Badlanders

by David Robbins

  “Don’t start with Mother again,” Isolda said. “You can’t wallow in grief forever.”

  “Isolda!” Edana exclaimed.

  “Oh, hush,” Isolda said. “Father knows I’m right. It’s been seven years. She’s gone and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Gone, but never forgotten,” Alexander said. “We’ll always have our memories of her. She lives on in our hearts.”

  “There you go again,” Isolda said. “You’re too sentimental by half.”

  “And you’re not sentimental enough.” Edana came to their father’s defense. “Would it hurt you to admit that you miss her as much as we do?”

  “Who are you to talk about emotions? You’re an iceberg inside.”

  “Isolda,” Alexander said.

  “Well, she is,” Isolda said petulantly. “Everyone knows it. She keeps everything bottled up. She always has, even before Mother died.”

  “That will be enough,” Alexander said. “We’re starting a new life in a new land. Let’s not bring up old disagreements.”

  “Is that what you call them? But very well.” Isolda looked out the window on her side. “As for this new land, I can’t say I’m as entranced as she is. When you’ve seen one patch of dirt, you’ve seen them all.”

  Alexander sighed. He had long marveled at how unlike his daughters were. The same father, the same mother, yet they had so little in common. Edana was practical to a fault, and as her sister intimated, usually as emotionless as a rock. Isolda, on the other hand, wore her emotions on her sleeve, and was hotheaded, as well. All were traits neither he nor his wife possessed to any great degree. It mystified him how children could turn out so unlike their parents.

  “What do you think of the Badlands, Father?” Edana asked.

  Alexander considered a moment. “They have an unusual . . . beauty . . . about them that I find most compelling.”

  “Did you really just say ‘beauty’?” Isolda said.

  “Quit teasing him,” Edana scolded. “I happen to agree.”

  Isolda shook her head in disbelief. “What’s gotten into the two of you? Father is always all business, and you wouldn’t know beauty if it bit you on the hind end.”

  “Isolda!” Alexander said sternly.

  “Well, she wouldn’t.”

  Alexander turned to the window. It troubled him that they seemed to have more petty arguments of late. Secretly, he blamed Isolda. His younger daughter had become too temperamental. She acted bored half the time, and was sarcastic toward everyone about nearly everything. He didn’t know what to do. He hoped it was a phase and nothing more.

  Moments like these, he sorely missed his wife. She knew how to relate to the girls better than he did. Whenever Isolda acted up when she was little, it was his wife who invariably calmed her down and got her to behave.

  It was rough, being a man and raising two girls. He did the best he could but secretly fretted that he didn’t do enough. It didn’t help that he was kept so busy at his job that they hardly ever did anything outside of their work.

  Troubled, Alexander gazed out at the scenery.

  The vistas beyond the carriage soothed him somewhat. The many buttes, with their flat tops and sheer sides sometimes splashed deep red by the sun, were spectacular. No less so were the mesas, towering tablelands of sandstone or limestone or basalt. In addition, there were rock spires and stone monoliths of all different sizes and shapes. All of that interspersed with tracts of prairie grass and verdant valleys.

  The Badlands were a fascinating riot of diversity.

  Just then the driver hollered down, “About a mile to Whiskey Flats. Just over the next rise.”

  “Nice of him to let us know,” Edana said.

  “I told him to,” Alexander said, and grinned. “So you two can fuss with your hair or whatever it is you do.”

  “What is this place like?” Isolda asked. “This Whiskey Flats?” She said the name mockingly.

  “In his last letter Mr. Wells wrote that I might be pleasantly surprised,” Alexander replied. “But to answer you, I’d warrant it’s a typical frontier town. I only pray it has a church. Without one, vice tends to run rampant. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Do tell,” Isolda teased.

  “Behave yourself,” Alexander said. “Especially when we arrive. We must make a good first impression.”

  “Or what? People will talk about us behind our backs?”

  “Isolda, please,” Edana said.

  “Oh, posh to you.”

  “The other thing I should mention,” Alexander said, “is that Mr. Wells warned us to be on our guard.”

  “Against what?” Edana asked.

  “He wasn’t specific. He merely mentioned that we shouldn’t expect the same civility we’re accustomed to back East.”

  “I know,” Isolda said, and grinned. “Maybe he was warning us to watch out for all that rampant vice.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Alexander said.

  5

  Whiskey Flats wasn’t what Isolda Jessup had expected. The few towns they’d passed through south of the Badlands had been little more than sleepy hamlets, and that was being charitable. The people were slovenly and unkempt, the buildings dirty and run-down. As the stage rolled into Whiskey Flats, she poked her head out, expecting more of the same, took one wondering look, and said in delight, “Oh my.”

  “What?” Edana stuck her head out, too, careful to put a hand over her hair to keep it from being mussed by the wind. “‘Oh my’ is right.”

  Alexander turned and looked out. “Well, now. This isn’t at all as Franklyn Wells told me it would be.”

  Whiskey Flats bustled with life and vitality. The main street had been lengthened, and the frame buildings that lined it stood two and in some instances three stories tall. Several saloons were slaking the thirst of those who couldn’t do without liquor. A general store sat on one corner. There was a millinery with a sign written in pink letters and a blacksmith’s attached to a livery stable.

  “I thought Mr. Wells told you there was one saloon and not much else,” Edana said.

  “He did mention it had grown once the construction on the ranch started,” Alexander said. “And that it would grow even more once the cattle arrived, which they have. But still.”

  “I like what I see,” Isolda said. From the rustic population to a lot of men walking around with guns, to dogs and pigs and chickens being allowed to run about as they pleased, the place had a wild atmosphere that appealed to her.

  “It’s very unorganized,” Edana noted.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Isolda said, and laughed.

  The driver had to yell at a few people to get out of the way. It seemed that everyone felt they could walk down the middle of the street if they so pleased, or stand talking and force riders and wagons to go around.

  “These people have no manners,” Edana said.

  “Now, now, sister,” Isolda said. “We left culture east of the Mississippi. Out here it’s life in the raw.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Alexander said.

  “Like what?”

  “About things being raw. It’s unseemly for a lady.”

  “Oh, Father,” Isolda said, and laughed again.

  Their stagecoach came to a stop near the livery stable. The driver jumped down and opened the door, announcing, “We’ve arrived, folks.”

  “Are you sure?” Isolda said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Isolda, behave,” Alexander said. He waited while they descended, then climbed out and bent his legs a few times to relieve the stiffness from sitting for so long. “Quite the town they have here.”

  The driver, a middle-aged man with a paunch and a trick eye that twitched a lot, nodded. “They say there’s a shootin’ or a knifin’ at least once a month.”

 
“Where did you hear that?”

  The man shrugged. “Drivers hear all sorts of things. Whiskey Flats is part of my regular run. It ain’t often someone hires a stage for private, like you done.”

  “What a wonderful idiom you use,” Isolda said.

  “Ma’am?” the driver said.

  “Pay her no mind,” Alexander said. He looked up and down the street. “I suppose our first order of business is to get word to the ranch that we’ve arrived so they can send someone to pick us up.”

  “You’re bound for the Diamond B, I take it?” the driver said.

  “I’ve been hired to run it,” Alexander informed him. “How about if I hire you to ride out and have them send a wagon for us and our bags?”

  “Sorry, mister. I don’t have the time to spare.” The driver turned to the back of the stage. “I have to get on to the next town.”

  “How long does it take to reach the ranch from here?” Alexander asked.

  “I hear it’s about three hours by wagon,” the driver said. “Sooner if you ride. Find yourself a local and they’ll do it for a dollar.”

  “I could ride out and have them send a wagon,” Edana offered.

  “Or we can hire a wagon and go ourselves,” Isolda said.

  The driver shook his head. “Not if you have a brain, you won’t. Where do you reckon you are, anyhow? St. Louis?”

  “How dare you talk to us like that!” Isolda bristled. She never could let an insult pass.

  “All I’m sayin’ is that you’d better take a look around. A good look. You see many females in the streets? You do not. But you will see a lot of cat-eyed gents who have no more respect for womanhood than they do anything else.”

  “Is that your way of saying they’re godless ruffians?” Alexander said.

  “They ain’t saints.” The driver started unloading.

  “Colorful, isn’t he?” Isolda said.

  “Perhaps we should take his advice and stroll about,” Alexander proposed. “Ascertain for ourselves what the place is really like.”

  “I could stand to stretch my legs,” Edana said.

  Isolda strolled slowly, amused by much of what she saw. Men spitting tobacco juice. Men scratching themselves where no man should touch in public. And the profanity. She saw a dog lift its leg at a hitch rail.

  “Barbaric,” Edana said.

  “I agree,” Alexander said. “These people are unbelievably crude. It’s as if they don’t care what others think of them.”

  “I like it,” Isolda said.

  “You don’t mean that,” Edana said.

  “But I do,” Isolda insisted. “When have I ever cared what anyone thought about me? I only have because Father and you made me. But this”—and she gestured at the whirl of activity—“is me.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Alexander said. “Your mother was always a proper lady, and so are you.”

  They came abreast of the Three Aces. Through the front window they could see it was packed, even though it was only the middle of the day. Boisterous babble and mirth spilled out, along with the tinkle of glasses and the tinny music of a piano.

  “Who says this place doesn’t have culture?” Isolda said.

  Alexander was about to walk on when the batwings slammed open and out stalked three men. All three wore wide-brimmed hats and revolvers. One of them wore two with ivory grips. They hadn’t shaved in days, and they were in need of baths.

  The man wearing two revolvers had a scar on his left cheek. Stopping short, he leered at Edana and Isolda. “Look at this, boys. What do we have here?”

  “My daughters,” Alexander said coldly.

  The man with the scar came off the boardwalk. He looked Edana and Isolda up and down, a lustful gleam in his eyes. “You two fillies are right pretty.”

  Isolda looked him up and down and imitated him, saying, “And you, you randy goat, are right ugly.”

  The man with the scar grinned. “I like a sassy gal. They’re more fun under a blanket.”

  “Now, see here,” Alexander said, moving between them. “I told you they’re my daughters.”

  The man blinked as if surprised. “So?”

  “So you’ll treat them with respect, you obscene specimen.”

  “What did you just call me?”

  The other two sauntered over on either side of their companion. One was lanky, with a hooked nose and big ears. The other had bulging eyes and a froglike aspect enhanced by his bulbous lips.

  It was the lanky one who snickered and said, “He called you a specimen, Scar. I heard him clear as day.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?” said the frog.

  Alexander half turned to Isolda and Edana. “Come along,” he said, but before they could take a step, the man called Scar barred their way.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, mister. Not until you explain what you just called me.”

  “I won’t be treated like this,” Alexander said. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “You’re mud,” said the lanky one.

  The frog chuckled and said, “Good one, Grat.”

  “Well, he is, Tuck,” Grat said.

  Isolda had listened to enough. She refused to be treated so shabbily. Especially by men who appeared barely intelligent enough to know their right hand from their left. Moving past her father, she poked Scar in the chest. “Now, see here. You’ll leave us be and go about your own business or there will be hell to pay. You hear me?”

  Scar didn’t act the least bit concerned. Or mad. Instead he laughed and said, “Listen to her, boys. This gal has got a lot of spunk. I like that almost as much I like sass.”

  “She’s a cow,” Grat said. “A cow with spunk, but still.”

  “What did you just call her?” Alexander said.

  “Let’s go find the marshal,” Edana proposed. “He’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”

  The one called Tuck snorted. “Shows how dumb you are, lady. There ain’t any tin stars in Whiskey Flats.”

  “What?” Edana said.

  “There’s ain’t no law, you stupid woman,” Tuck said.

  “Don’t talk to my sister like that,” Isolda said. She was simmering inside. “It makes me mad.”

  “What will you do?” Scar said. “Take a swing at us.”

  He and the others laughed.

  “If she doesn’t, I might,” Beaumont Adams said from the doorway of the Three Aces. Pushing through the batwings, he strolled out. He was dressed in his frock coat and white shirt with a string tie and a pair of polished boots. His black hat was low over his brow, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

  Scar scowled. “Stay out of this, gambler.”

  “Why, Mr. Scar Wratner, how rude of you,” Beaumont said jokingly. “Would that I could, but these are my premises.” He smiled at Isolda and Edana. “I was lookin’ out the window and couldn’t help noticing the predicament you ladies are in.”

  “What’s a predicament?” Tuck asked.

  “It means trouble,” Grat said.

  “Why in hell does everybody around here use big words?” Tuck said.

  “It’s not that our words are so big,” Beaumont said. “It’s that your brain is so puny.”

  Isolda laughed.

  “You shouldn’t ought to stick your nose where it’s not wanted,” Scar Wratner warned him.

  “I’ll stick it where I please,” Beaumont said. “You’d be well advised to light a shuck while you still can.”

  Scar lowered his hands to his sides so they brushed his Smith & Wessons. “Are you threatenin’ us, gambler man?”

  “Perish forfend,” Beaumont said. “It’s not me you have to worry about. It’s the quick-draw artist who works for this gentleman here.”

  “Do I know you?” Alexander asked.


  “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the new boss of the Diamond B,” Beaumont said. “Mr. Jessup, isn’t it? And these would be your girls. Franklyn Wells mentioned you on his last visit. He likes to stop in and wet his whistle.”

  “What quick-draw artist were you talkin’ about?” Grat asked, his hand hanging near a nickel-plated Remington.

  “You boys really ought to get the lay of the land before you go around annoyin’ folks,” Beaumont said. “Annoy the wrong one and he’s liable to squish you.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about, mister?” Tuck said. “How did squishin’ get into this?”

  “It’s what he likes to do, I hear.”

  “Who?”

  “Who have we been talkin’ about?” Beaumont said. “The gun hand. I heard him with my own ears. He likes to squish things.”

  “You’re makin’ no kind of sense,” Scar Wratner said. “Go back inside and have your fun with your customers.”

  “And miss the fireworks? Not on your life.” Beaumont leaned against a post and folded his arms. “I might finally get to see how good he is. I’ve been wonderin’ since I first set eyes on the gent.”

  “On who?” Tuck practically snarled.

  “And you called this lovely lady dumb?” Beaumont said. “She has more brains in her little finger than you do between your ears.”

  “Don’t start on my brain again,” Tuck said, his jaw twitching.

  “What was that about finally seein’ how good this gun shark of yours is?” Grat said.

  “I keep tellin’ you. He’s not mine. He rides for the Diamond B. He’s pards with the foreman, and gossip has it he’s bucked more than a few gents out, permanent, down to Texas. Neither he nor the foreman take any guff, so this should be doubly interestin’.”

  “What, consarn you?” Tuck said in exasperation.

  “The gun battle,” Beaumont said.

  “We’ll have one with you if you don’t come clean,” Scar declared.

  Beaumont smiled. “That gun shark and that foreman I just told you about?” He nodded up the street. “Here they come, and they don’t look any too happy. Now, why do you suppose that is?”

  Isolda laughed.