DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  Sandy raised his lantern, looking Mikhail up and down, smiling at the mink coat and cap. "Got just the one. Nice, gentle mare." He turned and limped toward the back on a stiff right knee.

  The captain pulled a tobacco pouch and pipe from his coat pocket. "What happened to your leg?" He stood in the open doorway under the light, stuffing his pipe and motioning for Mikhail to follow Sandy.

  'Damn horse kicked me." Sandy looked back to see if Mikhail was following. "Not the one I got for you."

  Three horses fed on grain in the back stall.

  Sandy stepped wide of the first horse, squeezing between the second and third. He pushed the middle, smaller horse toward Mikhail. He stroked its back and said, "Her name's Biscuit. She's about ten years old and plenty gentle."

  Mikhail placed a hand on the first horse's hip, a mare, letting her know he was there before walking behind her to look at Biscuit.

  "Don't get too close to that one, mister. She's the one kicked me. You don't want to be behind her. Not close, no how."

  Mikhail ran his hand across Biscuit, looking close in bad light. Her swayback indicated she'd been used as a packhorse. Mikhail moved Sandy's arm, positioning the lantern to look at Biscuit's teeth; yellow, but all there. Her eyes had no life. She was tired or partially blind. He did not appreciate that someone would try to sell him such a horse for riding. He might use her as a pack horse. "How much?"

  "I can let you have her for a hundred dollars."

  Mikhail suppressed a laugh and turned back toward the front door.

  Sandy said, "Okay, eighty dollars. Saddle, Hackamore bridle, wool fleece, and blanket included."

  Mikhail turned and said, "Still too much. This horse is worn out and nearly blind. I haven't even checked her legs yet. For all I know, she is lame and needs to be shod."

  "Know your horses, do you?" Sandy stepped closer, reappraising Mikhail. "All three of them horses have good legs and they've been newly shod. I take 'em up to the blacksmith soon as I buy 'em." He scratched his whiskered chin. "Tell you what, you look them three over and let me know. Be careful of that first one, though. She's a three-year-old from Kentucky, and plenty mean." He handed the lantern to Mikhail and limped back toward the front door.

  Mikhail found a high hook on a main support post at the stall gate and hung the lantern. He pushed the shoulders of the first horse back and looked into her eyes. They were clear and bright. She nodded at him, wanting to get back to her grain. Her teeth looked white and healthy. She had a white blaze between her dark eyes and white socks on all four legs, reminded him of Paddy's horse. The rest of her was dark reddish brown, with a black mane and tail. She was a lean but muscular horse, beautiful to look at, tall and proud.

  Letting her know where he was, keeping a hand on her at all times, he checked all four legs and hooves. She had been newly shod and her stance was solid. Biscuit had been newly shod, as well. Good stance, but not worth the eighty dollars Sandy was asking.

  The third horse was smaller. It looked healthy, a gelding, but not as tall and proud as the Kentucky mare. Mikhail closed the stall, took the lantern, and walked back to the front door.

  Sandy and the captain stopped talking, probably exchanging opinions about Mikhail.

  Mikhail said, "I will need the saddle, blanket, and fleece for the Kentucky mare. Do you have a sawbuck pack saddle for Biscuit?"

  "Sure. I got a army pack saddle, too. It's a little more expensive, but it's in new condition."

  "I will need feedbags, a leather water bucket, grain and fodder, rope, bridles, reins and leaders, and some canvas to roll food, fodder, and grain for travel."

  "I got everything you need, Count." Sandy thought about it. "You'll need to buy food and such for yourself someplace else."

  "How much for everything?"

  Sandy turned and pointed his right index finger into the palm of his left hand, tallying numbers in his mind, checking and rechecking his figures.

  The captain puffed his pipe and stayed out of it.

  Mikhail shouldn't have mentioned his title. Sandy would take advantage.

  Sandy turned back. "Two horses, saddles and tack, canvas and feed, fodder and bucket. All together, that's six hundred and eighty-five dollars."

  "This is too much." Mikhail looked at Captain Adams and shook his head. Thanks anyway. "Do we stop in Yuba City?"

  "Only long enough for cargo and passengers. Not overnight."

  "Then I will wait for Red Bluff. Sacramento is too expensive."

  "As you wish." They stepped back into the rain.

  Sandy choked out a cough. "How much will you pay?"

  Mikhail and the captain stepped back under the roof. Mikhail said, "Biscuit is not worth the feed. I would not take her except I do not need her for very long. I will return her to you on my way back to San Francisco. I will put this in writing. The captain will witness."

  The captain confirmed with a nod.

  "How much?"

  "I will pay five hundred dollars for everything."

  Sandy crossed his arms, limped back two steps, looked at the ground, and shook his head. "I can give you Pablo for that, with all the tack and such. And Biscuit, of course."

  "What, that small horse?" Mikhail shook his head, put his hand on the captain's shoulder, and they walked out from under Sandy's high overhanging roof.

  "Gold?"

  Mikhail and the captain stepped back into the lamplight, under the roof. "Gold coin. U.S. Mint in San Francisco."

  "Don't blame me if Jasmine kicks your teeth in." Sandy threw the captain an angry look. "I hope she does."

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Since their first meeting nearly a week earlier, Mikhail had spent much of his time in the pilothouse with the captain. He found boat traffic on the Sacramento River interesting. Time passed quickly.

  Yuba City, like many stops going upriver, had a sand spit where all sizes of steamboats, row boats, and even Chinese sampans had nudged onto the sand to move cargo off and onto the river. The erratically organized chaos of free commerce most fascinated Mikhail.

  He slept on deck near his horses, under his canvas tarp. The motion of boat and river flow made sleep easy, whether nosed onto sand or anchored in the stream. The captain would not travel the river at night.

  Early that morning, the crew used a small steam engine and winch with a cable stretched through a pulley high on a boom to hoist and stack lumber on the forward deck near the horses. The lead crewman looked at the pilothouse.

  The captain stepped out and waved them off. No more cargo.

  Mikhail said, "Yuba City is very small to be called a city."

  "Most of it's over past those sequoias." The captain pointed upriver past a stand of giant trees, some one hundred meters or more in height. Large ferns grew through patches of snow on massive lower limbs. Men and horses working near these distant, giant trees defined their enormous scale.

  "Amazing."

  Adams chuckled. "Those trees are magnificent."

  "I have never seen any such as these."

  "Off about five miles, over past the trees and town, they got a saw mill. One of those trees makes thirty or forty houses."

  "Seems a pity to cut them."

  So beautiful.

  "New trees grow in their place, Count. They grow back."

  Two passengers boarded and the captain pulled a chain. One long whistle blast and one short.

  The ramp came up. The captain blew into a mouthpiece and shouted, "Full astern."

  Steam engines thumped slowly, building momentum. The boat dipped slightly at the bow and backed into the river. The captain looked out the side door, down river. He turned back and shouted into the mouthpiece. "Full ahead."

  The engines slowed, gears clanked, and the engines thumped again. The boat drifted sideways in the current until the stern paddle built enough forward momentum for the captain to pilot her upriver into deeper water and increased boat traffic.

  He blew the whistle twice and pointed past the
giant trees. "There's Yuba City."

  A distant town of unpainted wood storefronts and tents winked through falling snow and light gray mist from a clearing halfway up a snow-covered slope.

  Undeniable energy pulsed everywhere Mikhail had been in this new land. He liked it. "How long before we reach Red Bluff?"

  MIKHAIL REPACKED HIS gear into two canvas bundles for balance and tied them to the sawbuck saddle on Biscuit's back. As part of his training in the Russian army, he'd learned how to properly harness a sawbuck pack saddle for carrying cannons, a much heavier load than Biscuit would carry.

  He'd taken his time with Biscuit, fitting the fleece pad and sawbuck saddle, properly placing the hip pad and spider harness to her hind quarter, sliding his hand between her back legs and the breaching to insure a sufficient gap. She'd already been scarred by some moron who'd fit the spider too tight. Her shoulders had also been scarred where the previous owner had tied the breast collar too tight; a sad and ignorant thing to do. Mikhail's fittings would not cause her further pain. There was plenty of room to climb.

  She muzzle nudged his arm and side, a friendly horse.

  He tested the sawbuck for shift, loaded his two bundles on opposite sides, and secured her load. He stroked her neck. "Too bad I must give you back."

  He stroked Jasmine's neck and checked her Hackamore bridle and reins. They were a good fit that would keep her head down.

  She shied a little, watching him toss the blanket onto her back. When he tossed the saddle, she bolted and tried to back away. The reins held her to the rail and kept her head down.

  Mikhail cinched the saddle, moved in front of her, stroked her neck, and looked into her eyes.

  She looked into him and settled.

  A smart horse, this one.

  He liked her too. She would not be the problem suggested by Sandy—not for Mikhail.

  He climbed back to the pilothouse and rejoined the captain.

  The river had narrowed. There was less boat traffic, more bends, and more shallows. Gray clouds hung low over the river. It was impossible to see very far upstream.

  The captain said, "Got everything ready to go?"

  "Yes. I think this Biscuit is good pack horse. She has a gentle soul."

  "What about that other one? What's her name?"

  "Jasmine. She will not be so big a problem as Sandy suggested."

  The captain smiled. "Sandy's been kicked before. Some horses just plain don't like the man. Tell you the truth, I don't think he much cares for them, neither."

  "Maybe he should make a new business."

  The captain smiled and shook his head. "He's stubborn."

  "I did not take advantage of your friend. I hope you know this."

  "Sandy got what he wanted. Otherwise, you'd be gearing up in Red Bluff." He looked at Mikhail. "Be sure you bring back his packhorse."

  "I have no need for a pack horse in San Francisco."

  "What business you got in Weaverville, anyway?"

  "You know Colonel William Tell Coleman?"

  "No. I have read about him, though. He's in charge of the vigilantes, right?"

  "Yes. He took me to see Judge Solomon Heydenfeldt. He sits on the state supreme court. He has authorized me to look into some possible extortion and illegal slave trading."

  The captain looked closely at Mikhail, reassessing. "The Jew judge. Only Jew judge ever elected. I voted for him my own self." He looked at Mikhail, realizing. "Say, you the one they call Count Mike?"

  Mikhail grinned, feeling uncomfortable. He nodded, Yes.

  "Read about you, too. You fought Tommy Chandler and won." His smile turned down into a frown. "Be careful up there in Weaverville. I don't want to have to pay for no horse and pack."

  Mikhail smiled. He would return Biscuit and the sawbuck saddle. "Is there a store in Red Bluff; a place I can buy food?"

  GLORY BE NOSED INTO a dock at Red Bluff in a dense, wet fog, late in the day. It was getting dark.

  Mikhail said goodbye to the captain, promised to look for Glory Be on his return trip, tied Biscuit's leader to Jasmine's saddle, and led his horses off the boat. They followed a steep trail uphill off the river onto a plateau.

  A tangle of canvas tents outnumbered brick and wood buildings, crowding both sides of a narrow, frozen dirt road. Oil lamps hanging from the porches of several open shops and a saloon lit his way.

  Everybody had warned him of the dangers of Red Bluff, a place of wanton violence and no law.

  He led his horses up the road to the livery, a corral in front, like the captain had described. Sleeping in a stable would be preferable to the floor of a saloon.

  "Hallo!" Mikhail led the horses into the barn. A lamp hanging from the center post had been turned low. It was hard to find his way. He turned it up and found an empty stall near the back, clean, straw spread around, cold but dry. He removed Jasmine's saddle but left the fleece and blanket to keep her warm.

  He unpacked Biscuit and set both saddles over the stall railing. He unrolled both canvas bundles and laid canvas out as a sleeper. He sat down, pulled off his boots, undressed down to his long underwear, put his mink coat back on, pulled the mink cap down over his ears, put his holstered Colt near his head, and rolled into his wool blanket for the night.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Preston Dawes knew he'd been plenty lucky tying in with Randy Bartow and Horace Talpin. It'd been easy for them to take Weaverville's hard-working miners and law-abiding townsfolk, all eager for some regular law.

  Seeing Bartow's badge had been the key. Nobody knew he'd pulled it off a sheriff he'd shot in the back of the head down in Redding. One short speech from Bartow and the town had hired all three of them on the spot.

  Horace Talpin told Preston Dawes what had happened down in Redding. Horace had pistol whipped a miner and taken his sack of gold. He'd then stood and turned into the barrel of a new Colt revolver held by the sheriff of Redding. A close-up flash and explosion had caused him to momentarily think he'd been shot. He'd then noticed the sheriff's nose had gone missing. The shot had come from behind the sheriff.

  The sheriff had fallen face down. The fire on his coat collar had lit the black hole in the back of his neck.

  Randy Bartow had said, "Don't worry, Horace. I made sure you wasn't in line." Randy had rolled the sheriff onto his back and taken his gold coin, his new Colt and holster, and his badge. "I always wanted one of these." He'd shown it to Horace. "Get one of these, a man can take whatever he wants."

  Horace had split the miner's gold dust with Bartow, plenty happy to be alive.

  The two had departed Redding immediately, Bartow worrying that somebody might have seen what they'd done.

  Bartow never spoke of it, him being the careful type. Far as Preston Dawes knew, Horace Talpin had told only him.

  Preston and Horace had been friends since 1850. They'd worked a claim together. That's why Preston had been invited to be a deputy. Horace had convinced Bartow of Preston's trustworthiness.

  Just plain good luck.

  In Weaverville, Preston and Horace got their cut: one dollar each for every ten Randy took in. Nobody but Randy got rich.

  It was okay by Preston. Randy did all the planning and most of the collecting. He not only charged the town council for keeping the peace, but he collected from near everybody he saw, one way or another.

  Nobody argued with Randy Bartow and his deputies. Everybody paid.

  About six months after taking the town, Bartow had taken ownership of Hocker House with the turn of a card. They'd played with Bartow's deck, of course.

  Henry Hocker had complained at the time, but to no avail. Preston and Horace had backed Randy, swearing the card game had been on the up and up. Hocker had slammed out the door and complained to his so-called friends from the local Masonic lodge.

  No big stink.

  Preston had tried and tried to figure it, watching Randy Bartow play poker, but he'd never been able to figure how Randy read the backs of his cards. Randy kept a
case of new decks locked in his desk drawer.

  Randy's the slick one.

  With a badge, a man could take whatever he wanted.

  Preston and Horace had never lived better.

  Bartow had immediately put his new hotel to work, using a string of Chinese whores, all young and pretty; all with clean, smooth, silky skin. Slick as ice in January, the way Bartow had collected these girls for close to nothing. Sometimes he'd needed only to issue a phony license or waiver of some kind to take ownership from their fathers.

  Some of these Chinese actually thought themselves smart, giving up their virgin daughters for only seven years of slavery, not for life.

  Mud-licking fools.

  Shoot, after seven years of whoring, any girl would be all wore out or toting babies. Two had birthed babies already. Bartow put them to cleaning and changing linen during the day. At night, they drew water and bathed regular hotel guests, trying to get them up to the third floor with the whores. If not, Randy allowed they could climb into the tubs, if they wanted, to try and make a little extra money to feed their kids.

  The one named Sye gave a good, close shave, comfortable as any barber Preston had ever known. Sye could keep that money, too, in addition to any bathtub business.

  The girls didn't like the back-breaking work, hauling buckets to fill two water barrels upstairs every day.

  So what?

  That's what slaves were for.

  The second floor bathhouse had tile floors with drains to the outside and two hammered copper bathtubs separated by a wood screen, nice and private. Water got heated on a potbellied stove and poured into the tubs as needed. The tubs got drained and cleaned every morning and refilled with hot water every afternoon. Most hotel guests took their baths in the evening.

  Anybody could get a fresh tub of hot water at any time for five dollars, but it could take a couple of hours.

  Bartow allowed Preston and Horace to a bath and bed once a week. Talpin took Sunday nights and Preston took Monday, the two slowest nights for the whores. They chose whichever whore they wanted, provided no paying customers were using them.