by John Legg
“We hope to continue on to Deseret,” Flake said flatly. He paused. “Though I suspect you’re right in suggesting that we wait out the winter here. I hate to lose that much time, though, not to mention the sloth that we will acquire with a winter of idleness.” Bonner nodded, absentmindedly. Rhodes stared at him. He had known Bonner only one day, but he was already able to pick up signs from the old man. Like now. Rhodes knew Bonner was cogitating on something. He wondered just what the old man had on his mind.
“You folks look like folks who like to turn a buck,” Bonner said, squinting at Flake.
“We are,” Flake responded. He was curious but wary.
“I know how you folks can make some pretty good cash.”
“How?”
“First answer me this: You got money to make an investment?”
“Some,” Flake said cautiously. He was not a rich man, but he was comfortable. “How much’ll be needed?”
Bonner shrugged. “The more you put in the more you can make.”
“I don’t like this, Erastus,” Hickman said in a low voice.
“Well wait for Mr. Bonner to explain more fully,” Flake said in a little irritation. He was intrigued, but he still remained cautious and skeptical. Bonner had shown no signs that he was any kind of businessman. Flake more than half suspected that the old mountain man was just trying to find out how much money he and his friends were carrying so that he could rob them. “Tell me about this plan, Mr. Bonner.”
“Well, folks, it’s like this.” He stopped there to pour a cup of the fresh coffee Rhodes had just made. Then he filled his pipe and lit it. Blowing out clouds of noxious fumes, he decided to continue his talk. “Them minin’ camps and towns down there are half froze to get fresh goods.”
“What does that mean?” Flake asked. He wanted no confusion in any business deal. He had to be sure he knew everything about it.
“They need supplies, badly,” Bonner said. He was not offended by the request to explain himself. Flatlanders were always that way, as far as he had been able to ascertain. Never understood plain talk. “Goods is hard to get to many of them places.”
Flake was fully interested now, the possibilities beginning to run through his mind. He thought he could see the plan. But he did not want to seem too eager. Better to let Bonner lay it all out. Then Flake could add his own thoughts to it, if that appeared necessary.
“Erastus,” Hickman said nervously.
“Enough, Phineas,” Flake snapped. “I’m the elder here, and I’ll make the decisions that affect us all. If I want your counsel I’ll request it.”
Hickman stood and walked off in a huff.
“My apologies, Mr. Bonner,” Flake said. “Now, where were we?”
“Well, if you can put up some cash and buy yourself a heap of goods here, we can all get it down to some of those minin’ towns and sell it for four, five times what you paid.”
Flake sat thinking. It had been what he had figured, and it seemed a solid plan. Still, the cautious Mormon needed more information before he would commit himself to the plan. “You’re certain the goods could be sold for many times their cost?” he asked.
“Hell, yes,” Bonner said. His head could barely be seen behind the thick cloud from his pipe. “I was down there a while back and folks who was fortunate enough to have some flour were sellin’ it for twenty, thirty bucks a sack, in some places a hundred a barrel. Eggs was goin’ for a dollar or two— each. Sugar was five, sometimes ten dollars a pound.”
Flake could hardly control his excitement. If this was true, he and his companions could make up the cost of their trip and still have plenty to tithe to the church once they got to Salt Lake City.
“That sounds workable,” Flake said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
“I thought you’d see it that way,” Bonner said from behind his screen of smoke.
“I think it’d be a worthwhile investment,” Flake said slowly. “But let me warn you, Mr. Bonner, that if you are found to be misleading us or out only for your own personal enrichment, I’ll personally see that you are brought to justice.”
Bonner cackled. “Hell, boy, you don’t scare me none. Shit, I’ve faced Crow and Blackfoot, Ute and Pawnee and come out with my hair intact. There ain’t a goddamn thing you can do to me.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Bonner,” Flake said flatly. “But take it as a warning.” He paused. “What’s your interest in all this?”
“I expect you ain’t gonna believe me, boy, but I’m just of a mood to move on, and I’d like some company.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie, and I’m insulted that you thought I’d fall for it,” Flake said stiffly.
Bonner waved a hand in front of his face, dispersing enough of the smoke so that his face could be seen. He was grinning. “Hell, I just had to try it.” He cackled a moment. “Tellin’ true now, I’m a bit short of funds these days, and I’d be obliged if you was to see your way clear to givin’ me a few pesos for guiding you down there.”
Flake didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure Bonner was telling the truth. “And how much of a fee are you expecting?”
“A hundred,” Bonner said without embarrassment.
Flake thought it a fair figure. “Agreed.” He paused. “But you’ll be paid when we arrive at wherever it is we’re going.”
“Sounds like you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t,” Flake said flatly.
Bonner laughed so hard he almost fell over. “You are some, boy.” He waited out another gale of his own laughter. When he had recovered, he said, “But you’ll have to buy me some supplies for the trip.”
Flake nodded. “That’s only fair.” He stood. “Well, if we’re to leave in the morning, there is much to be done first.”
Chapter Thirteen
They rolled out of the fort an hour after sunup, under the watchful eyes of Colonel Wesley Balfour. No one else paid them any heed that they could tell, though the two companies of soldiers drilling already on the dusty parade ground might have cast them an envious look or two.
Out front was old Joe Bonner. He had wheedled enough out of Flake to get himself a new outfit. He wore a new pair of fringed buckskin pants, a bright red calico shirt, and a floppy hat sporting an eagle feather sticking proudly up on one side. His long, greasy, gray hair was brushed into a sleek stream down over his shoulders. He rode a large, sturdy mule, and carried his plains rifle across his saddle in front of him.
Erastus Flake came next, sitting high and proud on a seat rigged up on a large freight wagon. The wagon was packed solid and full with whatever goods he had been able to round up from the fort sutler and anyone else who would give the time of day. By the time he had finished his buying spree the day before, it was near about dark. But that did not stop Flake. He just set to work loading everything he had purchased into the wagon he had bought. The others helped him, of course, though they made no bones about how they felt about it. Bonner snuck off as soon as he could. The wagon now was pulled by eight big mules.
Pulling out next was Phineas Hickman on his own wagon, and then came Eliza Flake who worked the reins to her wagon. The two wagons also had had seats added in the interest of saving time. The other women and the children rode inside the two wagons, while the extra saddle horses were tied behind the two wagons.
Travis Rhodes brought up the rear, riding his palomino. He didn’t like the idea of eating dust like this, but someone reliable had to bring up the rear while Bonner was out front doing the scouting.
They didn’t make it far the first day. Bonner was no longer used to so much traveling, plus the animals needed time to get accustomed to the large loads they were hauling. It was deemed wise to make an early camp that day.
But beginning the next morning, they began going a little longer each day, until they were putting in a twelve to eighteen-hour day each day a week after they had left Fort Laramie.
The first obstacle they faced was almost right outside the door of t
he fort—crossing the Platte. As a river, it wasn’t much. It seemed to spread all over creation, but couldn’t fill itself up any. It was, in many spots, little more than a glorified mud puddle. But it was a treacherous piece of shallow river, with quicksand and a shifting bottom near about anywhere a man wanted to cross it. It was another reason why their first day out was a short one.
They worked southwest, making it through Morton Pass and almost all the way back to the Laramie River the second day. Things went smoothly if not quickly most times, and they progressed steadily, working their way westward then around the northern edge of the Medicine Bow Mountains.
Chapter Fourteen
Once past those mountains, they turned almost due south, winding through a grand valley. Across Muddy Pass, they followed the Muddy River south and a little west, then cut due east along the Colorado River. Several days of hard labor later, they turned southeast along the Fraser River, getting ever higher into the mountains.
Finally, more than a month after leaving Fort Laramie, some of it with snowfall, they found a town. City was more like it, they thought as they wound their way down a muddy, wide, boisterous street in an intolerable place aptly called Intolerance.
“Jesus, I ain’t ever seen the like,” Rhodes mused, as he pulled up alongside Bonner.
“I have, boy. Goddamn if I ain’t,” the old man cackled.
All hell seemed to be breaking loose. Gunfire popped regularly, men raced up and down the street, on foot and on horseback, wagons clattered along, men whooped and hollered. But overpowering it all was the thunder of the two stamp mills, smashing ore by the ton, one mill on the southwestern outskirts of Intolerance, the other on the southeastern flank.
They finally pulled to a stop in front of what claimed to be a hotel. The travelers weren’t so sure, but they had seen nothing other than this place that might be a hotel. They also were aware that some people were staring at them, and Flake figured it was because of, the wagonload of goods.
“You go on inside, Erastus, and see if you can find rooms,” Rhodes said, “Best take the women with you, too. Joe and I’ll stay out here and watch things. Phineas, too, if he’s of a mind.”
“I am,” Hickman said firmly as he wrapped the reins around the brake handle.
“Good,” Flake said. He climbed down from the big freight wagon, and walked back to help Eliza, Sarah, and Minerva Hickman down. Sometime during their travels, it had come out that “Aunt” Sarah was in reality Erastus Flake’s second wife. Bonner had cackled at it, and said that such a thing was common among most of the Plains Indians.
“Hell, I even done it more’n once myself,” the old man had finished, his wobbling chuckle floating up to the night sky on the thick plume of smoke from the fire.
Rhodes had said nothing, surprised that he was not scandalized about it. He wasn’t, though he was bothered a little. It took him several days to realize that he was put out because of jealousy. He couldn’t understand why any woman would agree to be someone’s second or third or whatever wife. Moreover, he felt that the young and attractive Sarah Flake was being taken advantage of. He thought she was wasting her life away with an old codger like Erastus Flake. He had gotten over that, though, partly because he saw that Sarah would never be his even if something happened to Flake. That was a good thing, too, because Rhodes was not about to put up with her cloying piety. The same applied to the even more beautiful Minerva.
Flake and the three women entered the hotel. Rhodes, Bonner, and Hickman waited, the first two patiently, the latter quite nervously Bonner filled his small clay pipe with some foul-smelling tobacco and fired it up.
A few minutes later, Flake came outside, alone. “All is taken care of,” he said. “Now I have to secure the wagon until I can begin selling things.”
“Any idea of where you’re going to do that?” Rhodes asked.
“Mr. Whipplemeyer, who owns the hotel, told me of a place.” Flake climbed onto the freight wagon.
“One of you’ll have to drive our other wagon.”
“Well, I ain’t no goddamn wagon driver, that’s for goddamn certain,” Bonner said joyfully. He figured that as he was aged and had survived all that life had thrown at him, he was entitled to be a mite crotchety.
Rhodes had known right off that Bonner was not about to do it, and had already dismounted. He walked to the wagon and tied the palomino to it. He climbed up and said, “Let’s get it done.”
They did not ride too far before turning down a side street. At the end of the street was a large barn made of stone and mortar. They rolled right inside and with the help of several men who worked at the livery unhitched the teams. It took the better part of a half hour, but finally the horses and mules were stabled, groomed, and were hungrily working over the hay and oats tossed into their stalls. The wagons were moved out of the way, too.
Flake, being new to this town, was not sure he could trust the livery workers. The owner tried to reassure him, but he was still uncertain. “No,” he finally said, “I will stay with the wagons.”
“You’ll need to eat and make plans, Erastus,” Hickman said.
“You can relieve me for a spell to do all that,” Flake said firmly.
“But I—”
“Quiet! You’re as much a part of this venture as I am, Phineas. You’ll do your part.” He looked from Rhodes to Bonner. “I don’t suppose you two’d like to stay here a while?” he said, making a question of it.
“Not this ol’ chil’,” Bonner said with a laugh.
“Me neither,” Rhodes said fervently. He had plans for the night. “I aim to go and sin some more,” he said with a laugh.
“Bah,” Flake growled, but he grinned, too. “Very well,” he said, once more the solemn businessman. “Fin, you’ll stay here while I eat and make some plans. I’ll relieve you so you can eat and get some sleep.” Once more he looked at Rhodes and Bonner. “I’m obliged to you both for seeing us here. I’d be even more in your debt if you two were to stand guard whenever and wherever I set up shop.”
Both nodded. Then Bonner clapped Rhodes on the shoulder. “Come on, boy, let’s go fandango!”
“I’m ready,” Rhodes said enthusiastically. During the long trip from Fort Laramie to Intolerance, he had come to know old Joe Bonner pretty well, and he had decided he liked the old man.
Bonner was high-smelling, opinionated, independent, crusty, crotchety, and sometimes downright ornery. Despite all that, Rhodes liked him. Bonner had seen more country than a dozen other men. He was old but had not given up on life. He had what seemed to be an endless supply of stories to tell. Half—hell, maybe even all—of them were pure, unadulterated lies, but that didn’t lessen Rhodes’s interest in them. He figured at least some of them—or parts of them—were true.
Even if the stories were all tall tales meant to confound flatlanders, it didn’t mean much. That Bonner had been through all these places before was evident on the journey from Fort Laramie. Not once had Bonner lost the trail. Riding way at the back of the small caravan, Rhodes could watch Bonner’s wispy figure up ahead. Rhodes could see just by watching that Bonner knew what he was about up in these high, bitter mountains.
It was also apparent that Bonner loved being up here. He could see that even more at night around the fire. Bonner’s eyes had come alive almost as soon as the group had left the fort. Rhodes wondered if he would ever feel that way about anyplace or anything. He felt with some melancholy that he never would.
But this was not the time for gloomy thoughts. He grinned as he strode along next to old Joe Bonner. “How in the hell’re we supposed to pick us out a saloon, old man?” In just two blocks, they had passed more than half a dozen saloons.
Bonner cackled. “Hell if I know, sonny boy. Maybe we might have to sample each and every goddamn one of ’em.”
“I suppose that wouldn’t put me out none,” Rhodes said with a laugh.
“Hell, you’d be flat on your ass afore we hit even a dozen of ’em.”
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p; “I’ll outdrink you any time, you old degenerate.” They kept walking. “I expect I’d settle for a saloon that has whiskey that ain’t watered down too much, has some gambling, and most of all, a place that’s got some fancy women.”
Bonner cackled some more. “The hell with the gamblin’, boy. I might even say to hell with the goddamn whiskey, too, if’n there be women about.”
“Shit, you old coot, you’re gonna need that whiskey. One of the fancy gals latch on to you, boy, and you’ll be pushing up daisies before you get time to drop your drawers.”
Bonner cackled. Suddenly he grabbed Rhodes’s left arm and gave Rhodes a little shove. “This place looks about right for this chil’.”
Rhodes shrugged. The place looked no different from the dozen or so they had passed already. Still, Rhodes was ready to cut the dry in his throat, and this saloon would do as well as another.
The place had a false front, giving it a respectable look. The inside, though, was pure mining town saloon. The main part of the building was made with logs cut on the hillsides around the town. Some of those walls had been replaced, or partly replaced with stone. Tables were jammed everywhere. The place sported numerous faro tables, and several poker games were in progress.
The place—Rhodes hadn’t seen a name on it—was roaring at full steam, so much so that Rhodes and Bonner almost had to fight their way through to reach the bar.
When the bartender noticed them he came over with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Twenty bucks,” he bellowed.
“That’s goddamn robbery,” Rhodes shouted back. The bartender shrugged and started to walk away. Bonner leaned over the bar, stopping the bartender with his plains rifle. The man turned back a sour look on his face. Rhodes flipped a twenty-dollar gold piece on the bar. The bartender grabbed the money with one hand and put the bottle down with the other.
“Women?” Rhodes roared, trying to be heard over the din. “You got women here?”
“Cribs. Out back.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the cacophony and the press of business.