Travis

by Georgina Gentry

  The old man shook his head. “There’s specialists back east that could probably operate on it and fix it, but it would cost a lot.”

  “More than a poor lawman has,” Travis grumbled and now he drained the laudanum. “I reckon I’m man enough to face the truth. Do what you can, Doc. Bandage it up so I can go report in to the captain and see what he says.”

  Doc poured alcohol over the wound while Travis gritted his teeth. “Maybe it’ll get better on its own. You can always hope so.”

  “A lawman can’t take chances like that. He can get his partners killed.”

  Doc finished the bandaging, put the arm in a sling. “You looked a little pale, son. I’ll give you some more painkiller and you go get something to eat. Things will look better tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” Travis snapped and stood up. “What do I owe you?”

  “Uh—a dollar.”

  Travis suspected it should be more than that. “I don’t want your pity, Doc.”

  “Pity?” the old man snorted. “Look, you young whippersnapper, you’ve just rid this town of a gunfighter who’s been tearing up this town for a couple of days now. I hope they give you a big reward.”

  “I’m a lawman. I can’t take a reward for doing my job.”

  Doc walked to his medicine cabinet and poured a small bottle, handed it to Travis. “Fifty cents for the laudanum.”

  The drug was already working. The pain had lessened. He fumbled in his pocket for money, took the bottle and started unsteadily for the door.

  “Son, if you don’t feel better tomorrow, come back.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Travis went unsteadily out onto the wooden sidewalk where Growler waited patiently. With his arm tied up in a sling, his mood was worse than his wrist’s throbbing. Old Growler wagged his stubby tail and followed Travis’s uncertain steps.

  Travis thought as he walked. I’m finished as a lawman. What in the hell do I do now? I’m past thirty and have to look for a new job. The ranch can’t carry anyone else, so I can’t go home, although Mom and Dad and my younger brothers would welcome me back.

  Food. He should get some food. He didn’t feel hungry, but he knew his animals were. He walked with unsteady feet to a butcher shop with Growler following along behind and bought some cheap hamburger and then went down to get his horse from the hitching post in front of the saloon.

  He looked at the Appaloosa. No telling how long it had been tied here. He hated to see animals mistreated, so he took its reins along with his own stallion. He didn’t think he’d make it to the livery stable, but he did. Just because he was in bad shape didn’t mean his animals had to suffer. He sat on a hay bale and watched Mouse and Grande’s horse eat the oats in their stalls and fed Growler the meat. He wanted a drink in the worst way. Maybe it would make his wrist stop throbbing. What was the name of that saloon? Oh, yes, the Diamond Horseshoe. But first, he had to wire Captain Shipley.

  After asking directions to the telegraph office, he stumbled toward it, Growler trailing along behind. Once inside, he wondered how to word the wire. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, that he was finished as a Ranger. There was always that small glimmer of hope.

  He licked the tip of the pencil and thought a minute before scrawling awkwardly with his left hand:

  CAPTAIN SHIPLEY, TEXAS RANGERS, WACO, TEXAS. FOLLOWED THE GRANDE KID UP HERE TO KANSAS. STOP. KILLED HIM WHEN HE WOULDN’T SURRENDER. STOP. TAKING A FEW WEEKS OFF BEFORE I COME BACK TO WORK. STOP. MAY RETIRE. WAITING FOR YOUR REPLY. TRAVIS PRESCOTT, TEXAS RANGER.

  He sent it and stood around waiting for a reply. If he was lucky, the captain might be in his office on a Saturday afternoon. While he waited, he took another slug of laudanum. He was in such despair, he didn’t care if he ever got any dinner.

  It was late afternoon when the reply came:

  CONGRATS ON GETTING GRANDE. STOP. WHAT THE H--- ARE YOU DOING IN KANSAS? STOP. HAVE YOU BEEN EATING LOCO WEED? YOU’RE MY BEST RANGER. YOU CAN’T RETIRE. STOP. DON’T KNOW WHY YOU WANT A VACATION, BUT GO AHEAD. STOP. UNTIL I CAN GET YOU A PAYCHECK, SELL GRANDE’S HORSE AND SADDLE TO GET BY. STOP. SINCERELY, MACK SHIPLEY. CAPTAIN, TEXAS RANGERS.

  Of course. Grande’s horse and fancy saddle would bring a pretty penny for someone wanting to make that land run into Indian Territory. On the other hand, why couldn’t he make that run himself? With two fast horses, Travis had a big advantage over the others. He could start his own ranch on that free land. It would be better than going back to Texas with all his pride crushed and letting everyone pity him because he was now crippled and useless. He was much too proud for that.

  The thought of his own ranch cheered him a little. He should go eat something, but what he wanted first was a drink. He turned and strode slowly toward the Diamond Horseshoe, wondering at the same time about that high-pitched scream he had heard during the gunfight.

  He walked unsteadily through the swinging doors, the loud piano blaring at him as he stumbled up to the bar. Around him, men backed away and he heard the whispering: “. . . Texas Ranger . . . yeah, that’s the one. . . . Heard he killed the Grande Kid . . . Jesus! He must be really fast with that Colt. . . . Not so fast the Kid didn’t manage to get a slug in his arm. . . .”

  “Whiskey!” Travis ordered, slamming his left fist on the bar.

  The fat barkeeper looked him over with a slight curl of derision to his lip. “We don’t serve Injuns or half-breeds. There’s a bar for your kind on the outskirts of town.”

  And here it was again. The shame and scorn he’d dealt with all his life. He reached his left hand across the bar as fast as a rattlesnake strikes and grabbed the fat man by the collar, lifting him off the floor. “I said, give me a drink or I’ll wipe up the place with you!”

  He saw the sweat break out on the man’s pale face as the barkeeper looked past him, gesturing helplessly.

  Behind him, a cold voice said, “Frenchie, give the gentleman a drink. After all, he’s a hero.”

  Travis let go of the barkeep, who hurried to get him a glass and bottle. Travis turned slowly to look behind him. The man standing there had a face chiseled from stone and his gun belt hung low. A gunfighter, Travis thought. “Mucho gracias.” He nodded. “You join me?”

  “I’m Slade.” His smile was like a slash in his ugly face as he shook his head. “I never drink with customers.”

  Or maybe not with half-breeds, Travis thought. He shrugged and turned back to the bar as the fat man slid the glass and bottle in front of him. Behind him, he heard the sound of boots echoing over the music as the gunman walked away. “Who is that?”

  Frenchie wiped his hands on his soiled white apron. “Slade? He’s Duke Roberts’s hired gun.”

  “Who’s Duke Roberts?”

  “He owns the place.”

  Travis drained his glass, feeling the bitter whiskey wash down his throat, wondering if he should be mixing alcohol with laudanum. At least it was numbing the pounding pain in his swollen wrist. He poured himself another as the other cowboys and settlers elbowed back up to the bar now that the threat of trouble had vanished.

  Maybe it was the mixture, but now he was feeling pretty good. He leaned against the bar with a sigh and looked around.

  In the distance, he heard the wail of a train whistle. He turned in time to see a man and a girl coming down the stairs. The man wore a fine broadcloth coat and carried a satchel. The brown-haired girl wore gaudy scarlet. Travis only got a quick glance before the couple was lost in the crowd, headed for the swinging doors where the stone-faced gunfighter stood. The three went outside.

  Travis was getting a bit bleary-eyed and swayed on his feet. Take it easy, he warned himself. A drunk can’t defend himself if he has to.

  Not as if he could right now, even if he was sober, he thought bitterly, not with his right wrist in the shape it was in. Travis turned with a questioning look to the barkeep. “Who’s the fancy dude?”

  Frenchie wiped beer mugs with a dirty rag. “Duke, the boss. He’s going to St. Louie to get some
new roulette wheels. Business is really booming with this land run.”

  Travis merely grunted. The whiskey was beginning to slow his pain and he decided he’d better leave before he fell facedown on the floor. He made sure he still had his laudanum as he headed unsteadily out of the saloon. Outside, Growler, who had been patiently waiting for him, greeted him with a wag of his stubby tail.

  Travis bent over to pet him and almost lost his balance. “Well, old fella, I reckon we’d better go see how the horses are doing and try to get a little rest. God knows it’s been a long day.”

  He ambled down the dusty street toward the livery stable with the dog keeping the same pace behind him. He heard some shouting and then some shots, paused, decided it was the local law’s job, kept walking. In the distance he heard the train chugging into town.

  Walking toward the train station with Duke and Slade, Violet turned slightly to see the big Texas Ranger stumble out of the saloon and start down the street. She wondered if he’d make it.

  Duke snapped at her, “What the hell you lookin’ at, Violet?”

  “Nothing.” She turned back around as they walked. “You’ll be back in a week?”

  “I told you that, didn’t I?” he said and made a snide remark to Slade about stupid women.

  Slade laughed. “They’re only good for one thing, Boss.”

  “Well, at least they make me a lot of money, especially this one.” He reached out and familiarly pinched her breast through the low-cut scarlet dress.

  Violet felt her face burn. She was ashamed of working in a saloon, but it was the only life she’d known since she’d been a child on the streets of Memphis.

  A man stepped out from behind a building. Violet looked at him. He was drunk and unsteady on his feet, some poor clod-buster who had come in for the land run. “Hey, you, boss man,” the man yelled and stumbled toward them.

  “He’s drunk, Duke,” she whispered under her breath. “No need of killing him.”

  However, the pair of men with her had already stopped.

  Duke said, “You talking to me, you hick?”

  The red-faced man had a rusty old pistol in his belt and his clothes were faded and ragged. “Yeah, you. I lost all my money at your card table so now I can’t buy supplies to make the run.”

  Duke laughed without mirth. “Farmer, that ain’t my problem. You can’t afford to lose, you should stay away from gambling.”

  People gathered to watch and now Slade had moved around next to the clod-buster as he stopped within a couple of feet of them.

  He was very drunk and had tears running down his face. “You cheap card sharp, you cheated me—”

  “You can’t say that to me!” Duke challenged.

  “Let him go,” Violet whispered under her breath. “He’s drunk, Duke.”

  The diamond horseshoe stickpin on his tie flashed in the sunlight as Duke shook his head. “I’ll overlook it this time. Take that back, clod-buster, and walk away.”

  “I want my money.” The ragged farmer stumbled toward them, very close now.

  She knew it was going to happen, she had seen it before. “No!” she yelled even as the farmer fumbled for his old pistol.

  Slade, standing next to him, knocked the barrel up as the man drew so that the shot went wild and then Duke reached under his fine waistcoat for the Remington derringer he carried and shot the farmer in the heart. The man looked at them with wide eyes, stumbled forward and then fell dead in the street.

  “You seen it!” Duke yelled to the crowd. “The farmer drew first.”

  Everyone nodded and Slade returned to Duke’s side. A curious crowd gathered to look at the body lying in the street as the train chugged into the station behind them.

  “Let’s go,” Duke ordered, shoving the tiny gun back under his fine frock coat, and grabbed Violet by the elbow as they walked. “What the hell you doing shouting out like that? He might have killed me.”

  “That poor clod-buster didn’t have a chance against you and Slade, and you know it.”

  “Hell,” Slade snickered. “Boss, your favorite whore is getting soft.”

  “Aw, she’s just a woman, that’s all.” Duke grinned at her and slapped her bottom familiarly as they walked up on the station platform where the train waited. “Gimme a kiss, doll.” Duke pulled her to him roughly and held her so close, the diamond stickpin in his tie cut into her soft breasts. She let him kiss her because she knew she had to unless she wanted to be slapped around right here in public.

  The train whistled again and Slade took the carpetbags and swung up on the coach. “Come on, Boss.”

  Duke grinned and winked at her. “Now you make me some money while I’m gone, honey, and I’ll bring you something pretty from the big city.”

  “That’ll be nice,” she said without enthusiasm. A plan began to form in her mind. Maybe with Duke and his gunfighter gone, she might figure out how to get away, maybe escape to a new life somewhere. She’d dreamed of it a hundred times. But how? Duke made sure she never had more than a few dollars in her purse. “Bye, Duke.”

  “See you in a week.” The gambler swung up on the coach as the train began to move. Violet waved as the train pulled out and she stood there a long moment, watching it leave the station. She should get back to the Diamond Horseshoe. The evening crowd would be coming in and it was her job to get them to gamble and buy her expensive, watered-down drinks.

  She turned and walked down the length of the platform, thinking wistfully of the big Texas lawman. Now there was a man who looked like he would love and protect his woman. He probably had one waiting for him back in the Lone Star state.

  She rounded a corner and stopped. Sitting on a bench on the now deserted platform were four forlorn children sharing a small bag of crackers. They looked up at her as she paused.

  “Lady, do you want to adopt us?” The oldest, a boy of about eleven, asked. He was bone-thin and held a crutch.

  She shook her head and saw the gloom descend over the four little faces. There was a Chinese boy who might be ten, a red-haired little girl of maybe seven or eight who was chewing her nails, and a small blond girl hardly more than a baby. The blond one began to cry.

  “I’m sorry.” Violet knelt down in front of the quartet. “But I don’t have a home or I’d take you all.”

  The red-haired girl sighed. She had freckles and buck teeth. “Everyone’s got an excuse. No one wants us, we’re all rejects.” She began to chew her nails.

  Violet’s heart melted. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  The Chinese boy said, “Yes, it is. They’re sending us back to the orphanage.”

  The little blond baby began to cry again.

  “Hush, Boo Hoo,” the oldest boy said. “Crying won’t do any good.”

  “You’re going to an orphanage?” Violet asked.

  “Nobody wants us,” said the red-haired girl.

  “I do,” Violet said before she thought and all the children stopped eating crackers and looked up at her with hope in their eyes. Now what? She had no plan and no money to speak of, and was trying to get away herself, yet she couldn’t let these pitiful children be sent to an orphanage. What on earth could she do?

  Chapter 2

  Violet’s mind was busy as she knelt by the children’s bench in her red satin dress. The bright feathers in her hair touched the littlest one’s nose and the child stopped crying and laughed. “Feathers,” she said.

  “No, my name is Violet,” she corrected. “How did you four get here?”

  “Well,” said the little red-haired girl with the buck teeth, “we’re part of an orphan train.”

  “An orphan train?”

  “Yes.” The thin, oldest boy nodded and for the first time, Violet noted one of his legs was shorter than the other. “We got no parents. They gathered us up and put us in an orphanage in New York, and then they put us on a train and brought us west.”

  “Where are your parents?” Violet asked kindly.

  “We don’t
know.” The Chinese boy shrugged. “We’re lost or maybe they’re dead. The train stops at each town and they parade the children and people pick one or two.”

  “But nobody picked us,” said the red-haired girl, “and you can see why.”

  “Nonsense!” Violet said. “You look like great kids to me.”

  “I’m crippled so they call me Limpy,” said the oldest boy, leaning on his crutch. “I wouldn’t be much help on a farm.”

  “I’m Harold,” said the Chinese boy.

  “Harold?”

  “I picked it myself,” he answered proudly. “Nobody wants an Oriental kid. That one there is Kessie.” He pointed to the redhead. “She’s not pretty and she wants to be a suffragist, so nobody wants her.”

  The baby was crying again.

  “Why does she cry?” Violet asked.

  “Nobody knows. Boo Hoo cries all the time,” Limpy put in. “She wets her drawers, too.”

  Violet looked at the little sack of crackers. “Who’s looking after you?”

  “The orphanage people,” Kessie said. “They’ve gone to have a fancy dinner with the town’s mayor. They said they’d be back in time for the late evening train.”

  “Then,” sighed Limpy, “we’ll be headed back east to the orphanage.”

  “Not if I can do anything about it,” Violet said with determination and stood up.

  The three older children looked hopeful and the toddler waved her pudgy hand toward Violet’s head again and stopped crying. “Feathers.”

  What to do? She’d just made a promise she had no idea how to keep, but these four were looking up at her with such hope in their thin, sad faces.

  “Come along with me.” She motioned to them.

  “The orphanage lady told us to sit right here until she came back,” Harold informed her.

  “Well, no, you’re going with me,” Violet said with more determination than she felt.

  “Are you adopting us?” Kessie asked.

  “Well, sort of. Now come along.”

  The children dutifully got up off the bench and followed along behind Violet as she started off the train platform and out into the bustling street. They must make a strange sight, Violet thought as she walked—a saloon girl in bright red satin with scarlet feathers in her hair and four thin, ragged children trailing along behind her.