V. Alice
(Three months earlier; mid-August; Hays, Kansas)
Alice Layety came from Connecticut, traveling by train six days straight through. What she’d left behind was a story burned, and what lay ahead was only vaguely plotted. Perhaps she’d write it all down one day, like the tales of William Cody and Wild Bill Hickok—Prince of the Pistoleers—and the many other wonders she’d read from the emerging lore of the West: of boom-towns, railroad booms, and the booming buffalo trade. She was drawn by the prospects of high adventure and fast profit, where a man’s life went cheap and a woman’s body brought top dollar. But one thing certain, she’d be owned by no man; rented by the hour or nightly, perhaps, but branded with a ring, never again. So there lay yet another motive.
Her red hair shone with defiance as she stood before the sun-washed depot, surveying her destination: Hays City, bordered on the south by a meager stream and surrounded by the barren heat-rippled plain, center of the hide trade and home of the 7th Cavalry. She opened her compact, checking—the bruise had nearly healed. She added a dash of powder just above the cheek. There now, perfect, a clear complexion to match her conscience. With any luck his body had only recently been discovered. And 1800 miles west beyond the wide Missouri onto the Great Plains should leave a cold trail. Her life began anew, and it would read as she willed. Beginning with the name: Alice, for her red hair, and Layety—as in lady—which was how she would be treated from then on. Her green eyes flashed as she pursed her painted lips and smiled, wary but ready to play the waiting hand.
A petite woman, pretty, her flesh admirably proportioned. But what caught the eye was her coloring, therein lay her beauty: fair porcelain skin, flaming red hair, and pale turquoise-blue eyes bordering on green. Her remaining features—her nose, ears, and mouth—were made more delicate by her squarely determined jaw. Though lacking in stature, she moved with a feline grace. Her dress, a muted russet with matching veiled hat and gloves, fit snugly from the white ruffled bow at her neck down the pleated swell of her breasts, tapering to her tiny corseted waist to form a dramatic bustle about her hips that fetched a man’s eye and breath. Stunning.
Removing her veil, she aimed an arch-smile at a freighter, his wagon half-loaded with lumber, just passing the depot. Arrested by her smile, he reined in his team of four stout oxen. A big German immigrant with straw-blonde hair and beard.
“Hans Mustrieg,” he announced, doffing his hat, nodding affably. “Vell Miss? You need hotel? I vould go zere. Too far to valk unt carry ze big bag.”
Her eyes brightened with her answer, “Why sir, I’d be most pleased.”
He eased his frame to the ground and cast his shadow her way in one long stride to heft her portmanteau from the platform to the wagon. A good-looking young man whose Old World manners largely compensated for his sharp scent as he helped seat her in a space at the back of the wagon.
What really perturbed her while rolling along, her soft leather shoes dangling below the folds of her dress, was the dust churned up by the wagon. No brick streets or paved lanes of any kind, only dust mixed with dried manure ground to a weightless powder by the ceaseless traffic of hooves and wheels and carried on a lazy breeze about the pace of a walking horse.
Suddenly, a slavering beast pulling a two-wheeled cart piled high with what she presumed were buffalo hides—for the tell-tale odor hit instantly—crossed their path, enveloping her in a rancid cloud of dust. She closed her eyes and covered her nose and mouth with a camphor-scented handkerchief. The air clearing, she blinked up to see a horseman who accompanied the cart now rein her way and follow intently. He rode a tall dappled black. She crossed her legs and sat demurely silent, prepared to ignore him. His blue eyes bore down, studying her with interest; an interest unwittingly provoked by the nervous dance of her lead foot bouncing in rhythm with the rocking wagon, providing a shadowed glimpse of her shapely lower calf. An interest provoked but not encouraged. Stalked by a wild hunter, undressed by his eyes, she was not prepared for his utterly forward nature, nor the trail-grime and sweat covering man and horse. And the entire scene, the dust, the heat—the stories she’d read made scant mention of such conditions or type of man. An unshaven, penniless rogue, certainly no Prince of Pistoleers; though he rode like he owned the whole prairie as he spurred his horse past, smiling at some private joke which should have been himself.
“Howdy Hans!”—She heard their exchange—“That’s a lovely cargo you haul.”
“Ah, Kaspin. Yah,” he nodded vigorously, “truly is. How vas ze hunt?”
“Passing well, Hans…passing well. I’m a rich man for a fortnight.”
This last utterance provoked her interest; she turned and watched him ride off at a quick gallop. Certainly no gallant cavalier from the 7th Cavalry; but cleaned-up, perhaps. She’d come to harvest men and fleece their pockets. While there’d be scant few officers or gentlemen, she’d choose with whom and when, and no man would touch her till he’d washed. And his hunger, his lust, would be governed by good manners, enforced, if need be, by the derringer hidden neatly holstered on her thigh.
Hans glanced back with a shout: “Zats Kaspin!”—a big-toothed grin parting his handsome beard and mustache. “He has…much life!” he added with a slap of his chest.
At the hotel Hans helped her down from the wagon. Upon stepping to the porch, she was startled by the cracking roar of rifle-fire. Blue smoke drifted, dissipating above the heads of a throng gathered in the street beyond. She leaned to the handrail whereby Hans placed her bag; she thanked him absently, newly absorbed. Others also watched from the storefronts, windows, and doorways.
A large bearish man with grizzly brown hair and beard, his buckskins soiled with camp soot, blood, and grease, stood before the livery stable, firing his rifle into the open space west. Thunder Mike McKay, taking on all comers in an impromptu shooting match, regaling all with his marksmanship and boisterous, colorful speech growled with his red tongue lapping the air while occasionally pausing to lick his sparse yellow teeth. At this moment savoring the defeat of his latest victim, a blue-uniformed cavalryman walking away, shaking his head, dejected by the ineptness of his rifle and aim.
“Hah! Ye knows a’ready the army cain’t shoot. What! Issued a measly seven rounds a month. Ain’t trigger feed fer a minute o’the hunt. Bah! Not fer the biggest, cussiness, spitiness, drinkiness son o’man on the whole blame buffalo range. An’ dead-eye to boot! Thar ain’t a rodent o’the prairie don’t foul hisselv fer miles about when they see Thunder Mike sightin’ me Hawkins. But the rest o’ye? What!? Are ya mangy curs what chase the runty squirrel fer its hide? Ain’t thar no hardy huntsman o’the Mighty Shag among ye? No lightnin’ lef’ ta spark me thunder? Hah! Picked ya clean a’ready, have I?”—searching their eyes, daring any to step forth.
“Whoa there, Mike”—a familiar voice mocked from beyond the throng—“It’s hot enough without you adding your blasted yawp to the heap!”
The crowd turned to view the challenger. Caspion stood poised on the hitching rail posted mid-front of the livery. He traversed its eight-foot length as if strolling down a boardwalk; at the far end he hopped up and about-faced, alighting like a bird on a limb, his boot moccasins gripping the narrow contour with ease. Many had seen his act before, but never tired of his crisp movement, keen balance, the marvel of his acrobatics. And he always added some new twist to defy credulity, enhance their wonder.
“O my God…lay me down,” Thunder Mike wheezed. “Holy Harlot from Hell, it’s the black snake o’the prairie, Jim Caspion, come ta suck me egg, filch me vic’try. But I be warnin’ ya, Caspion, I’ve sharpened me aim. I’ve elk’orn sights on me Hawkins. I swear by me muther, I kin hit a buzzard’s eye on the far horizon!”
“Holy harlot…indeed. Spare us your mother, Mike. She’ll burn a second time for the praise you gain her.” Whoops and laughter greeted his pronouncement. “No, dear McKay, I grant…you own the horizon. I’ll not dispute your range. It would only rot the day to fetch a tar
get there. For the thunderous reach of your Hawkins alike your thundering voice that shakes the ground beneath this cloudless sky is plainly conceded by all. But the ground whereon you cast your shadow and yonder far as you can run till you fall breathless, you old bear, to its fond embrace…that ground I own, certain as your hide is bound to this earth. And know this as well…the fire of my Henry can pick the buttons off your trousers and leave you dancing like a slap-jacketed bullwhacker buck-naked before the whip!”
Thunder Mike rolled his eyes in rapt concern, playing along, laughing with the rest. Caspion scanned the crowd and nodded to a man on the far edge.
“Jonsey!” he called; “Toss one up!” On cue an empty bottle sailed through the air as Caspion, one-handing his Henry, snapped the action, swung the barrel, and fired. The bottle exploded, raining glass over the astonished onlookers. Caspion twirled his rifle in triumph then gave a brief side-glance to the pretty redhead watching from the hotel. Her cool demeanor deigned him a half-smile.
“Now my wager!” he sang out for all to hear. “And rest easy, McKay, you need never fire a shot. I’ll wager you a night, say…”—he paused, directing their attention to the passel of painted ladies in various stages of undress lolling on the balcony of Hagan’s Saloon—“with the choicest morsel from Molly’s harem.” The girls curtsied, brashly showing their seductive wares and ready agreement to abundant cheers and applause. Caspion waited till all quieted down. “So it is, McKay. I wager a night with a lovely lass against a bottle of that fine Kentucky brew you keep cached away like honey in a dark hive…that!”—he stabbed the air with his rifle—“As you toss up another bottle, I’ll perform a back-flip off this rail…pivot, land, and shoot it before it hits the ground!”
A general hush followed the initial hoots and gasps as the realization of what this entailed took root. Was he serious? Could he make good his boast?
“Done!” Thunder Mike lustily embraced the wager. “But one condition, ya rascal. No bullet in the chamber at the start. Else ya shoot yerselv in mid-air. Twould burden me soul.”
“Oh, you’re a caution, McKay. Clever. Such concern for my well-being puts a wrinkle on my brow.”
“Well…?” Thunder Mike licked his lips, anxious lest the condition not fly.
“Agreed!”
“Yah-Hah! This time I gotcha cold, ya slitherin’ snake!”
“Could be, McKay. But allow me a moment to limber up. The snake is a bit stiff from the day’s ride.”
Grasping either end of his rifle, he jumped the barrel back and forth several times, and his footing never faltered; an amazing enough feat to most eyes. His figure a trifle lank, limbs true and supple at the joint, relaxed and poised for any act—a rare vitality marked by all that thrum but long to flail. From the day he first saw a circus, he had a passion for acrobatics. Yet another interest Luther had helped him indulge, admiring his initial efforts to mimic the fantastic aerial performers as he dove from the barn loft into a pile of hay. Luther began to assist and direct his progress, tying ropes from the rafters to his belt, coaxing him through the maneuvers step by step. Within a week, unaided by rope or brother’s hand, he could easily perform a front- or back-flip, to which he shortly added handsprings, cartwheels, and running leaps. And he continued adding stunts during the war, for his own and his fellows’ amusement. But for the war, he may well have joined a circus and made his way thereby.
Caspion held his rifle overhead, both arms extended, twisting right then left, loosening his muscles in final preparation. Feeling confident, he checked the redhead once more and noted her bemusement had warmed to watchful concern. He staged a momentary loss of balance—then winked his assurance. Perhaps he had snookered himself by accepting McKay’s last wrinkle…ah, but she was a woman to put vigor in a man. He turned his back on the crowd, held his rifle ready, flexed his knees, and let the image of the waiting deed play through his mind. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
“At your say-so, McKay” he announced—now set, thought and muscle coiled.
Men looking on gripped their suspenders; women’s fans held still in the heat; all stood motionless, waiting. At McKay’s hanging cry the bottle cast aloft, and Caspion thrust his arms and rifle back over his head, arching high as he leapt, tucking his knees, and glimpsed a flicker of sunlight strike the spinning bottle amidst the tumbling scene of upside-down buildings, gape-mouthed men, and his own limbs flying—then in one fluid instant he snapped the action and whipped his legs and rifle to complete the deft half-twist as he landed in a balanced crouch, sighted the bottle at a hair’s breadth above their heads and fired.
But none witnessed the vessel’s demise; only felt the burst of stinging shards as they hit the ground face down in the dirt, eyes shut tight on the collective vision of the Henry aimed their way. They slowly roused themselves as the ringing left their ears, rising with the joy and relief known by any who’ve been shot at and missed. Several found they’d embraced manure in their rush for safety, including Mike McKay. At the sight of whom, picking his befuddled mass up from a fresh steaming pile, Caspion leaned to the hitching rail in laughter.
“Eee God…McKay!” he gasped. “You never smelt sweeter!”
“What! Then ya won’t mind I waltz over ’n hug ye, ya cursed blue-eyed devil. Ya was a mite slow on the trigger.”
Caspion managed to straighten, rubbing his gut as he walked forth. “Aye, dear Mike,” he answered, smiling; “But you should’ve pitched the bottle higher.”
“An’ sorely wished I had. But hang it, twas a wonder ta behold. Ya shot the pants off Thunder Mike, me friend. With one shot laid us low. Curses, I’m proud ta shake yer hand.” He wiped his own on his pants and shook Caspion’s with stout conviction; then addressed those remaining: “Would ye lookit ’em gents. If ’e had a tail the man would be a monkey. Thar ain’t a whore lived can turn the tricks ’e knows with his rifle. Damned if I ever seen the like. Christ A’mighty, a monkey if ’e had a tail…I swear it!”
“Ah McKay, grand cussing, good McKay,” Caspion answered fondly; “But I do have a tail. Just you ask sweet Molly yonder and all her dancing girls.” Words spoken low as he winked his meaning, stepping lively among the men there assembled. “A tail to wrap about a woman’s trunk, to swing from limb to limb…aye, and climb between for pleasure in the deep of night,” miming the words with a strutting swagger to their great amusement. “A manly tail, indeed, that doth stand proud in front and not drag behind with a cur’s weak lust. So spare me your sermons, I’ll have a woman’s breasts and her sweet lips for my creed!” With that he finished standing before Thunder Mike, and wryly added: “I’ll be wanting that whiskey by evening, McKay.”
“Ta share with a lovely lass, I wager.”
Caspion simply shrugged, helpless as a bull’s-eye caught in a deadly aim. “Possible, McKay. Possible and most likely.” Then he backed jauntily away to leave the men milling without object, slowly dispersing in the afternoon heat.
From the hotel railing Alice Layety drank in the raucous sights and sounds of strange men, of horses and wagons clamoring through the dusty street, seduced by the raw excitement and energy. Two mounted cavalry officers greeted her politely in passing as the hero of the hour advanced her way. She thought to grab her bag and enter the hotel, but instead she idly removed a glove, remaining cool to man and heat.
His eyes covered her instantly from head to foot, but with a frank and curious expression, not tearing at her buttons and bows as she’d expected. She relaxed and scrutinized him in turn. Trail dust highlighted the lines in his face, the crow’s-feet at his eyes, and every seam, wrinkle, and stitch of his clothing; his hair, brows, and mustache, like the dark trousers he wore stuffed in knee-high moccasins, all powdery gray; and his once-white cotton shirt, filthy and stained with sweat. Yet the entire effect only deepened the blue of his eyes, like blood breaking the skin, enlivening his smile as he flashed a row of strong white teeth.
“I’m Caspion,” he offered.
She acknow
ledged with a slight tilt of her head. “My name is Alice Layety.”
“Pleased to meet you, Alice. Couldn’t help but notice…you’re the brightest flame to ever grace the prairie.”
“And you are quite possibly the dirtiest man I have ever set eyes on.”
The remark stung, as she thought it would, cutting him a notch or two; though his smile and gaze held steady. Still, an edge came to his voice.
“Beg pardon Miss, or is it Ma’am?”—for her pale skin bore the trace of a ring. “No doubt such an elegant lady is accustomed to high-tone gents. You’re from Down-East, I take it.” He paused briefly, considering whether the beauty was worth the waste of words. “Well, I’ve been some weeks on the summer range. You see, in hunting the buff, often the greater hunt is for water. In these regions there is seldom enough, rarely plenty. Each day you abide with a little less than you need. But good of you to point out my unworthy condition. If you’ll do me the honor of holding my Henry—”
Taken aback by his abruptness, she accepted the barrel in her gloved hand.
“Thank you. I shall bathe forthwith…”
He leapt over the handrail to the outer rims of a large horse trough and balanced briefly before falling back fully submerged in the scum-green water. The surface calmed to a wink of bubbles, waiting…then he rose in a great spray to the laughter and delight of all watching. Except one. He shook the water from his face and glanced up to see his rifle propped against the rail and her russet dress disappearing through the hotel door.
An interesting man after all, she thought, checking into a room—arrogant, uncouth, and rich for a fortnight. But she was the huntress, not the prey. He was hooked and she knew it, and through him she would bait the rest.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 5
