The Pinfire Lady

by P J Gallagher

  Still attempting to regain her composure, Abbie, in short, panting sentences, described the attack and her reaction. There were muttered noises of approval from the crowd of men as, in the West, most women were considered to be off-limits to male advances – unless they were ‘sporting girls’ and, even then, one was supposed to approach with a certain amount of decorum. Rape, or attempts at same, was simply beyond the Pale and, in most cases, the transgressor received little or no sympathy.

  A lantern was produced and William Bent peered down at the bloody corpse. ‘Why it’s Pierre LaRue! He was most certainly a bad ’un, thoroughly evil. Problem is, he has a twin brother, Paul, as debonair as this one was uncouth, and just as evil, or possibly far more so. He has the reputation of being a fast gun and, when he gets the news of Pierre’s death, he’s going to come running to avenge his twin. I think perhaps you’d better pull out in the early morning.’

  Abbie shook her head. ‘No, Mr Bent! Thank you for the advice, and I’m sorry that in a way, I’m the one who has brought this calamity down upon you. No, I cannot run away. My people need rest, and if I run, then I’m sure Mr LaRue is bound to follow, and probably catch me on the trail. No, with your permission we’ll stay here, and if trouble comes, I’ll try to keep it outside of the fort!’

  A bystander retrieved Abbie’s Colt and handed it to her. Jack Harding arrived and insisted on escorting his captain back to the wagon encampment. Thanking the Bents once more and promising to see them in the morning, Abbie was glad to be away from the gawking crowd that was always attracted by the excitement of any gunplay.

  They walked silently. Abbie was lost in her own thoughts and Jack respected her need for privacy. Arriving at their wagons, she sat down by the fire shivering and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Why me?’ she thought. ‘I had no desire to obtain the awful reputation that I seem to have acquired! People are looking upon me as a killer and I’m not.’ She thought back, ‘Jake and the Mexican? I had no choice. It was them or me – the same with Cad Williams and Scar. In each case, they were the ones who initiated the shooting. I was merely defending myself and my people.’

  Abbie’s sad reverie was interrupted by Jacob Levy who thrust a hot cup of steaming liquid into her hands, ‘ ’Ere dearie, ’ave a nice ’ot cuppa tea. Me old mum always said in time of trouble there was nuffink better to cheer a soul up. That’s right, drink it ’ot!’

  Gradually the tea took effect and the shivering ceased. Abbie considered her options. She could leave, cease the quest for the property that her father appeared to have held in this part of the world, resume her former name and title, travel by stage to Santa Fe and thence back to the East Coast. What then? Back to England to her late husband’s ruined estate or, worse still, back to a life with Aunt Sarah? Abbie shuddered at the thought. ‘Yes, Aunt Sarah! No, Aunt Sarah!’ and to sit there decorously while listening to inane conversations? ‘No! Such a life would not be living!’ She would take her chances here in the West and, as the locals would state, ‘let the chips fall where they may!’

  In the morning Abbie called her people together for a frank discussion. All had heard details of the previous night’s shooting, and everyone was curious about the purpose of the meeting. Rather than dwelling upon that incident, Abbie stated that it was still her intention to travel north to the Pike’s Peak area, probably to the community known as Colorado City. Did they still want to continue to travel with her, or would they prefer to make other arrangements?

  There was an immediate chorus of voices all stating that they wanted to remain united as one party and Abbie felt gratified by their response.

  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘Perhaps we should at this time consider what, in a general sort of way, are our individual plans at the end of our journey?’

  Jacob shrugged his thin shoulders and indicated that, as they all well knew, he wanted to start peddling his wares when they reached the end of trail. Until that time, he was willing to assist any of his fellow travellers in need of assistance.

  The women looked at each other waiting for someone to begin. Finally, Nelly Smith looked at her son Tom, he nodded and she stated that their plans were that he would find work in one of the mines while she figured on taking in washing, noting that with all of the menfolk there she should have no lack of business.

  Ann Marlowe and Beth Isaacson had obviously discussed this topic for some time, and they stated that they intended to pool their resources and open an eating place, nothing fancy, just a place where hungry miners could get a good hot meal.

  Naomi Johnson and Eve Schultz were a trifle more ambitious. They said that they believed it would not be too long before there were more womenfolk in the area, and so they intended to stock up with bolts of cloth, lace and reels of cotton from Bent’s Store and open a ladies’ dress shop. Then they all turned and looked expectantly at Dora McAdam.

  She blushed, looked down at her feet, smiled and said sweetly, ‘Well, I guess it all depends what Mr Harding is doing!’ And there was general laughter as that worthy hid his face in his coat.

  He emerged and said, ‘Well, I’m sticking with the captain as long as she needs me. So I guess Dora’s plans will have to fit in with mine.’

  Thus, there was complete agreement that they would continue together as a united wagon train and, with that in mind, all set to refurbish their wagons and harness and check stores for the next long haul.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Days later, many miles to the south-west in Santa Fe, a black-haired, dark, sinister-looking man, clothed in the style of a Mississippi gambler, was having a series of losing hands at the poker table in the Golden Nugget saloon. His temper, always short even under the most pleasurable circumstances, was close to bursting into some violent action, seeing his money going in a constant flow to the other side of the table with each and every hand.

  A man hurried in and whispered loudly to him, ‘Pierre’s been shot by some woman up at Bent’s Fort! The news has only just reached here!’

  Momentarily stunned by the news, the gambler sat frozen, his cards clutched in his hands. The teamster across the table then made the mistake of his life. ‘Come on, let’s get on with the game! Your turn! Forget about this goddamn Pierre, whoever he is – or was, rather!’

  He sniggered at his little joke. It was the last thing he ever spoke. Paul LaRue exploded! Flinging the cards down, he called his poker opponent a series of vile epithets, describing his ancestry in no uncertain terms. Finally, the man was stung into action and started to draw his pistol. LaRue let him clear leather, and then swiftly drew a Navy Colt from a shoulder holster and shot the teamster dead. Turning to the onlookers he observed, ‘You see! He drew first. I fired in self defence!’

  None of the bystanders disputed his version of the argument and its outcome. Paul LaRue was a dangerous man at the best of times; in this mood, it was like sitting next to a keg of gunpowder ready to explode at any second.

  He got up and went outside, lighting a thin cigar and, leaning against the porch rail, thought furiously to himself, ‘Damn, Pierre! You may have been my twin brother, but were never mon ami. Still, now I must go and avenge your miserable death, because it is expected of me. Failure to do so will lessen my standing here in Santa Fe. “Oh, LaRue, he’s not that great! He’s actually allowed a woman to frighten him!” ’

  He paced slowly up and down the porch, drawing furiously upon his cigar, and swiftly came to the conclusion that he had no other choice. He must drop all his plans in Santa Fe and ride north to Bent’s Fort, find this unknown woman, dispose of her and return. ‘Who was she?’ he wondered. ‘Probably some dance hall trash that Pierre picked up somewhere and shot him over non-payment for services rendered.’

  His cigar was thrown into the street and, returning to his rented room, he packed a bag and made his way to the livery stable where his horse was kept. The ostler resented being awakened at the late hour but, sensing the foul mood exhibited by Paul LaRue, he hurried to do hi
s bidding. His horse saddled and a pack horse rented, LaRue’s next stop was a General Store where he pounded on the door until an irate, but cautious, storekeeper grudgingly allowed the gambler entry, and sold him extra fine powder and percussion caps for his .36 calibre Colt Navy revolvers and a grubstake for his journey. Equipped and armed, Paul LaRue mounted his horse and, leading his pack animal, headed north up the Mountain Branch trail towards Bent’s Fort.

  Meanwhile, at the wagon encampment outside Bent’s Fort, Abbie and her party spent some time repairing equipment and clothing and stocking up on foodstuffs and other items which would not be available on the trail north.

  Abbie paid a special visit to William Bent. ‘Mr Bent, perhaps you can assist me.’

  Bent looked up from the ledger over which he was poring and smiled, ‘Why certainly, Abbie. If it’s in my power, I’ll be only too pleased to assist you. What’s the problem?’

  Abbie produced a 12mm cartridge and handed it to him. ‘Would you be able to order more of these?’

  She explained that the ones she had were apparently British-made, although her pistol was of a French design. She tried to conserve her use of the ammunition but, inevitably, her stock was going to diminish and she would have to replace them.

  William Bent nodded and reaching up pulled down a large catalogue inscribed ‘Schuyler, Hartley and Graham, Sporting Goods’.

  ‘Let’s see what these fellas have to offer.’ He thumbed through the book with a practised hand and, finding the section on fixed ammunition, declared, ‘Genuine pinfire cartridges, available in many calibres. Hmm, nine, eleven, twelve and fifteen mm. How many do you want me to order?’

  Abbie thought for a moment and then suggested, ‘Five hundred, please. I know that seems like a lot, but I don’t know how many I’ll need, nor when I can re-order. Would that be in order?’

  ‘Certainly, dear lady! I’ll hold them when they get here until I get a forwarding address. You can pay me at that time.’

  Abbie insisted that she wanted to pay in advance as, if affairs went badly for her, she might not be around to settle her debts. After a little hesitation, she produced a Letter of Credit drawn upon an English bank and handed it to William Bent.

  He looked at it and his eyes opened wide, ‘Lady Penraven! You mean to tell me that you. . . .’ He stopped in confusion, as Abbie held up her hand.

  ‘Yes, I’m the widow of Lord Penraven, but I would rather that does not become common knowledge.’

  And Abbie elaborated on the details of her North American journey and misadventures. She described how she was intending to find out what had happened to her father’s investment, and thought it better to remain incognito for the time being. Meanwhile, if perhaps Mr Bent could possibly advance some money against the Letter of Credit, it would be appreciated. The matter was soon settled and Abbie walked back to her encampment with a comfortable wad of American bills in her possession. William Bent signalled to one of his trusted Mexican employees. ‘Miguel! That lady who just left, she has a very bad enemy, and I’m sure that he’ll come looking for her.’

  ‘Sí, Señor! You mean the gambling man who is brother to the one that La Pinfire Señorita had to kill. I know him. What you want me to do?’

  ‘Just keep your eyes open and, if you see him, let me know and warn the lady that trouble has arrived at the fort.’

  Miguel happily accepted his role as lookout for the lovely señorita and left to go about his everyday tasks.

  As the other members of her wagon train went about the work of getting ready for the next stage of their journey, Abbie, in addition to keeping a general eye on every aspect of things that concerned her people, had resumed an earlier exercise. Every day, but at varying times, she would saddle up her bay and ride out to a little hidden arroyo she had discovered, and there she would diligently spend the best part of an hour practising drawing and dry-firing her pinfire revolver. Due to her need to conserve her ammunition, her amount of live fire had to be limited to one or two shots per day using, as she had in Billy’s cabin, the ‘chimney piece’ to ensure that her accuracy had not diminished.

  Jack Harding was worried about her heading out alone every day, and argued that he should accompany her, but Abbie was insistent that she went alone. Being well armed, and constantly checking her surroundings, Abbie felt confident that she was not in danger, unaware that peril was getting closer with every hoof-beat on the mountain trail.

  Finally one mid-morning Paul LaRue arrived at Bent’s Fort. Miguel saw him riding in, dressed in his habitual suit of black broadcloth, white frilled shirt and black cravat with a low-crowned black hat low on his forehead and ran to tell William Bent that the ’avenging one’ had come. Over the years Bent had dealt with hundreds of men, some good and some bad. Paul LaRue was one of the latter. Nevertheless, he strolled out and greeted him, ‘Paul LaRue, to what do we owe this pleasure? Get down and come and have a cooling drink.’

  LaRue dismounted, ‘Howdy Bent! Don’t tell me that you’re glad to see me. What happened to Pierre?’

  William Bent was equally blunt with his explanation, ‘Your brother got drunk and went on a rampage. He assaulted a woman with intent to rape her. She resisted violently. He pulled that Bowie of his and attacked her. So, she shot him dead!’

  After a moments silence, he added, ‘I had Pierre buried in the little cemetery up on the bluff. We had a clergyman passing through. He read the burial service over him. His knife and other stuff is in the storeroom.’

  Paul LaRue muttered his thanks, but seemed lost in thought. ‘This woman, where did he pick her up?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Paul. This lady had just had supper with me and Owl Woman, and was heading back to her own camp when Pierre attacked her. He was the guilty party.’

  The gambler shrugged his shoulders and indicated that it made no difference. Pierre had to be avenged. Failure to take action would reflect back on him, as he would be considered indecisive. Besides which, there was a blood debt outstanding and it had to be paid.

  ‘Send somebody to find this woman and inform her that I wish to seek satisfaction! I will be on the bluff, by the cemetery, at three o’clock this afternoon. Now, I will have that drink, and perhaps will buy a luncheon. Maybe I can find someone to have a little game of cards with to pass away the time?’

  Shaking his head, Bent sent Miguel off to inform Abbie of the challenge. He wished that there was more he could do, but the Code of the West at that time was rigid. If a challenge was presented, it had to be answered. True, he’d never imagined one involving a woman, but it certainly was not impossible.

  Miguel reached the wagon encampment and delivered the message to Abbie who was speaking to Jack Harding at the time. Jack reacted violently, protesting that his wagon captain should not even respond to the challenge. Abbie shook her head and motioned Jack to be quiet, ‘Tell Mr LaRue that I am quite prepared to meet his challenge! Jack, perhaps you would consider being my second in this affair?’

  Muttering audibly, Jack grudgingly agreed, and so the strange duel was arranged. Jack insisted that their positions should be located so that neither would have the advantage of the afternoon sun, and LaRue sent a note that this was acceptable.

  Abbie had considered her situation very seriously. Through no fault of her own, she had been forced to end the life of Pierre LaRue, and then along comes his twin brother, a publicly acclaimed gunfighter, determined to obtain retribution for his brother’s death. She realized that if the duel did not take place now, there would be other occasions in the future where Paul LaRue might appear, still seeking vengeance.

  What did she know about her adversary? Abbie knew that he originally hailed from New Orleans. He made his living from gambling at the card tables, therefore, he must be confident, shrewd and calculating. He habitually carried two .36 calibre Navy Colts, one in a belt holster on the left hip, the other in a shoulder holster, again on the left side. His approach in a gunfight, apparently, was to give his opponent the impression
that his right hand was dropping to draw his belt-gun, but to move the shorter distance and pull the concealed one instead. Abbie realized that Paul LaRue represented the toughest fighter she had yet to face. How could she possibly win against such an opponent? As Billy would have said, she needed an edge.

  The time drew close to the appointed hour. Abbie sat by Jack’s wagon, carefully polishing her pistol and each shell case before reloading and slipping the weapon up and down in her holster several times to ensure that it would clear when needed. She had considered dressing more elaborately, but eventually just remained in her old trail garb of slouch hat and buckskin shirt and pants. Looking out towards the bluff, she saw that a figure, undoubtedly Paul LaRue, was walking steadily to the designated location. Abbie decided to let him stand in the hot sun a little while before she too arose leisurely, and slowly strolled up to where he was waiting.

  ‘You’re late!’ snapped LaRue to the handsome-looking woman walking towards him, her feminine hips swaying provocatively with every step.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur LaRue! Surely, as a gentleman, you know that it is a woman’s prerogative to be late, especially when she goes to meet a man?’ Abbie’s remarks were all in French, painfully learned from her tutor, Mr Williams, in India, during her tender years.

  Paul LaRue was startled to be addressed in the tongue of his childhood, and especially to be reminded of the code of manners expected of a gentleman. He pulled himself together and spat out harshly, ‘Talk English, damn you! You killed my brother and I’m going to give you the same treatment!’

  Abbie goaded him, further referring to Pierre as a filthy cochon, who had not deserved to live!

  She watched Paul’s eyes and noted that his well-reputed temper was close to boiling point. Suddenly, his right hand darted sideways. As he made his move, Abbie took a step to the left, dropped to one knee, drew her pinfire revolver and fired, holding the gun steady in the two-handed grip. Her aim was true. LaRue’s Colt had hardly cleared leather when Abbie’s first shot smashed into his chest, and a second hit almost in the same place. Despite receiving two mortal wounds, his hand moved instinctively to raise his pistol. The gun was at no more than forty-five degrees when his thumb slipped off the hammer spur, and he fired just one shot that thudded into the ground at Abbie’s feet. Paul LaRue dropped his Colt and stood there swaying, a bewildered look on his swarthy features, and then, without a sound, he fell forward on his face.