Rapidly approaching the wagons, Abbie and Dick each steered their horses to the left and the right sides of the trail, leaving a clear field of fire for the wagon defenders to shoot at their pursuers. Jack had positioned himself and four of the best rifle shots at what he termed the spearhead of his ellipse, and directly their two fleeing companions got out of the way, he ordered independent fire at the approaching Indians. Four of the Comanche fell, as did three of their horses, which in turn caused a pile-up of the remainder on the narrow trail. This gave the resisters time to reload as Jack drew more defenders up to the spear-point so that continuous fire was brought to bear upon the screaming attackers.
Abbie rode parallel to the wagons and, spotting a gap, steered her bay who leapt over a tongue and stacked boxes into the enclosure, landing amid the milling and lowing livestock. Slipping from the saddle and grabbing her Springfield, she pushed her way forward to the spearhead to add to the deadly fire being delivered to the Comanche.
By now these had disentangled themselves and were again pressing home their attack upon the wagon train. There was once more a furious charge towards the wagons, which was repelled by the blistering fire coming from the defenders. There then followed a lull as the Comanche fell back out of rifle range and a figure mounted on a white horse appeared to be giving them a series of fresh orders.
‘Let me see your telescope, Abbie! I’ll see if I can recognize that varmint.’
Abbie retrieved her father’s ’scope from the saddle of the bay and handed it to Dick Wootton, who levelled it at the distant hostiles.
‘Why that’s old Iron Shirt himself! I’d know that old devil anywhere! Here, take a look, Abbie!’
Abbie took the proffered telescope and peered through it at the mounted chief. She saw an imposing figure, gesticulating as if emphasizing the orders that he was giving to his warriors. He was clad in white buckskins, wearing a full war bonnet, and both his face and that of his horse were liberally daubed with painted symbols. The one aspect that was totally different from the garb of any Indians that she had seen to date was the polished iron breastplate that he wore and which was quite definitely not of native workmanship, but was probably very old and originally the property of some Spanish conquistador.
Abbie turned to Jack Harding, ‘Jack! I understand you were the best shot in your regiment. How about demonstrating your skill with that Enfield of yours with a shot at old Iron Shirt?’
Jack smiled at her recognition of his marksmanship and nodded, ‘Very well, Miss Abbie! I’ll ’ave a go!’
He adjusted his sights to the full eight hundred-yard graduation and rested the fore end of his rifle on the side of a wagon. Pulling his hat down slightly to shade his eyes, he established a comfortable grip and, drawing the stock against his shoulder, he sighted and squeezed his trigger. The Enfield barked but, at that very moment, Iron Shirt’s horse moved slightly and the shot, which had been aimed at the centre of his breast plate, struck more of a glancing blow towards the left side, making a deep furrow but not quite penetrating. The blow, however, was sufficient to knock Iron Shirt from his horse and he lay on the ground with one arm feebly waving, proof that the shot had not proved fatal.
That one rifle shot had been enough for both the chief and his followers. They had already lost more than ten of their number, and Jack’s shot convinced them that this wagon train was not worth the casualties they would incur to mount a successful attack. Therefore, they gathered up both their dead and wounded braves and, with two men supporting the injured chief, they departed from this place of Comanche defeat.
The small garrison waited cautiously, hardly daring to hope that they had beaten off an attack of the dreaded Comanche. Finally Dick Wootton set out to follow the trail of the defeated tribesmen and ensure that they were in truth leaving the area, and that their departure was not a wily trick. A couple of hours later he returned and reported that their enemy had indeed gone. Jack and Dick’s two teamsters immediately took a team of oxen forward and dragged the dead horses some way off the trail so that the wagons could safely pass. All were hitched up and the caravan continued on its way north.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rest of the journey to Colorado City was relatively uneventful, apart from a flash flood that threatened to sweep away three of the wagons, and an inquisitive bear that came snuffling around the camp seeking food but instead received a well-aimed shot to the head delivered by none other than Jacob Levy. Jacob was the hero of the hour and understandably basked in his brief blaze of glory. The bear meanwhile, skinned and dressed, was the central figure at a camp feast the next night.
The wagon train made camp on the outskirts of the community then describing itself as Colorado City, mainly because it was believed that the Colorado River begun in the vicinity. (At that time the area was still part of West Kansas and it wasn’t until 1861 that Colorado Territory was actually formed.)
That night Abbie gathered all the people together.
‘Friends, our journey together has ended. I said that I would be captain of this wagon train until our destination was reached, and this has been done. I suggest, however, that it might be a good idea for you to remain as a body while you explore the prospects in this area. I know of course that some of you have already got your plans laid, and I wish you well. For the others, well, if I can be of assistance in any way do not hesitate to approach me.’
Dick Wootton spoke up and proposed a vote of thanks to Miss Abbie for the way she had shouldered the burden of leadership as captain, and then went on, ‘In one of my wagons I have two casks of Taos Lightning, which I will be taking with me up to Auraria. I also have a small keg of extra fine liquor which I think should be broached to celebrate this evening!’
A cheer went up as the keg was brought and people hurried to find mugs, tin cups and even pannikins with which to secure their share of the beverage. When all were drinking their fill, another person rose to address the assembly. Jacob Levy spoke of his despair when he had been thrown off his previous wagon train and the way that Abbie and everyone else had accepted him as one of the group. He stated that, although he would be leaving in the morning, they would always have a place in his heart.
He sat down and others expressed similar sentiments as the evening wore on. Finally the campfire died down and folks started wandering off to their wagons. Abbie stood for a few minutes, staring down at the red dying embers and thinking of all the strange twists and turns her life had taken since she had left India, when she was brought back to the present by a polite cough. ‘S’cuse us, Miss Abbie! Could we ’ave a word or two with you?’
Abbie turned and saw in the moonlight Jack Harding and Dora McAdam standing there shyly holding hands and waiting for permission to speak. ‘Jack and Dora! Not away to your beds yet? What did you wish to say to me?’
Jack shuffled his feet, looked at Dora for support, but she remained mute, and so finally he said, ‘Well, Abbie, it’s like this. Several times at night we’ve seen yer sitting by yerself looking over some papers an’ stuff, as though you’ve got a problem. Now, me and Dora ain’t made any firm plans yet, ’part from wanting to get ’itched, but we thought maybe we should stand by ’case you needed some ’elp. We’ve got a few dollars put by so we don’t need to get jobs immediately. Watcha say? We don’t mean to interfere with yer personal business!’ Jack added hastily, concerned that he may have given offence.
Abbie smiled, shook her head and, reaching forward, she grasped both of them by the hand, ‘No offence taken, dear friends! It is getting late now. Let me think over your very kind offer and it may be that tomorrow I can enlighten you regarding my little problem. Now is the time for beds. Or is it bed?’ she added laughing, as she turned away to where her blanket roll awaited her.
Abbie lay awake thinking over Jack’s offer. She did not know if the investigation regarding her father’s investments constituted any danger and she certainly did not want to put her friends into any perilous situations. On the other hand
, it would be good if there were others with whom she could share her knowledge and, if one of the supposed investments proved profitable, why she would be more than willing to share the wealth with such loyal friends. And with this last thought in her mind Abbie rolled over and went to sleep.
The next morning there were farewells as Dick Wootton, Jacob Levy and another wagon belonging to Naomi Johnson and Eve Schultz pulled out, and the remaining ones were deserted as their owners went into Colorado City seeking employment or information. Seeing that they had the campsite to themselves, Abbie got together with Jack and Dora and gave them a thorough account of her background and showed them the papers of her father’s investments.
Initially, Jack was overcome by the thought that for weeks they had travelled, and been on the friendliest terms, with a real titled lady, and his early upbringing in England prompted him to start acting in an overly deferential manner.
Abbie pulled him up short, ‘Look here, Jack Harding! Don’t you go all silly on me! Next thing, you’ll be tugging your forelock every time you open your mouth. This is the United States of America. We’re all equal here, so I’m told! Dora, make that man of yours behave himself.
‘Now down to business. I have three names here. The first is a young lawyer, Daniel Clifford. I’m going to see if I can locate him and gain an interview. Dora, would you make discreet enquiries about my father’s agent, George Gillis, and his fatal accident. Be careful though! We don’t know what happened to Mr Gillis. Jack, you’re new in town. You’re seeking employment. Find out what you can about this Roger Fenton. Is he operating a mine or a horse ranch in the area? If not, who is handling these concerns? That is, if they still exist. Just be very, very cautious, both of you. We’ll compare notes over our evening meal.’
Abbie saddled her bay and rode into Colorado City. Like so many small western towns of the period, the settlement presented an untidy appearance of unpainted clapboard shacks, log cabins with sod roofs and one rut-filled main street, with a number of false-fronted buildings, along the breadth of which was an uneven boardwalk.
The young girl seated astride a high-spirited gelding didn’t attract too much attention until she halted by a general store, swung down and tied her horse to the hitching rail. Then the town loungers noticed the big pistol hanging butt forward on her left side, complemented by the large Bowie on her right hip, and an excited murmur ran through the crowd, ‘Who is she? Looks like she’s loaded for bear!’
Abbie entered the store and walked up to the counter to be greeted by an affable bald-headed man.
‘Howdy, ma’am! What can I do for you?’
She didn’t really need to buy anything, but did want to engage the storekeeper in a little light conversation hoping thereby to obtain information. So extracting a 12mm cartridge from the pouch at her belt, she held it out for inspection, ‘Would you have any of these in stock?’
Benson, the storekeeper, took the proffered cartridge cautiously and held it up to the lamplight, ‘No, I don’t think so! What is it?’
Abbie patiently explained the type of pistol she was carrying and the function of the pinfire cartridge.
‘Well, what do you know? The things they’re bringing out these days!’ He shook his head. ‘Nope! I’ve never had call for that kind of load. Tell you what. There’s a gentleman comes in here sometimes. He’s a foreign guy who can probably tell you all you need to know. Trouble is, you never know when he’ll be in town, but I know he’ll help you. Just ask for Mr Fenton.’
His listener suppressed a surge of excitement. ‘Fenton, you say? Does he live around here?’
Mr Benson lost no time in expanding Abbie’s knowledge of one who was a steady customer of his store.
‘Why Mr Fenton is a big swell in these parts. He owns about half the town. Has a big horse ranch and also operates the Lucky Strike mine to the west of Pike’s Peak. In fact,’ he confided, ‘Mr Fenton owns the land my store is sitting on.’
‘Thank you, sir, for the information!’ said Abbie. ‘Just one thing more. Is there a lawyer by the name of Clifford, Daniel Clifford, in town here?’
The storekeeper’s face lost its affable smile and he assumed a vague air, ‘Clifford, eh? Clifford? Well, there was a young fella of that name here some time back. Before my time here,’ he hastened to add. ‘Understand he had a fatal accident. Horse fell on him. That’s all I know. Sorry, can’t help you any more.’
And he turned away and busied himself rearranging the rear shelves.
Abbie, realizing that her query about Clifford seemed to arouse suspicion, quickly said, ‘Oh well, it’s of no matter. There’ll be lawyers in Auraria when I get there. My late grandfather always said, “Wherever you go, my girl, always have a lawyer handy. They’re useful to know.” And I’ve always tried to adhere to his advice. Goodbye, Mr Benson!’
So saying, Abbie left the store and stood on the sidewalk considering her next move while Benson continued to work on his shelves as he thought about his customer’s last remark. ‘Always have a lawyer handy. Silly woman!’ and he dismissed her comment from his mind.
As Abbie stood undecided by the hitching rail, she felt a light tug on her left sleeve. She turned and found a scruffy, ragged little man standing there with a currying comb in his hand.
‘Take yer hoss to the livery stable, miss! I’ll curry him and give him a bait of oats. All for a quarter.’
As he made this offer, he pointed out the livery building further along on the same side where they were standing, and he gave a mysterious wink.
Abbie was very curious about the little man’s optical gesture and so she permitted him to take the bay while she walked slowly along the boardwalk, ignoring the stares and whispered comments about the pistol-clad female. She walked past the livery and peeped in to where the little man was diligently currying the bay down. Seeing her, he beckoned urgently, ‘I was in the store when you was talking to ol’ Benson. That lawyer fella was always good to me. He died wi’ a bullet in his back. They all said his hoss fell on him, but I know better, ’cos I heard ’em a-talking about it.’
Suddenly he continued in a loud voice, ‘There y’are, miss. All nicely brushed and curried! Afternoon Mr Bradshaw, sir. Curry yer hoss? Old Joey always does a good job.’
The tall burly stranger who had approached so silently that Abbie had hardly heard his footsteps dismissed Joey’s offer with a wave of his hand.
‘Don’t be givin’ money to this barfly, lady! It’ll just go down his throat in liquid form. You’re new in town, I believe?’
While saying this, Bradshaw was looking Abbie up and down with bold hot looks that made her feel unclean, as though his hairy hands were undressing her. She turned away without replying and walked quickly out into the street.
Behind her the coarse rough voice cried out, ‘Hold on, you! I ain’t finished talkin’ to you yet! Wait up I say!’ And, with an audible curse, Bart Bradshaw thrust Joey to one side, so violently that the little man fell into a stall, and strode out after Abbie.
She was crossing the street when he again ordered her to stop and, pulling his pistol, he put a shot into the ground close to her feet. Abbie stopped, and turned to face him.
‘That’s better! When I say stop, I damn’ well mean it!’ As Bradshaw said this, he was walking towards her, still with his right hand gripping the butt of his now sheathed revolver.
Abbie raised her left hand and cried out, ‘Stop! You are obviously looking for trouble. Well, now you’ve found it. Draw!’
As she said these last words, Abbie dropped into a crouch, with her right hand hovering above her cross-draw pistol. Bart Bradshaw seemed to finally realize that the unknown woman was not playing a flirtatious game with him, and frantically started to clear his gun from its holster.
As he did so, Abbie drew in one fluid motion. The left hand grasped her gun ahead of the trigger-guard, as she thumbed back the hammer and fired at her opponent. Her first bullet hammered into his right shoulder, above the armpit, tearing a
part flesh and muscle, before exiting through Bart’s shoulder blade. Her second deliberately-aimed shot smashed into his kneecap, dropping him to the ground. As he scrabbled frantically in the dust for his fallen Colt, Abbie walked swiftly forward, kicked his gun to one side, and stuck her pinfire revolver right between his eyes with the hot muzzle touching his flesh.
Terrified, he stared up at her in agony because of his wounds, but petrified, not daring to move, in case that cocked hammer six inches from his skull should fall and thereby end his earthly existence.
‘Now, you miserable creature! You thought that you could run roughshod over all that you meet, and especially treat any woman as a mere chattel. Now you’ve had a lesson to remember all of your life. And if you want to know who your teacher was, I’m known as “The Pinfire Lady”!’
She holstered her pistol and turned away.
Approaching her from the main saloon waddled a corpulent figure sporting a five-pointed star on his dirty vest. ‘I’ll take that pistol, young woman! We don’t allow wanton shooting of innocent citizens in my town!’ And he held out his hand expectantly for Abbie’s revolver.
She carefully drew the pinfire, holding it with one finger and thumb, and reached forward with it, then, just as Billy Curtis had taught her, operated the Border Roll, so that the Town Marshal suddenly found the unwelcome sensation of a 12mm barrel pressing more than gently against his navel. ‘Not this time, Marshal! What kind of a city do you run here where decent women cannot walk the streets without being accosted? The man I shot drew his pistol first on me. I merely reacted to a situation not of my choosing.’
Marshal Henry Firman was not a brave man and had no intention of being a hero. He blustered. He made references to city ordinances, but all the while he was searching for a way to back down without losing too much face. He was saved by the fact that a large number of citizens came up and corroborated Abbie’s story, allowing him to mutter something about being perhaps mistaken, hoping all would help him keep the peace.
The Pinfire Lady Page 9