The porcine Mr. Cunningham had told him that this great sward of the most subtle and soft gray-green color was sage. Fletcher was aware, vaguely, of its scent as some herb used in cookery, but the aromas reaching him through the gaps in the slapping window shade told him of a perfume that refused to be bottled, so thin and rare was it.
At other times, he recognized the stink of his own sweat—too many days in the same clothes, without respite, wore on him deeper each day. It had long since become too much to bear. And yet . . . the allure of a “significant inheritance” still outweighed the inconvenience. But for how much longer? A man, after all, he thought, can only take so much pushing before he turns and bares his fangs.
Such were the increasingly violent thoughts of Fletcher J. Ralston as the two-brace team of horses pulled the begrimed Concord stagecoach down a slacking grade. It eased around a tight bend between narrow, rocky spires with rubble heaped at their bases. On each side of the stage, the tawny rock bore fresh scars of rockfalls and collisions.
They slowed to the pace of a man’s brisk walk. Fletcher stuck his head out, a hand clapping his bowler in place, and squinted up at the shotgun rider. He was a coarse man named Clem or Cletus or Clell or some such. The well-fed fellow wore a brown wool coat two sizes too small, evidenced by the popped shoulder seams.
The burly man saw him looking up, and as they were rolling at such a slow pace, he shouted, “Rockslide couple weeks back! Blocked the road in until they chipped and hauled it clear again!” He chuckled and spat tobacco juice.
It was that final parting guffaw that rattled Fletcher once again. He was about to shout for them to stop, to let him out—he needed to walk, for heaven’s sake. After all, he repeated to himself, “A man can take only so much. . . .”
That was when the big shotgun rider bellowed once more: “Yonder is Promise!” Then he howled once more, and this time was joined by his seated companion, the heretofore silent Bob, driver of the spine-cracking, bone-rattling stage.
Fletcher was torn—excited to be so close to his destination yet concerned by the twin chucklers up front. He kept his bowler clapped to his head and squinted through the dust, craning his neck to see around the rock so close he reached out and grazed it with his fingertips.
They rounded the rocks and he caught his first glimpse of the town of Promise, Wyoming Territory.
Fletcher’s jaw dropped open as he stared down the winding roadway through the half-treed pass. Dust swirled and clouded his open mouth, nose, and eyes, and finally he retreated back into the equally dusty interior of the stagecoach.
Surely, he thought, a mistake has been made. If not, then never has there been a town that has failed to live up to its name any more so than Promise, Wyoming.
His journey thus far had brought increasing difficulties, from rail travel to stagecoach, and one unfortunate two-mile stretch in between, when the train had developed some sort of coughing spasm in Iowa and refused to budge farther. The passengers, fifty of them, had been forced to trek the remaining distance on foot. Their luggage, they’d been assured, would follow along. It had, but nothing could have prepared Fletcher for the blisters he’d endured.
Now it was all coming to an end here. He flat-out refused to consider the fact that he had to repeat the entire journey, only in reverse, within days. He wished to be shed of the place, to be sure, but perhaps there would be a comfortable hotel at which he might enjoy a hot bath, a fine meal, and a clean bed.
The roadway angled downward to such an extent that he felt himself sliding forward. At least the jumble of packages and bundles no longer tumbled his way.
Fletcher poked his head out the door’s window once more. The town, such as it was, lay several minutes’ riding ahead. They were still elevated above it, though the roadway would take them downward out of the foothills and to flatland some distance before the town proper. Beyond the town, westward, the foothills rose up once more, leading to even grander mountains. In fact, it seemed the town was surrounded with an ambitious landscape.
For now he had a vantage point of Promise in full. It was typical, he’d come to learn, of many such Western towns, with a long central thoroughfare flanked by buildings. In this case, there were perhaps a dozen structures on each side, several in each row of significant size and bulk. Few of them wore fresh paint, and as the stagecoach approached, it seemed to Fletcher that even fewer than that had ever felt the touch of a brush.
Raw rough-sawn boards made up for many of the constructions; shade porches and worn plank sidewalks fastened the structures to the street as if they might otherwise spin away on a stiffening breeze.
Once more, the bulky man above half turned to him and, seeing he had the young stranger’s attention, said, “Windy spot most times here, is Promise. Comes off them hills we just come out of. A real hat lifter!”
Fletcher supposed this was advice for which he should be grateful, should somehow show his acknowledgment and appreciation. “Yes.” He nodded and patted his fingers, drumming them atop his hat, which he still held clamped to his head. “My thanks.”
Once more, the big man shook his head and laughed, then without warning let loose a substantial stream of brown spittle that, due to the aforementioned wind, failed to reach the graveled earth alongside the turning wheel as intended. Instead, the ropy spew whipped along the thickly dusted side of the coach and across Fletcher’s face, shoulder, hat, arm, and hand.
He saw the entire thing happen as if time itself had slowed, and he jerked too late back inside the coach. He held his breath, but soon realized this was not possible when one was at the same time gagging.
The spittle lashing proved to be the very thing that broke Fletcher’s resolve. He sagged backward into the poorly padded bench seat and wiped with a trembling hand at his face with his handkerchief. It came away brown. His mind filled with thoughts of sickness borne through spittle.
The big man was obviously not well in his head. Why else would someone choose to wear such ill-fitting clothing and rove about unshaven and spitting in public? Fletcher continued wiping himself down as he stewed, quelling but not quite ceasing his gagging.
So woozy had he become, he did not notice they had descended down to the flat, and he barely noticed when the wagon slowed and then stopped.
He, Fletcher J. Ralston, had arrived in Promise.
CHAPTER SIX
Well, well.” Skin Varney had spotted the top of a small prairie schooner ahead, beyond an outcrop of reddish stone he’d seen more and more of in the past several hours. The rock and the ponderosa pines seemed to be competing. So far, the fight was even. Occasionally a third competitor, stands of aspen, entered the fray.
He slowed the bone rack of a horse and stopped in the trail to think. He sure was hungry, and he’d found precious little in the way of victuals in the German’s traps some days ago on the trail. There had been jerky, but he’d eaten that within the first couple of miles.
Now he saw the possibility of food from what would likely be a migrating family. People in a wagon, in his experience, were travelers, and as such they would be carrying with them the makings of meals, maybe bread already baked, some choice meat, and biscuits.
“Oh,” he groaned. “I can stand a whole lot of things, horse, but the thought of a fresh baked biscuit is not something I am able to resist. I drool like a dog chained out of reach of a gut pile.”
The horse flicked an ear in response.
“You, too, huh? Say”—he shifted in the saddle—“what if they have tobacco? And dare I wonder . . . whiskey?” He sat in silence, musing on those toothsome prospects.
“On the other hand, what if they somehow saw the man who used to own you and these duds and whatnot. Just my luck he was their laggard kin, hoping to catch them up. Had to be a weak sort, near enough that he didn’t value a good gun nor traveling with food.” He shook his head and spat a gobbet of phlegm in disgust.
“I can do for them as I did to him, sure, but a whole family’s more than I have strength to dally with just now. Give me a fine meal and a long night’s sleep and I might well whistle up a different tune.”
Then visions of fresh biscuits once more danced in his mind and Skin sighed. “All right, all right. I am a slave to my stomach, I tell you true, horse.” He leaned forward on the saddle horn. “That brings to mind another thing: might be a new horse there who won’t ignore me so much. Huh?”
From the moment Skin rode in sight of the wagon, he knew he should have given the camp a wider cut of the trail. It was a hardscrabble outfit; the top of the wagon he’d seen from afar was about the only thing in sight that didn’t show signs of hard wear.
A man had seen him and stood beside the rear of the wagon and a too-smoky fire, eyeing him. Skin sighed and rode forward.
The man held his bony fists resting on his bony hips. The remnants of his long underwear cuffs, pinked with age, wagged in a breeze. His hat looked as haggard as the rest of him, and one side of the brim looked to have been gnawed away by a rat.
“Hello there, you at the camp!” said Skin, once more working to conjure a smile. It pained him. Then a thought came to him. He could ride on by. It was a trail, after all—well, not far off the trail. Anybody might travel it.
He could claim he was a lawman or some such tracking a fugitive and he had seen their wagon and figured he’d give it a look-see. And with no further thought, that became his plan—until the wagon’s rear canvas flap rustled, as if someone inside was unknotting the ties that held it closed.
A dark-haired head poked through and raised its chin. And a pretty, whisker-free chin it was. That dark hair turned into two long braids draped down either side of that squint-eyed face.
She caught Skin looking her way and stared right back, bold as you please.
The ragged man visored his eyes and looked from Skin to the wagon, back to Skin, then to the wagon once more. “Here now!” His shout was thin voiced, high-pitched, but filled with instant anger.
The girl tugged her head back inside the flaps like a spooked turtle pulling into its shell.
Skin knew why the man was enraged. Good, he thought. Let the devil think what he will. He’s likely right. And I think perhaps I will stop and pay these fellow travelers a visit, after all. A true grin worked its way onto his face. Been a long time since he had dallied with a woman. More years than he cared to recall, in fact. He expected the particulars would come to him.
“I say again, hello.” Skin offered a wide, hearty, and, he hoped, friendly wave. Were he at the receiving end, he’d take it as such.
“What you want?”
Varney let his mouth droop as if he’d been told he was the homeliest man alive. “Why, mister, I don’t want for anything, not unless you count the brief companionship of fellow folks of the roadways. Maybe somebody to share my evening sampling of whiskey with. That’s all.” Skin smoothed the reins between two fingers. “But I’ll shove along now and I am sorry to have troubled you.”
The raggedy man rubbed fingers over his lips. “Now hold on there. Never said you wasn’t welcome. Just wanted to get the cut of the man I share camp with before I come to a decision.”
Skin nodded with solemnity. “Oh, I understand that, mister. It’s some of the people you meet along the way who cause the fuss.” He wagged his head to indicate commiseration. “Yeah, I had a nickel every time some fool come along and wasn’t what he said he was . . .”
“You what?”
“What’s that you say?” said Skin, trying not to look at the wagon. He thought maybe the flaps were parted a sliver. He wondered if there was somebody else about the camp.
The man sighed and walked toward Skin, hands back on his hips. “You said if you had a nickel, you’d do something.”
“Oh, well, I reckon I’d be wealthier than I am at present.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you can light down for a spell, share the fire, such as it is. My daughter, she’s of no use to me, gimped as she is, so I have to make do myself. It’s a sore trial, I tell you.”
“Oh,” said Skin, glancing toward the wagon. “I guess that head poking out before was your daughter, then?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
Skin slid down out of the saddle. “Nothing to get worked up over.” He held up a shushing hand. “Only being friendly.” Skin noticed the man had once more become surly. “Had me a gimpy dog long ago. He was a bunch of work for my folks. Ended up dying, can’t say the family wasn’t relieved.”
“You saying my daughter’s like a dog?”
Skin sighed. This conversation was testing his patience. “I ain’t saying nothing of the sort. Now, look, I’m going to move along. You don’t seem the sort who wants company anyway. That’s fine. I’m of such a mind myself. Good day to you and yours, mister.”
Skin mounted up. This time when he tugged the horse to leave, the sullen man didn’t make a move to stop him. Could be he’d read Skin’s intentions. Must be the prison taint still clinging to me, thought Skin. He angled away from the man, not taking his eyes from him. He’d keep the rascal in sight until he reached the bend in the trail by the big rocks. Besides, he didn’t intend to dally with no gimp—that much was certain.
Then, he’d be jiggered, didn’t the flaps on that wagon cover part once more? This time, the girl showed herself in full. Clothed, to be sure, in a floppy ol’ dress that had started life as sacking, but it didn’t hide the comely shape beneath. Skin slowed his sidelong progress.
He didn’t pay as much attention to the scraggly man, who still watched him, but now with the perkings of a grin. Instead, Skin’s eyes were fastened on the creature who was climbing out of the back of the wagon.
She returned his stare, save for a few seconds when she cut her gaze down to her feet. One of them appeared to be oddly shaped and swung as if it were a rock swinging at the end of a rope. The leg beneath the raggy skirts peeked out now and again as she grunted and fumbled with getting herself free of the back of the wagon.
It was a thin leg, not much meat on it, that ended in a man-size boot that bent in no way a foot should. None of that put Skin off, though, because the rest of her looked as tempting as a fat trout crackling and spitted slow and smoky over glowing coals.
She made it out of the wagon and stood by the tailgate, one arm resting in the wagon, the other propped on her hip and grinning at him as if she deserved mighty praise for doing what most folks could have done in half the time. But Skin was about to praise her anyway. She was something.
That’s when he cut his eyes back to her father. The rascal was openly smiling at him. Skin didn’t think that was such a good thing. The man had sidestepped away, not even toward the fire, which needed attention. “Here now,” said the man over his shoulder to his daughter.
Before Skin knew what all was happening, the girl’s arm that had been resting in the wagon lifted into view a short single-barrel shotgun. She wore a similar vicious grin as her pa on her own unwashed face. She lifted the butt of the stock, squashing it into her chest, not bothering to aim the thing, and not losing a smidgen of that grin. Then she cut loose.
Skin knew that whatever she had in that thing was capable of traveling the twenty, thirty feet between them. It was also likely a whole lot faster than he was able to draw the poor example of a six-gun he’d taken off that fool back yonder up the trail.
The only thing he had time for was swinging his near leg up and not quite over the saddle as he dove to his left, shoving away from the saddle and the old bone-rack horse and praying to a god he had long before lost faith in that his boot didn’t snag in the stirrup.
It didn’t.
As the shot rang out, he heard a guttural belching sound—not a scream, not a howl, something deeper, more animallike. The horse.
Even as his le
ft shoulder hit the dusty earth and he rolled to cushion his fall, Skin was already boiling with rage. He felt hot, raw anger worse than that old raggedy bastard and his no-good gimp of a daughter could ever feel.
He was angrier with himself than them, for he had allowed himself to be overtaken by this pair of killing thieves. What did they think he had on him anyway? He’d all but told them he had whiskey, sure, which he didn’t have, but the pickings he’d taken from that fool up the road didn’t amount to all that much. They wouldn’t know that, of course. They were vultures swooping in to pick him clean.
He came to rest on one knee, his right hand snatching for the paltry revolver. He lifted it free and saw the horse had been knocked to its left side. It jerked its old legs to stand, its head thrashing and whipping, smacking the ground as it screamed and flailed. The sounds made Skin shiver. He’d as soon put a bullet in the damn thing’s head to shut it up because it gave him the creeping willies to listen to it. But he didn’t want to waste the bullet just yet. He had a feeling he’d need it soon.
The horse thrashed between him and his prey, the beast who had shot at him—the girl. He looked over the horse’s flopping barrel of a rib cage and saw weak squirts of dark red bubble up, subside, bubble again, then leak down along its back and belly, soaking into the saddle blanket. She’d laid into it with what looked to be a round of buckshot—intended for him.
Before Skin could squeeze off a shot, she’d reloaded. A second shotgun blast boomed, and the horse, behind which he crouched, jerked and screamed. Its long legs trembled, then stiffened and it jerked once more, then lay still.
It took him two shots from his less-than-impressive gun for Skin to drop the gimpy girl and then her father, who stood with his hands resting on his bony hips, smiling as if Skin’s death was a sure thing. The look of surprise on his face warmed Skin’s belly as much as a drink of whiskey. Then it was all over and done.
He ran a finger in his right ear and jiggled it. All that blasting, booming gun noise had left a ringing in his head like a blacksmith’s hammer pounding steady on steel. He made certain the revolver was loaded and ready to go, then he stood and advanced, gun drawn, toward the pair he’d dropped and the wagon. You never could tell when there was somebody lurking about a camp.
Ralph Compton Guns of the Greenhorn Page 3
