Summer blazed by, fall glowed gold for a time, and then the confinement of cold weather settled on them. By spring of 1870, what everyone had predicted about Spud’s size was put lie to. He was not the lean, mellow, forty-pound hound as predicted. Instead, he’d grown to eighty pounds of black-and-tan energy. He padded happily alongside Simon’s horse as they went to the telegraph office one afternoon to pick up a message.
Standing on the porch in front of the telegraph office, Simon stared at ten words spelled out in bold block letters.
CONFIRM LOCATION STOP REPLY ADDRESS STOP ALL WELL STOP
LINDSTROM
John wants to write, Simon mused. All is well. About what, then? Ma or Pa, one of the kids, Mace? Not Mace. Buell says he’s fine and so is Aunt Ruth. What, then? Sarah!
Simon dropped his hand to his side. For the first time in over a year he’d deliberately thought her name, and it made his chest ache. Spud nuzzled his snout under Simon’s hand and whined once, softly. Simon knelt in front of his dog. “It’s okay. Got a spook that won’t leave me alone. It just said hello.”
The twin tan spots over the dog’s eyes shifted alternately up and down as his brow furrowed into several creases. The liquid eyes beamed faith and support as the white-tipped tail swept the boardwalk clear of dust. Simon grabbed the dog’s head and hugged it, then went back into the office. “Telegram to Carlisle, Nebraska, please.”
Simon faced Amos across the three-foot-wide desk in his office. “I think we could make a good profit if we started to serve full meals.”
“Tried it once, and damn near died from it. Twiggs ever tell ya about that?”
“He did. But from what I can gather, the last cook had more interest in what was just beyond the wall than what was in the kitchen. Our new cook will know how to cook and will not, as a condition of employment, be allowed to drink or be drunk when he’s at work.”
“Well and good, but where are these happy customers going to eat?”
“Those that want can sit right here in the saloon and—”
“And have some drunk puke in their soup?”
“And,”—Simon sighed—“those who want something a little more private and quiet, can adjourn to our new dining rooms on either end of the saloon.”
“What rooms?” Amos cocked his head to one side.
“The rooms we’ll convert when we move May, Charlotte, and Beth upstairs with the other ladies.”
“Oh, I can hear May right now. Have you said anything to her?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, she ain’t gonna like it.” Amos pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Who owns this place?” Simon waited a moment. “You do.”
“Still, she’s been here almost ten years and gets something for that. Times weren’t always easy, and she stuck with me.”
“I can’t see how improving our services will hurt her. Surely she’ll see that.”
“I can see you haven’t had much experience with the opposite kind. They know what they want now, and later will take care of itself. And they’re contrary.”
“Can I talk to her about it?”
“Go ahead. But leave yourself an easy exit.” Amos grinned at him. “Now, assuming I agree, and I ain’t, how much is this going to cost?”
“Four hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
“Holy shit, where am I going to get that kind of money?”
“You forget, Amos, I’m doing your books. I know precisely how much money you make on the saloon. And that’s only what I know of. God knows how much you have I don’t know about. You can afford this easily.”
“I don’t know.” Amos rubbed his chin and scowled. “And when will I see a return?”
“I think, with the right cook, we could see a profit before the end of winter.”
Amos snorted. “And there’s the hitch, the right cook.”
“If you let me take care of it, I can find one.”
“All right, Simon. If it wasn’t for the whiskey idea, I wouldn’t consider this, but shipping in real whiskey and raising the price to forty cents worked. And the new mixed drinks are sellin’ good too. I still can’t understand why anyone would want to drink that sweet stuff. We took a third of Evans’s customers, and he’s too cheap to try what you did. How’d you put it, quality wins out? Got to hand it to ya, Simon, you know what you’re doing.”
Buell walked through the livery to the door in back and opened it.
“Hi, Buell,” Kent said.
“Howdy. Tay was out to Amos’s place a couple weeks ago and said you wanted to see me.”
“Yeah. How’s it goin’ out there? Haven’t seen ya in a couple months.” The smith carefully leaned the rifle he was working on against the bench and perched on a stool.
“Been nice and quiet. Usual arguin’ drunks, but that deal with the soldier at the very start made my job easy.”
“I see him around. Doc didn’t do such a good job on his jaw did he?”
“Nope, nothin’ lines up. He still comes in a lot, and always makes it a point to catch my eye and scowl. Name’s Rankin.”
“Someone saw our Indian friend.” Kent’s brow furrowed.
“Knife? Where?”
“Couple of troopers came in and said they saw him at Scott’s Bluff.”
“They sure?”
“Positive. A trader there said his name was Knife, and the troopers said he was missing his right thumb.” The gunsmith’s eyes gleamed.
“That means he’s still prowlin’ around.” Buell unconsciously pushed down on the handle of his pistol. “I wonder if he knows we know?”
“Don’t see why he would.”
“I’d sure like to get a clean shot at him.” Buell’s eyes slipped past Kent to go out of focus on the far wall.
“I would too.”
“I ’preciate the news. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Kent nodded and reached for the rifle. Buell turned and left, his mind filled with the vision of a shadowy figure lurking in the darkness by the river.
Half an hour later Buell tied his horse outside Tay’s place and was about to knock on the door.
“C’mon in, Buell. Heard ya comin’ half a mile away. Damn boy, you’re noisy.”
Buell pushed open the door and entered the gloomy dugout.
“I know it’s spring, but it ain’t that spring—shut the damn door.”
Buell stood facing Tay and an Indian, both seated at the table. His eyes scanned the inside of the dimly lit dwelling.
“Don’t be lookin’ for another’n, t’ain’t one.” Tay got up and nodded at the Indian. “Buell, like ya to meet Walks Fast.”
Buell hesitated, then stepped forward as the man stood and extended his hand. The Indian stood nearly as tall as he did, and were it not for his braided hair, from a distance he would have looked like anyone at the fort. Standing close told a different story, his high cheekbones and mahogany-colored skin labeled him an Indian. He looked older than Tay, but the way he rose from his chair, and moved the two steps belied any sign of old age.
“Taylor says you are a good friend,” the tall Indian said as he shook Buell’s hand.
“He’s been good to me and my friend,” Buell muttered. He glanced at Tay.
“You wonder why I speak English?” the Indian said.
“Well, yeah.”
“Went to school a long time ago. My father helped William Clark, and he helped me go to school.”
“Clark? Like Lewis and Clark, the explorers?” Buell looked at Tay.
“Don’t ask me, ask him.” Tay grinned at Buell’s discomfort.
“Lewis and Clark, yes.”
“Simon will be glad to meet you. He read a lot about them.”
“Simon is the man with the big dog. The People call him Man With Dog Shadow.”
“Yeah,” Buell said, “he got it from some Indians last year.” He looked back at Tay. “What tribe is he from?”
“I know it’s hard gettin’ used to, Buell, but
for hell sakes, talk to him. He understands ya jist fine.”
Walks Fast smiled. “I am from Shoshoni. I live here now, and help the army talk to other tribes.”
“Right. You must live in those tepees east of the fort.”
The Indian nodded. “Many of us live there.”
“Well . . . sit down. I make it a rule to every chance I git.” Tay sank onto one of the chairs. Walks Fast sat as well.
“I’m not gonna stay. I just wanted to tell ya Kent said he heard Knife was back in the area. Couple soldiers saw him at Scott’s Bluff. Sure like to get up against him again.”
“Don’t be huntin’ trouble, Buell. More’n enough will find ya out natur’ly.”
“You say the man is called Knife?” Walks Fast asked. “Does he mean the one who robs people who travel the trail west?”
“Yeah, he’s talkin’ about Sharp Knife,” Tay said. “Skinner and Knife jumped him and his partner at night and Buell kilt Skinner.”
“You are the one the People call Shoots Fast.” Walks Fast nodded his head slowly. “I hear you killed Skinner. Sharp Knife is a bad man, an Arapaho. He is a half-breed; his mother was white.”
“I’m not goin’ to go lookin’ for him. I just wonder if he knows the fellers he jumped are here at Laramie and itchin’ to take a poke at ’im?”
Tay shook his head. “Hard to tell. Some people keep things to themselves, and even if they didn’t, Knife don’t run with the pack we do. I’d say he doesn’t know, but that ain’t fer sure. And that reminds me—found out last week that you go by the name Lacey out at McCaffrey’s. Don’t care if ya do or don’t, or why fer that matter, but Amos knows too.”
“I was a mite touchy when Simon and I first got here. Lacey is a good friend of mine that I rode herd with for a couple summers. My name is Mace, but I’ve gotten used to Lacey. I reckon I’ll keep it.”
“Don’t make no never mind ta me. I know ya as friend.”
“I’m gonna git. Amos likes me to be there from three or so.” Buell moved toward the door as Walks Fast stood. “It was nice to meet ya . . . ah . . . sir?”
“You call me Walks Fast. I’m happy to meet a friend of Taylor’s. Maybe we’ll talk some more.”
“Yeah. Simon would like to talk to you fer sure. He really liked that explorer stuff he was reading. I’ll tell him about you.” Buell pulled open the door. “I’ll see ta later, Tay.” He stepped outside and pulled it shut.
The remodeling of the Hog Ranch, as the soldiers called Amos’s place, was going very well. The extra wide doors to the new semiprivate dining areas had been created, and the table and chairs, lamps, and carpet had been ordered. L-shaped alcoves were built on the saloon side of the wall to shield the dining customers from both the sight and sound of the main saloon. The doors that led to the street were also enlarged and re-framed for a more elegant entrance. The latter work necessitated a new coat of paint for the entire front, and despite Amos’s protests, had been done. Another door to the kitchen had been opened on the left end of the bar and a service bell system installed to announce new customers to the kitchen. The total effect transformed the saloon, giving it an almost genteel appearance.
Simon hadn’t yet found a cook. He’d asked T. P. to spread the word, and several candidates had applied, but their experience ran toward logging camp and range cooking, which was not what Simon needed. Worry had not yet turned to panic, but it was impending. In three weeks, everything would be ready, and Amos expected to see some results.
CHAPTER 8
For Lorraine and Zahn Tapola, the journey from Wisconsin had been hot, long, and miserable. Determined to make a better life, they had loaded Zahn’s wagon with his tools and their household, and headed for California, knowing an experienced sawyer and woodsman would not be unemployed in the settlements out West. Their marriage—she a Lutheran outsider—had not gone down well with his strict Lithuanian, and Catholic, family. But Zahn was her choice, and she knew in her heart that she would never regret marrying a stubborn, hard-nosed “timber beast,” as woodsmen were called in his family.
Knowing they were right, though, did not ease the jolts of the torn-up road. Neither did it clear the clouds of deerflies, mosquitoes and other irritating bugs intent on tormenting man and beast. They had forgone the available railways, determined to bring his trained mule team. Zahn owned the wagon that carried the cumbersome tools of his trade: whipsaws, bow saws, bucksaws, axes, wedges and hones, plus the heavy parts of a pit-sawing machine. The Tapolas’ persistence delivered them to Fort Laramie the last week in July.
Zahn hauled the tired mules to a stop in front of the sutler’s store. “I think that’s the telegraph office just over there.” He pointed across the compound. “They’re supposed to know where most of the large trains are.” He scrambled nimbly down the wheel and hopped to the ground. With a wink at his wife, he turned to go.
“If you think I’m sittin’ here for one more minute with this wagon stopped, you’re choppin’ a punky log, Zahn Tapola,” she said. Without waiting, she gathered her skirts and swung a leg over the side.
Zahn reached up and caught her waist, lifting her to the ground as though she weighed nothing. “Guess I wasn’t thinking, Lori.” He never called her Lorraine. “Let me get the anchors, and I’ll tether the mules. You go ahead in, I won’t be very long.”
Lori didn’t see any other customers in the store as she pushed the door shut and peered around, curious. Though slightly built, she strode confidently to the man standing behind a low counter.
“Ma’am. You look like a new face. Welcome to Fort Laramie.”
“We are. On our way to California or Oregon. We’re from Wisconsin.”
“Hmm. Don’t see many folks from Wisconsin. Did you drive from there?”
“Yes. It’s been a hot-awful trip. We’re here to see if we could join a supply train or something goin’ west. My husband’s just across the way, checking.”
“You just missed one by . . . let’s see . . . nine days. There’s not much pilgrim travel anymore, but plenty of freight and supply trains. I expect there’ll be another group along in a week or so.”
“Oh, good, I’m pleased to hear that. I’m gonna look around.”
“Help yourself.” The sutler left the store through the door at the end of the room.
She turned to take a look around and noticed two soldiers, one tall and slim, the other shorter. They grinned at each other and nodded in Lori’s direction. She smiled back and went to a counter at the end of the store.
“Howdy, miss. Heard ol’ T. P. say you was new.”
“Oh!” Lori gasped. “You startled me.” She turned from the counter and the bolts of cloth she had been admiring.
“That yer family’s wagon settin’ outside?” The skinny soldier grinned at her.
She noticed his lower jaw didn’t want to line up with the upper. “Why, yes. We just arrived from the East.”
“Yer old man let ya go off alone like this reg’lar?” the short man asked. He moved to her right and glanced toward the door where T. P. had gone.
“I’m not alone. He’s just outside, and he’ll be right in.” Lori eyed them coldly.
“Thought I saw someone walk across to the telegraph office. That be him?”
“I’ll thank you to leave me alone,” she said and attempted to walk between them.
Skinny put out his arm. “Not very friendly.”
She backed as far as she could against the counter, looked down at his arm, then up at his face. “I don’t mean to be. Let me by.”
With his arm still extended, Skinny moved closer and looked directly at her bosom. Instinctively, she folded one arm across it and reached behind her back with the other to grip the counter. Her hand fell on cold steel. Shorty stepped closer, and grabbed her by the waist, roughly pulling her chest against his. The reek from several weeks’ accumulation of sweat and spilled whiskey assaulted her nose. He turned to press his face against her neck.
The scissors fl
ashed past Skinny’s face, and the points disappeared into the thick muscle of Shorty’s back.
“Gawdamn!” he roared as the pain shocked his brain. He stooped over and pawed at the shears that flopped around with his every movement. “Gawdamn, you, bitch. Ow! Get ’em out.”
Skinny looked at his partner and then at Lori. His teeth attempted to clench as anger set in; the resulting look was almost pitiful. “Crazy whore,” he sputtered as he reached for her arm.
The door crashed open.
“Zahn!”
He crossed the floor in two strides, and his balled fist caught the left side of Skinny’s head with a resounding crack. Skinny went to the floor.
“What’n hell’s goin’ on in here?” shouted T. P. as he charged into the room.
“Get this outta me,” Shorty wailed. Hunched over, he headed toward T. P. Just as he got to him, the scissors came out and clattered to the floor. T. P. stared at the blood-soaked tool for a moment, then at Shorty and finally at Lori.
“Did he—”
“He grabbed me and tried to kiss me,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I stuck him with the scissors.”
“What about him?” He pointed at Skinny, now cowering at Zahn’s feet.
“He helped.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No. I’m all right, but the little shit was starting to irritate me.” Her hand flew to her mouth.
T. P. stared at her for a minute, eyebrows raised, then looked at Zahn. “Mister?”
“I’m her husband. Just get ’em outta here. You—get up.” He prodded Skinny with his boot. “Now!”
Skinny stood and stepped away from Zahn. “We didn’t know she was married.”
“Get the hell out, ya stupid bastard. Married or not, a man doesn’t do that to a woman.” Zahn started toward the two of them, and they scurried out the broken door, Shorty whining about his back, and Skinny snarling at him to shut up. Zahn put his arm around Lori’s shoulder. She felt small under the plaid-covered arm.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the sutler said. “Some of the soldiers aren’t the best examples. Please accept my apologies.”
Laramie Page 8