He found nobody other than the father and daughter, and they were both good and dead. The wagon yielded more surprises than he thought possible, considering the state of the camp and its occupants. Not only were there fresh baked bread and a shank of some sort of salty meat, but there was coffee and two unopened bottles of whiskey.
He checked the pockets of the dead man and found nearly forty dollars as well as a decent pocket watch. The woman’s pockets yielded nothing more than a much-folded crude drawing of a child that looked not unlike a monkey he’d seen at a circus many years before. He wasn’t certain what that might mean to the woman, and he didn’t much care.
Despite all this, the best discovery of Skin’s day came when he scouted farther from the camp and found a single bay mare grazing on sparse grasses twenty yards away. Leading it back to the wagon, he tied it and searched for a saddle and anything else that might prove useful.
He dragged the two dead people off behind a jumble of boulders and decided to spend the night in their camp. He’d only have to build his own in another hour or so anyway.
As he revived the fire and set two roughly sawn slabs of meat to sizzle, he sipped from a bottle of whiskey.
“ ‘Never trust a woman, Skin Varney,’ ” he told the new horse. “I forgot that important lesson. Heck, it may be the biggest one of all. The most important of them lessons Chilton Sinclair told me in the cell. ‘Never trust a woman.’ And darned if that ain’t about right, too.”
He swigged the liquor. “Just look at what happened here. Why, you can’t hardly forget it was a woman who got betwixt you and your pard back in the old days, could you? Night of the big takings and he up and scampers off with the money, leaves you to swing for it. And why? For his woman, plain as day. All he talked about half the time. Should have known better. Well not this time, Skin Varney.”
He prodded the sizzling meat with a stick. “This time, this time will be different. That town that locked you away behind the strap-steel walls of Tin Falls Prison? That town’s going to pay. Pay until I get every flat penny owed me—and then some.” He cackled and glugged back a few gurgles on the bottle. “I got me a promise to keep. A promise . . . with Promise!”
There was raw humor in there somewhere—he was certain of it. But right then he didn’t care to probe it. He was feeling too fine. He had money, a horse, food, and whiskey, and he was close, so close to reaching the end of his long, long trail. A trail he’d been traveling in his mind for twenty-four years.
Soon, he thought. He let loose with a giggle and swallowed back more of that hot liquor. It burned him all the way down, and he liked it just fine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He been drinking?” said a townsman in a sweat-stained brown felt hat to the burly shotgun rider as he cast a sidelong glance at Fletcher.
The brown-coated, chaw-dripping man shrugged. “We don’t recommend it. But you can never tell about folks. Never can, no, sir.”
With that, he walked into the station, leaving Fletcher J. Ralston standing before the stagecoach. His leather satchel dropped from on high to land smack beside his feet. He winced, thinking of the bottle of bay rum cologne he’d packed, wrapped in spare underthings, to be sure, but a drop like that—and then he smelled its pungent reek drifting upward and groaned once more.
“Why?” he said, forgetting for the moment he was still being scrutinized by three women, a small boy, and an even smaller black-and-white miniature bulldog with a single protruding tooth and a breathing ailment. The aforementioned man, whose suspicions about drinking Fletcher had done little to quell, eyed him.
“Pardon me,” said Fletcher, straightening his vest and doffing his bowler while trying to force a smile.
Before he could continue, the man said, “Maybe, maybe not.”
“I . . . uh . . . I’m looking for”—he pulled the worn telegram from his inner coat pocket and read the address there—“Millicent Jessup. Might you know where I can find her?”
The eyes of the women rose high as if he’d just uttered foul words before them and the child. One said, “Well, I never!” and yanked the child’s arm and stomped down the sidewalk.
Inches behind him, Fletcher heard a creaking and squawking, and the stagecoach jerked forward, close enough that the hub of the rear wheel grazed the back of his leg. He leapt away, catching the toe of his right boot on his satchel’s loop handle and pitched forward, face-first, to the dusty, dung-riddled street.
Fletcher saved himself, barely, with outstretched gloved hands. The gravel pocked, tore, and scraped the kidskin gloves, ruining them yet saving his hands from the same fate. As the stagecoach rumbled down the street, Fletcher looked up to see the townsman, whose face hadn’t changed, say, “Uh-huh, figured as much.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. . . .”
“I’ll just bet,” said the man, then made a sniffing sound, his head canted upward as if he’d sniffed a vile odor, and refused to look back.
Other people, Fletcher saw now, had gathered along the sidewalk and paused in crossing the street to catch sight of what he realized was a double oddity in their midst. Despite his recent misadventures, he was still a well-dressed stranger in their midst, and he was at present sprawled in the street. He remedied that situation forthwith.
As he stood, forcing a smile and a nod toward the nearest of the onlookers, Fletcher brushed at his clothes once more. Dust poofed upward.
A new, more pungent odor filled his nostrils. His eyes watered and he noted it wafted from his very own self. He looked down, held out his hands as if they had somehow betrayed him. They were green with . . . horse dung. Fresh horse dung.
Thankfully, it was cakey rather than sloppy, as the coachman’s spittle had been. Nonetheless, Fletcher now found himself the possessor of more stains and smells befouling his once-fine clothing than he’d ever before encountered intimately in all his twenty-four cautious years.
His eyes watered and his head thudded as if cannons were competing for rank as loudest. He’d never felt so thoroughly filthy.
“Pardon me,” he said, catching the eye of the beefy townsman in his stained brown felt hat. The man turned to face him once more and rested his hands on his waist. Beneath each hand sat a gun of some sort, sheathed in leather and hanging by his side.
But it was the round metal badge riding high on the man’s suede-leather vest that caught Fletcher’s eye. He’d not seen it earlier.
The man seemed to be staring at him, as if he were trying to figure out something about him, trying to place him somehow.
“See here,” said Fletcher. “That . . . that brute. That uncouth brute”—he fluttered a hand toward the end of the street where the stagecoach had ventured—“nearly killed me. He . . . he nearly ran me down!”
“Hardly,” said the man, squinting at him.
“But surely you saw him. . . .”
The man crossed his arms. “You in the street?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“You come in on the stage?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“You think maybe the stage should have taken to the sidewalk?”
“What?”
“Maybe you ought to get out of the street.” The man cut his eyes to Fletcher’s right, nodded, and looked at him once more.
How Fletcher did not hear the mule team clomping at a decent clip toward him was a testament, he would later think, to the fact that he was still addled by the vicious ride and by the foul treatment he’d received at the hands of the stagecoach operator.
At that moment, however, Fletcher J. Ralston dove for his life. He ended up in a heap once more in the street, this time closer than he had been to the sidewalk. He piled up at the feet of the lawman as the mule team stomped and rolled right over the spot where Fletcher had been standing. And where, he now saw, his leather satchel still stood. The team eased to a
halt directly over it.
A bearded man in a straw hat and a blue shirt, black braces, and denim trousers set the brake and looped the reins.
“Hello, Marshal,” he called from the wagon’s seat. He looked down at Fletcher. “It looks as if you have your hands full with a public drunkard. And here it is not even a Saturday night!” This struck the man as a comment worth hearty laughter. He was joined in a mutual chuckle by the lawman.
Once more Fletcher stood, hastily slapped the dust from his clothes, and glared as brutally as he was able at the assemblage of townsfolk all staring at him. A good many of them had also joined the newly arrived farmer in laughing.
“When you’ve had your fill of braying at my expense, sir, could you kindly move that . . . that apparatus? You have parked it atop my belongings.”
“Hey?” said the man, looking down through the traces toward whatever it was the young arrival was pointing at. “Hey?” he said again.
Fletcher sighed. “Oh, never mind.” He started forward, edging between the near mule’s rump and the wagon, reaching and bending.
“Hey now!” roared the man in the wagon. “You want to get a good kicking? Get out of there, mister!”
Fletcher backed up, eyes wide, and spun to the lawman. “Did you hear that, sir? He”—he pointed at the man in the wagon—“he just threatened me with bodily harm! Make yourself useful and arrest that savage! I demand satisfaction.”
The lawman hadn’t moved a whit, but stood with his arms folded and stared at Fletcher. Finally he said, “Gustafson here”—he nodded toward the wagon—“or, as you refer to him, ‘that savage’ was trying to tell you that nobody—that is, nobody in their right mind—would get between a mule and a wagon and not expect to come away with a kick or worse for their trouble.”
While the marshal spoke, the man in the wagon had climbed down and peered under the wagon. He used a hayfork from the back of the wagon to drag the dusty and by then stomped and rolled leather satchel out from beneath the wagon. He nudged it with a toe, then scooped up the two loop handles with one long callused finger and carried it over and held it before Fletcher.
The marshal said, “I’ve known Gustafson since we were both young, strapping lads, and I don’t recall him ever threatening anybody with . . . bodily harm. Seems you owe him an apology.”
Fletcher assessed the situation, took in the now more than one dozen people lining the street and staring at him, at the marshal, at Gustafson. Then he looked at the mules. He swallowed and nodded. “Yes, it would appear I do owe him an apology.” He reached for the bag.
The marshal’s hand shot out and held Fletcher’s wrist in a tight grip. “You still do. That was anything but, stranger.”
Fletcher J. Ralston gulped.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fletcher had gone over how this meeting was to unfold many times in his mind. He would arrive in town, gather his bag, and without hesitation, he would find the location of this Millicent Jessup.
He’d march there with the most serious expression he could muster. There he would demand to know what sort of person would keep him in the dark about being a relative, would then demand to know what, of all things, could be so valuable that after all this time he was commanded to journey halfway across the nation to claim it.
He had nurtured these intentions for much of the journey. But as the days ground on beneath the wheels of trains, then stagecoaches, his resolve had dribbled away, leaving him spent, wrung out. And this very day, the prized day, the pinnacle of his journey, had arrived, and it could not have unspooled in a more depressing, more exhausting fashion.
Now as he stood on the sidewalk feeling the eyes of the ill-bred, uncouth rabble staring at him, all he wanted was to find a hotel room and a hot bath, a hot meal, and a laundry service. Then, perhaps, after all that, if he felt up to it, then he might deign to pay a visit to this mythical aunt.
But looking about him, Fletcher was suddenly uncertain as to whether or not Promise, Wyoming Territory, could offer a weary traveler any of those vital things he required. Surely there was a hotel, perhaps a boardinghouse, something of the sort nearby.
His gaze roved up and down the street; then he heard a sound at his elbow. He turned and there was the lawman. Fletcher could have sworn the man had walked away as soon as Fletcher had offered the necessary bows and scrapes and noises of apology the farmer had needed for the affront Fletcher had apparently caused him. Great, he thought, not only are they all dim-witted and slovenly, but they are thin-skinned as well.
“Well, fella, what do you think of Promise?” The marshal waved an arm wide, smiling as he indicated the long main street. A bone-rack, tail-tucked dog scurried across the road and disappeared in a cloud of dust kicked up by a small buggy with a definite lean to the right. Fletcher saw it bore mismatched wheels. The very sight of it annoyed him, and something he felt deep in his innermost self snapped.
“If you must know—and keep in mind you asked, sir—I am disgusted by the very stink of this backwater burg.”
The words, a flurry of which Fletcher was quietly proud, had the effect on the man’s face he expected.
The marshal looked as though he’d been slapped across the mouth with a dead rat. “You know, boy, it might not be up to back East city standards—”
“I’ll say.”
“But the folks hereabouts like it just fine. Besides, you get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, son.”
“Did you just offer me a bit of sage wisdom?” Fletcher smirked. “This day keeps getting richer.” He walked away from the lawman.
The marshal slipped a matchstick between his teeth and watched the kid, squint-eyed, before shaking his head and walking back to his office.
Fletcher strode up and down the street twice. He’d be damned if he was going to ask for directions now, especially from a resident of Promise.
He passed by something called Hanson’s Emporium, the front window of which showcased all manner of tinned foods, dishware, and bolts of plain spun and flowered cloth, none of which he would have dared consume, eat from, or wear clothing made of. Style, it appeared, was another of life’s many vital elements among the missing in Promise.
“All I want,” he muttered to himself, “is this mysterious inheritance, preferably in the form of cash, though a bank draft will do. Yes, that would do nicely. Then a quick trip whisking me back to the glories of the civilized East forthwith.”
He paused before a sagging sign that had seen more years than its initial paint job was able to bear up under. It wagged once in a slight, dusty breeze. He read it aloud: “ ‘Millie’s Place.’ ”
It was the closest he’d gotten to anything resembling the name Millicent. But this seedy hovel? With red velvet curtains in the windows? And drawn closed at this hour?
With his nose held close to the clouded glass panes, that velvet appeared to have been sun-bleached such that it glowed with a faint green tinge, as if mold had grown over the original deep red. And dangling from the bottoms were faded gold tassels.
Fletcher sighed. It obviously can’t be the abode of anyone I might be related to. But perhaps Millie’s Place might be a place of accommodation, he thought. It can’t be worse than standing in this dust-clouded street on legs weak from thirst and hunger. Perhaps someone inside will know where I might find this aunt of mine.
With another sigh and a slight hesitation, Fletcher J. Ralston thumbed the brass latch and pushed inward. The door resisted, and for a finger snap of a moment, he felt relief that he might not have to talk with anyone inside the hovel, after all.
But no, its slight resistance gave way and the heavy door slowly swung inward, squawking on hinges in need of lubrication. Then a brass bell tinkled above his head. It was attached to a coil of hammered brass that held the bell just above the door’s lintel.
Dimness gripped the inside and he waited for his eyes
to adjust. He closed the door, and as he looked about, he saw dark woodwork and darker furnishings. A wide staircase bore wine red carpet that even in the dim light looked to be threadbare, as if it had been trod much upon by heavy boots by many people. Surely, as indicated by the sign out front, Millie’s Place was a hotel of some sort. And yet nothing indicated this was so.
“Hello?” he said, his voice thin and small-sounding. He cleared his throat and repeated himself.
From high above, seemingly many floors up, though the place looked from outside to have only two stories, a woman’s voice said, “Keep your boots cool. I’m coming.”
Now that Fletcher’s eyes had adjusted to the low light, further details emerged from the dim gloom. A tall grandfather’s clock stood in an alcove to his left. Beyond that hung a thick line of glass beads, but with so little light coming through, he could only guess at their color—perhaps ruby red. They hung straight and unmoving.
The reddish carpet beneath his feet was worn in places such that threads showed through the ornate design, as was the carpet on the stairwell to his right. The carpet runner led straight ahead down a hallway that continued beyond an open doorway past the stilled clock. He guessed it led to a kitchen.
The place, for all its seedy trappings—velvet curtains, glass beads—appeared to have strong bones and carved-wood craftsmanship he had not expected to find in this town. How long had this settlement been here? He had mused very little on the place itself, as his curiosity had begun and ended with the inheritance he was to receive.
He was about to part the glass beads to his left and peek into the room beyond when he heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs.
Ralph Compton Guns of the Greenhorn Page 4
