Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  He rode around five minutes in a circle, then saw Doug Chandler riding fast down a street a block over. Spur trailed along behind and saw that the rancher was heading for the ferry that crossed the river into Indian Territories.

  An hour before the livery man went to see Doug Chandler, Russ Dolan paced in the small house he shared with his two robber friends and Amy Hellman. He had stood all he could. He hadn't been paid. They'd done the agreed-on work and now were treated like slaves by Doug Chandler. He even made them stand guard over the $20,000 in new bank notes and the $10,000 in used bills. Strange that Doug hadn't banked the money yet, or just carried it with him. He was probably afraid he'd be robbed on the streets.

  Dolan had been considering it for two days now. The new bank notes were like poison, he understood that. They were for spending in Texas or Louisiana, not there in Fort Smith. That made the cash almost worthless to him. But the other bills were soiled and folded and packaged in twenties, tens and fives. They would be easy to spend.

  He had figured out two plans. The first would be to pick up the ten-thousand in old money, meander out of the house to go for food at the general store, and just keep on going. He'd stop by at the dock and find out when the next boat left downstream. If it was within an hour or two, he'd buy a ticket, walk on board and hide himself in the best spot he could find.

  If the next boat didn't leave for three or four hours, he'd simply buy a horse and saddle at the livery, ride down to the rope ferry and ride across to the other side of the Arkansas River. Then he'd be in Indian Territory. No damn law there but Judge Parker, and Parker wouldn't even know he was alive. Yes! He'd feel a lot better in the Territories anyway.

  On that steamer he'd be trapped until he got to Little Rock or on down the way toward the Mississippi.

  In the Territories with that ten thousand dollars, he'd be king of the shit pile. Yeah!

  Earlier that morning, Doug had humped Amy twice before breakfast and rushed out to some "business" he said he had to do. He hadn't been back. Usually, he stayed away all day. If he did today, that would give Russ a bigger head start.

  He'd been in Indian Territory before a time or two. Yeah! Now!

  He went to the small dresser in the room where the three men slept and eased it open. Sully lay on the bed with one hand covering his crotch.

  "Damn, Sully, you jacking off again? Go into the other bedroom and tell Amy to help you. She'd be glad to pump you off."

  Sully scowled at him, sprang off the bed and flounced into the other room.

  Russ smiled, opened the top drawer, took out the three bundles of used bills and pushed them inside his shirt. Damn, he had ten-thousand fucking dollars in his shirt! He couldn't afford to take any of his gear with him. Not that he had much. Hell, from now on, he'd buy whatever he needed.

  Yeah, he was rich. Right that very moment he was a rich man. He made sure the bundles of bills didn't show from inside his shirt, and walked into the living room. Sully had grabbed a magazine. Knute snored on the couch.

  "Sully, we're low on grub. I'm going to the general store and bring back some food. You stay here and keep out of trouble." He watched Sully nod. "You talked to Amy yet? Tell her you need to get your whanger pumped off. Hell, she'll be glad to help you."

  Sully threw the magazine at Russ who laughed and stepped out the front door. He walked slow and easy as long as Sully would be able to see him, then he hurried. He went straight to the livery and spent ten minutes picking out a horse he liked, then bargained for the horse and saddle.

  At last he paid $45 of the stolen money for the ten-year old roan mare, and ten-dollars for the saddle and tack. He mounted and rode at a walk around the edge of town to the ferry. It had just pulled in and let off a sour looking older woman and two small ragtag kids who had dirty faces and clothes too small for them.

  Russ rode the roan on board, paid the fifteen cents for the ride across and dismounted. He tied the roan to a hitching rail midships and stared at the water. The Arkansas River, any river fascinated him. Maybe he should take the boat downstream to the Mississippi and ride one of them fancy riverboats down to New Orleans.

  Hell, he could afford it now. He could spend as much money as he wanted to. One rule, he wouldn't gamble. That was the easiest way to lose $10,000 in a rush. No sir, he'd play it close to his vest and spend money when he needed to, but he'd be shrewd about it. Most rich men were shrewd, that was probably how they got rich in the first place.

  He waited anxiously, watching the street where the ferry tied up, but after ten minutes no one else came. The boatman waved a flag, and the rope moved as a horse on the other side dragged the flat bottomed ferry across the river working hard to keep the boat from floating downstream.

  The rope, stretched tight by the current, moved slowly across the swiftly flowing waters. Russ wondered where all the water came from. Then he remembered the rains that soaked the land there and upstream sometimes for days on end. At least the rain made the countryside green.

  On the other side of the river, he mounted his roan and turned upstream. He remembered a little about the country. There was a house or an inn, something upstream aways where he could stop and get some food and supplies before he took off into the wilds. The deeper he got into the Territories, the harder it would be for Judge Parker or Doug Chandler to find him.

  Back on the Fort Smith side of the river, Doug Chandler rode up to the ferry slip at a gallop and saw it in the middle of the river coming back to this side. He'd missed the son-of-a-bitch. If he bought a horse and headed cross river, it stood to reason that he'd stolen the money from the dresser drawer.

  Doug had made a fast gallop to the house and seen the empty spot in the top dresser drawer. The $20,000 in new bills were still there. Sully told him Russ said he was going after food at the general store.

  Russ had stolen the money. Damn him! He'd ridden away fast but got to the ferry much too late.

  He could only wait now for the ferry to get back and take him across. That would put him two, maybe three hours behind Russ Dolan. He'd find him in the Territories. Dolan didn't know them the way Doug did. He'd find the bastard somehow.

  Spur McCoy watched Doug Chandler as he rode up to the ferry. Evidently, he was going across. Why? Might be productive to follow him. He looked furious about something. Could it have something to do with the missing ranch sales agreement and the ten-thousand dollar payment?

  There was no chance that Spur could ride across on the same trip with Chandler. He'd recognize Spur or at least be cautious and curious. The round trip took about 45 minutes for the slow boat. That meant Spur would be that much time behind Chandler once they both were on the far side of the Arkansas River. It would have to do.

  Spur dismounted and watched from the shade of a building as Chandler rode onto the ferry after it tied up on this side. Chandler had talked with the Captain and after some exchange of what could have been money, the ferry left at once.

  Spur McCoy settled down to wait for the ferry to come back. At least he could see which direction the rancher headed out from the ferry. Chandler wouldn't know he was being followed and would have no reason to try to confuse anyone. Spur guessed that Chandler was chasing someone. Why else was he in such a rush after the livery man gave him some information or a message? The livery man! He could have sold or rented a horse to someone and come and told Doug because he knew Doug would be interested and would pay for the information.

  Somewhere far ahead of both Spur and Doug Chandler, Russ Dolan grinned, felt the bundles of absolutely wonderful cash money inside his shirt, and for the first time in days, laughed out loud. He was off on the best part of his life so far, and from here on, with all that cash, it could only get better and better.

  After several miles of following the horse trail upstream through the brush and woods along the banks of the river, he saw smoke ahead and remembered. One Eyed Louie's Inn, he called it. A rough conglomeration of a series of small buildings that were made of logs and had bee
n added on to year by year. Louie was a big guy with a black patch over one eye. A rough bastard, as Doug remembered.

  It was well after noon by the time Russ approached the place. It looked innocent enough. No rigs or horses tied out front. He wanted to meet as few people as possible.

  Louie growled at Russ when he came in the door. Louie wore his usual costume: tops of his long underwear and a dirty pair of pants that cracked when he bent them at the knees. He had a full beard and wild hair. His unwashed face showed several sores that he picked at from time to time.

  Russ carried his six-gun in his hand and Louie snorted. "Don't need no fucking gun to get a meal, W n that's what you want. My old woman's got some rabbit stew cooked up proper and enough bread and wild berry jam to fill up a regiment. You want dinner or not?"

  Russ nodded and sat at a makeshift table on a wooden bench. The food was more than he could eat even sopping up the liquid with chunks of fresh baked white bread.

  He gave Louie a dollar for the dinner, but the one-eyed-man kept holding out his hand.

  "Two dollars for dinner this side the river. You can afford it or you wouldn't be here."

  Russ growled himself this time and handed over another dollar bill. He had taken the ones in change when he bought the horse. Five ones were all the livery man had. He carried the ones in his pocket. He wondered about shooting Louie and taking over his Inn, but changed his mind when he saw how Louie carried a derringer in his waist band. Besides, this place was too well known, too close to Fort Smith. Judge Parker's U.S.Deputy Marshals would be past here every other day heading out to sweep the interior.

  He drank another cup of coffee, waved at Louie and rode away from the place glad he still had his whole skin. There was an undercurrent of violence with One-Eyed Louie that he didn't like. He wondered how many solitary travelers had gone into Louie's place and never come out again except in a bloody tarp headed for a shallow grave.

  With his belly full and a canteen of fresh water looped over his saddle horn, Russ rode steadily along the track. Here and there he saw where a wagon had been dragged through the trail. If enough of them did that, soon the track would turn into a road of sorts. Twice he saw where small trees had been chopped down almost to ground level to let a wagon get through.

  It was nearing dusk when Russ smelled smoke. Just over a small rise he saw the cloud of soft gray lifting from a stand of hardwood trees half-a-mile east.

  Russ rode forward. The smoke must come from a cabin or a camp he couldn't see off the main track by a quarter-of-a-mile. Never would know it was there if it wasn't for the smoke. This might work for a few days.

  Russ turned in at a lightly traveled trail when the road came within 500-yards of the smoke. He worked through the woods carefully and stopped when he could see the place plainly. A man came out the front door of a rough built log cabin. Russ looked again. The person he watched was a Negro man.

  Damned if his luck wasn't holding. What was a nigger doing over here in the Nations unless he was running from the law?

  Russ moved up cautiously, then changed his tactics and rode into the clearing a hundred-yards from the Negro man. Now he could see the man at the side of the cabin picking tomatoes.

  Russ called to the man who lifted, stared a moment, then came upright with his hand near a sixgun pushed into his belt on his right hip.

  The Negro man watched Russ come.

  "Afternoon, looks like you been riding a piece. I'm Oliver, most folks call me Half Breed Oliver, which I is. Half Cherokee."

  Russ Dolan grinned, then drew his six-gun fast and held it on the half breed before he could even bring his hand up. "Don't move your little finger or you'll be known as the dead Half-Breed Oliver."

  Russ Dolan held his cocked six-gun on Half Breed Oliver's chest as he eased up to the black man and took the revolver from his belt.

  "That's right, nigger man, you just stay calm and that way you keep your black hide alive. Good boy. Now, you march up there to the front door and tell your woman not to do nothing stupid like unlimbering a shotgun. Only make herself into a widow." He pushed Oliver's shoulder and headed him toward the house.

  "What you want? We got nothing to steal."

  "Hell, I don't need nothing. Got me plenty of cash money. Just want a place to stay the night, maybe two or three days. Need food and shelter out here in this damn wilderness. Forgot how God-awful uncivilized it is out here."

  They came to the front door of the log cabin and Oliver looked over his shoulder. "I don't want no trouble. I ain't fighting you. We be glad to put you up a few days, that what you wants."

  "Now you're talking like a good darkie, yeah, like a fine darkie slave. Inside, boy."

  Russ looked around the inside of the cabin. It was nicely finished with a wooden floor, a ceiling and two inside walls made of sawed lumber. A kitchen stove at the far side looked to have a fire going in it, and a Negro woman in a bright red blouse and brown skirt stood there with a ladle in one hand working over the stove.

  "Oliver, I declare, where are those tomatoes?" She said it before she turned around. The ladle trembled in her hand but she didn't drop it.

  "Oliver?" she asked.

  "This here's a friend stopped by for some supper. Reckon we got plenty, right, Bess?"

  "Plenty. Hope you like fried rabbit, split potatoes and gravy, new peas and all the tomatoes you can eat."

  Russ grinned and motioned for Oliver to sit at the table that was already laid out.

  "Where are your kids?" Russ asked.

  "I sent our one boy down to the lower pasture to pick some dewberries," Bess said turning back to the stove. "He'll be back soon. That boy never misses a meal."

  Russ sat at the table where he could see both Oliver and Bess. He laid the six-gun beside the plate. There were five settings on the big plank table that had been varnished to a bright golden gloss.

  "Bess, that rabbit smells fine, and them spuds must be about done by now," Russ said. "Your kitchen smells like spices and wood smoke and fresh bread like my old Ma used to make. What about the other two drops, Bess?" Russ asked. "Don't play games with me. You got three kids."

  "Around somewhere," Bess said with a quick look at Russ. "When they gets hungry, they come in."

  She brought a platter filled with golden fried rabbit pieces and a plate of potatoes cut lengthwise and dry fried in a big skillet. The gravy came next with the aroma of giblets and rabbit drippings good enough to make Russ's mouth water. She set on a plate of sliced fresh tomatoes and a dish of fresh green peas. Slices of bread and a crock of butter already were on the table.

  They sat and ate. Russ hadn't known how hungry he was. He ate half the rabbit and potatoes. The other two ate little, only picking at their food.

  Russ stretched out the meal, having another helping of the rabbit, grabbing the last leg and thigh. He finished his coffee and tapped the cup for more. Bess brought it, a calm, steady expression on her plain face. She poured it out, steaming from the wood fire, fresh boiled and smelling like cinnamon bark and a touch of cedar shavings.

  "Looks like your drops done missed their supper," Russ said. He wiped his hands on his pants and stood, taking the revolver with him.

  "Now for the entertainment," Russ said. "Big mama, what was your name again?"

  "Bess," she said evenly, but she shot a frantic glance at her husband.

  "Bess. Good." Russ cocked the six-gun when Oliver half rose from where he sat at the table. The muzzle swung toward the Negro man. "Not you, old man, I want the woman to stand up. Come on, Bess. Up. That's the way."

  Bess pushed back the chair and stood. Her face was rock hard, frozen in a neutral expression.

  "Good, Bess. Good. Now I want to see what kind of tits you're hiding under that fancy red blouse of yours. Strip off that top and show me your swingers. Bet they big as watermelons." Russ grinned in anticipation. His eyes gleamed and a drip of saliva came out of his mouth and ran down his chin.

  Oliver started to rise again an
d Russ lifted the weapon so it aimed at Oliver's head.

  "Another half-an-inch out of that chair and your head just gonna explode all over this room, boy. You want that?"

  Oliver let out a long breath and settled back in the chair. He had swung his legs around for a quick dive at the gunman. He sat but left his legs in the same position, away from the table.

  Russ looked back at Bess. Her hands hung at her sides. He drew a knife from his boot in one swift motion, brought it up and caught the neck of her blouse. The sharp knife blade sliced through the cloth and down to the hem without touching her skin. The blouse gaped open revealing the rounded sides of her dark breasts.

  "Yeah, good black stuff. Heard about black pussy all my life, but I never had me none. Guess that's gonna be taken care of right now. Ain't it Bess, sweet black pussy girl?"

  She stared at the far wall.

  "Bess, I ain't gonna hurt you. Just a little poking and some grabbing and sucking. Hell, you been fucked three, four-hundred times. What's one more?"

  Russ reached up and pulled the blouse off her shoulders and her arms throwing it on the floor. Her big breasts sagged from their weight and had soft, darker colored nipples. She tried to turn away.

  "Don't do that!" Russ barked. "No fucking black pussy gonna turn away from Russ Dolan."

  He grabbed one of her breasts with his hand and squeezed it until Bess screeched in pain. Russ grinned and stared at the woman, forgetting for a moment the man in the chair. It was the chance Oliver had waited for.

  Oliver came out of his chair like a charging cougar, his hands reaching out like rapiers. In two quick steps he was on the man. His right hand fisted and came down on Oliver's gun wrist like a sledgehammer, slamming the weapon from his fingers. It fell to the floor and the sudden jolt dropped the hammer and the revolver went off. The .44 lead slug smashed into the wall. The sound of the shot in the closed cabin sounded like an artillery piece going off.