Silver Moon

by Sigmund Brouwer

  I felt like a kitten wrapped in a ball of yarn.

  Those thoughts tormented me as evening brought dusk upon Denver, and gloom settled upon me where I stood on the hotel veranda and stared without focus at the mountains.

  Because the gloom of the night air matched so closely my thoughts, I told myself there was just cause to walk past the English House. After all, it was the only curiosity it appeared I could satisfy in Denver. To further justify a need to walk past the English House, I reminded myself that I would not go so far as to take a meal inside. Definitely not.

  *********************

  From where I sat in the English House, I was able to survey all the tables and the comings and goings of all the waiters and customers. The corner was dim, and gave me comfort that shadow would hide enough of my face to keep me from her notice.

  As well, I told myself, so many years had passed that she would not recognize me anyway. I’d been nineteen, our last night together. Now, I’d be a passing stranger.

  I tried to escape my thoughts by losing myself in the exquisite tastes of the meal. Roast baby duck. An orange glaze sauce. Tender boiled potatoes spiced with something I couldn’t identify but tasted so good I asked for seconds despite the half-raised eyebrow of the waiter. Half-bottle of wine. Then heavy coffee and chocolate cake with freshed whipped cream.

  It didn’t surprise me that Clara knew what she was doing. She always had.

  I looked plenty around the restaurant as I ate. Watched people come and go in the dim glow of the oil lamps that seemed to burnish the dark wood of the tables. I studied the waiters, imagined conversations they had with Clara. I ate in silence and memorized everything I could about the inside of the restaurant.

  Yet of Clara Lanigan, I had seen no sign.

  I tempted fate by remaining as long as possible, drinking coffee after coffee, musing through memories of Clara, paining myself by comparing them to memories of Rebecca, and in short, making myself as miserable as a man can be alone in a city of thousands.

  When I finally pushed away from the table and creaked my aching leg to an upright position, I was among the last of the restaurant patrons. The last among three, if I were to count, for two men shared a table at the opposite side of the restaurant, and save for them, all tables were empty.

  So much for self discipline.

  Not only had I walked past the English House a half dozen times, not only had I finally taken myself inside for a meal, I had waited almost the entire evening just for a glimpse of Clara.

  I looked for whatever virtue in my actions that I could, and decided I could appease myself that I had least not fallen so far as to enquire after her.

  Once that occurred to me, I looked for a way to fall farther. Except the restaurant was now so empty that I could engage no one in conversation as I slowly walked to the door. I even waited there for a few minutes, on the chance that a waiter might stray among the tables, but the evening had ended. I left the other two men to the silence of the English House and stepped outside to be braced by the cool, September air.

  Here the streets were not as wide as the main streets of the business district. Nor as filled with people.

  Barely a hundred yards from the English House, I turned onto a even narrower and quieter side street. Minutes later, I realized that I was no longer alone. The two men from the restaurant were behind me, speaking to each other in low tones that carried through the night air.

  I thought nothing of it, until I noticed that they had split, so that one walked each side of the street as they followed.

  I quickened my pace as much as my game leg would allow, and they quickened with me.

  I turned once, twice and a third time so that I was almost headed back to the American House.

  They stayed with me.

  What had been my thoughts before my visit to David Girard at the Denver First? Beat the bushes with whatever sticks were at hand. It now appeared I had flushed loose not prey, but hunters.

  Unfortunately, I did not know the streets of Denver well. Had it been possible, I would have let them follow to a spot of my choosing, then confronted them. As it was, I had stupidly led them to one of the quieter, darker streets. And I doubted I could outrun them.

  I consider what action I might best take, until they made the decision for me.

  “Stop right there!” one hailed.

  They were within pistol shooting distance. If I didn’t stop, I might easily get a bullet in the back. All I could do was turn to face them.

  Here on this quiet street, the gas lamps were spread much farther apart. Lights from the windows of nearby buildings were barely more than a glow. The men became advancing shadows.

  They’d made an impression on me at the restaurant — mainly because of size, each hunched over his plate with shoulders as wide as the table. I remembered the greased back hair, the unshaven faces of men too lazy to shave regularly but too vain for beards, and I remembered how their jackets had ridden up their massive bodies as they leaned forward, showing clearly the ivory-handled revolvers at their hips.

  The first man’s voice matched my remembered impressions. Like a boulder rumbling down a rocky mountain creek bed.

  “Boy,” he said as they moved closer, “it’s some dark here, but I can see your hands real good. Back off that six-shooter.”

  I did not.

  “Ever see a shoulder-slung shotgun?” the second man asked.

  They were five steps away now, and I could make out a glint of polished woodstock inside the jacket he held open for my inspection. “The holster swivels real good.” He opened it wider to let me look into a sawed down barrel with its twin, black holes of death. “Fact is, all I got to do is pull the trigger, and pieces of you make it as far as the edge of town.”

  I eased my hand back.

  A horse and buggy approached, the clatter of hooves an echo on the night-quieted street.

  “Not that, boy,” the first man said, catching my quick glance in that direction. “Make a move or yell, and you’re dead.”

  I had been tensed to jump and roll.

  The buggy passed. My tension and fear did not.

  “You show considerable sense,” the first man said. He moved to within striking distance and stopped, big enough that I was in his shadow. He faced me with his feet apart, hands on hips, and a disturbing amount of confidence. It probably aided him, knowing he had at his elbow a partner with that shotgun swivelled to point directly at my heart.

  If they wanted me dead here, I was. No time to draw. No place to hide. No place to run, even if I could with my bum leg.

  Still, I intended to do my best to make him pay if he wished to work me over. I watched the first man’s shoulders; my first signal of that intention would come not from his hands, but from a shifting of those larger muscles.

  He said nothing for a few moments.

  Distant shouts reached us, as if somewhere a fight had spilled from a saloon.

  I said nothing back. I was scared plenty — the two of them together seemed like they’d outweigh a bull buffalo. If that weren’t enough reason to be scared, I could remind myself that buffalos, at least, were stupid and didn’t carry enough firepower to blow holes through brickwalls.

  Fear, however, usually leads me to anger. I hate fear and anything that brings it upon me. As they watched me and breathed deep breaths of anticipation and satisfaction, I began to rage at how I’d been backed into a corner of their making.

  “Cat got your tongue?” the first man finally asked.

  I measured the distance between him and me. I almost hoped he’d make a move. Anything to block the shotgun.

  “Hey boy, cat got your tongue?” he said.

  “Don’t appear that talking will do me much good,” I said. “And sooner or later you’ll get around to the whyfores of stopping a stranger on the streets.”

  “Stranger?” the first one snorted. “Samuel Keaton, you ain’t no stranger. Not the marshal that guns snakes out of mid air.” He lau
ghed, then continued. “That’s why we’s paying you the compliment of such close attention now.”

  “That’s right,” the second man said. He motioned with the shotgun. “Real close attention. So move slow when we tell you to turn around. Move too quick, you’re dead where you stand.”

  “Take my billfold here and now,” I said, “it’ll save us both a pile of grief.”

  I moved to reach for it. Froze at the click of a revolver’s hammer drawn back.

  He’d drawn plenty fast, the man without the shotgun. His revolver was almost lost in that giant hand, what I saw of the weapon told me I couldn’t do anything more ill-considered than continue to reach for my billfold.

  Frozen, I watched too for the muzzle flash, as if my mind could actually register it before a half-inch chunk of lead tore out my guts and my life. A couple of heartbeats later, I realized the bullet would not arrive. I allowed myself a breath. Wondered how loud it sounded to these two.

  I could certainly pat myself on the back if I chose to believe that this was progress, staring into a revolver and a shotgun on a dark street somewhere in the heart of Denver. His lack of interest in my bank notes confirmed for me that the day’s stick beating had indeed flushed something loose.

  I guessed, too, they did not want me dead. At least not in a hurry. Otherwise it would have happened by now.

  “Did Leakey send you?” I asked. “Is he sore ’cause I got Brian Scott searching the deeds to the mine?”

  “My friend told you to move on, slow.” This, a growl of impatience from the first man.

  “Not Leakey? How about Girard?”

  The man without the shotgun sighed. A deliberate theatrical sigh, somewhat ridiculous for someone his size. I kept that opinion to myself.

  He holstered his revolver as he paced several steps away from me. He reached behind his back with his right hand. When his hand reappeared, it held something that in the darkness I decided was the handle and coiled leather of a bullwhip.

  “Easy money ain’t ever easy, is it Red?” the man with the bullwhip said.

  Red laughed, a taunt of evil delight. “Hardly ever at all. It appears this might get you in a sweat after all.”

  My own sweat grew that much colder. Bullwhackers never actually strike their teams, for the violence of exploding air above the oxen is sufficient in its promise — a man who knows how to snap a bullwhip is capable of tearing leather off the hide of an ox. A flick of the wrist is all that is needed for a bullwhacker to rip an eye loose from man or beast.

  Neither would it be accidental or lucky for the end of the whip to strike that eye. A bullwacker’s favorite past time at rest stops or campfires — especially with green horns new to the trail— is to set a stake loosely in the ground. The coin to be gambled is placed on top of the stake. If the bullwhacker can use the whip to knock the coin off without disturbing the stake, the bullwhacker wins the bet. If the stake moves, the bullwacker loses the bet. Most often, I’ve seen the greenhorns lose.

  Watching him raise his hand, I grimly realize one other thing. He didn’t have a need to be that accurate to inflict punishment. As with a bullet, anywhere on the body, or near the body for that matter, is close enough to get plenty of attention.

  Another carriage and team reached the edge of my vision as it approached from the far end of the street. I could not have said whether it was a one-horse team, or eight. I had eyes only for the snapping of the man’s wrist and arm. Air exploded within inches of my ear.

  The second man laughed again. He’d seen this before.

  Another crack of torn air. This on the other side of my head, so close, that against my will, I ducked.

  He gave me time to relax after I straightened.

  “You might be ready to listen now,” he said, “but I’m worried you might show spunk later. Maybe a taste of this whip will learn you against that.”

  He feinted a hand move.

  I grunted, fully expecting the terror of that whip against me.

  He feinted again. I could not stop myself from another grunt.

  Red laughed. “This is better than watching a cat with a mouse!”

  Red’s partner agreed. He dropped his arm slightly, as if readying himself to coil the whip, then with his own grunt, threw himself into the next whipping motion, a lash that ripped me across my wounded thigh with such force that I fell to my hands and knees.

  I couldn’t even draw wind to gasp. I tried to push myself up.

  The second man kicked me in my ribs. “Softened up yet? Ready to move along?”

  He stepped back before I could lift myself from the ground, giving me plenty of room as I fought back to my feet.

  I knew then I had no hope. An inexperienced man in alley brawls would have stood over me as I rose. Big or not, these two were showing that they depended less on size, and more on not making mistakes.

  The whip lashed at me again. Same leg. Same results of seared skin.

  I heard a moan, and dimly wondered at the strangeness of the cry until I realized it was mine.

  “He’ll listen now, Red.”

  “Get walking, boy.” The second man motioned with the shotgun for me to step along.

  I did. At considerable cost because of the messages delivered by my leg, the burning welts across my thigh, and my boot-softened ribs.

  Ten steps later — counting was the only way in my pain to force one foot in front of the other — salvation arrived in the voice of a woman who’d left me on a moonless night nearly fifteen years earlier.

  Chapter 32

  Her voice came from the interior of the carriage as it stopped alongside the three of us.

  “Gentleman,” she said. “I wish to interrupt.”

  We three turned to the sound of her voice. The carriage had an oil lamp set in an iron ring on its side, and while the interior of the carriage was as dark as the night around us, the lamp showed clearly a rifle barrel resting on the sill of the carriage window.

  “Red, she’s got me covered.” The man with the bullwhip edged sideways to give Red a better view. It put Red at the corner of a triangle. The rifle from the carriage at the second point. Me at the other.

  Red shifted his shotgun to the new threat as his partner cleared the path to allow him a clean shot at the carriage. That was his mistake, taking the extra second to wait. Had he fired without warning as she first spoke, the carriage would have been shredded, and he would have had time to swivel the shotgun back again in my direction.

  But he’d taken his eyes and his shotgun off me, and his partner was now only armed with a bullwhip. I drew my Colt with a slap of leather and a click of hammer that told him better than words that he’d made the mistake.

  “No, you don’t,” I said, total focus on the shotgun and any possible movement. “So much as flinch, you’re dead.”

  “Dead twice,” another voice called. Clara’s driver, from behind the reins of the carriage. “I’m riding shotgun up here, too.”

  “Hands on your head,” I said. “Slow.”

  Red obeyed.

  “Watch the man with the bullwhip,” I said to the driver as I hobbled several steps to stand behind Red. “He’s blue lightning with that six-shooter.”

  The driver chuckled. “Not when he’s dropping the holster at his feet and kicking it away.”

  Red’s partner took the hint.

  I placed the barrel of my Colt against the back of Red’s skull, and with my free hand reached around to pull loose his shotgun. I stepped clear, and instructed him to drop his own holster.

  “I’d like to see them on their stomachs,” I said to the driver as I cocked Red’s shotgun. “Hands clasped on their necks.”

  They hesitated.

  “I’m not a top hand with a bullwhip, gentlemen,” I told them. “But I have had some practice, and am not adverse to more.”

  Slowly, each dropped to knees, then onto stomach. Only then did I risk another glance at the carriage.

  Clara’s rifle remained where it was.
She’d been silent since first speaking, and I wondered if I had imagined it was her voice.

  Her driver spoke before I could ask. “I’ll scare up some law if you want.”

  “No,” I said after a few moments consideration. “I’d just as soon shoot them and call it self defence. That is, if you’re disposed to standing in court as an impartial witness.”

  “I could do that,” the driver said. “Best ask them to turn over, though. Self-defense is tough to support if they’ve been back shot.”

  I allowed myself another glance. This one upward to the driver. All I saw was the outline of a man sitting on the buckboard, reins loose in his hands.

  I looked down at the prone men. “You heard him,” I said. “Roll over. Unless you’d care to tell me who sent you.”

  “Don’t know his name,” Red told me.

  “Roll over.”

  “He didn’t tell us,” Red insisted. Fear tinged his voice. “He just gave us money. Told us to work you over good. Rope you even better. Take you to a mine shack outside of town. Guard you till he shows up.”

  “Roll over.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Red’s partner said. “We’re hired guns. We don’t care none about who paid us. We’d tell you if we could.”

  “Hired guns. How much you ask?”

  “He offered us $500 each. Half up front. Half on delivery.”

  “Was he wearing snakeskin boots?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” Red told me. “We had a message to meet him in a livery after sundown. He stayed in a horse stall. Made it so we couldn’t see his face, let alone his boots.”

  I was conscious of the dark, silent interior of the carriage and who might be inside.

  Yet I was equally conscious that these two were what I’d flushed loose. I couldn’t walk away from them.

  “Show me the money,” I told them. Only if the driver started moving the carriage, would I worry about losing the woman inside. “Take your time. I’ll be watching for pocket guns and fancy moves.”