by John Legg
“A point well-made and well taken.” Flake winced as a pinch of pain nipped at his arm.
“And if all you brought were them four mules, you’re a damn fool, pardonin’ my language again.”
“That was one area in which we were quite prepared. We had two teams of six each.”
“You lost eight mules this close to the settlements?” Rhodes asked incredulously.
“Not quite,” Flake said, irritated. He sighed. “We were set upon by some men the day before yesterday, a few miles back.”
“Set upon?”
“Yes,” Flake said dryly. “Three men came along. As all good people would, we invited them to join us in our evening repast.” He shrugged, annoyed at it having happened. “When Brother Hickman and I had our backs turned, they drew their pistols and...well, damn it all, we were caught flatfooted.” Food was ready, and the three women began doling it out on tin plates. Rhodes took his and went right to eating. The others looked at him with annoyance or surprise. Rhodes realized they were all looking at him. He stopped and swallowed the mouthful. “Sorry, folks, I ain’t much a one for sayin’ of grace and such.”
Flake nodded, but he was clearly annoyed. Still, he said grace quickly, thanking God for the bountiful food they had, and for having sent Rhodes to save them from the Lammanites. Rhodes was glad he wasn’t eating at the moment when Flake said that; he would have choked for sure.
Moments later, they were all eating. As they did, the elderly woman, Eliza, asked, “What church do you belong to, Mr. Rhodes?”
“Don’t have a church,” Rhodes said flatly, knowing that would annoy his hosts even more. It couldn’t be helped.
“You should, you know,” Eliza said.
“So I’ve been told,” Rhodes said dryly. “But I never had much use for a church.” He almost smiled, knowing the consternation that would rise. “Don’t get me wrong now,” he added. “I believe in the Almighty. I just don’t think God gives a hoot for how much time we spend in a church, or how much time we spend listening to speechifying and all. I think he’ll look upon us all in His own good time and judge us by the way we’ve lived our lives.”
“And you think you will gain entrance to Heaven this way, Mr. Rhodes?” Flake asked.
Rhodes shrugged. “That’s up to the Almighty. I expect, though, that I’ve got more of a chance for it than some I’ve known.” He smiled ruefully. “Reckon there’s a heap of other folks out there that’ve got some advantage on me there, too.”
Rhodes finished eating and set the plate aside. “A fine meal, ma’am,” he said to Eliza. “I ain’t ate so well in a long time.” He wanted to change the topic, having learned a long time ago that arguing about religion was a dangerous thing.
Eliza nodded and smiled. “Minerva helped a considerable lot.” She pointed to one of the two younger women.
“I’m obliged, ma’am,” Rhodes said, looking briefly in her direction. She was a beautiful young woman, maybe twenty-two or so. Her skin was pale and flawless and she was quite shapely. Rhodes had started to remember some things that his army friend had told him about these Mormons, now that he recollected what they were. His friend had told him that these people were known to marry more than one woman. Rhodes wondered if that was the case here, and if so, who was married to who. Then he figured it did not matter, and he let it drop.
“So,” Rhodes said in the gap of silence that had formed, “what’d these three fellas who got the drop on you do?”
“Stole some of our belongings,” Hickman said sourly.
Rhodes was surprised that Hickman had been the one to respond. “That all?” he asked. There had to be more to this, he figured.
“They were about to take indecent liberties with the women, but apparently they wanted some of the devil’s drink before they lingered a while,” Flake said. “When they learned that we had none, they grew quite angry. I was sure they were about to kill us all. Indeed, they even gave Brother Hickman a good thump on the head.”
Rhodes looked at Hickman. “No wonder you weren’t fond of smother stranger comin’ into your camp, Mr. Hickman.”
Hickman scowled and said nothing.
“Anyway, they headed off with eight of the mules and our one saddle horse.”
“It doesn’t make sense for them to ride off and leave you alive,” Rhodes said bluntly.
“I am aware of that, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake said. “We, too, thought we would be killed. But then one of them—he seemed to be the leader—told his two cronies to leave us alone, that we wouldn’t get far with only a brace of mules for each wagon. The Injuns would get us, he said. Or the weather.”
“I reckon they were right about that.”
Flake nodded. “All too true, Mister Rhodes.” He sighed. “Yesterday morning, we hooked all four mules to Brother Hickman’s wagon and brought it this far. I left Brother Hickman, Mrs. Hickman, Aunt Minerva, and three of the children here. Mother Eliza and the other children were waiting with our wagon back at the other place. I walked the mules back there, hitched up my wagon, and brought us to here.”
“That’s a hell of a way to make your way west,” Rhodes said. He was impressed at the group’s determination.
“It is that,” Flake said. “But we have no other choice. We must make what progress we can.” Rhodes was silent for a few moments, thinking. Then he said quietly, “Maybe I can help you folks a little.”
“How?” Flake asked, surprised.
“There’s got to be a way station or trading post or something not too far from here. It was four days’ ride from the last one. You and me can ride on ahead to try to find it.”
“And the others?”
“They can stay here with the wagons.”
“That will be dangerous.”
“You’re not in danger now?” Rhodes asked rhetorically.
“Another telling point, Mr. Rhodes.”
Rhodes nodded. “Mr. Hickman can hitch the mules daily while we’re gone, two to each, and haul the wagons a little ways, maybe a couple miles, with plenty of rest.”
Flake nodded again. “That would bring them a little closer to us.”
“Yessir.”
“But how will I get there?” Flake suddenly asked. “You can ride that Indian pony we took.”
Flake smiled. “What do you think, Phineas?” he asked.
“I’m not so sure I endorse such a thing. I’ll have my hands full with the wagons, and won’t have time to look out for everyone else.”
“That could be a problem,” Flake agreed. He thought a little, then asked, “Could we also use your mule, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I expect. Why?”
“I’d be in your debt—again—if we could take Mother Eliza and maybe one or two of the smaller children.”
“She’d have to ride astride,” Rhodes said. “Unless you have a sidesaddle.”
“We do.”
Rhodes nodded.
Chapter Seven
They left just after first light, setting a fairly speedy pace. Rhodes did not want to wear out the animals. Slowing them a little was the fact that his mule carried the formidably-sized Eliza Flake as well as five-year-old Heber Hickman. Six-year-old Hyrum Flake rode behind Rhodes. The Indian pony carrying Hyrum’s father was acting up, not sure it wanted this fairly large, strange-smelling man on its back.
An hour out, Rhodes stopped and gave Flake his horse and he took the Indian pony. With his size and strength, Rhodes could better control the fractious animal.
Shortly after noon, they topped a rise and saw a small trading post half a mile or so off. As they neared it, Flake said, “There’re our mules.” He pointed to the corral.
Rhodes stopped. “I’ve dealt with these kind of people before, Mr. Flake,” he said. “Most of ’em’d rob their mothers for a buck. There’s no way in Heaven or Hell that man down there’s going to give you those mules.”
“I’ll have to buy them?” Flake asked. It seemed almost a bigger injustice than having the animals stolen in
the first place.
Rhodes nodded.
“All right,” Flake agreed. He might be offended at the thought, but he was smart enough to know he would get nothing but trouble if he tried to tell the trading post owner that they were his mules. Even if the man was honest, he most likely would have given out cash or supplies to whoever had stolen them. It would be unfair to expect the trader to take the loss.
They stopped and loosened all the saddles and let the animals drink. Then they all went inside. The place was much like the other one Rhodes had stopped at. It was small, dank, and malodorous, though this one was a little brighter, since there were two windows in the sod building. The windows were covered with oiled paper.
“What can I do for you folks?” a middle-aged man asked. He was of medium height and bald, and he wore ill-fitting wool garments. A large bulbous nose blazed proudly above a scruffy mustache. A pace behind him and to each side stood a young man, evidently the owner’s sons. They were taller than their father and considerably bulkier. They had their arms crossed over their chests and made quite a formidable pair.
“We need some mules, Mr…?” Flake said.
“Clem Waters at your service.” He grinned vacuously. “You say you need mules, eh? Well, we got some. Big, strong ones they are, too. So good, they’re going to cost a bit more than one might expect.” Waters tried to sound apologetic, but it rang false.
Flake nodded. “While we’re inside, Mr. Waters, we will need some other supplies.”
“Sure, sure. We got anything you want.”
While Flake was getting his supplies, Rhodes beckoned one of the sons. The young man strutted over, trying to impress Rhodes, who thought it laughable.
“What chu want, boy?” the young man asked with a sneer.
“What’s your name?” Rhodes asked politely.
“Billy.”
Rhodes nodded. “I took an interest in one of your horses, there, Billy. I’d be obliged if you’d help me take a look at him.”
“Sure.” The sneer seemed to be permanently implanted on the young man’s lips. He walked outside, with Rhodes right on his heels. Just after turning right, heading for the corral a few feet away, Rhodes slammed a strong punch into Billy’s kidney.
Billy groaned and staggered forward a few paces, stopping against the log fence of the corral. Rhodes stepped up behind him, grabbed the back of Billy’s neck. He lifted the young man’s head back, and then slammed his face into the top of an upright fence post.
Billy sagged, and grasped the fence for support. He turned his head and looked at Rhodes with pain-dulled eyes. His pulpy, fat nose trickled blood, and he spit out two teeth. “Jesus, God Almighty,” he said, the words whistling through the new gap in his teeth. “What in hell you go and do that fer?”
“To get your attention. Now that I’ve got it, you might be of a mood to listen.”
“Wha—”
Rhodes shook his head. He yanked Billy around to face him. Then he pulled Billy’s two pistols and dropped them in a water trough. “How much did your old man pay for those mules?” he asked roughly.
“Seventy-five apiece,” Billy said. His brain was dizzied by the pain and shock.
“Who brought ’em?”
“Couple of fellers.”
“Two?”
“Yeah,” Billy said, nodding. “No, no, it was three.”
“You know ’em?”
“Seen ’em before but don’t know their names. Mitch knows ’em.”
“Mitch?”
“My brother.”
“You know where they were headin’?”
Billy shook his head. Suddenly he spun. Leaning over the fence, he vomited.
“Shit,” Rhodes breathed. He shrugged and went back inside. Flake and Clem Waters were still dickering over things, while Eliza tried to ride herd on the two children. “Hey, Mitch,” Rhodes said in his friendly voice. “Billy says he needs your help.” Mitch strutted to the door, looking like a slightly older version of his brother. He stepped outside, spotted his brother and began to turn back, a curse on his lips.
Rhodes had seen a barrel of ax handles just inside the door. As he walked out behind Mitch, he grabbed one. When Mitch began to turn, Rhodes waited until he was just about all the way around before he slapped Mitch a good shot in the forehead with the piece of hickory.
Mitch fell sideways, and managed to stab out an arm and brace himself on the sod wall of the store.
Rhodes brought the ax handle back and then two-handed it across Mitch’s side, staving in five, maybe six ribs.
Mitch bit his lip and a few tears of pain seeped out of his eyes. He turned and let his back slam against the wall and whimpered as the slight impact jarred all the cracked ribs.
“I have no time for foolin’ around with you, boy,” Rhodes said calmly. “Who’d your old man buy those mules from?”
“Clyde Laver,” Mitch gasped, hands wrapped around his middle, trying to prevent his ribs from moving any more.
“Who else?”
“Um, I...Damn, this hurts, mister. Why in hell’d you have to do that?”
“Felt like it,” Rhodes lied. “Who else?”
“Floyd Decker and Orson Mackey.”
“How much you pay them?”
“Sixty bucks each.”
“Damn,” Rhodes muttered. One of the Waterses was lying. He shrugged. It didn’t matter. He grabbed Mitch’s two pistols—ones that matched his brother’s—and tossed them in the trough, too. He glanced at Billy, who was still hanging half over the fence.
Rhodes walked inside, still with the ax handle in hand. He stomped up to the makeshift counter and slammed the ax handle down on it. Clem Waters leaped almost a foot in the air. When he landed again, his eyes were wideband Rhodes could see the man’s carotid pulsing wildly.
“What the hell was that all about?” Waters asked. He was regaining control of himself and began to relax. He had had troublemakers in the trading post before. Billy and Mitch would straighten it out. They always did.
Rhodes never took his eyes off Waters. “You have two hundred forty bucks, Mr. Flake?” he asked.
“I don’t think that...”
“Answer me,” Rhodes ordered.
“Yes,” Flake said. He wondered just what was going on here.
“Hand it to Mr. Waters. Toss in another ten for the grub and such.”
“Like hell,” Waters protested. “Those mules cost me damn good money.”
Rhodes reached out, grabbed a handful of Water’s shirt, and dragged him halfway across the counter. “Listen to me, you thievin’ pig. You’ll sell Mr. Flake here those mules for two hundred forty bucks and throw in these supplies here for nothing—to compensate for all the troubles you’ve caused him and his companions.”
“Hey, you’ve got no right to...”
“You have no right to bleed people dry, you toad faced son of a bitch. I know where you got those mules, I know who you got ’em from and how much you paid for ’em.”
“Billy! Mitch!” Waters bellowed. His eyes grew worried when there was no response.
“They’re taking it easy for a while.” Rhodes said. His face and voice hardened. “Now, you either take the two hundred for all this stuff or—”
“Hey, you said two forty. No, two fifty,” a nervous Clem Waters bleated.
“That was before you started being a pain in my ass. Now, you either take the two hundred, or I’ll mash you to a pulp and we’ll just take ’em.”
“That’d be robbery!”
“It ain’t such a wonderful thing being on the other side of it is it, you maggot. Make up your mind. Now!”
“I’ll take the money!” Waters screeched.
“Pay him, Mr. Flake.” He paused. “Give him another twenty. We’ll be taking that bay mare out there, too.” Rhodes released Waters’s shirt.
Flake had been watching with some interest all the while, He smiled when he pulled out his money and paid Waters. “Eliza, children, the packages,” he sai
d. As his wife and the two boys gathered up the supplies, Flake looked at Rhodes and asked, “Can we trust him not to shoot us in the back as we leave?”
Rhodes laughed. “I’d trust him about as far as I could toss your wagon. He looked back at Waters. “Did those three thieves try to sell you anything else didn’t belong to ’em?”
Waters shook his head. “Nope. They had a pretty locket, with gold filagreein’ all around, but they said it wasn’t for sale.”
At the mention of the locket, Eliza had stopped and stared.
“That yours, ma’am?” Rhodes asked.
“Yessir.”
“Maybe one day you’ll get it back. Now, Mr. Waters, if you’d be so kind to tell me what those scoundrels looked like.”
Waters considered another protest, but he immediately ruled that out. He didn’t know where Mitch and Billy were, and he was deathly afraid that this man had killed them. That set a chill up his spine. He figured he’d better answer. He could try to kill him later.
“Clyde Laver’s a short, skinny fellow. He’s got a face like a weasel, kind of thin and pointy. Orson Mackey’s more close to your height and size, but he’s got a lot of gut, and snowy white hair, though he’s only thirty. Floyd Decker’s a dandy when he’s got the wherewithal. The scar on his face kind of sets him apart, though”
“Scar?” Rhodes asked.
“Yeah, a big, nasty one. Starts near the center of his forehead. Goes down the right side of his nose, just missin’ the inside of his right eye and curls around the lip to his chin.” As he spoke, he traced the scar on his face.
Rhodes nodded. “You about ready, Mr. Flake?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Mr. Waters, if you’d be so kind to escort us outside.”
“I don’t think…”
“That’s a good policy. Don’t think; just do.” Trembling, Waters climbed over the counter and walked toward the door. It seemed as if he were walking to his doom. As soon as he stepped outside, he heard a moan, and looked to his right. “Mitch!” he shouted. Then he saw his other son. “Billy!” He started to go to his boys, but Rhodes warned him off.