by Jory Sherman
“Mind if I walk out back?”
“Sure,” the bartender said, “go ahead. Cockfights start at eight tonight.”
Lew walked through the back door and out to a large courtyard. There was a wire strung across the sandy arena, bleacher seats on three sides. There was a sign on a board hanging from the wire. The sign said FAVORITO. The word meant nothing to Jeff, but he saw that the sign would slide from one side of the arena to the other, if pushed.
The arena had been cleaned up, raked, the blood from the roosters removed. The arena looked ready for business that night.
Back inside, Lew finished his whiskey, took his change from the bar.
“Another?” The bartender was young, with a face that hadn’t been shaved much.
“No, thanks. I may come back tonight.”
“Good luck at the cockfights.”
Lew left the saloon and walked back to the hotel. He should leave, he thought. Let the law take care of Wayne Smith. It was none of his business. He should ride on to Leadville and try to find Carol Smith, give her the money.
That’s what he should do, he knew.
But he couldn’t get Wayne Smith out of his craw.
He felt the knot on the back of his head. The swelling had gone down, but it was still tender, sore.
A reminder, he thought, that he was dealing with a dangerous man.
18
AFTER PAYING THE UNDERTAKER FOR JEFF’S BURIAL AND talking to the man, Lew made his decision.
“It will probably take me a month or so to hold an inquest,” Dean Vollmer said when Lew counted out the money. “Then, depending on how busy the prosecutor is, and the courts, it could take up to half a year or more to arrest and prosecute someone for any crime that is revealed at the inquest.”
“Justice moves slow in Pueblo,” Lew said.
“We call it being careful. Evidence must be gathered, witnesses interviewed. It all takes time.”
“I’ll try and be back in town within a month,” Lew said. “I want to testify at the inquest.”
“It’s just like a court. You have to tell the truth. Unless you were an eyewitness to a murder, you might not be called to testify.”
“But I can watch, can’t I?”
“An inquest is a public hearing. You can watch.”
Lew saddled up Jeff’s horse and his own. He got a map showing the way to Leadville. He stocked up on provisions he thought he’d need, and bought a heavy coat after learning that the weather could change fast in the mountains. One minute it could be warm, the next, freezing cold. He set out for Salida after settling his bill at the hotel. He made sure no one was following him as he led Jeff’s horse and set out early. All four saddlebags were full. He had plenty of coffee, hardtack, beef jerky, and staples like flour, beans, salt, and sugar.
When he rode into the mountains, the world changed. Autumn was already there in all its splendor. The aspen leaves shone golden in the sun, the air was crisp and sharp, and the blue sky was flocked with puffy white clouds. He passed many wagons heading down to Pueblo, many of these loaded with ore from the lead and silver mines. Some of the men he encountered told him it was their last trip. They would not return until after the spring thaw.
He did not linger long in Salida. He saw the rough cob of a town with its wagons and carts jamming the streets, its bearded, rugged men with small eyes and big noses, clothing saturated with dust and grime, its pinch-faced women with their gaudy skirts and hennaed hair, their rouged cheeks and lampblack eyelashes, and wondered at the odd mixture of humanity in such a small place. He had a hot meal at a small, crowded café called Betsy’s Eats. The soup was greasy and the meat tough, but the coffee was strong and he rode out toward Leadville with a full, though sour, stomach.
The country grew wilder after Lew left Salida. The road got steeper in places, and his heart quickened when he saw mule deer, elk, and on the high slopes above timberline, the surefooted Rocky Mountain sheep with their formidable and majestic curved horns, standing regally in the sun looking down at him from above. He saw a few wagons just outside of Salida, but then he rode for miles without seeing a soul.
Until he heard the shot. He reined Ruben to a halt and listened as the sound reverberated through the canyons, echoed from the rimrock and the high bluffs until it was swallowed into silence. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. He ticked Ruben’s flanks with both spurs and moved out, the reins of Jeff’s horse looped and knotted through a D-ring on his saddle.
He rounded a bend in the trail, and through the trees ahead, saw a wide meadow. A man stood over a horse, cursing until the air was smoking with his frosty breath.
“Damn you, Baldy, you dumb sonofabitch. You bow-legged, cross-eyed, miserable blue-balled bastard.”
Lew approached slowly, rifle at the ready, butt resting on his leg, his finger inside the trigger guard behind the trigger. He could twirl it in a moment, shift his finger in front of the trigger, and shoot from the hip in a twinkling if need be.
The man spotted Lew and turned away from the horse, smoke still curling out of the barrel of his pistol.
“You there,” the man called. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars for that horse you’re leading.”
As Lew hesitated, the man holstered his pistol and started walking toward him.
“Damned fool horse,” he said, “went and broke his dad-blamed leg in a damned hole. Had to shoot him dead, damn the dad-blamed luck. Way in hell out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Hold on,” Lew said. “Where you headed?”
“Leadville. And I’ll give you three hundred dollars for that horse you ain’t usin’. Got the money right here in my pocket. The name’s Hardy, pilgrim, Jack Hardy.”
The man stretched out his hand as he approached.
Lew didn’t know what to make of him. He was a barrelchested man, looked to be in his forties, with a round, grizzled face sprouting a five-inch beard, ears that stuck out like the handles on a jug of moonshine, no moustache, but a little pudgy mouth that gave him the look of a man who sucked on eggs. He had no neck that Lew could see, and his trousers were tucked into miner’s boots that seemed not to have seen a shine since they left the store.
Lew leaned over, shook Hardy’s hand.
“Where you headed?” Hardy said. “And I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Lew Zane. Going to Leadville.”
“Why, that’s just where I’m headed. If you’ll sell me that horse.”
“It’s not mine to sell,” Lew said.
“Well, maybe you’ll let me rent it, then. I’ll give you a hundred dollars just to ride that horse to Leadville.”
Lew hesitated.
“Another hundred when we get there.”
“I hate to take advantage of you, Hardy.”
“Call me Jack. Hell, you’re the first honest man I’ve seen up in these hills. I’ll give you two hundred when we get to Leadville. Hell, there’s more where this came from.”
“That’s a lot of money to rent a horse.”
“Well, I got to get there. Time is money. I’ve got me a silver mine in Leadville, and I just come from the bank in Pueblo. Got to get one more mule train of ore out of the mine before winter sets in. It ain’t that far, and I’m better company than you got now, just you and that extra horse.”
“All right,” Lew said. He slid his rifle back in its scabbard and loosened the knot in the D-ring, freeing the reins. He handed them to Hardy.
“Climb on, then. Horse’s name is Leroy.”
“You didn’t steal it, did you?” Hardy said as he took the reins.
“No. It belongs to a friend of mine,” Lew said.
“Where’s your friend? Up in Leadville waiting for you?”
“He’s dead.”
“Jeez-amighty. What you doing with a dead man’s horse?”
“Taking it up to his daughter. Look, Hardy, anything you want off your horse? Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, blanket?”
“No. I’ll have the boys stop by on the way down and pick up what’s there, if nobody steals it. Hate to lose that good Santa Fe saddle, though. But I sure as hell don’t want to tote it all the way up to Leadville.”
“All right,” Lew said. “Let’s go. You lead out, seeing as you know the way.”
“Here’s a hundred dollars, Lew. On account.”
Hardy cackled as he handed over the money in crisp new bills.
Lew took the bills, stuffed them in his trouser pocket.
“Just don’t shoot me in the back, Lew. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Not unless I had good reason,” Lew said. “And money wouldn’t be one.”
“Hey, you’d do to ride the river with. A regular Good Samaritan you are.”
“I’d hate to be afoot in this country.”
“The horse feels good under me,” Hardy said. “Missouri trotter, eh?”
“Yep. Just don’t break his leg. I might have to shoot you both.”
Hardy laughed. “You got a sense of humor, I see. Makes me feel a mite better about riding in front of you.”
But they rode side by side. Hardy was a talker and he enjoyed talking about himself and his lucky strike in Leadville the year before. He told Lew that his wagons would be back up in a few days, having hauled a lot of ore down to the smelters in Pueblo.
“After the big gold strikes in ’59 and ’60, the gold played out and the miners left, leaving big old holes in the mountains. Then some fellers from another state come into Leadville and looked at the tailings and such.”
“What are tailings?”
“The rock they dug out of the mines and didn’t smelt. Anyways, it wasn’t only tailings these fellers looked at. The miners who were using placers, rockers, pans, kept complaining about all the black stuff that was so hard to get off the gold. Made them work harder than they wanted to. But that black stuff, as we found out last year, was silver.”
“Silver?”
“That’s right. These two fellers started buying up all the old gold mines that were played out. I got me a grubstake and along with old Haw Tabor and others, we started mining silver. I bought a claim for fifty dollars, I tell you, and I’ve made a fortune. Tabor’s richer than Croesus, and so are a lot of other men. That why you’re going up to Leadville? Most all of the mines is bought up.”
“No, but I’m looking for a job.”
“You are? What kind of job?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it that much, but I’ve got to eat. And I may be up here or in Pueblo for quite a while.”
“What can you do?”
“I’m good with horses. I can milk a cow. I can do a little carpenter work.”
Hardy laughed.
“Not much call for any of that up here in Leadville. Can’t raise horses or cattle in the high country, ’cept in summer. No milking that I know of.”
“I guess I’m a farmer,” Lew said. “Don’t know much else.”
“You’re packing iron and you look like you know what to do with that Winchester.”
“Tools, Hardy, just tools.”
“The way you wear that Colt, I’d reckon you’ve done more than pound nails with it.”
Lew felt a tightening in his throat, heat flushing through the tiny veins beneath his face. Hardy was more observant than Lew would have liked.
“I believe in a man having the right to defend himself, Jack.”
“And have you done some defending?”
“A little.”
“Ah, that puts a different light on your quest for employment.”
“It does? How so?”
“Maybe you want a job as a lawman.”
Lew stiffened.
“No, sir. Not me.”
“You sound as though you got a distaste for such a job. But there’s men making a pretty good living at that trade.”
Lew said nothing. He thought of Wayne Smith. If he was the caliber of men the law was looking for, Lew wanted no part of that profession. His memory of Billy Jim Colfax was still bitter in his mouth, as well.
“Tell you what, Lew,” Hardy said. “After you deliver this horse to your friend’s daughter, you look me up. I’ve got the Little Nellie Mine. I might could use you.”
“To do what?”
“Let’s just say you’d have to use those tools you carry.”
“Legal or illegal?” Lew asked.
“Does it make any difference?”
“Yes, it sure does, Jack. I may not want to work as a lawman, but I don’t want to be on the wrong side of the law either.”
Hardy laughed. “Legal, then. Good pay. But . . .”
“But what?” Lew said.
“We’ll talk about the ‘but’ when you come see me. Let’s leave it at that. If you want a job, I think I can fix you up. I got to give it some thought, too.”
“Fair enough,” Lew said.
But he wondered what kind of job Hardy had in mind. He didn’t intend to stay long in Leadville. He wanted to get back to Pueblo and attend that coroner’s inquest. He wanted to see what kind of justice would prevail out West.
As they rode, Lew felt Hardy’s eyes on him, as if he was sizing him up. He knew nothing about mining and Hardy knew that. What bothered him most was that the job might be one that involved gunplay, and if it was, Lew would turn him down.
He thought wryly: A man who lives by the gun dies by the gun.
He hoped Hardy wasn’t barking up that tree.
19
FARON BRIGGS KNEW HE HAD MADE A BIG MISTAKE.
He should never have let the men in the wagon train chase after those marauding Cherokee. When they came back, two days later, they were missing two men, and those who did come back were wounded. And scared.
One man was hurt so badly with a broken leg, shattered by a Cherokee war club, that they couldn’t move for over a week. Another had two lead balls in his hide, one in the rump, the other in his leg, and Faron had to pull them out and burn the wounds shut with a red-hot poker.
“Cal, I told you not to chase after them redskins. Now, look at you. And two good men gone, wasted on your wild-goose chase. Chasing after revenge.”
“I know, I know. God, Faron, I hate what I done. I feel real bad.” Calvin Morton lay in the wagon on his stomach, his wife, Betty, staring at his rump as if mesmerized, her eyes as fixed and vacant as the buttons on her dress. The smell of burning flesh filled the wagon, making her sick to her stomach.
“Didn’t you hear that man Lew telling us not to chase after them Cherokee?”
“I—I heard him. God, Faron, I paid the price. Don’t keep after me on it.”
“You hush, Cal,” Betty said, coming out of her stupor, turning her head to gulp in air. “You keep on, you’ll start bleeding again.”
Faron eased himself out of the wagon, a look of disgust on his face.
“Don’t cover that up, Betty. Just let him lie there on his belly until that butt wound scabs over. We’ve got to keep movin’. We’ve already lost near two weeks of time with all this.”
“I’ll take care of Calvin, Faron,” she said. “You do what you have to do.”
The other wounds were not as serious. Jim Becker was walking stiff-legged. A Cherokee bullet had creased his left leg, just below the knee. It was more like a burn than a bullet wound. And Frank Eakins had lost a thumb, shot off when he was turning his horse to get away from his attackers. He had lost some blood and he was in pain, but he could still ride and shoot. Ned Willis had had an arrow glance off his forehead, shearing off a chunk of flesh, but he wouldn’t die from it.
The wounded men all had sheepish looks on their faces when Faron gave the order to move out. All of them had rifles, and were nervous as their wives took up the reins and released the brakes.
“You figure they’ll come at us again, Faron?” Willis asked as Faron rode to the head of the wagon train.
“You can damned sure bet on it, Ned. You boys got ’em real mad, I’m thi
nkin’.”
“Aw, you go to hell, Briggs,” Willis said, cracking the reins atop the backs of his mules.
Briggs rode ahead of the three wagons, gazing out at the prairie, scanning the tall grass for any sign of movement. Dissension among the pilgrims who had hired him had already made the trip to Santa Fe miserable, and the trouble with renegade Cherokee had added to his woes. Usually, he could pick men and women who had the grit and backbone to make such a trip without a great deal of bickering, but he had guessed wrong with these people. The men were all ornery, constantly complaining, whether it be over the heat, the long days, or the chilly nights. The women were a headstrong bunch and pushed their husbands mercilessly, nagging them day and night over small things, unnecessary things.
If the train wasn’t moving fast enough for the women, they ragged their husbands to make the mules go faster. If the fire at night was too big or too small, they barked orders to their men like Army sergeants. Briggs had decided that the women were all fishwives, and the men a bunch of spineless whiners still tied to their wives’ apron strings. They were about as useful as teats on a boar.
A covey of quail flushed in front of him with a brittle whir of wings, and Faron’s heart jumped into a staccato beat. His horse stepped off course as if to run, but came back into line once he put pressure on the bit. A pair of doves hurtled past, their wings whistling, then vanished over the horizon. Faron cursed the slowness, the fact that they still had so far to go in dangerous country. Indians could hide in the tall grass and nobody would ever see them until it was too late.
He barely noticed the shallow gully, dry as a bone, when he rode through it, so lost was he in his thoughts. Had the gully been wet, he might have noticed, but he rode through it and climbed to the other side, back up to the flat. It was a lapse in judgment and observation he would come to regret. But his thoughts took him elsewhere, even though Faron knew better. A man who did not pay attention to the terrain, to the weather, to almost anything at all, sometimes came to a bad end.
At least they had left Oklahoma Territory behind and were in Kansas. Surely, the Cherokee would not stray so far from home, he thought. Indians were very careful about whose lands they crossed, or so he’d heard. Perhaps the danger was over and they would have no further encounters with hostile Indians. Not like in the old days, when such a crossing was fraught with peril and many a traveler’s bones lay bleaching in the sun all along the Santa Fe Trail.