“Some,” Garrett acknowledged.
The hunter nodded toward a barn and pole corral at the southeast corner of the fort. “You can put up your horses there. Cost you two bits a day, an’ that includes hay. Oats are fifty cents extry.”
Garrett touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Obliged.”
He kicked the grulla into motion, but the hunter’s voice stopped him. “Heard you mention Charlie Cobb,” he said. “Last I remember—it was a few years back, mind—he was run out of Cheyenne for goldbricking the rubes.” The man shook his head. “Times change, and now ol’ Charlie’s in the catalog bride business. Well, I’ll be damned.”
Garrett nodded, prepared to be sociable. “Like you say, times change.”
The hunter lifted cool eyes to Garrett. “Times change, but Charlie doesn’t. You step careful around him, cowboy. He’s gunned his share and not a one of them took a bullet in the front.”
“Obliged again,” Garrett said. “That’s something to remember.”
He rode past the hunter and made his way toward the barn. When he glanced back, he saw the man standing in the middle of the square, watching him.
Chapter 24
An old-timer who had tried his hand at the diggings but had never hit paydirt ran the livery stable. He called himself Ethan, a watchful, silent man who didn’t offer conversation but readily answered questions.
After he unsaddled the horses and forked them hay and a bait of oats, Garrett wondered where he could get a bath, a new shirt and a meal.
“A shirt and a meal can both be had at Healy’s store across the square,” the old man said. “As for a bath, young feller, I just filled the horse trough with water. You can strip an’ wash the trail dust off’n yourself in there.” He grinned. “An’ that’s the only bath you’ll get at Fort Whoop-Up and the territory around for maybe a hunnerd miles.”
A dip in the trough was better than no bath at all. The trough was around the side of the barn, a zinc tub fortunately out of sight of most people who might be passing by. Garrett stripped, pleased to see that the wound on his chest was almost healed, and lowered himself into water fresh from the well and still icy cold.
He washed as best he could without soap, then used the scrap of rag Ethan had tossed to him to get at least partially dry. He settled his hat on his head, then dressed quickly.
“Hope the horses don’t mind me using their drinking place as a bathtub,” he told the oldster, pulling on his boots.
The man shrugged. “Horses don’t mind. Around these parts they’ve drunk worse.”
A few minutes later Garrett crossed the dusty square. The sun was dropping lower and the sky was pale red, a few streaks of purple cloud showing to the west. He estimated it would be dark in a couple of hours when he would need to have the horses saddled and ready. There was still time to buy a shirt to replace the bloodstained and ragged one he wore and get a meal.
Loud voices and laughter came from Healy’s bar, a log cabin situated between a blacksmith’s shop on one side and a row of bunkhouses on the other. Not wanting to be seen by those inside, Garrett walked wide of the bar and found the store, drawn by a painted wooden sign that hung outside and proclaimed:JOHN J. HEALY
SUPPLIES, CLOTHING
& SUNDRIES
Mining tools a specialty—sold at cost
Garrett stepped inside, into a low, gloomy cabin with shelves on either side. The place smelled of just about everything under the sun, the rich tang of plug tobacco, the leather of belts and boots, fresh-ground coffee, dried and pickled fish, and the musty odor of bolts of colorful cotton fabric, woven in the mills of northern England. A burlap bag of green coffee stood by the door and near it a barrel of sorghum, leaking black drops onto the floor. Bright candy canes stood on end in jars along a stretch of the counter to Garrett’s left, next to rounds of yellow cheese, some of them cut into thick, V-shaped slices. A barrel of crackers, the lid off, shouldered against a hogshead of sugar, and on its other side a barrel of pungent sauerkraut was surrounded by open boxes of gingersnap cookies.
Slabs of smoked bacon on iron hooks hung from the ceiling, and beneath them were piles of hickory shirting in stripes and plaids and more bolts of cloth, this time calico and gingham. A hand-drawn sign directed female attention to a stack of canvas skirts, split for riding, an eastern fashion that was now becoming all the rage farther west. On the shelf to Garrett’s right were rows of shoes, mule-eared boots, coffeepots, bags of gunpowder, canned goods of all kinds and boxes of rifle and pistol ammunition. And stacked high were piles of banjos, the miner’s handy short-handed shovel.
Garrett stood still for a few moments, enjoying the coolness of the store and its wonderful variety of smells.
“Can I help you?” A man stepped through a curtain at the back of the cabin, rubbing his hands on a stained white apron. He was small and bald, with apple cheeks framed by huge, bushy sideburns.
“I need a shirt,” Garrett said, “and some supplies.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” the man said, his smile slight and professional. “My name is Bill Bates. What can I do you for?”
“I need a shirt,” Garrett said again.
“You surely do.” Bates grimaced. He cast an eye over Garrett, gauging his size, then stepped behind a counter and after a short search came back with a blue shirt. “Just like the one you’re wearing,” the man said, “except it smells better.”
Garrett held up the shirt, sniffed the cloth, then nodded and said, “Mind if I change into it here?”
“Please, by all means.”
Garrett slipped his suspenders over his shoulders, stripped off his old shirt and buttoned up the new one. “Fits real good,” he said, pulling up the suspenders again before putting the bag with the double eagles in the pocket.
Bates smiled. “It’s perfect.” He made a face and picked up Garrett’s discarded shirt between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I’ll just get rid of this,” he said. The man disappeared behind the curtain and returned a couple of moments later. “The shirt will be two dollars. Anything else?”
“You know, I don’t always wear a shirt until it falls apart,” Garrett said, figuring that a small defense of his personal cleanliness was necessary.
The storekeeper pursed his lips. “No, no, I’m sure you don’t. Now will there be anything else?”
With an eye to his return trip along the trail with Jenny, Garrett had Bates sack up a slab of bacon, another of salt pork, and some coffee, sugar and flour. “Throw in a small coffeepot, tobacco and rolling papers and a half dozen of those peppermint candy canes,” he said, thinking they might be something Jenny would enjoy.
Garrett reached into his shirt pocket where he’d stowed Zeb’s three double eagles and rang the holed coin onto the counter. Zeb had given him the money to dig an artesian well, but Garrett imagined he’d understand his present necessity.
“Oh, deary dear,” Bates said, holding up the coin, his eye to the bullet hole in its center. “This has certainly been in the wars.”
“Target practice,” Garrett said.
“A silver dollar would have been cheaper,” the storekeeper said, his small mouth tightening in disapproval. He stepped to the end of the counter and came back with a small gold scale. “Young man, this twenty-dollar coin should weigh 33.4360 grams.” He dropped the double eagle onto one of the pans and placed a small brass disk on the other. “Ah, just as I thought. The bullet has removed ten grams of gold.” He lifted bleak eyes to Garrett. “I can only allow you fifteen dollars on this coin, and at that I’m being more than generous.”
Realizing that arguing would be useless, Garrett nodded. He picked up the sack and his change and turned to step out of the store, but Bates’ voice stopped him.
“Are you going to the wedding eve celebration down at Mr. Healy’s bar?” he asked. “I understand some rich miners are planning quite a shindig down there tonight.” Bates shrugged. “Something to do with beautiful mail-order b
rides, I’m told.”
“Thinking about it,” Garrett said, not wishing to be drawn into a conversation.
He stepped through the door and out into the waning afternoon before the storekeeper could say more.
A cabin in the row of bunkhouses had been set aside as a restaurant. When Garrett stepped inside, he was the only customer. He took a seat on a bench at a rough wooden table and a taciturn waiter who had the look of a range cook about him took his order for the only plate on the menu—buffalo steak, potatoes and wild onions.
The food was reasonably good and the coffee strong, but it cost Garrett all his change from the double eagle he’d used at the store. He took that hard, knowing from experience that money was tough to come by and even tougher to keep.
When he stepped outside, the day was shading into evening and a single sentinel star glittered in the lemon sky to the north. Garrett noted with relief that the post gates were open, and no one seemed to be standing guard. It looked like the entire male population of the fort was at Johnny Healy’s bar, drinking whiskey that was no doubt only marginally better than the pop skull he peddled to the Indians.
As he crossed the square in the direction of the stable, Garrett thought he heard Paloma’s laugh ring high and false above the bellow of men’s voices. Like Jenny and Abbie, the woman would be holding herself, drinking little, knowing she had to wheedle Charlie Cobb’s money from her unsuspecting suitor and then leave Fort Whoop-Up in a mighty big hurry.
As he reached the stable, Garrett had made up his mind. He could not let Cobb cash in on his elaborate confidence trick. To allow him to do so would mean that the man would profit by the deaths of Zeb Ready, Annie Spencer and so many others.
He was going to return the money, then get Jenny and the other women out of the post real fast before things turned ugly. Healy, for all of his whiskey trading, seemed like a square dealer, at least toward the miners whose business he valued. Garrett decided that if he handed the money to him, it would get to the right parties and no questions asked since the man wouldn’t want a riot on his hands. At least he hoped that would be the case. But first he would give each of the women the two hundred dollars Cobb had promised her. Under the circumstances, after all they’d suffered on the trail, it was the least he could do.
There was only one problem—he’d have to tell Temple Yates that he’d returned Charlie’s ill-gotten gains, a mighty uncertain thing given the man’s temperament and skill with a gun.
But to Garrett that was just another river to cross, albeit a dangerous one, and he’d take the hurdle when the time came.
To the young rancher’s relief, the man called Ethan was not at the stable. No doubt he was celebrating with the others at the bar. Quickly Garrett saddled and bridled the horses, taking some time with the grulla after it acted up some, refusing to take the bit. Then he found an empty stall and settled down to wait.
Now it all depended on Jenny and the other women getting there without being seen. On his own way out of the fort, Garrett would give Healy the money and be well on his way back along the trail before any hue and cry began.
His plan was thin and he knew it. It would take only one suspicious groom to go looking for his bride to upset the whole applecart. The trick was to get the women out of the fort as quickly and silently as possible.
As Zeb had once told him, “Luke, if you’re ever fixin’ to pull freight in a hurry, do it kind of casual—like you wasn’t even noticin’ it your ownself.”
Now he was going to take that advice.
Garrett leaned his back against the stall partition, tipped his hat over his eyes and within a few minutes was dozing.
He woke with a start as footsteps sounded hollow on the wood floor of the stable. A lantern was bobbing toward him, a halo of orange light in the gloom, but the person holding it was lost in darkness.
Garrett drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer and said, “Stop right there or I’ll drill you dead center.”
“Luke, don’t shoot. It’s me.” Jenny’s voice.
The girl lowered the lamp and stepped into the stall. She was wearing one of the canvas riding skirts Garrett had seen in the general store, a man’s shirt and a new hat and boots. She held the lantern in one hand, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in the other.
“Are you ready to leave?” Garrett asked. “Your horse is saddled.”
“Soon,” Jenny answered. “When the others get here.”
Alarm flared in Garrett. “Where are they?”
“The last I saw them they were at the store, buying outfits like mine.” Jenny smiled, but it was a forced grimace, devoid of humor. “Our husbands-to-be insisted we get outfitted for a trip to their diggings.” She waved a vague hand. “Somewhere in the badlands north of here. They plan on selling their claims, then heading for honeymoon bliss in Denver or Cheyenne or who knows where.”
Jenny set the bottle and glasses on the floor. “I think every man in the post is over at the store watching Abbie and Paloma get changed. That’s why I was able to sneak away and join you, Luke.”
“Did you get the four thousand?” Garrett asked.
Jenny’s laugh was a faint rustle of sound in the silence. “Four thousand? Hiram bets that much on the turn of a card. I told him I had to pay you the matchmaker’s fee and he just grinned and dug into his pocket and stuffed a bunch of notes into my hand.” The girl reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a wad of bills. “I counted it. There’s just over five thousand dollars here. I’m sure Abbie and Paloma will get as much.”
“It’s got to go back, Jenny,” Garrett said. “Every penny of it, less the two hundred Charlie Cobb promised you. I plan on giving the money to Healy and then lighting a shuck.”
To his surprise the girl nodded. “I understand how you feel, Luke. No matter how you cut it, taking this money is stealing. Those three men are all hot and impatient for their wedding night and they plan on tying the knot just as soon as a preacher can get to the post. Healy is planning a big celebration, going to kill the fatted calf, he says. Only the brides won’t be here.”
“Jenny, I don’t want you to ever do this again,” Garrett said. “Your involvement with Charlie Cobb is over.”
“I won’t,” the girl said. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
Garrett leaned over and kissed Jenny’s full lips, a lingering kiss it seemed she never wanted to end. But at last their lips parted and the girl said, “Let’s drink on our agreement.”
She filled both glasses and passed one to Garrett. “To us,” she said.
“And our future together,” he added.
Jenny nodded. “Yes, Luke, to our future.”
He was not much of a drinking man, but Garrett drained the glass of raw whiskey, its fire immediately helping to unknot the tension in him.
“Good?” the girl asked.
Garrett nodded, feeling suddenly relaxed. “Real good. In fact I didn’t think Healy sold whiskey that . . . that . . .”
He couldn’t think of the words, and it looked like Jenny was moving away from him, as though she was slowly backing down a dark tunnel. “Don’t go, Jenny,” he said, hearing his words slur. “There’s time . . . all the time in the world . . . time . . .”
“I’m so sorry, Luke,” the girl whispered, tears staining her cheeks. “Sometimes we have to sacrifice even the people we love to put form and substance to our dreams.”
Jenny’s face was a pale blur in the darkness, and Garrett shook his reeling head, trying to focus. He reached out a hand to the girl, but his arm was impossibly heavy and he let it drop.
“You’ll be fine, Luke, just fine. I know you will.” Jenny rose. “One day I’ll come looking for you. I promise, Luke, I promise.”
Paloma and Abbie, both dressed like Jenny, stepped beside her. “Is he out yet?”
Jenny shook her head. “Not yet.”
“But Annie told us those knockout drops never failed,” Abbie said, her voice spiked with alarm. “What’s taking so
long?”
Garrett tried to raise his head, to look up at the woman, but it rolled on his shoulders and his chin dropped to his chest. He tried to rise, but fell back against the stall with a crash and his legs slid from under him.
“He’s gone,” Paloma said, her voice sounding like it came from a long distance away. “Now we’ve got to get out of here. They’ll come looking for us.”
“No,” Garrett whispered. But the women did not hear him. He tried to rise again but slowly collapsed on his side. He groaned and let the darkness take him.
Chapter 25
Luke Garrett returned to consciousness with a pounding headache and a mouth so dry it felt like it was full of dust. He opened his eyes and saw Ethan’s hairy face hovering over him.
“Thought for a spell you were dead, young feller,” the man said. “And you soon will be if’n you don’t fork your bronc an’ ride.”
“Jenny?” Garrett whispered.
“Gone,” the old man answered, “with the other two. They sure played hob and now there’s all kinds of hell to pay.” Ethan cackled. “Them three miners know they’ve been took and they’re mad enough to bite the sights off’n a six-gun.”
Helping Garrett to his feet, Ethan led the young rancher to his horse. “I’ve tied your sack of supplies to the saddle horn. Now climb up on that grulla and get out of here before one of them drunks thinks to shut the gate.”
“I’m obliged to you,” Garrett said, swinging heavily into the saddle.
“I didn’t aim to take sides in this,” the old man said. “I’m not what you might call a doin’ man, more of a watcher. But I’ll see no man lynched. Saw it one time afore and the sight of that ranny choking and kicking at the end of a rope has never left me.”
“I planned on giving the money back,” Garrett said, looking down at Ethan from the saddle. “I want you to know that. Tell the others that too when they’ve calmed down enough.” He shook his head. “Jenny . . . Jenny put something in my drink.”
The Tenderfoot Trail Page 17