Bittersweet

by Anita Mills

  But it was getting too dark to look for anything, and it was about to storm. Flashes of lightning intermittently lit the bank of thick, roiling clouds overhead, and the air was heavy with dust and the smell of a coming rain. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes conversed with the hidden moon, their howls piercing the night, while nearby owls questioned his presence, calling out, “Who?” and answering with the same.

  Those owls bothered him. For the last several miles, he’d been hearing them, each time sounding closer than the last. He’d never known owls to congregate in groups like that. The thought that ran through his mind sent a shiver up his spine. Indians. It could be his imagination, but if it was, Clyde seemed to share it. The horse’s ears pricked up with every call.

  Indians couldn’t see him any better than he could see them, he told himself. But they knew the area, and he didn’t, his mind argued. There it was again, that sound. Sitting so still in the saddle that he could almost hear his own heart beat, he listened hard. But it was his nose that told him he wasn’t alone.

  He smelled smoke. Lightning had either struck somewhere, or somebody had a fire going. Standing in his stirrups, he strained to see nothing. The telltale glow of a prairie fire wasn’t there. He was just spooked, that was all. The smoke probably came from a lone campfire. A railroad crew. Or a war party. His hand found the butt of the Colt, seeking reassurance there.

  As thunder rumbled overhead, he thought he saw tiny points of orange light along the horizon ahead. Every muscle in his body tensed as he drew the gun and his finger crooked around the trigger. He might be green when it came to Indians, but he wasn’t a fool.

  The owl hooted again, closer still. Holding his breath, he listened, hearing the pounding of hoof-beats against the hard earth behind him. He hadn’t imagined any of it. He was being followed. And by more than one rider.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shadowy shapes of at least a dozen pursuers, and he knew he was in for the run of his life. Digging his spurs into Clyde’s sides, he loosened the reins, and the big bay stretched long legs, heading toward the smoke. Shouting, “Come on, boy—run!” Spence urged the horse on, hoping it was a railroad camp instead of an Indian village. If he guessed wrong, he’d be a dead man. Behind him, a war party whooped and hollered now, and bullets whistled past him.

  Lightning flickered, illuminating roiling black clouds hanging low over the road ahead. He couldn’t tell now whether it was thunder he heard or the roar of blood pounding in his head. Beneath him, Clyde ran hard, and wet, foamy lather soaked the animal’s neck and shoulders, spattering Spence’s face and coat.

  The damned Indian ponies were closing in on him. Turning in the saddle, he fired a shot, missing his mark. They weren’t tin cans and bottles, but living, moving men, and with four shots left, he couldn’t afford to miss again. Some sense warned him there was a rider almost even on the other side. This time when he twisted to face a painted warrior, he pulled the trigger at close range. The Colt belched acrid smoke again, and the Indian jerked before he pitched from the pony’s back.

  Another shot spun a rider halfway around in the saddle before he fell beneath his mount. Spence had exactly two shots left and no time to reload. Glancing ahead, he saw the lights of a campfire glowing red- orange in the night, and behind them, white canvas tents billowed in the wind, beckoning him in. The camp was Mecca and the Promised Land rolled into one.

  Before he could see them, he heard men shout, “Indians! Get the Gatling! Secure the horses!” The loud boom of a Sharps shattered the heavy air, punctuating a volley from smaller rifles. A dark, hideously painted warrior dropped over the side of his pony to reach for Clyde’s bridle, but a bullet from the Sharps slammed into the buck’s shoulder with such force that he seemed to stand before he fell.

  The war party behind Spence lagged back, and the shrieking lost its bravado as the buffalo gun found its mark again. With a range of a thousand yards, it had Spence covered, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted, waving his hat. “I’m coming in!”

  But even as he yelled, a shot from the Sharps found another mark. As Spence looked over his shoulder, an Indian pony let out a squeal, stumbled, and went down on its front legs. Its rider scrambled on all fours toward the war party, but as one of them leaned down to help him, Spence shot him. Faced with his Colt and the Sharps, they wheeled and retreated out of range, waving muskets and taunting him from a safe distance.

  Given his head, Clyde raced the last hundred yards to jump over a wall of full flour sacks stacked along the camp perimeter. As the railroad crew scattered to give the horse room, Spence reined in. His heart was pounding and his face was dripping sweat, but he’d made it in with one bullet left in his revolver.

  “That was sure some shootin’ with that Colt, mister,” a man told him as he dismounted.

  Spence’s legs felt like jelly underneath him, and his heart pounded in his chest. “I liked the way you handled the Sharps, too. Thanks for the cover,” he managed between breaths. “I thought they had me for sure.”

  “First horse I seen outrun a pack of injun ponies. Yessir, he’s a good ‘un,” the fellow said appreciatively as he ran his hand over Clyde’s lathered shoulders. “Ever race him?”

  “Not till tonight.”

  Broad slashes of lightning silhouetted what was left of the war party against the roiling sky. As Spence stared at the crest of that low slope, thinking how lucky he was, the riders separated by twos to charge down it. Instinctively, he aimed the Colt and fired the last bullet.

  “They’re out of your range,” the man said. “They’re just coming back to pick up their dead and wounded, then they’ll be going. They don’t fight even, you know.”

  “If you’ll give me that buffalo gun, I can pick another one of them off. I hate to see the bastards get away.”

  “By the time you get the bullet in the breech, they’ll be headed the other way. They’ve lost their taste for fighting right now.”

  “I haven’t—they damned near got my scalp.”

  Another stranger handed Spence his rifle. “It’s racked and ready to go, mister. I reckon I know how you feel.”

  Spence drew a quick bead with the back sight and pulled the trigger, dropping the front brave. As the Indian slumped, his companion caught him, taking him onto his own pony, and they retreated up the low hill out of range. The war party spread out into a single line silhouetted against the flickering sky as they rode off. A mournful death chant floated eerily on the wind.

  An almost collective sigh broke the macabre spell, and the railroad men turned to Spence. “Gets to you, don’t it—the way they can ride, I mean,” one of them said. “I seen it half a dozen or more times, and it still sends chills running down my back. You know there’s nothing lower on this earth than an Indian, and you know if he catches you, you’re in for hell, but you gotta respect ‘em, anyway. They’ll risk their lives to take their dead back with ‘em,”

  “I got no respect for ‘em,” somebody muttered.

  The man who’d covered Spence held out his hand. “Name’s Russell—Bill Russell.”

  “Spencer Hardin.”

  “You’re a Reb, aren’t you?”

  “Was. War’s over.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Mr. Hardin. Best man I had working for me came out from North Carolina. I’d like to have a dozen like him, ‘cause if I did, we’d be to the Rockies before winter.”

  “Worked hisself to death, too. Man was so damned tired he couldn’t see straight. If he hadn’t been, he’d a got hisself out of the way of that car,” somebody grumbled behind Russell. “It was the damned railroad that killed him.”

  “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. The man volunteered to stay on the job till it was done,” Russell snapped. “I’d have taken him off it if he’d asked.”

  “Just the same, it weren’t right to let ‘im do it, not with his wife like that,” another man
spoke up. “What’s she going to do come winter?”

  “She’ll find herself another man, that’s what. Hell, I wouldn’t think twice if there was a chance she’d take me,” a fellow declared. “She’s about the purtiest woman I ever laid eyes on, even if she’s about to pop with that kid.”

  “Looking for work, mister?” Russell asked Spence, abruptly changing the subject. “As far behind as we are, we could sure use another hand.”

  “I’m headed for California.”

  “This time of year? You’ll play hell making it out to the Mormon settlements before the hard snows hit.”

  “I know, but I have to.”

  “Ever been up in the mountains in winter?” Russell countered. “There’s drifts a hundred feet deep, and the wind comes whipping through ‘em so hard a man’ll freeze in fifteen minutes. If you aren’t to Laramie by now, you don’t have a chance of getting past the Salt Lake. You’ll be spending the winter with the damned Mormons, and I’d as soon take my chances with Indians as with them. No, sir, you sign on with the Union Pacific, and you’ll have money in your pocket come spring. Then you can make it to California, but I sure wouldn’t try it now.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Spence promised. “Right now, I’m hang-dog tired. I’d just like to find a spot to lay my bedroll down.”

  “You’ll get yourself soaked,” somebody said. “If you don’t mind crowdin’ up and you don’t have mites or fleas, you can put it down in our tent. I got me a horse ring nailed down outside, and you can tie that big fellow up with mine. That way if the Indians come back to raid the corral, they won’t get your horse,”

  “Thanks.”

  The first big drop of rain splatted on the dirt at Spence’s feet, then the black cloud overhead let loose with a vengeance. A burst of wind drove the rain, pounding everything in its path, and the railroad crew scattered, running for cover.

  “Follow me!” Spence’s host shouted over thunder, grabbing Clyde’s reins and heading for a ragged tent. “All hell’s gonna break loose!” He tied the horse to the iron ring, then ducked inside to hold the flap for Spence. Small hail hit the canvas overhead like a blast of buckshot, and the howling wind blew and sucked at the tattered walls.

  Two other men dived inside with them, filling the damp air with a heavy odor of sweat as they closed the flap behind them. The four of them hunkered down on the dirt floor while the storm raged outside, screaming like a banshee as it tore through the camp. The canvas billowed and bowed loudly where it was anchored to the poles.

  Gradually, the wind let up and the rain settled down into a steady beat. Someone struck a match, and the welcome odor of sulphur momentarily overpowered the stench of unwashed bodies as a flame crept up the sooty lantern chimney.

  “Whooeeee—I thought we was gonna blow away! This damned Nebraska weather sure ain’t what I’m used to.”

  “Kansas ain’t no better,” one of his companions muttered.

  The man who’d invited Spence to join them looked up from the lantern. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other—ain’t no difference between either of ‘em. Me, I’ll take Illinois any day.” His gaze shifted to Spence. “Sorry, the hail made me forget m’manners—name’s Charlie McKinnon—Mac to m’friends.”

  “Mac.”

  “And those two worthless cusses next to you are Davy Yoakum and Ned Miller.” As he named them, they nodded. “Well, it ain’t much, but it don’t leak too bad,” he added, gesturing to the canvas above. If you don’t mind worms and grasshoppers, then the onliest thing you got to worry about is rattlesnakes, ‘cause they been known to crawl under the walls.”

  “Hungry?” Davy asked. “We was fixin’ to eat when the whooping and hollerin’ started, and we don’t mind sharing. You got your choice of salt pork or buffalo jerky, and there’s beans and biscuits to go with ‘em. Mac’s biscuits ain’t too good, mind you, but if you soak ‘em in your coffee, they’ll soften so’s you can get ‘em down.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t eaten since morning.”

  They sat cross-legged on the earth with tin plates balanced on their laps while they ate in near silence. Yoakum hadn’t lied about the biscuits, Spence discovered. They were like rocks, and if left in the cup long enough, they absorbed enough coffee to double their size. But they were filling to a hungry man’s stomach.

  “Russell say where we’re goin’ next?” Ned asked with his mouth full.

  “Yeah. They’re finally moving the advance camp clear out past McPherson, where it was supposed to be last month. Looks like that might have to be where we’ll spend the winter.”

  “Any idea what Russell’s gonna do about the Taylor woman?” Ned wondered suddenly. “I heard he offered to send her back where she came from. Said the railroad would take care of the fare, but she wouldn’t go.”

  “That’s real white of him, seein’s how he’s to blame for what happened.” Pushing his plate aside, Mac was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know what’s to become of her this winter if she don’t go.”

  “She’ll have to find herself a man, like Billy said. Woman like that can’t make it alone.”

  “Well, she’s got pretty slim pickin’s around here,” Mac observed.

  “Hell, she can have me—or damned near anybody else, for that matter,” Davy declared.

  “That’s just what I said. A woman like that ain’t gonna want no foul-mouthed drunk, which is what half of us are—and the other half is furriners. How long’s it been since you had a bath, anyway?”

  “Payday.”

  “Yeah? Which one?”

  Ned grinned. “He got you there, Davy. Iff’n a man goes courtin’, he’s got to clean hisself up some.” Sobering some, he predicted, “Big as she is, there’s gonna be a run on soap come payday.”

  Turning to Spence, Mac explained, “ ‘Bout six weeks ago, we had a man killed when a car missed hitting the siding we was building.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “Thing of it is, it was a real shame, ‘cause he left his wife in one hell of a pickle. She’s got a baby coming and nowhere to go. Pretty woman, too, and that makes it even harder on her—we got every hard- case and outlaw that works on the UP hankerin’ for her, and not a one of ‘em can measure up to Jesse. Hell, if I thought she’d go, I’d give her some money myself.”

  “If you’re gonna tell it, tell it right, Mac,” Ned insisted. “You’d be hankerin’, too, but you already got yourself a wife back in Springfield, Illinois,”

  “That ain’t stoppin’ some,” Davy pointed out. “Ben Henry’s got his eye on her, and his wife’s got a houseful of kids. He’s always bragging how ever’ time he gets home, he slips another one in on the poor woman. Yet here he is, lollygaggin’ after Mrs. Taylor. And the man’s a brute—if I was a woman, I’d sooner lie down in a pack of hungry wolves than with Ben Henry.”

  Only half listening, Spence somehow made the connection. “Did you say Mrs. Taylor?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yeah.”

  “I knew a Jesse Taylor from the war. He was from North Carolina, and he was thinking of working for a railroad.”

  “Less’n there’s two of ‘em, I reckon that’d be her husband, ‘cause his name was Jesse, all right,” Mac told him. “And it’s been hell on her. Russell said the hardest thing he ever had to do was tell her Taylor was dead. This is no place for a woman, Mr. Hardin—no place at all. And once that baby gets here, we got men that’ll be treatin’ her like the women at the hog ranch. They got no respect for a decent woman, ‘cause they don’t know any. It’ll be like dogs after a bitch in heat, whether she wants it or not.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe since you knew her husband, you can talk some sense into her. Tell her me and some of the boys’d be glad to send her back with a little money to help her get settled in, you know. Tell her she don’t belong out here.”

  “I don’t know.” The image of Laura Taylor apologizing for that godawful coffee came to S
pence’s mind. “I sure hate to hear about Jesse,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll try to talk to her before I leave for Fort Kearny.”

  “Kearny ain’t but five miles on up the river,” Davy said. “Not much there, though, if you’re lookin’ for supplies.”

  “I want to visit the fort cemetery.”

  “Oh. Well, Jesse ain’t buried there,” Davy conceded. “Seein’ as it was the last day of July and hotter’n hell, we had to get him in the ground close to where he was killed. If you’ve got a mind to, I can tell you where to find his grave.”

  “Maybe in the morning. Right now, I’d just like to get some sleep.”

  But later, when the lantern was doused and the men rolled up in their blankets, Spence lay awake on the hard ground, staring into the darkness. Jesse Taylor was dead, leaving behind a destitute young wife and a child he’d never see. No matter how far he got from Georgia, it was still a miserable world.

  The sun shone overhead, but the camp was a mudhole when Spence walked through it to cross the road to the Platte River. Laying his saddlebag on the riverbank, he eased down the mud-slick slope to fill his wash pan with the opaque water. Mac had said if he let it sit a few minutes, the dirt would sink to the bottom, and he wasn’t going to drink any of it, anyway. He’d seen too much of what bad water could do to a man.

  Squatting down, he dug in his bag for the soap he’d bought in Omaha, a thick, gray-white chunk that looked as though its maker had left some of the ashes in it. He laid it and the small towel it was wrapped in next to the pan while he retrieved his razor and shaving mirror. When he looked at the water, he couldn’t see much improvement. Patience was supposed to be a virtue, he told himself, but as pressed as he was for time, he didn’t feel very virtuous right now—just dirty, tired, and cranky beyond reason.

  While he waited, he brushed his teeth with a little baking soda and whiskey to get the rancid taste of pork tallow out of his mouth. The fatty meat he’d had for breakfast had been swimming in the stuff, but the other three men hadn’t seem to notice it. Spitting the whiskey on the ground, he screwed on the cap and replaced it in his pack.