Twisted Trails

by Orlando Rigoni

  "Thanks, Addie," she said over her shoulder, not sure for what she was thanking the woman.

  Alonzo Finch saw the girl's panic, and it amused him.

  In her haste, Norah had left her gloves, and now Addie reached for them. Alonzo Finch's long, soft hand moved snake-like and fingered them away from her.

  "These are mine to return, Addie," he said. "That's the prerogative of a gentleman."

  "Norah isn't a woman, Alonzo; she's just an inexperienced girl."

  "Why not let me find that out for myself, Addie?"

  Finch knew he was exasperating Addie, and it gave him pleasure.

  "You think you know where Lieth Severs has gone, don't you?" he prodded her further.

  "He's gone to Salt Lake to check up on the new land surveys, same as Hebe Farrow did for the mine and Carmody for the railroad."

  "I told him to tell you that, Addie. It would give you something logical to think about."

  "Then where is he?"

  "He's where I sent him. You see, Addie, all people have past lives, and some of them are very dangerous."

  "You're lying—you're trying to frighten me," Addie charged.

  "Why should I try to frighten you? If Lieth comes back like we agreed, then I'll leave this place. It's that simple."

  He saw Addie pulling herself together.

  "On the contrary, Alonzo," she said, "I intend to warn the girl about you."

  "Oh, come now, Addie. Wouldn't that be absurd? It would be the pot calling the kettle black. I'm not an ignorant blackguard. I have charm and personality. I'm sure I have the knowledge and the manners to impress her," he said, stuffing the gloves into the pocket of his tight-fitting pants.

  Paul Scott, his long body cradled in the load of hay, watched the rhythmic rumps of the sleek horses below him as he drove the team down the dusty road. The nest of alfalfa was fragrant and sweet.

  He clucked to the horses and focused his eyes on the circular outlines of the fort, which was nothing more than a stockade, a boundary to separate the military from the rest of the world. The stockade was constructed of a warp of cedar poles, their butts thrust into the earth, with a weft of heavy wire binding them together. The Indians were quiet now, and the Mormons offered no further physical resistance to federal authority, so this outpost was but a symbol of power, keeping the peace more by its presence than by its authority.

  As Paul drove up to the heavy, counterbalanced gate, it swung open grudgingly on its tallowed hinges, and Sergeant McCune was inside to welcome him.

  Paul, following the sergeant's waving arms, pulled the wagon upon the big scales and kicked the brake tight before sliding to the ground.

  The short, thick sergeant thrust out his hand, and Paul winced at the pressure of it. A smile of welcome wreathed the sergeant's red, weathered face.

  "McCune's the name," the sergeant said. "I see you're another one."

  "Paul Scott here," Paul said, and added, "What did you mean by that last remark, Sergeant?"

  "Uriah has a tough time gettin' the fodder delivered. Sometimes he brings it himself. Sometimes he sends Eglund, but Eglund doesn't like to come. Looks to me like he's scared of this place. Even Norah has delivered the hay in a pinch." McCune laughed.

  Paul felt rebuked. "Looks like I took a woman's job, then."

  "Now don't be touchy, Scott. That girl can tackle anything and still be a lady. Come to my quarters while the men unload the hay. They're busy right now; it'll take a little time."

  Paul followed the stocky, cocksure man toward the row of huts that disected the stockade. McCune led the way into an orderly room, cramped but spotless. The earth floor had been dampened and swept until its hardened surface was like tile. Along one wall a shelf held books which intrigued Paul. They were mostly classics, but there were books on law and medicine.

  Digging into the straw of his neatly made-up bunk, McCune drew forth a bottle of whiskey. Holding the bottle behind him, he stuck his bristly head out the door and looked carefully around. Then he closed the door.

  "The major's death against liquor on the post. He has issued a written order, posted on the bulletin board, that liquor is prohibited on the post under penalty of imprisonment. Here, have a drink."

  Paul accepted the drink in the spirit in which it was offered.

  "How did you happen to arrive at this place, McCune?" Paul asked. "There's not much future in it, is there?"

  McCune smacked his lips over the strong liquor and put the bottle back in his bunk.

  "Let me tell you, lad," he replied: "today is yesterday's future. Beyond that a man can't tell. The future, the present and the past are all in every tick of the clock. A man can't put his finger on any of them. I went to California when the gold fever was on. I was young and tough enough to hold my own. Staked a good claim near what later became Columbia on the Stanislaus River. Didn't take me long to learn that me an' money wouldn't get along very good. Too much firewater, too many fights, an' the gold siftin' through my calloused fingers. I woke up disgusted one day and saw I was a fool. I had a neighbor in camp with a wife an' two kids. How they had the gall to go there I don't know. This neighbor didn't have any luck, so I up an' gave him my claim. Fiscoli was his name. He insisted I keep half the claim, but I told him it would only bring me grief. Fiscoli made good, bought land with his gold, and has a right nice place out there. They still write to me, an' I've got a home to go to when my soldierin' is done. That's more than I'd have if I'd kept the claim."

  Paul said, "That makes sense, I guess. It don't explain why you're here, though."

  "Army lad. I joined up durin' the war. Come under the major's command at the battle of Vicksburg." McCune added in a curiously plaintive voice, as though he were pleading for understanding, "He needs me—here I am."

  Paul didn't know what to answer, so he suggested they see if the hay was unloaded.

  Other freight wagons had come in with supplies from more distant places, their tall wheels grinding up the dust and fingering it into the air. The empty wagons lumbered about in the cramped space, heading out for open country.

  "Watch this, now," McCune told Paul, grinning.

  "Where?" Paul inquired.

  "That wagon that just unloaded, the one with the driver with the brush on his face."

  Paul watched the indicated wagon. He saw the big end gate swinging open, stay chains dragging on the ground. The big hooks on the ends of the chains bobbed and bit at the earth. The wagon, making an awkward turn, lumbered over a pile of rope. The searching hook of the dragging chain on the left of the wagon reached for and snagged a full coil of rope.

  "Once he got away with a bundle of shovels that way. I heard about it later, but it couldn't be proved, so I let it go. He's been trying ever since. Innocent as a babe, he drives on, hoping nobody will notice." McCune gave an infectious chuckle.

  The big wagon lumbered on through the gate, but suddenly the sentry shouted at the driver to stop, which he did. McCune barked at two men to go over and unhook the coil of rope from the chain, and while they did so, the bearded face of the freight hauler looked back ruefully.

  There was a general shouting back and forth of good-natured insults, as the driver accused them of robbing him.

  "When a man catches a fish on his hook, no man has a right to take it off!" the driver declared.

  The commotion could be heard all across the stockade, and it brought Major Hornaby to the door of his office. Picking up his wide-brimmed hat, he placed it on his head in precisely the right manner and marched across the compound. The sun flashed from the polished leather of his boots and belt. The creases in his trousers were knife-sharp. The expression on his long, aristocratic face was stern and uncompromising. His face was sharp-boned, but well proportioned, and he had that indefinable quality of a man of breeding.

  Sergeant McCune saluted the major perfunctorily, a salute which the major put to shame with one of his own.

  "What seems to be the trouble here, Sergeant?"

  "O
wnby, the old coot from Provo, snagged a coil of rope with his gate chain. We took it away from him."

  Paul saw the skin on the major's cheekbones tighten.

  "You will address me as 'sir,' Sergeant, when strangers are present," the major said tartly.

  "Ownby, the old coot from Provo, snagged a coil of rope with his end gate chain, sir." McCune recited the complete statement like a ritual.

  Paul saw annoyance sharpen the major's features.

  "All these civilians are crooks," Hornaby charged. "They believe the army is here to be preyed upon. If we didn't watch them every minute, we'd starve on our appropriations."

  "Quite so, sir," McCune echoed dutifully.

  Hornaby turned to McCune and said testily, "Oh, be still Sergeant. I don't know whether you are trying to make an ass of yourself or of me."

  "Sorry, sir."

  Hornaby ignored this and asked, "Did you sign for the hay, Sergeant?"

  McCune thrust the paper at him, and though his face was immobile and his bearing stiff, there was a warm salute in his eyes. Paul climbed onto the rack and, standing with feet braced, urged the horses back through the gate and up the road.

  In the ranch yard, he unhitched the team and drove them into the barn.

  He took his time unharnessing. It was already past noon. Rather than ask Mrs. Young to set out dinner for him, he would go get something to eat at Addie's. After all, that would give him a chance to check on Alonzo. He grained the team and turned them out the back door of the barn into the adjoining pasture. Returning to the front door of the barn, which faced the house, he was surprised to see Alonzo Finch backing off the porch, doffing his hat and bowing.

  Turning into the barn, he saddled his horse and, without pausing at the house, headed toward the Lone Chance.

  The Lone Chance appeared to wait with eager expectancy for the day shift to get off work, as today was pay day. A few of the night shift men sat on the shady porch, drinking either on credit or borrowed cash. Paul dismounted slowly, keeping his eyes alert, his gun pulled around so he could reach it with the butt forward.

  Inside the barroom at the bar he saw three or four strangers who turned and stared at him. "Big-head" Larson, the apelike man who swamped out the bar, was busy with a mop near the back of the room. His oversized head appeared to sit directly on his shoulders without a neck. He turned his body half around and looked questioningly at Paul.

  "Have you seen Finch?" Paul asked.

  The big, shaggy head shook in the negative. Then Addie appeared on the stairs and smiled at Paul.

  "I saw you coming from the window," she said. "Now I hear you ask for Alonzo Finch. You didn't impress me as a troublesome man, Paul."

  "Hello, Addie," he said, adding, "I'm the sort of man who learns a lesson and learns it good. Never let trouble get to you first. Go out and find it, if it's there."

  "But it's such a small thing, Paul. It's not worth fighting about. He just went there to return her gloves," Addie said testily.

  Paul stared at her, perplexed. "Her gloves? Whose gloves? What are you talking about?"

  It was the first time he had seen Addie flush. She did so now because she had given herself away.

  "Never mind," she said, regaining her composure. "Have you had your dinner?"

  "No."

  "Then perhaps you'll dine with me?"

  Seated across from Addie, who was laced and ruffled, Paul felt out of place in his working clothes.

  "Has Finch come here lately?" he asked as they ate the hot, nourishing food. The sweet smell of corned beef and cabbage and the pungent warmth of hot bread badgered his appetite.

  "I didn't see him. But I want no trouble today, Paul. It's going to be a wild night. If you can't work for me and fight for me, then take your personal quarrels somewhere else."

  "I'll start no fight here," Paul promised. Then he added, "What did you mean about the gloves?"

  "Never mind," she told him.

  They finished the meal in silence. Paul thanked her and strolled back into the bar. She did not look up as he left.

  Finch was standing at the bar, in conversation with a couple of the miners and having a drink at their expense. Paul walked up casually, pushed in alongside Finch and ordered a brandy.

  "Just got through eating," he volunteered. "Where you eating your meals these days, Finch?"

  Finch half turned and smiled at him. "You're taking a very personal interest in my welfare, aren't you, Paul?"

  "I'm trying to keep you good and healthy for the trip home, Alonzo."

  "I aim to stay healthy, and I feel very healthy here. Good climate. Quit stalling and have your say."

  "What were you doing at the ranch last night?"

  "Me? What would I be doing there?"

  "I don't know. I'm just asking."

  "Look, Paul; you don't have to act like a hay hauler just because you are one."

  Paul felt the cords in his neck stiffen. Before he could retort, Alonzo turned around and said, "Are these troopers friends of yours, Paul? They appear to be taking your measure."

  The two troopers he had fought the day before had come in unobtrusively. Stebbins, with his long jackass jaw, stood with his back to the door, and Miles was moving forward slowly but purposefully on his short, thick legs. The cut on his face from the battle of the day before had barely closed. Stebbins' left eye still had a discouraged hue.

  Paul stood with his back against the bar, not moving.

  "Howdy, men," Paul greeted them affably. "You gave me a tough go yesterday. How about a drink on it?"

  He was making an overture of peace if they cared to accept it.

  "Granted," Miles said, circling to the end of the bar, "we were out of line yesterday. We were rough on the old coot. But he could have saved himself the beating."

  "How?"

  "By answering our questions."

  "He had no answers. There is no gold."

  "There's some who think different. But no matter. A man resents a whipping. More than that, a trooper resents being sent home on foot. If you've got any guts, stand away from the bar!"

  Paul could not watch both men at once. He kept his eye on Miles, and saw the savage expectancy in his beady eyes. "Let's take it outside, Miles," he suggested quietly.

  The next instant he felt his feet raked out from under him, and as he hit the floor, the hard sole of a boot crashed into the side of his head!

  Chapter 3

  Stunned by the brutal kick, Paul lay with his head at an angle against the bar. The roaring pain in his head failed to dull his reflexes. He caught the booted foot and twisted with all the power of his wide shoulders. Cursing, Stebbins spun and crashed to the floor. Paul rolled away from the bar. Miles was on the other side of him. He kept thinking of that.

  He crouched erect unsteadily, eyes blurred. Miles came at him, his fists cocked. Paul was in the open. He backed toward the far wall. He had to keep his tormentors in front of him. Miles closed in. A fist hammered against Paul's ribs, and then his pent-up fury loosed itself. He jabbed and cut Miles' square-cut face. There was a spurt of blood as Miles gave ground. Paul hit him again and watched him fall.

  Stebbins was up then, circling. Gasping, Paul felt hopeless and tricked. He was still in the open, with his enemies on either side of him. He moved into Stebbins, felt Stebbins' fists rake and bruise his face. Strangely, the blows served to clear his head. He threw a punch at Stebbins' stomach, and as his guard came down, smashed another blow into Stebbins' mouth, drawing blood. Stebbins backed up, spitting blood and yelling at Miles to close in from behind.

  The barroom was filling up now. The miners were straggling down the hill, their pockets fat with pay. As the news of the fight was relayed back up the straggling line, the miners broke into a run. This was better than they had bargained for—a grudge fight to start off the celebration. They crowded into the room, shouting and shoving, placing bets upon the outcome.

  Addie, still in the dining room, kept her place, her head bowed on
her hands. She heard every blow, and she winced with them. There was nothing she could do but let it go on. Paul Scott was a man born for battle, and he had to fight until he was top man or broken.

  Paul felt his fury cool. He was conscious of the filling room; he heard shouts as troopers came in to mingle with the miners. He rushed Stebbins, taking punishment and dealing it, until Stebbins was against a table. Paul felt the blood dripping off his chin, tasted it warm and salty in his mouth. Stebbins was bleeding, too. He slid around the table, collided with a chair and fell over it backwards.

  Paul turned, puzzled that Miles did not come at him from the rear. Through sweat-glazed eyes he saw that Alonzo Finch held a gun in his hand, daring anyone to make odds, holding Miles back out of the way. Before Paul could grasp just what was happening, he felt a boot heel crash into his back, sending him gasping and staggering to his knees.

  He braced himself on his knuckles, sucking to get back his breath. Then Stebbins was riding his back, forcing him down. Stebbins' hands were in his hair, lifting his head to smash his face against the floor.

  Before Stebbins could slam his face against the rough planks, Paul's lean body twisted, spun over, and he had his knees across Stebbins' chest and was looking down into Stebbins' bloody face. Methodically he pounded, bruised, battered that face until Stebbins stopped squirming.

  Then he rose unsteadily, shaking the sweat from his eyes. He raked his hand across his face, and it came away oily with blood. He focused his eyes carefully until he found Miles. The miners were cheering and stamping, paying off bets and making others on the next round. They recognized in Paul a fighter who finished a job or went down to defeat.

  Breathing like a leaky bellows, Paul said, "All right, Alonzo; let him go."

  Alonzo said, "Take a breather, Paul; you've earned it."

  "Let him go!" Paul repeated.

  Finch, a man to give another his head, shoved Miles roughly out on the floor. Miles came out unbalanced. He was still trying to find the balls of his feet when Paul hit him the first time. Miles went down close to Stebbins' prostrate form. Two men grabbed Stebbin's feet and pulled him off to one side.