Marty frowned as he digested the news. He suspected he was about to get a serious reaming and he did not have a clue what to do about it. “Where will I find this O’Brian?”
“Walk south to the edge of town, to Seventh Street. Turn right and you’ll see the stable and corrals for his horses and mules. He’s got a freight office there and lives over it, so you ought to find him close by.” Schrader paused, then continued. “Watch out fer his daughter, Colleen. She’s got a tongue sharper’n a tomcat’s claws. Don’t give her no excuse to tie in to ya. You’ll come out with yur ears bloody.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I just spent a considerable amount of time with a woman like that. It was not the best of experiences.”
Marty stepped out of the office and started toward O’Brian’s office. He mentally prepared himself for bad news. “It would come at a time when I really need to fill up my poke,” he mumbled to himself.
Marty paused at the end of the street to watch the Sacramento stage clatter in, accompanied by a rolling cloud of dust and the snorting of tired mules. A dusty driver swung off the top and opened the side door of the red and yellow painted stage. “Carson City, folks. All out, it’s the end of the line.”
Marty’s mouth dropped in astonishment. A young man, barely into his twenties, of medium height and sturdy of build, light brown hair, and a fair enough face that had not seen much of the outdoors, was the first out of the stage. He hit the dust of the street and stretched, looking around, his brown eyes sparkling in lively interest at the sights of the town. It was his dress that caused people to stop in their tracks.
His pants were skintight doeskin, with fringe running up the seams. His feet were tucked into Texas-style boots that reached nearly to the bend of his knees. His shirt was softly tanned doeskin, with six-inch fringe running along both arms and a riot of beadwork trimmed the upper chest. A twenty-gallon white hat covered his head, its crown rising eight inches above the brim and the brim itself as wide as a small Mexican sombrero. A new pistol rested in its new holster and belt, strapped around the man’s waist. There were new, shiny brass bullets filling the belt loops and a fancy scabbard held a long bowie knife on the opposite side of the holster.
The young man could not have more proclaimed his status as a fresh-faced dude from back East if he had worn a sign around his neck. Oblivious of the pedestrians’ gawking stares and chuckles, he grabbed the valise that was swung down by the guard and stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Seeing Marty close at hand, the dude walked up to him, a friendly grin on his face.
“Hello, sir. My name’s Carson Block. Could you direct me to the establishment of Malcolm O’Brian, owner of the Washoe Mountain stage line?”
“Howdy, Mr. Block. I’m Marty Keller. I was headed that way myself. Care to walk along with me?”
“Most kind of you, sir. I’m a stranger here and Mr. O’Brian is my uncle, although I’ve never met him. I’m going to be working for him.”
“You don’t say. Ever been in the West before?” Marty started on toward the O’Brian office, young Block tagging along, swinging the filled valise in one hand.
“No, sir. This is my first trip west of Ohio. I was raised in Cincinnati. I just graduated from Harvard College in Boston. My job with Uncle Malcolm will be my first since I graduated. And please, Mr. Keller. Call me Carson.”
“Okay, Carson. Harvard College. Congratulations. I’m a VMI man myself, class of ’sixty-one.
“Oh? Then you must have been involved in the war? Were you a, er, a Reb?”
“I fought for the South during the late unpleasantness, so yes, I was a Rebel, I suppose.”
“I missed most of it, although I did deploy with the State Militia when the villain John Hunt Morgan brought his cutthroats into Ohio in ’sixty-three. Did a lot of marching, but very little of anything else. My feet were sore for a month afterwards.”
Marty chuckled. “In the South, John Hunt Morgan is considered a hero. Best not call him a cutthroat, at least until you know who you are talking to.”
Carson laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll have to remember that, Mr. Keller. Up in Boston, we sort of saw everything from our side only, the Union side, I mean.”
“A lot of the men out here came from the South, where they think of the war as a victory of power over right. They lost all they had and are startin’ over, but they still look with pride on the cause they fought for. Best not to say anything that might inflame some repressed passions.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Keller.”
“Call me Marty, Carson. I keep thinkin’ you’re speaking to my father, when you say mister.”
“Thank you, Marty.” The youth paused, then spoke again. “People seem to be, um, amused, or perhaps startled when they look at me. Is it my clothes?”
“They are a bit gaudy for the average working-class cowboy, I think, Carson. You’ll notice most men out here wear denim pants and cotton work shirts.”
“Dang, I had these clothes made for me in Cincinnati. They looked quite impressive when I tried them on.”
“They’re impressive all right, but a little too much for folks around here, I’m afraid. If you’d like to buy something less noticeable, you can get all the stuff you need at the dry goods store as soon as you get settled in. Do you have a place to stay yet? With the boom on from all the mining towns around the area, rooms are in short supply.”
“I think Uncle Malcolm has a place for me.”
“Well then, you’re in luck.”
Carson walked along beside Marty, taking in the scene of the town, looking around in avid interest. Suddenly he turned to Marty. “Do you work for my uncle Malcolm, Marty?”
“Nope, I just have some business with your uncle that we have to work out together. I just got in from Reno last night, myself.”
They passed the open doors of a saloon, filled with men busily drinking and gambling the morning hours away. Four men staggered out, well into their cups, singing some drunken ditty in painful harmony.
They stopped abruptly at the sight of the fancy-dressed dude in front of them, the last man stumbling into the one to his front. “My God, Jimmy, you see what I see?” The first man spoke loudly, humor and disdain both evident in his voice. “Lookie at the little dude. Hey, dude, where’d you crawl in from?” He laughed at his own witticism.
“Looks like he just got off his mama’s teat,” another of the men said, laughing at his coarse humor.
A third grabbed Carson and swung him around, to face his four tormentors, who were all anticipating the coming thumping they were going to inflict on the hapless stranger.
Marty suppressed a groan of despair. It was inevitable that Carson’s dress was going to create an incident among the rough-hewn miners and cowboys of the town. Marty did not mind taking on a quartet of drunks, but he hated to get all mussed up so early in the day. “Gentlemen, my friend and I were not bothering you. Please allow us to proceed on our way and you go on yours.”
The biggest drunk laughed and took a mighty swing at Marty’s head. The donnybrook was on.
Chapter 11
Carson Shines
Marty deftly eluded the wild swing of the pugnacious drunk. The man spun on his feet until his back was facing Marty, who promptly gave him a hard shove into his startled comrades. The swinger and another man went flying into the street, all tangled up with each other. If he had had the time, Marty would have laughed at the pair. Unfortunately, the two remaining antagonists bored in on him and Carson, swinging wildly.
Marty blocked the fist of one opponent, and followed it with a hard left to the man’s unshaven jaw. The stunned man fell hard on his butt, right where he stood. Marty spun to take on the other attacker only to see Carson give him a vicious left to the solar plexus followed by a hard uppercut to the jaw. The man flailed back, tripping over Marty’s opponent, and sprawled on his back at the edge of the boardwalk.
By this time the other two drunks had untangled themselves and regained their footing. Both angl
ed toward Marty, their fists cocked, intent on taking him out first. A doeskin blur flashed past Marty, ramming head-on into the first man, the momentum carrying both into the street. Carson was first to his feet and immediately began hammering hard lefts and rights against the man’s jaw and head. He took a couple of blows in return from the hard-rock miner, but gave them back fivefold.
Marty moved easily on the balls of his feet toward his man, seeing the first signs of doubt and concern in his opponent’s eyes. A couple of hard rights to the face put the man down to stay, blood spurting from his broken nose with every breath.
Another man leaped on Marty’s back, pummeling his neck and head with hammer blows. Marty bucked the man off, swinging him headfirst onto the dirt of the street, where he lay stunned, gasping to catch his breath. His adrenaline flowing, the fighting bounty hunter ducked under the rush of the last man in the group, tripping him as the out-of-control drunk went stumbling past. Marty was on the man before he could push himself up and drove two hard blows into the back of his neck, rendering him hors de combat without another swing. Marty swung off the downed man in time to see Carson give his sparring partner a classic one-two with his left and right fists. The man staggered back against the hitching rail, flipped over it, and lay unconscious on the street, out of the fight.
Both men surveyed their opponents, but the fight was gone from all and they were content to lie where they fell.
“Not bad, Carson. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“Oh, I took boxing lessons while I was at Harvard. I had a scrape or two with sailors when slumming with my friends along the wharfs of Boston. They made these fellows seem almost tame in comparison.” He looked at the four downed antagonists. “You took three to my one, it seems. I need to be praising you.”
A crowd had gathered during the fight, and now slowly started to disperse back into the saloon or continue on their way. A short fellow with a thinning cover of gray hair and a tobacco-stained walrus mustache on his face limped up and spoke to Marty. “Both you boys did a right smart job on those yahoos. Would you allow me to buy you a drink?” His eyes danced in lively amusement as he looked at the four downed fighters.
Marty wiped the back of his hand across his mustache. “A cool beer would taste right soothing, I reckon. Thank you, sir. We accept.” He clapped Carson on the shoulder. “You learn how to drink beer back in Boston?”
“You bet.”
The two victorious fighters followed their host inside the bar and to a small table by the roulette wheel.
The old man took a seat and offered chairs to Marty and Carson. He stuck out a gnarled paw and introduced himself. “I’m Squint Richards. Had me a run-in with Lebo Ledbetter there myself a while back. He laid a few hard licks on me, fer certain. I’m glad to see him git his’n.” Squint shook Marty’s and Carson’s hands, while Marty introduced himself and Carson to the old-timer.
“Mabel, three beers, darlin’,” Squint shouted to a passing bar girl. The three men waited in silence until the beers arrived and each swallowed a goodly portion.
“Mighty tasty,” Marty announced, wiping the foam off his lip with the back of his hand. “Trading fisticuffs with those boys gave me a powerful thirst. Thanks, Squint.”
“My pleasure, Marty. Why’d Lebo sic hisself onto ya anyways?”
“He and his friends took exception to my friend’s clothing,” Marty answered.
Upon Carson’s hearing Marty say “friend,” his youthful face broke into a wide grin. He sat more upright in his chair and attempted to look as manly as he felt.
“Well, I shore can sympathize with ’em on that. Where’d you git them duds anyways, Carson?”
Carson looked down ruefully at his prized outfit. “I had it made for me in Cincinnati. At the time I thought it was pretty nice, but now I’m not so sure. I saw a dry goods store just down the block, Marty. Maybe I ought to buy that new shirt before I meet Uncle Malcolm.”
“Did I heer ya say Malcolm? Air ya a kin to Malcolm O’Brian by any chance?”
Carson nodded. “Yes, I’m going to work for Uncle Malcolm at his stage line.”
Squint slapped his knee. “Why, hell’s bells, boy. I work fer Malcolm too. I’m jus’ about his bestest stage driver.”
Carson chuckled. “Looks like we’re all going to see Uncle Malcolm. Marty here has business with him too.”
Squint favored Marty with a one-eyed stare. “Do tell. What was yur name agin, Marty?”
“Keller.”
“Marty Keller. The man who brought in Luke Graham. The famous bounty hunter? Of course. I was on the stage that Luke held up and kilt poor ole Dave Gunther. Dave left a widder and baby girl. Damn Luke’s hide.” Squint finished off his beer and motioned for another. “You brought Luke in, dead, I heer.”
“That’s right. Three men, hidden in ambush, killed him about five miles from Mormon Station. They shot him down like a dog, never giving him a chance.”
“I can’t say I’m overly sorry,” Squint announced. “Poor ole Dan never had no chance either. And he’s also the coyote who shot me and throwed me offa the road at Graveyard Pass.” Squint looked again at Marty. “That what you’re about with Malcolm? Gonna help him fight off them outlaws that are tryin’ to destroy his business?”
“I wouldn’t say that. We have a small business matter to work out.”
“Well, I fer one hope you can stay and lend a hand. Malcolm’s a all-right fella and he deserves all the help he can git.” Squint smiled at Carson. “Work on ’im, boy. He may be the answer to all our troubles.”
Carson was looking at Marty with a strange, worshipful glow in his eyes. “Marty Keller, the Man Killer? That’s you? I read about you in the Cincinnati Inquirer.”
“I prefer not to be called that, Carson. I don’t agree that I’m just a bounty killer for the law.”
“But it is you? You are the famous bounty hunter?”
“Yes. I hunt men for the bounties placed on them. I always try to bring them in alive, believe me.”
“I reckon most reputations are a mite exaggerated,” Squint agreed. “Any man who steps up agin a desperado with a gun in his hand has my full appreciation.”
“Mine too,” Carson quickly agreed. “Marty, will you teach me how to use my pistol?” he pleaded.
“Ya mean ya can’t use that there shooter of yurs?” Squint asked.
“Well, I can shoot it fairly well if I take my time and aim carefully. I certainly can’t draw and fire quickly and hit anything beyond a few feet in front of me.” He drew himself up proudly. “I am a rather fair shot with a rifle, however.”
Marty gave the youth a wry grin. “That may be enough, Carson. A fast six-gun usually gets its owner in more trouble than it gets him out of.”
Carson turned to Squint. “What do you think, Mr. Nelson?”
“I ain’t certain you’ll thank him, sonny, iffen he makes you lightnin’ fast with yur pistol. What you ain’t got you never try and use. Still, to be fair, Marty, iffen the boy is gonna work fer Malcolm and take a chance of gittin’ his arse shot off, he needs every tool in his box, includin’ a fast and accurate six-gun.”
“If I stay around a spell, I’ll try and pass on some useful tricks. That fair enough?” He favored Carson with a warm smile.
“Thanks, Marty. I’ll try and be a quick study. Now I suppose I’d best get me some new clothes and present myself to Uncle Malcolm.”
“I’ll tag along with you two iffen ya don’t mind,” Squint announced.
The three new acquaintances headed out of the saloon to discover the four drunken fighters were long gone from where they had recently decorated the dirt at the entrance to the saloon. Carson quickly bought and donned a blue linen work shirt and gray whipcord pants, placing his gaudy doeskin duds in a bundle of wrapped butcher paper, hidden from the sight of any other obnoxious ne’er-do-wells spoiling to pick on an eastern dude.
Together the three walked on toward the O’Brian stables and wagon barn, two
blocks south of Jack’s Bar, where Marty and Carson had had their street brawl and met up with Squint Richards. A young woman and an older man stood in the front yard, talking with the driver of the recently arrived stage, who was still sitting in the driver’s box, a whip in his right hand.
As they walked up, the man spoke to the driver. “Take the stage around back and unhitch the horses, L.J. I’ll be there directly.” The stage driver nodded and got the six-mule team in motion, slowly pulling the stage toward the rear of the bigger of two barns. The man turned toward Marty and the others, a warm smile creasing his worn face.
“Squint, you ole mossy back. Good to see you up and about. How you feelin’?”
“Doin’ jus’ fine, Malcolm. I was over to Jack’s Bar and run into a couple of fellas headed yur way. Thought I’d tag along and say howdy.”
The girl, who was eyeing Marty and Carson with interest, moved to Squint and gave him a quick hug. “Welcome back, Squint. Glad you’re doing better. How’s your leg?”
“Thankee, Miss Colleen, it’s doin’ jus’ fine. Folks, this here is Marty Keller, and his pard is Carson Block. Malcolm, Carson here says yu’re his uncle.”
O’Brian’s eyes changed expression as Marty offered his hand. Malcolm took it and spoke softly. “Would you give me a few minutes to properly greet my nephew, Mr. Keller? Then we’ll talk.”
“Certainly, Mr. O’Brian. Take your time.” Marty stepped back and allowed Carson to edge closer.
“Carson, welcome to Nevada,” Mr. O’Brian said, and offered his hand. “Your pa and ma are doing well, I hope?”
“Thank you, Uncle Malcolm. Yes, they’re fine and send you their regards.”
“This is my daughter, Colleen, Carson. I suppose you two are sort of cousins, some way or another.”
“Hello.” Carson’s voice was suddenly very shy and tentative as he took the offered hand of the pretty, redheaded Colleen. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What on earth happened to your face?” the impulsive Colleen inquired. “You’ve been in a fight, already?”
Stagecoach Graveyard Page 9