The Long Trail Home

by Stephen A. Bly

  Kiowa’s head slumped forward, and then his body tumbled to the ground.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cheyenne City,

  Wyoming Territory

  The short man behind the register wore a black bow tie tilted in the opposite direction as his head while he attempted to read the name on the register upside down. “Yes . . . Mr. Fortune . . . will you be staying at the Inter-Ocean more than one night?” His gold-frame spectacles slid far down his nose.

  Sam Fortune straightened his own tie and tugged his Stetson lower across his forehead. A gold-tipped fountain pen in his right hand. “I’m not sure. It all depends.”

  The man’s smile looked forced, making his face seem even wider. “Are you passing through or planning to move here?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. He hesitated to respond.

  The clerk rocked back on his heels, as if longing to exit but not wanting to offend.

  “If I knew that,” Sam replied, “then I’d know if I wanted the room another night, wouldn’t I?”

  The man tugged at his shirt collar, then straightened his vest. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fortune . . . didn’t mean to pry. Say, are you related to them Fortunes up in the Black Hills?”

  Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put his hands on his hips, revealing his holstered revolver. “You ask a lot of questions for a hotel clerk.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The clerk put both hands on top the counter and tapped his fingers across the polished oak.

  Sam surveyed the uncrowded lobby. “I’ve got some gear at the IXL Livery. Could you send someone down to pick it up and put it in my room? I need to find some folks here in town before I settle in.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it.” The clerk rested his elbows on the counter. “Who are you lookin’ for?”

  Sam stuffed the cold, brass room key into his vest pocket. “I’m lookin’ for a hotel that doesn’t pry into my business.”

  A big smile quickly replaced the chagrin. “You came to the right place. The Inter-Ocean is Cheyenne City’s best and most discreet. What I was askin’ is, if you need an address or help to locate someone in this town, I’m at your service. We’ve even got a telephone, you know. You can stand in one place and talk to folks all over town. At least, we’ll have one for a few more weeks.”

  Fortune studied the oak and black metal box on the wall behind the counter. “What do you mean?”

  The clerk dismissed the matter with the flip of hand. “Oh, it’s that trouble with the bank.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Sam unfastened the top button on his white shirt and loosened his tie.

  “Cyrus Edgington—he owns the C.T.E., the Cheyenne Telephone Exchange—well, he pushed on borrowing money to make telephones available to most of the homes in town. Only, folks aren’t too sure they want them. Two dollars a month is steep for some folks. So, Edgington couldn’t meet the deadline on his big loan from First National Bank. Old man Converse at the bank decided to foreclose on the telephone company.”

  “The company’s going out of business?” Sam probed.

  The clerk’s voice lowered as if revealing a secret. “Edgington asked for an extension, but Converse said no. Frankly, I figure the bank wants to own the phone company. Anyways, Edgington and that firecracker wife of his refused to surrender the assets to the bank.”

  Fortune brushed back his sandy blond and gray mustache with his fingertips. “Is his wife named Amanda?”

  “Say, do you know the Edgingtons?”

  “Her father was a friend of mine.”

  “You don’t say? He was up here early last year to visit and stayed right here at the Inter-Ocean. In Room 208, if I remember correctly. I never forget a room.”

  “What’s the status on the telephone exchange?”

  “The bank sued for payment, the phone company countersued for obstruction, and the court will have to decide the matter. Judge is goin’ to rule this morning. Edgington could go to jail if they rule against him. They won’t send her to jail, being great with child like she is. It’s her second one, you know. Say, were you lookin’ for Edgington’s house?”

  “That’s one of the stops.”

  “Twentieth and Ferguson. They got electric lightbulbs right in the house and two telephones. Can you imagine that? They have one upstairs and one downstairs. But I reckon the bank will get the house too. They’re nice folks. Course, they are young. They can start all over . . . providin’ he don’t go to jail.”

  A wide, wrap-around veranda surrounded the two-story, Victorian home with circular limestone turret in the northeast corner. The black iron fence encircled a yard of mostly grass with two, large elm trees in the front. Rose bushes hugged the white house with green trim.

  Sam climbed the six wooden stairs to the front door. White lace curtains covered the glass front door, so he couldn’t see inside. Using the glass for a mirror, Sam straightened his tie, tugged on his suit coat cuffs, and reset his Stetson. He brushed down his mustache, then stared at his clean but calloused and tanned hands.

  My fingernails haven’t been this clean since that winter I spent with the twins.

  He rapped on the door.

  The floor creaked. Shadows fell on the lace curtains, but no one came to the door.

  He knocked again.

  This time, no noise inside. No movement. No one appeared.

  He rapped even harder.

  The lace door curtains parted, and two bright blue eyes on a curly headed toddler appeared. The little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  With the door still locked and the curtain pulled back, a round-faced young woman—with long, curly black hair, tear-worn eyes, and quite a round stomach pushing out the front of her burgundy dress—appeared. She held a short-barreled shotgun.

  “Who are you?” she called out through the glass.

  He pulled off his hat. “I’m Sam Fortune, ma’am, and I’d like to speak to you about—”

  “Are you a constable?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m up from—”

  “The bank?”

  “No, I’m up from the Indian Territory, and I need to—”

  “Go away. My husband’s not home, and I don’t want to talk to you.” The curtain flopped back down. The woman disappeared.

  Sam jammed his hat on the back of his head. “Amanda, I need to talk to you!”

  The door swung open a couple inches and the barrel of the shotgun peeked out. “How did you know my name?”

  He leaned toward the crack in the door but couldn’t see her at all. “I worked for your father.”

  “In Indian Territory?”

  “Yes, out in the Public Lands.”

  Her answer was definitively as the breaking of a dry stick. “My father’s in Texas. You have the wrong person.” She slammed the door.

  Sam stepped up to the door and cupped his hand around his mouth. “I’ve just got one question for you, Amanda. How come your mama stayed in Tennessee and didn’t even tell your daddy she wasn’t comin’ home? It doesn’t seem right to leave a man waitin’ like that at the Fort Worth station.”

  The door swung completely open. A scent of vanilla drifted out the door. The very pregnant woman still carried the shotgun. The little, blue-eyed toddler hid behind her mother’s floor-length skirt. “How did you know that?”

  Fortune held his gray Stetson in his hand. “Mrs. Edgington, can we talk for a moment? This is important.”

  “My husband’s not home and could be in jail before the day’s out. They will foreclose on this house within days and think nothing of turning me and my daughter out on the street. As you can see, sir, I’m not really in the mood to visit. I’ve let the hired help go, and I do not entertain gentlemen in my home when I’m by myself. I apologize if this sounds un-Christian, but I woul
d rather you talk to my husband.”

  He motioned toward a wooden porch swing. “Would it be appropriate to visit out here on the veranda? I promise to keep it short.”

  With one hand on the shotgun and the other on the curly head of the little girl, she stepped to the doorway. “How do I know you aren’t trying to evict me from my home by deceit?”

  He swept his hat across the veranda. “Bring the shotgun with you, and let me have it with both barrels if I try anything deceitful or improper.”

  A shy smile broke across the trouble woman’s face. “I don’t even have a shell in the chamber,” she murmured.

  Sam returned his hat to the back of his head. “Ma’am, don’t ever pick up a gun if you don’t intend to use it.”

  She set the gun down inside the parlor and stepped out on the porch, leading the toddler. “You really sound like my father.”

  “I suppose I do. . . .” He motioned toward the oak swing. “Would you two ladies like to sit down? I’ll stand.”

  The toddler laced her fingers and rested both hands on top of her dark brown hair.

  The woman patted the girl on the shoulder. “This is my daughter, Rocklin.”

  “Rocklin? Just like your daddy’s last name?”

  “It was my last name, as well. My father doesn’t have any sons. I wanted to make sure the family name wasn’t forgotten. Of course, Mother absolutely detests the name and calls her Missy, instead. But we like it, don’t we, Rocklin?”

  The toddler stuck out her tongue and nodded up and down.

  Sam wanted to reach out and touch the child but pulled his hand back. “I think it’s a wonderful name.”

  The woman eased down on the bench slowly, then tugged the little, wide-eyed girl up beside her. Fortune stood and leaned his back against the porch railing. Both ladies watched him intently.

  “I don’t think I heard your name,” she inquired.

  “Sam Fortune.”

  “Is Daddy dead, Mr. Fortune?” Amanda Edgington asked.

  He looked away from her and the girl. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he looked back at her. Amanda stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. Tears rolled down the perfectly smooth, pale cheeks. She took a deep breath. “I knew it in my heart a week ago. I’m afraid I’ve already shed my quota of tears for the day. I’m almost empty now. Isn’t that sad? To receive such news and be already cried out?”

  Sam rubbed his chin. Though it was freshly shaved, it felt rough. “He died around the first of July. How did you know?”

  Little Rocklin reached up with chubby fingers and touched her mother’s teary cheeks. Amanda reached down and hugged the girl. “Every year since Mother and I left Texas, Daddy sent me a long letter and a twenty-dollar gold coin on my birthday. Twenty years, without fail. Last week was my birthday, and no letter came. I knew that he had died. Only death could keep him from remembering me. How did he die, Mr. Fortune?”

  “He got snakebit, Mrs. Edgington. We were way out in the Public Land, like I said, and couldn’t do much for him. Kiowa—that’s the other man that was workin’ for him at the time—tried to suck out the poison, but I guess it wasn’t enough. Rocklin was a good man, and I’ve been grievin’ over his loss.”

  She pulled a small linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her burgundy dress. “Were you with him when he died?”

  The porch railing felt hard, pressed up against his backside. The air stiffled Sam, and sweat soaked his entire white shirt under his suit coat and vest. “After the snakebite, he seemed to be doin’ fair, so he sent me to Dodge City on some business. Kiowa Fox stayed with him. I was gone only a couple days, but when I came back he had passed on. I buried him along San Francisco Creek and read the Bible over him.” He turned his head from her and brushed the corner of his eyes. “That reminds me, I have his Bible and some personal belongin’s in a satchel at the hotel. I’ll bring ’em over later. Actually, his Bible is in my bedroll. I’ve been readin’ it at night. I wasn’t tryin’ to intrude. Hope you forgive me for that.”

  “Mr. Fortune, I’m sure my father would be delighted that one of his friends wanted to read the Bible.” She took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. Her shoulders seemed to relax. “Tell me, what was Father doing out in Public Land anyways?”

  “Your daddy had big dreams, Amanda. He figured they would open up Public Land soon, and he wanted a jump on securing a ranch. He said he was buildin’ it up to leave to you. He talked about you a lot, ma’am.”

  Tears trickled from her steel gray eyes. She brushed them with the linen hankie. “Excuse me for my emotions. Perhaps I do have a fear or two left. Do you and your wife have any children, Mr. Fortune?”

  Sam felt blushed. “No, ma’am—I’m not married.”

  She attempted, unsuccessfully, to smooth her skirt down over her protruding stomach, “Well, let me warn you, women who are about to give birth can be very emotional.”

  Sam felt flustered watching her stroke her stomach. He faced the yard. “I heard about the trouble with the telephone company, ma’am. I reckon you have plenty to be emotional about.”

  “It has not been a good summer, Mr. Fortune. Now, tell me, were you a partner with my father?”

  He turned back toward her. “No, ma’am, just a hired hand. My friend Kiowa Fox and I were breakin’ horses and helpin’ him build up the place.”

  “You’re a bronco buster?” She examined him closely. “You look more like a mine owner.”

  Sam pushed his hat back and grinned. “You flatter me, Amanda Edgington. I scrub up good.”

  Little Rocklin continued to lean against her mother and suck her thumb, never taking her eyes off Sam Fortune.

  “Well, Mr. Fortune, I very much appreciate your coming all the way up to Cheyenne to give me this report. A letter would have sufficed, but a personal visit is much, much better. I do wish I had some money to cover your expenses.”

  “Your daddy already did that. He wanted me and my partner to have the horses we broke if anything happened to him. I sold the horses in Sidney, Nebraska, a few days ago. I would have brought that money to you, but he had somethin’ else in mind for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The main reason I trailed up here from the Indian Nation was to give you this.” He reached inside his suit coat pocket and pulled out the banknote.

  She looked him in the eyes. “What is it?”

  “Take a look, Mrs. Edgington. I think you’ll find it good news. Just might be your luck is changin’.” He handed it to her.

  She unfolded the paper and stared at the words. Her mouth dropped open, and her hand flew up to her lips. “I . . . I don’t understand. . . .”

  He stepped closer and pointed to the note. “Your daddy sold some cattle, about twelve hundred head. This is the profit off them. The banker down in Dodge City said any Wells Fargo office could handle it, or your local banker can telegraph the bank in Dodge to transfer the funds.”

  She put her left hand to her chest and took deep breaths. “Are you telling me this is for real?”

  Fortune’s grin stretched his cheeks. “I’m tellin’ you your daddy left you $22,400.”

  The banknote fluttered out of her hands. She clutched her stomach with both hands and let out a scream that sent chills down Sam’s back and caused the hair on his neck to bristle.

  Little Rocklin started to cry.

  Sweat popped out on her forehead and face.

  “Ma’am?” Fortune called out. “Do you always shout when—”

  “When I’m about to have a baby?” she screamed. “I certainly do!”

  “A baby? Oh, no . . . no,” he cautioned. “You don’t want to do that!”

  “Mr. Fortune . . . I have no choice in the matter. . . . Help me to my feet.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t move
.”

  “I am not going to have this baby on my front porch. Help me into my bed.” Her hot, sweaty palm clutched his hand.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. . . . I . . .”

  “Mr. Fortune, if you don’t help me, I’ll pull that revolver out of your holster and shoot your head off. Do I make myself clear?” She accented the sentence with another heart-stopping scream.

  “Yes . . . ma’am.” He took her arm and gently helped her shuffle to the door.

  “Get the banknote!” she yelled.

  He ran back, snatched up the slip of paper, and scurried to her side.

  “Get the baby!” she hollered.

  His eyes widened as he froze in place. The little girl sat on the porch swing, sobbing.

  “Rocklin. Carry Rocklin for me!” Amanda instructed.

  “Me? I . . . OK.” He clutched up the near hysterical child. The baby laid her head against his wide shoulder and immediately quit crying.

  Sam scooted over and held the door open for Amanda Edgington, then trailed her into the parlor.

  “I’ll make it to bed.” She was doubled over, holding her side. “You telephone for Dr. Morton.”

  “Me? Telephone? I don’t know how to use them. I’ve never even seen one work.”

  Another scream brought him to her side. “Help me lie down,” she sobbed.

  “Yes, ma’am. . . .” He cradled the toddler in his left arm as she watched her mother with wide eyes.

  When they reached the bedroom decorated with lace and gingham, she motioned at the bed. “Pull the covers back!”

  “Eh, Amanda . . . this is . . . this is embarrassin’ me,” he mumbled.

  “Not nearly as embarrassing as it will be if I have this baby on the floor at your feet. Help me to bed for heaven’s sake.”

  He jerked the covers back, and she turned around, sat down, and laid her head on the big feather pillow. “Lift my feet up onto the bed, please.”

  The sweat poured off Sam’s face and cascaded down his neck.