The Pinfire Lady

by P J Gallagher

  Abbie heard a distant cheer and turning saw Jack, Dora and several others of the wagon train, as well as Mr and Mrs Bent and a number of their retainers ascending the hill. She was still standing there frozen, her pistol still in her hand when they arrived and surrounded her, ‘Well done, Captain!’ declared Jack Harding, ‘We was all hoping an’ praying that you would pull it off. It’s a bloomin’ miracle, that’s what it is!’

  William Bent was far more subdued than Abbie’s second-in-command, but in his own way equally effusive. ‘Abbie, don’t worry yourself about the death of this wretch! He was a thoroughly evil man, and the world is a far better place with him out of the way. We will bury him next to his brother Pierre and that will be the end of the matter.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The wagon train left the next day. Farewells had been said, stores loaded and augmented by an additional five vehicles whose owners had approached Abbie seeking permission to travel with her. The wagons rolled west. Abbie had demanded of the newcomers the same stipulation as with her original group. They must possess firearms and demonstrate an ability and willingness to use them. She would carry no passengers.

  All were bound for the area around Pike’s Peak where, it was said, gold could be picked up by the handful from the ground and in the many streams. There was a constant stream of people in wagons, various types of other conveyances, and even lone travellers on foot, all hurrying towards this fabled Eldorado. If they were wise, people journeyed together in groups such as Abbie’s. There was comfort in moving together: safety in numbers, security in the event of accidents, more chance of assistance if sickness occurred and a general feeling that one was not alone in this strange and dangerous land.

  Night after night, Abbie had spent some considerable time going over her father’s papers, concerning the property that he was understood to have left to his daughter. There was a horse ranch and considerable acreage in the vicinity of a community described as Colorado City, although Abbie had come to realize that, in North America, a city might well be but a dozen houses, with possibly a general store and probably a saloon. Several town lots were registered in the name of Major Frederick Martin, her father, as was the deed to a mining venture, described as being two miles north-east of the eminence known as Pike’s Peak.

  Back in England, Abbie had left all business dealings to Bertie Penraven, her late unlamented husband. She recalled the discussions that they had and, in retrospect, thought it a little strange that Bertie had made no reference to anything other than the gold mine.

  Prior to her departure from Bent’s Fort, she had a long discussion with William Bent and had showed him the papers. The agent in charge of Major Martin’s affairs in this part of the world had been a George Gillis. Included with the deeds was a brief letter stating that Mr Gillis had met with a fatal accident and that a certain Roger Fenton was handling the accounts. Attached had been a mining dividend, in United States dollars, payable to Frederick Martin or bearer. After that communication there had been silence.

  Bent had suggested that the first thing she should do upon arriving in the region was to find a reputable lawyer and lay the case before him, meanwhile remaining quiet about her identity either as Major Martin’s heir or as Lady Penraven. In the case of the latter, there should not be too much trouble as there were many Cornishmen in the mines, and Penraven was a common Cornish surname. He gave her a note of introduction to a young lawyer, Daniel Clifford, whom he understood to have hung out his shingle in Colorado City.

  ‘I know him and I’ve had dealings with him. I’m sure that he’ll respect your confidences and do the square thing for you.’

  Abbie had tucked the note in with the other papers and, having stowed the documents away, resolved to put the matter out of her mind and just concentrate on her wagon train and the trail.

  Her information indicated that they should be heading for Fountain Creek, a growing settlement which, Abbie was told, looked as though it was here to stay, unlike so many others whose empty, roofless shacks and gaping doorways were mute testimony to abandoned ambitions. From Fountain Creek, a trail ran north on the east side of Boiling Creek. Where that trail split, with the right fork heading up to Russellville and Montana City, bearing left would take a traveller to Colorado City a few miles north-west.

  A week’s uneventful journeying found them at the outskirts of Fountain Creek. The wagons were circled and Abbie, accompanied by Jack, rode into the settlement seeking information regarding the condition of the northern trail.

  Fountain Creek displayed the usual straggling array of shacks, some with sod roofs and others with cedar shakes, along with two or three more pretentious false-fronted buildings with a boardwalk and hitching rail. One announced to the world that it was a General Store and so, dismounting, they both entered and enquired of the grey-haired lady at the counter whether she had any information to offer about the state of the trail heading towards Pike’s Peak.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you folks. I’ve never gone up that far an’ my man is lyin’ sick wi’ the fever. I daren’t disturb him.’ She looked quite crestfallen at her inability to assist them and then her face brightened, ‘Tell you what, though! Henry Stickler goes up that way regular. He’s jus’ bin in here an’ was goin’ next door fer a drink. Ask Henry an’ he’ll tell ye’s what you need ter know.’

  They thanked her and left. At the batwing doors of the saloon Abbie paused, and indicated that Jack should go in and ask, since it was not customary for ladies to enter drinking establishments, unless they were of the sporting variety. Jack went in, while Abbie waited patiently outside, ignoring the curious glances of the odd passer-by. Suddenly there was a loud crash from within the saloon followed by a medley of voices with some raised in anger. Peering over the batwings, Abbie beheld Jack being held firmly by two large men, while a third even larger brute held him by his shirt front and prepared to smash his oversized fist into his victim’s face.

  Abbie was just preparing to lethally intervene when an authoritative voice ordered, ‘That’s enough of that in here. If you boys want to have a bit of a dust up get outside. I don’t want this place busted up.’

  She looked closer into the gloomy interior and saw an elegantly dressed man waving a six-shooter to emphasize that he meant what he said.

  ‘Furthermore, let’s have one against one, shall we?’

  Reluctantly, the trio released their grips on Jack, who straightened his attire and indicated that he was quite prepared to fight them one at a time. The Goliath-sized bully grinned with a wicked leer and said, ‘All right, let’s get outside an’ see whatcha made of!’ and they, followed by most of the patrons, swarmed out of the saloon and stepped into the street. Abbie was concerned, although somewhat impressed that Jack, in passing, gave her a huge wink.

  The dandy was just preparing to lay down some basic rules when Goliath, head down, rushed at Jack who stepped aside to avoid his opponent’s onslaught and, at the right moment, brought his clasped hands down with tremendous force on the back of the giant neck. That blow, and his own impetus, caused Jack’s adversary to stumble forward where he crashed headfirst into the oak side of the horse trough and lay there stunned.

  ‘All right, you blighters, who else wants ter ’ave a go?’

  Jack stood there poised like a modern day Tom Cribb prepared to take on all comers. Nobody rushed forward to take up Jack’s challenge. In fact most of the crowd looked down at their feet, shuffled them, and moved back, leaving Jack in a widened circle.

  Finally, one of the pair who had held Jack in the saloon indicated that he’d accept the challenge and slipped off his coat, folded it, and walked to put it on the seat of a waiting wagon. Suddenly he turned, and uncurled a twenty-foot bullwhip.

  ‘Now, stranger, you’re about to get a first class lesson from a bullwhacker on how to use a whip!’ So saying, he flicked the whip underhand and removed a small piece of Jack’s left ear.

  Abbie knew of the awful destruction that could
be done by an expert using a bullwhip. So as he raised his whip poised to strike again, she drew and fired, her bullet smashing into the bullwhacker’s wrist causing his weapon to drop from nerveless fingers.

  There was stunned silence from the crowd. The bullwhacker stood, left hand clutching his shattered one. The third of the unsavoury trio cried out, ‘Who fired that shot?’ and noticing Abbie standing there with smoking pistol demanded. ‘Who do you think are to interfere wi’ two men fighting?’

  The deadly accuracy of Abbie’s one shot momentarily escaped him. All he saw was a small female holding a gun, a man’s weapon, and butting in on an affair which to him was none of her business.

  ‘Who I am, fellow, is none of your business! But people along the Santa Fe Trail have nicknamed me the Pinfire Lady, and that man there, whom your confederate was about to maim or even possibly blind, is my second in command! Do I make myself perfectly clear?’ And, raising the pinfire, she shot his hat from his head.

  The elegantly dressed man who had ordered the fight to be switched from the saloon to the street stepped out of the crowd. ‘You men had no intention of having a fair fight. I suggest that you all clear out of town immediately. And don’t come back!’

  This advice was echoed by most of the crowd who then started drifting back into the saloon. The dandified gentleman approached Abbie and lifted his hat, ‘Richard Wootton, at your service, ma’am, commonly known in these parts as ‘Uncle Dick’. Would you permit me to escort you to the dining portion of the saloon? I would be delighted to have both you and your companion as my guests.’

  Abbie looked at Jack who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well, Mr Wootton! We will be delighted to dine with you. However, we can’t stay too long as we have a wagon train to attend to.’

  Wootton took them through the saloon to a small area partitioned off from the main bar by a low railing. There were four small tables, only one of which was occupied. Abbie suspected from the layout that the area was more used to seeing cards, rather than food, on the tables.

  They were seated and a small Mexican waiter produced a surprisingly appetizing meal when ordered, along with a bottle of French imported wine. As their meal progressed, Dick Wootton told them more about himself. A Virginian, he had left home at an early age and worked first of all as a teamster on the Santa Fe, and then as a trapper out of Bent’s original fort. In fact he claimed William Bent as one of his best friends. Eventually, he had married and settled down in Taos, New Mexico, but recently had once more got the itch to travel, and was considering heading north either to Colorado City or even further to Auraria which, he suspected, was rapidly becoming a boom town. (In this he was correct. Auraria, soon to change its name to Denver, would far outstrip the surrounding communities when it came to growth.)

  Abbie dug into her pouch and produced William Bent’s note of introduction. Dick Wootton studied it for a moment and handed it back. ‘Well, Miss Abbie, if I can assist you in any way you just tell me!’

  Heartened by his warm, friendly manner, Abbie gave him a brief outline of her adventures to date and, in doing so, introduced Jack Harding into the conversation. When she described her experiences with Billy Curtis, Dick Wootton burst out laughing, ‘Well I never! So you were holed up for a winter with that old mountain wolf, and he was your teacher. I’ve known Billy for years, and you won’t find a better man this side of the Mississippi! Did he teach you the “Border roll”?’

  Abbie nodded, smiling. Uncle Dick winked and, putting a forefinger to the side of his nose, nodded his head slowly. ‘Old Billy has had a long varied career and many say that in his youth he rode the hoot owl trail, but that’s neither here nor there. Billy’s solid gold through and through and, if he taught you, no wonder you’re good with that there pinfire.’

  Dick Wootton paused to sip his wine and then remarked, ‘Now, I understand that you folks are heading north up to the Pike’s Peak area – to Colorado City to be exact. Is that correct?’

  Both Abbie and Jack nodded in response to his query, and the former wondered where this conversation was leading.

  ‘A few miles south-west of here is encamped a large wagon train, heading east to Kansas City. I’ve got two wagons in that caravan, with all my possessions. I and my men intended to leave the main wagon train here at Fountain Creek and go north by ourselves. However, I’d sure appreciate it if we could join up with you folks. There’s more safety in numbers and I hear that some of the tribes are pretty restless between here and your destination. What d’you say?’

  Jack and Abbie remained silent, looking at each other and Dick Wootton hastened to add, ‘Abbie, it’ll still be your wagon train. You’ll be captain as before. I’ll only give you my two cents worth if I believe you may be making a wrong decision.’

  After a long pause, during which time Abbie considered all the implications of adding still more people to her contingent, she thrust out her hand and said, ‘Very well Uncle Dick. It’s a deal. We certainly welcome having the extra firepower. Just one condition though. Your folk will have to obey my instructions as though they come from you, agreed?’

  They shook hands and the deal was cemented.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two days later Abbie’s wagon train, joined by Dick Wootton’s vehicles, headed north. The first two or three days were uneventful although, since this trail was used far less than the Santa Fe, or even the Mountain Branch, there were more obstacles to overcome. Boulders had rolled down the mountain sides since the last travellers had passed that way, and each rock, both large and small, had to be rolled out of the way before the wagons could proceed. The same was true of branches and even of small conifers of different varieties brought down by the violent storms to which the area was subject.

  Abbie, sometimes alone, but frequently accompanied by either Jack or Dick Wootton, would scout ahead each day, noting the terrain and any obstacles to be overcome. Dick was with her one mid morning when she spotted smoke rising from a distant hilltop. Then there was a second thin column rising in puffs from a high bluff off to the east but ahead of them.

  ‘Mr Wootton, do you see those smoke signals! What does it mean? Should we perhaps warn the people and prepare for trouble?’

  Dick Wootton reined in his horse, ‘I’ve seem ’em, Abbie, just before you made your comments! Let’s just wait here a moment and try to figure out what they’re up to.’

  Abbie got out her father’s field telescope and peered at a pair of figures half hidden ahead amid a clump of young pines. ‘What do you make of those, Mr Wootton?’

  She handed him the ’scope, which he quickly adjusted to his focal length, and he studied the trees Abbie indicated.

  One of the distant figures had stepped forward to obtain a better view of the two riders approaching and Dick Wootton gave a half stifled gasp and then said tersely, ‘Young lady, we have a problem! At first I thought that we were encountering Utes, with whom I’ve had dealings for years. But those aren’t Utes; they’re Comanche who are far north of their regular territory!’

  ‘Are they hostile, Mr Wootton?’ enquired Abbie, putting a note of determination into her voice.

  ‘They’re more than hostile! They’re the meanest warriors you’ll meet on the plains. And why this bunch are so far north I’ve no idea. Now, Abbie! When I give the word, turn that bay around and ride straight for the wagon train. Fire three shots in the air as you ride, and, hopefully, Jack Harding will have got the people circled by the time we get there. Ready? Go!’

  Abbie swung her bay around and spurred the horse into a gallop, while Dick Wootton did the same on his pinto. Drawing her pinfire as she rode, Abbie thumbed back the hammer and triggered a shot into the air, followed by two more. Behind them were a series of hideous bloodcurdling yells of frustration and, Abbie, risking a glance behind her, saw twenty or more war-painted Indians burst from the trees and gallop in hot pursuit after the two fleeing ‘white eyes’.

  She reloaded as she rode, which was just as well since ahead o
f them they saw two of the hostiles sliding their mounts down the steep side of a sandstone bluff with the intention of cutting off their retreat. While one part of her admired the remarkable horsemanship she was observing, Abbie rode with her pistol raised and, drawing near to the two warriors, she chanced a snap shot, which sent one of the pair of braves reeling and ultimately falling under his horse’s hoofs, while Dick Wootton dealt with the other in a similar fashion.

  Jack had felt uneasy that morning and had kept the wagons closed up rather than letting them straggle along the trail each at his own speed. When he heard three shots way off in the distance, he acted swiftly, dividing the column into two and having the last four wagons brought up alongside the first four, with Jacob Levy’s cart blocking the rear.

  Due to the narrowness of the trail, it was impossible to actually circle the wagons. All he could do was create an elongated ellipse with the livestock in the middle. The two lead wagons were angled together, the next four slightly further apart, two on each side, and the final two four-wheeled vehicles again angled in with Jacob at the back.

  This was not a spontaneous idea of Jack’s. He, Abbie and Dick Wootton had planned this system from the time that the wagon train had left Fountain Creek, and all the people knew what to do. Thus, upon hearing the signal, the defence plan was immediately implemented and, by the time the two scouts hove in sight, together with their unwelcome followers, all was done to present a stern opposition to any would-be attackers.