Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Morning, Miss Alviss. You following me?”

  That rumbling voice. Her heart raced. He remembered her name? Thora patted the rock-hard muscles beneath her hand. Were any of her New York acquaintances this athletic under their fancy clothes?

  Eyebrows lifted, he glanced at his chest.

  Thora snatched back her hand and settled it over her stomach before turning his way. “I don’t believe so.” She had to lift up her chin to meet the man’s narrowed gaze. Why did she get the feeling he disapproved of her presence in this town? Or was he offended at her touch on his chest? “Deputy. I beg your pardon. I became a bit light-headed.” Oh, why was she explaining anything to this frowning man?

  He tipped up his chin, glanced at the sky, and ran a hand over his beard, the corners of his mouth quirked. “Something catch your attention up above?”

  The rasp of stubble drew her gaze, and Thora watched his long fingers stroke his chin, her pulse thumping. Realization she’d been staring hit, and she glanced at the closest building so he wouldn’t know of her unexpected fascination. She waved a hand to encompass the street. “Merely enjoying the features of this frontier town.”

  “I see.”

  As she spoke, she tangled her fingers in the strings of her reticule and shot him sideways glances. “Where I’m from the sky is not so clear nor is the air so fresh.” With an effort, she dragged her gaze from his handsome face and looked across the street.

  “Where is that, miss? I detected an accent in your voice.”

  “New York City.” Her answer slipped out before she thought the situation through. She’d lived almost twenty-five years—oh, that number sounded ancient—and never encountered a law enforcement officer except to see one from afar. Here, she’d crossed paths with this man twice in twenty-four hours. “Although, why that detail is any business of yours, I know not.” She’d thought by leaving her family and acquaintances behind, she wouldn’t need to be accountable to anyone but herself.

  A dark eyebrow arched. “A deputy’s job is to learn where visitors are from and where they’re headed.”

  But, of course. Thora grabbed at her self-control and put on her most coaxing smile. “Thank you for sharing that aspect of your duties. I am now aware you might be just the man I need to talk to. Perhaps you have heard of a Marshall Renwyck here in Sweetwater Springs?”

  His gaze narrowed then shifted to the side. “Um.” He lifted a hand to again scratch at his chin. “A U.S. Marshal?”

  Really, is there any other kind? She bit back her impatience and drew in a breath to calm her pulse that still beat too quickly. “That’s right. I wish to make the lawman’s acquaintance. And I’d be most appreciative of learning his whereabouts.”

  “I don’t know of an active marshal visiting this town.” Turning, he studied her face.

  This encounter wasn’t helping her at all. What she needed was space away from this man to determine her next step. “Well, sir, I have sights to see and people to meet.” Grabbing her skirts, she stepped forward. A broad hand restrained her elbow. “What? Unhand me, sir.” Resisting his commanding hold, she tugged her arm toward her side.

  “Not that way.” The deputy steered her away from a mound of manure before releasing his grip.

  Again, the man had to rescue her. Heat flamed her cheeks, but she dared not meet his gaze. Years of being coached on displaying good manners surfaced, and she forced a smile. “Thank you. Good day.” Without looking back, she marched past a couple buildings, setting the brick mercantile as her destination. Inside the store, she could browse the shelves until her embarrassment ebbed. Maybe even overhear an interesting tidbit or two.

  Only after she’d climbed the steps and faced the plate glass window proclaiming “Cobbs” in bold black letters did she steal a peek over her shoulder. But the deputy was nowhere in sight. Just as well.

  With her hand on the doorknob, she readied herself for the inevitable questions posed to a stranger in a town of this small population. The banner of a poster propped in the window caught her eye, and she bent over to read it.

  Boxing Match, Saturday, October 1, 1887

  Boris the Bear versus Shane O’Leary

  Special bout for all-comers

  The sketch showed a burly man with a broad chest and bulging biceps wearing a bearskin draped over his wide shoulders. The display of his manly physique caught her by surprise, and her breathing hitched. Awareness, mixed with a resurgence of embarrassment, danced along her skin.

  Flushed, she straightened and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Her father and his business associates attended such competitions at the Sea Side Athletic Club on Coney Island and at Madison Square Garden. But an outdoor boxing match? She never heard of such a venue. That element alone qualified the event as a frontier experience. Exactly the type of activity Mister Warren told her to cover. Anticipation bubbled through her.

  She would not fail in submitting at least twenty-five hundred words by her deadline. Every detail of this athletic bout would need to be recorded, and Thora vowed to be in the front row so she could do just that.

  For a moment, her mother’s horrified expression passed through her mind. Missus Botilda Lene Alviss would need her vial of smelling salts if she knew what her eldest daughter planned. Being a member of the social set in New York meant Thora had never been allowed to attend such brutish events, as her mother labeled them. The closest she’d come was watching the swordfight between the pirates and the police in the premiere of “The Pirates of Penzance” several years earlier.

  Glad to be mistress of her own plans, Thora shook away any doubts of not accomplishing her assignment. Several such stories, filled with authentic details from the frontier, would earn her the sought-after honor of lead author at The Oceanside Library.

  Again leaning close, she read the rest of the poster. The location sounded like it was several miles outside of Sweetwater Springs. Hmm. She straightened and glanced about the streets. Only two days remained until the scheduled bout. Which townsperson could she become acquainted with in that short period who would transport her to Saturday’s match?

  ~**~

  The afternoon train pulled away, Harte stood in the shade on the depot platform and waited as Rand collected his valise. “How’d the trial go?”

  “As well as I’d hoped.” The sheriff lifted his hat from his head and ran a hand through his long hair. “My testimony helped convict a gang of cattle rustlers we rounded up a few weeks back. Jury took only twenty minutes to pass judgment.” He resettled his hat. “How did things go here?”

  “Not much to mention.” Harte liked reporting that nothing horrible happened in Rand’s absence. Harte glanced around then back at the sheriff. “Had to hold a couple of cowboys from Somerdell Estate overnight on drunk and disorderly charges.”

  “Sure appreciate the help.” Rand gave Harte a hearty handshake then leaned over to grab the weathered handle of his valise. “See you back at the office.”

  Harte nodded. “I’ll finish my walk around this end of town before returning. You can unpack and get settled in without me hanging around.” After the sheriff headed down Main Street, Harte turned and entered the station office.

  Jack Waite sat at the open window of the divider separating the waiting area from his small office. “Deputy, what can I do for you?”

  Access to the stationmaster was almost around the clock because the man lived in an even smaller space off to one side of the office. “Just making my daily check for any news.” Over the years, Harte learned important tidbits while lounging around train stations, especially when the town had a telegraph post. In the past week, he’d discovered Waite enjoyed sharing a bit of news with anyone willing to listen.

  Waite leaned forward against the counter. “You’d be the one with the news of the trial over in Crenshaw. What did the sheriff say?”

  Harte saw the gleam in the old man’s eyes and chuckled. “I won’t be the one to steal Rand’s chance to share.” He’d spent enou
gh time with the sheriff to know he liked spinning out the details. “Nothing came in over the wire?”

  The station master’s eyebrows crashed downward. “Huh, you’re the second person today who’s asked.”

  “Is that right?” Affecting a slow walk to keep from looking too anxious, Harte crossed the empty room and leaned an elbow on the counter. “Who was the other?”

  The short man waved a hand toward the railroad tracks and scowled. “That foreigner with the Russian name who reminds me of a puffed-up banty rooster. Downright obnoxious the way he struts around and wants everyone to jump when he speaks. Just cuz he manages them boxers doesn’t mean he can boss me around.”

  Harte chuckled at the description of the man. At this point, the private car had sat on the side track for several days. He glanced at the stationmaster’s face, noticing the wiry salt-and-pepper hair that stuck out from his dark cap. “Offend you, did he?”

  Waite adjusted his position on the tall stool, leaned forward, and again scanned the room. “I don’t know what he thinks I can do when a telegram hasn’t arrived. Not like I can shinny up the pole and shake a message from the wires.”

  Curiosity sharpened his attention. What could be so important to the man? “'Patience and time do more than strength and passion.’”

  “Well said.” The man’s bushy eyebrows came together over his nose. “You make that up on the spot?”

  “No, a French poet de la Fontaine did. He lived a couple hundred years ago.”

  Waited jerked his head in the direction of the window overlooking the tracks. “Speak of the devil. There’s Mister Stanislav now.”

  Harte turned and sighted toward the side track. Of average height, a dark-haired man dressed in a matching three-piece suit descended from the private car. Each step of the pudgy man’s jaunty walk bounced his bowler hat. “I haven’t shared much more than a short introduction and polite greetings with the man.”

  “Don’t wait too long to get to know him better. The group’s only in town ’til the fight is done. Then the car will be pulling out for Boris the Bear’s next matches in Butte and Virginia City.”

  “Is that right?” Several years earlier, Harte had been in Denver to testify at a bank robbery trial. He’d attended one of the exhibition matches on John L. Sullivan’s Grand Tour of one hundred ninety-five fights in one hundred thirty-six cities in approximately eight months. From what he’d read, the novel idea in 1883 proved profitable,. Sounded like this promoter aimed to replicate that tour on a smaller scale. “Thanks, Waite. I need to finish my rounds.”

  “Hey, wait up. I almost forgot.” Waite eased down from the stool and walked to the far wall where stacks of wooden crates formed a sizable wall. Black paint labeled each one with the names of individuals or families. He pulled a white object from the crate marked sheriff. “Telegram for the sheriff came from Morgan’s Crossing.”

  Harte accepted the envelope addressed to Rand Mather and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. “He’ll have it within thirty minutes.” He nodded good-bye then walked outside, pausing on the platform to face the private train car.

  Visible through the window were two big men, wearing tight-fitting jerseys. They lifted metal pipes with lead bulbs on the end with each hand.

  Harte wondered if they’d be offering cash prizes to anyone who lasted a couple of rounds in the ring. He didn’t consider himself a small man, but the muscled bulk on these guys intimidated him.

  Duty called, and he left the depot to walk the hard-packed street in the afternoon that turned chilly. Strolling down the street, he kept his gaze in constant motion, on the alert for anything about of the ordinary.

  A few people moved in and out of Cobbs’ Mercantile. Mack Taylor and his young helper, Pepe Sanchez, groomed horses in the corral of the livery stable. At the far end of town, he spotted clothes blowing on Missus Murphy’s clothesline. A lone man stood outside of Hardy’s Saloon with his boot resting on a bench while he smoked. What he saw were the same activities he’d observed for the past several days. The sights had become routine.

  Still, watching over a town provided a sense of satisfaction he hadn’t known before in his traveling career. Certainly, he couldn’t complain about the surroundings. He preferred to sleep indoors in relative comfort and safety. Eating so much of Missus Murphy’s good cooking forced him to use a different hole on his belt. He even enjoyed the occasional casual conversations with the townspeople.

  Yet, something was missing. He fought against the notion that what he yearned for was excitement. His decision to relinquish his United States Marshal badge was made to avoid dangerous activities. Can’t deny I miss the challenge.

  At the jail, he rested a hand on the doorknob before giving a last look around. He caught a glimpse of a fancy bonnet atop a reddish hairdo. The feather bobbed as she entered the office for the Sweetwater Springs Herald. Was that Miss Alviss? What business would she have at the newspaper office? As he contemplated that question, he stepped into the sheriff’s office and glanced around to see Rand wasn’t alone.

  Randy gestured toward the door. “Ah, here’s the man I’ve been telling you about.”

  Harte paused with his hand still on his hat and turned toward Mather’s desk. “How so?”

  In front of the desk sat the dark-haired man from the private train car, dressed in a three-piece suit. He stood and grinned, extending a hand. “I’ve been hearing good things about you, deputy. Name’s Fyodor Stanislav, and I believe I have a job that is right up your alley.”

  “Harte Renwyck.” He returned the handshake with a firm grip. Considering the man’s statement—words that usually caused immediate distrust—he pulled up a wooden chair to the side of the desk. “What job do you mean?” He glanced at the sheriff who just shrugged and tipped his head toward the manager who’d reclaimed his own chair.

  “As I’m sure you know, an important boxing exhibition will take place a few miles away tomorrow evening.” Stanislav cast a pale-eyed glance between the two lawmen. “With all the advertising I’ve placed, I’m expecting a big turnout. Therefore, I am in need of extra men to provide security.”

  Harte sat straighter. Security was the type of work he’d planned to secure once he reached Helena. This job might be good practice.

  “Sure, I’ve made an announcement at the local saloons and hired three cowboys, Tommy, Zeke, and Peter.” The pot-bellied man paced in front of the desk. “But I’m looking to hire a key person with the experience to manage the crew. You’d need to establish a patrol, put men at strategic points where crashers might slip inside the boundary ropes without paying, and then lead the guards to transport the money box back to town. I’m sure a man like yourself can handle the duties I’m outlining. Job pays ten dollars for six, maybe seven, hours of work.”

  Again, Harte glanced at Mather, not wanting to up and leave if the sheriff felt his services were still useful.

  The older man gave away nothing, only stroked fingers over his bushy moustache.

  “Duties aren’t too hard, and the pay’s decent enough.” Harte nodded. Actually, the pay sounded downright good, since his work with Mather earned him only room and board. Having a few coins in his pocket would postpone the need to write to his bank for a withdrawal. Plus, he didn’t bet more than sixty or seventy men would show up for the bout. He shrugged, not wanting to appear too eager. “Sounds like you’ve hired a head of security, Mister Stanislav.”

  ~**~

  Twenty-four hours later, he wondered how the fight promoter would feel about a request for a raise. Peter, Zeke, and Tommy, the men Staislav hired as “the crew”, hadn’t demonstrated skills much past staying atop a horse. An ability that probably proved essential in driving cattle, but they understood little about working security. Harte adopted his best patient tone to explain common terms like ‘surveillance’ and ‘maintaining a perimeter.’ His years as a marshal obviously provided him with specialized jargon.

  The four men rode alongside Stanislav’s wagon o
f equipment for about an hour onto the prairie from Sweetwater Springs to a spot with a stream on the left and a copse of trees not far away on a five-foot rise. Harte glanced at the location and saw how a good-sized group could stand close to the ring while others on horseback or in wagons could park up the incline and gain the advantage of height to view the action.

  The security crew, who also worked to set up everything and take it down, toted the necessary supplies to erect a boundary perimeter, the boxing platform, and string a rope between two trees to create a private area. When the time came to drive in posts and wrap rope around the loops in the top to create a barricade, Stanislav gave the instructions.

  Squatting with one knee on the rocky ground, Harte accepted the last stake from crew member Zeke and hammered it to secure the two-foot high platform. Movement across the open fields caught his eye. In the distance, a line of wagons and riders approached.

  “Hurry, men. The crowd is almost here.” Harte stalked to the back of the platform for the canvas. “Zeke, grab the other end.” They walked the heavy fabric over the planking, pulling it to the front edge, and then sent the thinnest cowboy, Tommy Belson, underneath to tie the long cords in the middle.

  When only ten minutes remained until the announced start time, Harte scanned the area and couldn’t believe the size of the gathering. Attendees moved through the gap in the perimeter rope past the wagon where Stanislav collected the fees. Then they fanned out and settled themselves into where they had a good view. His best estimate of the crowd hovered close to three hundred. Where had all these people come from? A big percentage of farm wagons counted among the vehicles, and many held six to eight people. Surprisingly, he counted at least a dozen women in the audience and quite a few younger boys. Probably people in rural areas took their entertainment where they could find it.

  Doing a final check on the competitors, Harte poked his head around the edge of the privacy blanket and spotted a couple of men speaking with brawny Viktor, the headliner. Stanislav had been adamant about the boxers being left alone to warm up.