by Ron Lewis
entertained by the way you handled her. What you going to call her?” he asked her, thinking he knew already.
“Mary Todd is her name, but she’s not crazy. I’ll tell you one thing, Nathan Meeker—in my opinion, she’s original as hell.” She smiled at him. “Fine horse, too, I guarantee you that. A little work with her and she will be wonderful.” The two riders rode on side by side.
“Shelly darling, the horse, isn’t half as original as her owner!” Meeker beamed proud of the girl and proud of his comment. The odd-looking pair scoured the city looking for a good hotel. Both trekkers were traveling light, only one satchel for each. The luggage had been hooked over Meeker’s saddle horn at first. Now, with the addition of another animal, each had their own bag, hung on the saddle horns of their respective saddles.
“I’ll buy us a pack animal so we don’t have to roll our clothes in the bedrolls,” he told her, then continued. “Shell, you will need buckskins for the trail. I think you will find them more comfortable. We will get them tomorrow. I have a friend here that can get you some. First chance you get, after you kill a buck or doe, you can make your own.” Meeker told her, “Probably have to wet fit the ones you get here!”
“Wet fit?” Michelle asked him. He laughed and turned to her in the saddle.
“Yep,” was all he answered; then Meeker fell silent.
They checked into the Loafer House Hotel; of course, they had separate rooms. They cleaned up for dinner, meeting at the hotel restaurant. The hotel had a gambling hall as well as rooms with “extra” entertainment available. The two companions enjoyed dinner together and moved to the gambling room afterward.
Michelle had many eyes on her, dressed the way she was. No one refused her a seat at the table where she and Meeker played until well after midnight. Michelle Tanner was a natural at the game of poker. She just knew when to hold, when to fold—as they say. She could read men well also; studying their faces and habits helped her figure out when a man had a real hand and when he bluffed.
Some grumbling about Michelle came from some rough-looking customers at a nearby table. Meeker stood up after a hand, saying he needed to stretch his legs. Walking to the complaining table, Meeker put his arm on the biggest, meanest looking one of them. Leaning down, he spoke in a hushed whisper into the man’s ear, “Shut up your complaining, or I’ll gut you like a fish.” Meeker squeezed the man’s shoulder hard and opened his coat, revealing a big bowie knife sheathed and hanging from his belt.
The man turned a shade or two lighter, then bowed his head to his cards and mumbled something. Silence fell on the table with no further comments emanating from them for the rest of the night. Well, one man did say, “Sam, that’s Meeker.”
Michelle doubled her poke, then tripled it. Eventually, she had five times what she had when she sat down to play. Men were more amazed at her play than angry. All at the table could afford to lose. After all, just playing cards with Meeker, a living legend, was an honor. His winnings also increased the weight in his pocket, but not nearly to the degree that Michelle’s did. The new game of five-card stud was the game of choice, and Shell had mastered it with her father months before leaving Washington Town. It helped that she could “read” men.
As they made their way up the stairs, Meeker had just enough whiskey in him to be bold with his statements. “That was a fine fleecing you did on them. Honest as could be too. You just knew when to bet, when to fold. That’s poker, Michelle, you understand the game well. Wish I could read men’s faces as well as you. Just remember to leave them something, girl. Even if you have to lose on purpose occasionally, a man needs his pride, young lady. If you gut someone at cards, then be a sport and spot them their breakfast.”
“I’ll remember that,” she answered. Michelle knew what he meant; she took the advice to heart.
“Tomorrow we’ll go see the Dutchman and get your guns and clothes for the plains,” he smiled at her.
“Just how many guns do you think a woman traveling in the West would want?” Her voice showed some amount of excitement laced with just a trace of unease.
“Maybe one, perhaps two, or you might want to carry three. I don’t know for sure, but want them or not, at some point, you will need them. You are a woman in a man’s world. I guarantee you sooner or later you will need a gun. Unless you become a dressmaker or a saloon girl.” Michelle gave him a harsh look. “Didn’t think so.” He opened his coat, and there hung a holstered Navy cap and ball on one side and a big bowie knife on the other. “Even here in this apparently peaceful place you might need one. I hope not.” Letting his coat go so the gun and blade were covered again, he continued, “I hope you never kill. Killing’s awful…it haunts you no matter how many or few die at your hand. All of them ghosts haunt you, yes sir girl, on that, you can take my word.” Meeker’s eyes had an odd look to them as his thoughts seemed to turn inward for a moment.
Michelle dreamed of riding Mary Todd for most of the night. She had a good night’s rest and woke ready for what the new day would bring. The first rays of the rising sun streamed in the window.
After breakfast, they went to Meeker’s friend’s place. The Dutchman was an elderly gentleman, a gunsmith with a thick Dutch or German accent, his stock and trade buying and selling guns. Often, he customized the guns he sold. The two old friends talked for a long time; then Meeker told him what he wanted—buckskins to fit the lady.
“Oh, but she’s built wrong. Too big here,” his hand waved across the general area of her breast. “She is too small there,” pointing to her waist. “She is far too tall for the way she is built. No, no—whole damn body wrong for what I have. We have to get the skins too big for her build, and then we can wet fit, sure, that will work.” He moved to the back room and soon walked back with brown leather buckskin clothing in his hands. He tossed the clothes to her.
“Nothing under, please, just put them on with nothing else.” He smiled at her. “We will wet fit you.” The Dutchman smiled a wicked grin and rolled his eyes while arching his eyebrows. Michelle thought the request odd, but she dressed in the back room. The arms were too big around, as were the legs. Length from waist to ankles was long but not as bad as the rest. “Out , miss—we go out back, wet fit.”
“Wet fit?” she questioned as the trio moved outside. Barefoot, Michelle traipsed down the stairs. As they walked down, she saw a big water tank there for the horses.
“Well, get in and get wet,” the Dutchman told her.
She saw in an instant what they meant and complied. She got in the tank and lay down in the water. The buckskins absorbed the water. Once they were soaked through, she got out and stood looking at the men.
“How’s it feel?” Meeker asked.
“Wet,” the one-word answer sounded a mite testy.
Shell walked to the stairs, bounding from step to step. The Dutchman stopped her. “No, no,” the old Dutchman told her. “Go out in the sun, let it dry and shrink down to fit body.”
“Guns, she needs weapons now,” Meeker told the Dutchman.
“Which hand does she use?” the Dutchman asked.
“I’m ambidextrous,” she said.
“What?” he grunted.
“She can use either,” Meeker explained.
“Two guns then, sure, crisscross belts, sure, that works for her.” He went in, bringing back two Colt Army cap and ball .44s with belts and holsters. The guns had beautiful engravings of wild horses on the cylinders. The heat of the sun-dried Shell’s buckskins in quick order. Once her clothing was dry, she tried on the guns. She felt somehow contented; the weapons were like old friends, comforting her. Holding them in her hands, they felt good to her.
“The engravings are beautiful,” she said, looking one gun over, admiring the old man’s work.
“Danka, danka, I try hard to make good engravings,” he said; then he continued to talk. “When the purpose of something is to kill, it should be a work of art. I don’t know if that lessens the evil. The belts and holsters belonged to a tall man,
as tall as you are. The guns, though, belonged to a gambler. A small man with arthritis—it made the cocking difficult for him. I fixed the weapons...adjusted the hammers. They pull back very easy. The triggers will go if the wind hits them. So be cautious when you handle them.”
Michelle bought the guns, belts, holsters, with all the accompanying accruements—powder flask, the caps, and the balls. Michelle and Meeker rode out for her first shooting lesson. Much to his surprise, she was a natural. With either hand, she could hit her target with a quick, effortless efficiency.
“Speed is less important than hitting where you aim, but you have both. That is good. It is bad for you as well. For with success, you have those that want whatever fame you have garnered.” He shook his head as they rode back to town.
“You got it all, Missy. Yes-sir-ree, for better or worse, you got it all! You may become a legend, or you could be a corpse. I don’t want to be sending no letter to your Pa explaining how you were killed.”
Meeker mounted his steed, and Michelle followed suit. As they rode back to town, Meeker held out the telegraph message to Michelle. She looked at it, seeing why Meeker wanted to kill the man.
It read, “From: City Marshal, Denver City To: Joseph Meeker stop Your wife and child have been murdered stop Person responsible one Daniel Anthony Hanover AKA Two Tongues Hanover stop Hanover fled jurisdiction stop Poster out, wanted for rape and murder, no reward offered stop Sorry to be bearer of bad news. Steven K. Helter, City Marshal.”
“Well, there you have it, Michelle, I’m going to hunt him down and kill him. Notice he is not wanted Dead or Alive, and Denver City didn’t offer a reward. That is because my wife was a Sioux Indian, and my boy was a lousy half-breed. People are dumb with their prejudice.” The pair rode into town in dead silence. When they reached their hotel, they dismounted their animals.
As they tied up the creatures, a man entered the street, yelling out at Meeker. Now was the time, he figured. Catch him by surprise, draw, and fire after calling him to duel. He would not give time for him to respond, just kill him fast! The man was bald as could be but sported a full beard. His look was one of anger and determination. “Joseph Nathan Meeker—you lousy bastard, meet your maker.” With his declaration, the only warning, the man pulled and fired the gun.
A shot rang out, barking loud as thick white smoke belched from the gun. A ball struck the ground near Meeker, harmlessly. Out of pure instinct, he shoved Michelle hard, pushing her out of the way. He yanked his own gun, firing at the man, the bullet struck him in the neck. The man at once dropped his weapon, grabbing the wound. The blood spurted from the wound out of control. Thick blood burst forth in a pulsing stream, flowing out between his fat fingers. The life blood surged forth with each beat of his heart, wetting the ground while his shirt and trousers darkened—turning darker and darker shades of red as the clothing soaked up the thick fluid.
Meeker helped Michelle to her feet, whispering in her ear, “Hide it no matter what; you must act as if this is nothing to you. Cry tonight, puke or whatever but not here. Here you do not let anyone see that it matters to you.”
The man on his knees struggled to breathe. Wet sucking sounds filled the air as his lungs flooded with blood. The bright red fluid surged in an unrelenting flow from his neck. He held his hands clenched tight to the wound. His mouth moved as he tried to talk. A gurgling sound was all one could hear. The blood rushed out between his fingers. His shirt was soaked with blood. His eyes widened with the cold realization that the damn money meant nothing. What good was the money now? Damn that Two Tongues—he told me Meeker could not