheriff Satterlee.
“Tastes like shit, I know,” the sheriff said. He took a sip of his own coffee and made a face. “Damned near puked my guts out first time I drank some, but it grows on you.” He smiled crookedly and added, “‘Course, you can always cut it off with a knife if it gets to growin’ too fast.”
“Why don’t you have a restaurant deliver some?” Tom Dent asked.
“Where do you think this comes from? You don’t think an amateur like me could ever make coffee this vile, do you?” Satterlee laughed so loudly Dent had to join him.
He finally placed the tin cup gingerly on the edge of the lawman’s desk, careful not to slosh any of the potent black acid onto the wood.
“I wouldn’t use this to swab out a carbine barrel,” Dent said. “But your coffee’s not the reason I came.”
“Didn’t think it was, though it’s likely to be in violation of some federal law,” Satterlee said, working slowly on the vile brew.
“Colonel Vine is concerned about the Kiowa stirring up some trouble.”
“Heard about the Kiowa hunting party that got shot up south of us a few days back,” the sheriff said. “Nasty business. Never pays to run afoul of buffalo hunters. One Kiowa killed, another damned near dead. Real trouble’s likely with the third one. He didn’t get a scratch on him, so his pride’s wounded and he’s likely got somethin’ to prove now.”
Dent nodded in agreement at the sheriff’s summary of the situation.
