Trip sighed. “I’m getting the idea that Milton isn’t the most trustworthy man I’ve ever met.”
“He isn’t, but he isn’t the most useless man I’ve ever met because now this mud is all yours.”
Trip hunkered down beside the longest whole plank he could find.
“Yeah,” he said, fingering the wood and considering the expanse of mud before him. “All this is mine.”
“WHISKEY,” TRIP SAID and slumped over the bar.
The bartender eyed Trip’s hunched shoulders and downcast eyes with a rueful smile twitching the corners of his mouth. He pushed a full bottle and a glass to him and then left him alone to his brooding.
No matter how many times Trip poured himself a measure and knocked it back that brooding didn’t lighten. He had traveled for two weeks along the side of the advancing railroad to reach Calloway’s Crossing and all that effort had been wasted.
Trip prided himself on the fact that no man had ever got the better of him, but in this case Milton Calloway had. He hadn’t hurt him or taken his money, but he’d taken something that was far more important: his time and his energy, and now the experience had sapped him of any idea as to what he could do next.
Even when he’d emptied half the bottle, he still couldn’t accept his misfortune, but he did unburden his woes to the bartender, who returned supportive comments, although his lively eyes betrayed the fact he was remembering this tale and adding it to plenty of others featuring Milton’s exploits.
With his story completed, Trip felt ready to move on and he wended a path out of the saloon. On the boardwalk, he took a deep breath, noting that Milton had been right about one thing – Wagon Creek was a fine town.
It was larger than Calloway’s Crossing and the industrial sounds of hammering and sawing echoing around him suggested that before long this town would expand even more. The railroad was coming and Trip detected the barely suppressed excitement of the people that thronged the boardwalks about the forthcoming opportunities, but he only wanted to leave Wagon Creek behind him.
He headed to his horse, but a woman had followed him out and she stood in front of him. Trip noted the tight bodice, prominent bosom and rouged cheeks of a saloon-girl.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
“I overheard your story about you being the new owner of Calloway’s Crossing,” the woman said, her voice amused and young.
“I gave all the details to the bartender. I’m not in a good mood right now, so don’t try to drag any fun out of me.”
A huge and beguiling smile emerged as she walked up to him, her eyes twinkling.
“Know this, Trip Kincaid – I’ve sent bigger men than you running out of town with their tails between their legs.” She chuckled, the gleam in her eyes suggesting this was true. “Am I right in thinking you’re leaving?”
“I sure am.”
She placed a hand on his chest, looped her fingers into his shirt and tugged him forward.
“Before you go, I reckon I ought to show you something.”
Trip couldn’t help but peer down the front of her bodice.
“What’s that?” he asked, licking his lips.
She released her grip to slap his arm, but only lightly, and then headed off down the boardwalk, wiggling her hips.
“Follow me and you’ll find out.”
TRIP AND THE SALOON-girl, who had introduced herself as Grace Theroux, sat on a pile of rocks beside the creek. Below them was Calloway’s Crossing with the creek heading down the hill until it flowed into the river, the water merging into the boggy patch of mud that was now Trip’s land.
“I’m here,” Trip said. “What are you showing me before I go?”
Grace patted the rocks. “It’s these here rocks and this here creek.”
“What about them?”
“You didn’t drown your senses with your woes, did you, Trip Kincaid?” Grace pointed down the slope. “Use your eyes and look.”
Trip wasn’t in the mood for wasting time on idle speculation and he was on the verge of leaving, but then he noticed Grace’s enticing smile and the entrancing way the sunlight reflected off the water and rippled across her clear complexion, and he realized how pleasant it was to spend time talking with such a friendly young woman.
So he rolled to his feet. At first he couldn’t see anything that interested him, aside from Grace. Then he saw that behind him, the creek took a meandering course, but after the sprawl of rocks, it took a straight route down the hillside.
Trip winced. If the creek had continued on its general course, it would have flowed along a dry gully until it reached the river several hundred yards away from his land. Instead, it took an abrupt left turn.
“Somebody diverted the creek,” he said, “and the creek took the quickest route to the river and that was over Calloway’s . . . my land.”
“Without a gully to run down, it spread out and made a huge heap of mud.”
“Who redirected it?”
“Chester Wheeler needed to irrigate his fields and—”
“And I lost land and got a stretch of mud instead.” Trip slapped a fist into his other palm and then put his hands to the nearest rock. “What Chester can put here, I can move.”
“You’ve got a problem. Milton let him do it. When his saloon fell down the first time, he needed to raise money fast and Chester paid him to divert the creek.”
Trip raised his hands from the rock. “The second time the saloon fell down, was Chester involved?”
“Nope. Milton never figured the ground would get so muddy and one windy night it fell down, despite everything I did.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I used to. . . .” Grace fluffed her hair and raised her eyebrows. “I used to tend bar for Milton.”
“And his saloon fell down just those two times?”
“Twice was bad enough, but that was Milton – a double-crosser, a dreamer and a loser.” Grace pointed down the winding expanse of the river. “Fifteen years ago, Milton and Adam came here with money to start afresh. Milton frittered away his money – and plenty of other people’s money – but his brother put time and thought into everything he did. He bought land ten miles downriver and now he’s selling it to the railroad for a fortune.”
“I’m obliged for the information.” Trip rubbed his chin and then smiled. “Do you fancy trying to run a saloon again, but this time with a man who isn’t a double-crosser, a dreamer and a loser?”
Grace returned her enticing smile. “I wondered when you’d ask.”
Chapter Three
“I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D come back,” Chester said.
“I reckon I can make my saloon a success,” Trip said, dismounting.
Chester pointed toward Trip’s land. “How will you do that? Build it on stilts?”
“Nope.”
Trip signified that Chester should follow him and headed away from the trading post. Chester snorted and followed him.
“You can’t go over there. That’s my land.”
Trip didn’t reply immediately, but carried on walking toward the dry gully that skirted around the edge of Chester’s land.
“It is, but I want to show you something.” Trip walked down into the gully, leaving Chester to edge from foot to foot and then shrug and patter down the slope to join him. Trip kneeled to finger the dirt. “This gully is dry.”
“It is,” Chester said with his hands on his hips.
Trip hefted a handful of dirt. He spat on it and slapped the muddy mess back to the ground.
“My land is wet, but if the situation were reversed, my land would be dry and this gully would be wet.”
“It would,” Chester said, his tone cautious.
Trip stood up, wrapped a friendly arm around Chester’s shoulders and dragged him around in a circle. He gestured with an outstretched arm at the land beyond the gully.
“So I reckon you should give me a stretch of dry land, for a reasonable price, that is.”
Che
ster shrugged away from Trip’s arm and kicked the dirt at his feet, sighing.
“How reasonable would that be?”
Trip rubbed his chin, feigning the consideration of a deep problem.
“Well, I’ve got a saloon to build and stock out, and that’s a problem because I’ve spent all my money in Wagon Creek.”
“Spent it on what?”
“I’d hoped you’d asked. I spent it on dynamite.” Trip pointed up the hill. “I gave it to my assistant and she’s buried it in a heap of rocks up there and—”
Chester stomped two long paces and grabbed Trip’s collar, but he didn’t resist and let him drag him up close.
“What are you threatening me with?”
“Release me before I count to five, or we’ll be up to our necks in water.”
Trip pointed to the side along the length of the gully and Chester turned to the dam of rocks. Grace chose that moment to bob up and wave. Chester winced and faced Trip.
“That’ll ruin my crops.”
“Only if you don’t give me some land. One . . . Two . . . Three. . . .”
“I paid Milton to divert the creek.”
“You paid Milton, not me. Four. . . .”
Chester snorted and threw Trip to the ground. “I’ve released you, but I’ll never give in to your threats.”
“Five.” Trip raised his hand a mite and then lowered it. “What’s it to be? Get wet or give me land for a saloon.”
Chester sighed and then brushed by him and headed up the side of the gully.
“Then you’ve got it, but somehow, I will make you pay for that.”
TRIP RODE INTO CALLOWAY’S Gulch, as the new railroad bridge was to be called, and he was impressed. The head of the railroad tracks was still fifty miles away, but at its unstoppable rate of progress, it’d be here within a month.
The advance party of workers had already descended on Adam Calloway’s land to build the bridge across the river. Milton had settled in what had appeared to be an ideal location: a shallow crossing point of the river, but Adam had picked a seemingly inhospitable place to settle down.
The gulch was precipitous with the river swirling over the rocks below, but the water flowed rapidly because the gap between the two sides of the gulch was only fifty yards, and the solid rock sides were ideal for bearing the load of a bridge, and far better than the softer ground of Calloway’s Crossing.
When Trip crested the ridge to the north of the gulch, the straight and gentle slope heading back east was ahead of him. He judged that when they’d felled the trees, the land would need minimal work to convert it into an ideal route for a railroad.
Trip couldn’t tell whether Adam had been a visionary in predicting where, one day, a railroad would go or whether he had been lucky. Either way, he had talents his brother didn’t possess.
Trip headed into the site, where an army of workers was edging thick planks over the side to span the gulch. He located the foreman, Frank Moore, and learned that Adam lived in a shack overlooking the bridge, and he also received an enthusiastic answer to his other question.
Trip headed up the wooded side of a bluff, the brown and white-flecked panoply of the river and great expanse of pines on either side of the river opening up to him. When he reached the shack, Adam was standing on the edge of the sharp slope with the river surging by several hundred feet below.
The huge drop didn’t appear to concern him as he hailed Trip with an enthusiastic wave. Trip joined him, although he kept ten paces away from the edge. Adam had the same build and twinkling eyes as his brother, and also the same assurance.
“I thought I ought to see you,” Trip said. “I own your brother’s land now.”
Adam snorted. “How did that mistake happen?”
“I saved his life.”
Adam blew out his cheeks. “If you want thanks, I’m not giving it.”
“I’m not looking for that, but I thought you’d like to know he’s fine and heading west the last time I saw him.”
“I don’t care where he goes as long as he stays away from me. Have you heard about our poker game?” Adam frowned when Trip nodded. “Then you’ll know he left town a few feet ahead of a hail of bullets, but I wish he’d been slower because that man will never learn.”
Trip hadn’t known what kind of reception he’d receive, but felt he had to tell Adam about his brother. He’d hoped to learn more details about Milton in case his saloon venture failed and he was minded to track him down, but now he felt only a desire to share his misery with a man who had been crossed by Milton all his life.
So Trip unburdened his irritation, relaying the lies Milton had told him. Adam was a good listener and despite his sullen lack of interest in discussing his brother, he sympathized in all the right places. When Trip had finished, he patted his shoulder.
“I have one piece of advice, Trip,” he said. “Trust nothing my brother says or does, not ever, and especially when he asks for nothing in return.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know, but that’s the trouble with Milton. You never know what he really wants.” Adam turned away to contemplate the bridge that would earn him his fortune. “He gave you his land for free, but with him, sometimes free is the highest price any man could pay.”
TRIP RODE BACK INTO Calloway’s Crossing. In the two days since he and Grace had formed their partnership, they had been busy, and while he’d been away, the fruits of their negotiations had been delivered.
Chester and his son were standing outside with their hats tipped back on their heads contemplating the lumber that would become Kincaid’s Saloon. Grace may have been a saloon-girl, but she was tough and was willing to work.
She’d decked herself out in men’s clothing and aside from a curvaceous figure, which the baggy clothes couldn’t completely hide, the red bow tying back her hair was the only sign of her femininity. She had already started work. Beside the dry gully on the opposite side of the trail to the expanse of mud, she had marked out a rectangle and was dragging the wood closer to it.
“Did Frank agree?” she called, straightening up.
“He sure did,” Trip said, as he dismounted. “So we have five days to build us a saloon before our first customers arrive.”
Grace sighed, placing her hands on her hips. “We can’t build a saloon in five—”
“I thought you were the one who’d run a saloon before.”
“Yeah, yeah, I see you’re learning fast. If the customers want it open in five days, we’ll open in five days.” Grace pointed at the huge pile of wood to Trip’s side. “So don’t stand around showing off your new-found knowledge, Trip Kincaid. I need help here or we will disappoint them.”
As Trip braced his back and shuffled his arms under the nearest plank, Chester and Isaac muttered to each other and then joined them.
“What do you mean about customers?” Chester asked. “Milton served the passing travelers, like we do, but how can you know what customers you’ll get in five days?”
Trip stood tall and tapped his forehead. “I have more business sense than Milton ever had. A whole load of hard-working men are building the bridge over Calloway’s Gulch. Come Saturday night, they’ll get time off and they’ll be mighty thirsty.”
Chester sneered. “They’ll head to Wagon Creek for real entertainment, not come to this mud heap.”
Grace stepped forward. “Are you saying I don’t know how to entertain hard-working menfolk?”
Chester gulped. “I . . . I guess I’m saying that. . . .”
“From what I’m hearing, you’re not saying nothing. I can give them what they want here just as well as in Wagon Creek.” She smiled when Chester paled and Isaac went a vivid shade of red. “As you both well know.”
Chester coughed and kneaded his brow, regaining his composure.
“What I am saying is that we don’t need those sort heading here, shooting up the place, dallying with the likes of . . . of you and raising all kinds of hell.
”
“Hey,” Grace snapped, but Trip raised a hand.
“Don’t take that attitude in front of a young lady, and remember, we can all gain from this. They could buy things from your post.” Trip ventured a placating smile, which Chester didn’t return, so he lowered his voice. “Then think about this – I’ve already invited them. Are you going to tell them they’re not welcome?”
“No, but. . . .”
“Then quit complaining. I’m sure we’ll all get extra custom, and I’ll keep things calm and orderly on Saturday, don’t you worry.”
TRIP DUCKED, LETTING the stool fly over his head and crash into the wall. He bobbed back up to confront the man who had thrown it, but then had to step back to avoid another man who folded over the bar and tumbled to the floor on the other side.
That man flexed his jaw, spat on his fist and vaulted over the bar to rejoin the fight. Saturday night in Kincaid’s Saloon was going much as Trip had expected it to. The bridge workers had arrived an hour after sundown, announcing their arrival with much hollering and good-natured shooting.
Chester had emerged to stand outside his door with a rifle held across his chest in defense of his property, but the workers had ignored him and piled into the newly built saloon. Within the hour, they’d demolished a quarter of Trip’s liquor and most of his furniture.
Then the real fighting had started. Despite the mayhem, Trip judged that everyone was enjoying themselves. Already he’d earned enough to pay for most of his breakages and for the first time he saw how much money he could make from running a saloon – provided the fragile structure was still standing by the end of the evening.
Five days of hard work had gone into erecting the framework for the building, but only the front and back walls were complete. The side walls were just stretched canvas, which had now been shredded by men tumbling down into the gully when fights had overspilled.
“Are you coping?” he shouted to Grace as he tried to serve three men at once.
Calloway's Crossing Page 2