The Long Trail Home

by Stephen A. Bly

  “Leave Rocklin on the bed with me. I can watch her. Call Dr. Morton first, and then call the courthouse and send word to my husband.”

  When he started to put the toddler down, she clung to his neck and wailed. He stood back up with the baby still in his arms, and she instantly stopped crying.

  “She doesn’t like a cranky mama,” Mrs. Edgington grimaced, then screamed. When she caught her breath, she pointed at Rocklin. “Do you mind keeping her?”

  “If she can put up with me, I reckon I’ll put up with her.”

  “Go make the phone calls,” she panted.

  “I really have never used a—”

  “Hurry,” she cried out, then gritted her teeth. “This baby is coming quick. The directions are on the shelf under the telephone. Anyone can use it. Trust me.”

  He found the telephone mounted to the wall in the kitchen and studied the box. He could hear Amanda Edgington groan from the other room. He stared at the telephone and then at the toddler in his arms. “Li’l darlin’, do you know how to make this thing work?”

  Rocklin reached over, plucked up the hand telephone, and put it to her little ear. She began to chatter in monosyllables.

  “OK . . . OK . . . I listen there . . . and I must talk in this piece.” He leaned closer to the other circular part of the phone. “Hello, the telephone?” he shouted. “Is anyone in there? Hello?” He stared at the toddler. “I want Dr. Morton!”

  There was no reply.

  “It’s not working. It must be broken!” He continued to hold the hand piece to his ear. “What’s the matter with this? No wonder they’re in financial difficulty. The thing doesn’t work!”

  Rocklin Edgington leaned over and tugged on the crank handle that made a bell ring. “Don’t do that . . . ,” Fortune protested. “I can’t hear anything!”

  A man’s voice demanded. “Number?”

  Fortune stepped back, “What? Who is this?” he shouted.

  “What number are you calling, please?”

  Fortune stared at the receiver, then shouted. “Where are you?”

  “This is Central Office,” the man replied. “What number are you calling?”

  “Number? I only need one—one doctor. She’s havin’ a baby! Send a doctor quick!” He put the hand unit back on the hook. I was supposed to telephone Mr. Edgington. Maybe the doctor will tell him.

  Immediately the phone rang and Sam Fortune jumped, the baby still in his arms. He picked up the hand piece again and brought it to his ear. “What do you want?” he hollered. “You scared Rocklin half to death.”

  In the back bedroom, Amanda Edgington screamed.

  “What was that?” the man on the telephone probed.

  “It’s a woman having a baby! If you don’t send Dr. Morton over here right away, I’ll personally come down there and run you up the flag pole on the top of the Inter-Ocean Hotel.”

  “Sir, have you ever used a telephone before?”

  “No, and I don’t intend on usin’ it again!”

  “What doctor do you want?”

  “Dr. Morton, . . . and tell her husband to come right home.”

  “Whose husband?”

  “The woman havin’ the baby,” he shouted. “Are you a dunce?”

  “What is the woman’s name?”

  “Mrs. Edgington—don’t you know anything?”

  “Amanda’s having her baby?”

  “Yes, won’t you hurry?”

  “With whom am I speaking?”

  “The one who will hang you up the flag pole if you don’t hurry!” Fortune slammed the telephone down on the hook.

  “You better learn a trade, darlin’, because your mama and daddy are whippin’ a dead horse with this telephone thing. They are just a hassle, and you don’t know for sure if they even got your message.”

  When he returned to the bedroom carrying the toddler, Mrs. Edgington was on her back and had her knees up in the air and spread wide, though the covers were pulled up to her chin. “Get me some clean towels,” she barked out.

  “Now, ma’am . . . you just hold on. . . . Don’t do anything until the doctor gets here.”

  “Get the towels!” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He ran to the dresser, grabbed up two cotton towels, and ran back, the toddler clinging to his neck. Lord . . . I’m not supposed to be here. . . . This isn’t right. This isn’t my place. Her husband should be here. Or a doctor. I can’t watch this. I can’t do this. It . . . it isn’t proper. You’ve got to get me out of this. Quick!

  Amanda screamed twice and began to yell, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”

  “No, ma’am!” he screamed back. “You can’t do this to me!”

  The front door banged open, and a man about Sam’s age sprinted into the bedroom.

  “Hallelujah!” Sam shouted. “Are you the doctor?”

  “I’m Mr. Edgington. Who in blazes are you?”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . . a friend of your wife’s daddy. . . . I’ll be outside if you need me!”

  “That’s my daughter you’re carrying.”

  “You take her.”

  Little Rocklin clutched Fortune tightly when her father reached for her.

  “Eh . . . I’ll watch her. . . . You take care of your wife.”

  A thin, gray-haired man burst through the front door as Fortune approached it from the parlor.

  “Are you the doctor?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “A mighty, mighty happy man. Amanda and the Mr. are in the bedroom.”

  Fortune staggered out to the front porch and plopped down on the wooden porch swing on the veranda. The toddler sat up on his lap. “That was close, little darlin’ . . . very close. I think the Lord had mercy on us accordin’ to his loving-kindness, don’t you?”

  The two of them rocked back and forth amidst screams and shouts from the back room. His coat collar was wringing wet. The toddler rested her head on his chest, and Sam laid his head on the back of the oak swing. He closed his eyes and felt his racing heart begin to slow.

  The stifling heat had turned to a pleasant breeze when he opened his eyes. It dried the sweat on his face and chest, cooling him. The sun sat lower on the western horizon. Scattered, dark gray clouds rolled across Cheyenne City. The sweaty-faced little girl was asleep in his arms.

  The gray-haired man tapped on his shoulder. “Mr. Fortune?”

  Sam sat up straight. “Yes, sir?” Little Rocklin blinked her eyes open.

  “Everything is taken care of inside. Mr. and Mrs. Edgington would like for you to bring Rocklin in to meet her brother.”

  “Her brother? Doc—you mean it’s a boy?”

  “That’s normally what a brother means.”

  He hugged the sleepy little girl. “Did you hear that, li’l punkin? You got yourself a brother!”

  A tiny, round, red face slept on the feather pillow beside an exhausted woman with tangled hair and chapped lips. His tie and jacket tossed across a chair and white shirt rolled up to his elbows, Mr. Edgington paced the room.

  He stopped right next to Sam. “Mr. Fortune! How can I ever thank you?”

  “I just . . . just happened to . . . I’m glad. . . . Those telephones really work, don’t they?”

  Mrs. Edgington held out her arms to Rocklin and Sam placed the toddler on the bed. “Come see your little brother Samuel,” she murmured.

  “Samuel?” Fortune gasped. “You named him Samuel?”

  Amanda looked up through tired eyes. “We named him after you—Samuel Gabriel Edgington—because you showed up like the angel Gabriel when we needed help most. I’m afraid we can never repay you.”

  “I told you, ma’am, you don’t me owe anythin’. Your daddy was a good man and treated me square. I
only tried to do the same for you. It was just a coincidence that I—”

  “Mr. Fortune, I do not believe in coincidences,” Mr. Edgington asserted. “The Lord brought you here, whether you believe it or not.”

  Rocklin curled up at her mother’s other side.

  “I think perhaps we all need a little more sleep,” Mrs. Edgington declared. “Mr. Fortune, would you please call on us tomorrow about noon? We would like you to join us for lunch. I want to talk with you, but I don’t think I’ll have the energy until then.”

  Sam pulled on his hat and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call on you.”

  “Could I talk to you in private, Mr. Fortune?” Mr. Edgington asked.

  The men strolled out onto the porch.

  “Did your wife get a chance to tell you about her daddy and the funds he sent?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, and I don’t know how much of it was reality and how much was delirium and pain talking.”

  “Mr. Rocklin died by a snakebite down in the Indian Territory. I buried him there. And this,” he pulled out the folded banknote, “is his inheritance that he wanted you and Amanda to have.” He handed the man the paper.

  Edgington gaped at the note, then looked up. “If I were an emotional man, I’d cry, Mr. Fortune. You cannot imagine the joy this brings to our lives. Surely my cup is full and runneth over.”

  “Mr. Edgington, I want to be honest. I haven’t exactly spent my entire life doin’ things I’m proud of. But seein’ the joy of this day for you and Amanda and little punkin . . . well, it makes a man enjoy doin’ the right thing. It might not be too bad a habit to continue.”

  “Mr. Fortune, forgive me if I sound presumptuous. But do you need a job or a place to stay? We would be happy to put you up with us until you find what you’re looking for.”

  I spent most of the past three years in prison, and most of my life on the other side of the law . . . I’m not at all sure what I’m lookin’ for. “Thank you, Mr. Edgington, but I’ll be travelin’ on in a day or so. Like I said, I’m not exactly the type that’s comfortable on this side of town. I’ll probably look for some ranch job. I have a friend who’s up in Johnson County. And I’m still wrestlin’ demons from the past.”

  “That can change, you know.”

  “You may be right. But probably I won’t change overnight.”

  “The Lord is full of constant surprises, Sam. Look at me and Amanda today. Promise to join us for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here. You’ve got a fine family, Mr. Edgington—a mighty fine family.”

  The yellow-haired waitress at Leighton Hotel Restaurant lingered next to Sam Fortune’s table. Her long, white bib apron was starched stiff and bleached white. The high collar on her dress was unbuttoned to the top of the apron. “Do you live here in Cheyenne?” she asked.

  Sam popped the last bite of biscuit into his mouth as he glanced up. He attempted to smile and chew while he replied. “No, ma’am. I’m just passin’ through.”

  “I know what you mean.” Her finger traced the back of his oak chair. “I’m just passin’ through too. I’m on my way to San Francisco, but I only had enough funds for a ticket to Cheyenne City, so I took this job to save up for a through ticket.”

  He sliced into a thick beef chop, then stabbed a bite with his knife and held it over his plate. “How long you been here?”

  “Since Christmas . . . ,” she sighed. She put her hands on the small of her back and stretched, drawing her shoulders back and her chest forward, then relaxed. “I can’t seem to get ahead. But I’m ready to leave, that’s for sure. The rich folks don’t give me the time of day in this town, and the drifters and bums . . . well, they don’t know how to treat a girl decent. Say, what direction are you headed?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably west.” He plopped a bite of gravy drenched chop into his mouth. The gravy tasted a tad too salty, but rich.

  She circled to the far side of the table and faced him. “Have you ever been to San Francisco?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She leaned forward, with her arms on the edge of the round table. “Some people say it’s even more wonderful than Paris. How about you, mister? Would you like to go to San Francisco?”

  He picked meat out of his lower teeth with his thumbnail then whacked off another bite. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  Part of her blond hair came out of the combs and flopped over her eye. “Say, are you goin’ out to that dance at Fort Russell?”

  He surveyed the mound of potatoes on his plate. “When is that?”

  She stood up straight. “Tonight, from eight o’clock until midnight.”

  “I’m in town alone, so I haven’t considered a dance,” Sam replied.

  “I bet I was asked to go to that dance a dozen times, but most of ’em were too drunk to remember me the next day. I like to dance, but not that much. If a gentleman like you asked me to the dance—well, that’s one thing—but not some whiskey bum.”

  She scooted over so her hips were within inches of his elbow. “Say, neither of us got someone to go to the dance with. We ought to jist partner up for the dance. You interested, Mr. . . . Mr.—”

  He looked up at her anxious brown eyes. “Call me Sam.”

  She smiled, revealing a slight overbite. “My name’s Delphia. Everyone calls me Delfy.”

  He reached up and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And I’m pleased to meet you.” She refused to let go of his hand. “What do you say? Shall we go to the dance?”

  He studied her eyes until she looked away. “Delfy, I’m not kiddin’ when I say that’s the best offer I’ve had in years. But I had a tough day, and I’m so tired I’d embarrass you on the dance floor.” He tugged his hand from hers.

  She laid her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t have to go to the dance, Sam. The Atlantic-Pacific Club has a six-piece orchestra and some quiet tables that have fancy dividers jist like them deluxe houses in Denver.”

  “You’re tryin’ too hard, Delfy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darlin’, I’m wrestlin’ with some big problems in my mind. I’ve got to get them settled before I do anythin’ else. Any other night in my life, I’d probably be carryin’ you right up the stairs . . . but you found me at a tough moment.”

  “You got someone else in town?”

  “Nope. I’ll make you a pledge, Delfy. If I dance with anyone in Cheyenne, it will be with you. And if I nuzzle up in a back table at the Atlantic-Pacific, it will be with you, darlin’.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you keep your promises?”

  “Always.”

  “OK.” She stepped back from the table. “I’ll quit pesterin’ you. I’ve got to tell you, Sam, you are a smooth talker. I’ve been turned down before. Not often, but ever’ once in a while. But I ain’t never had someone make me feel good about myself when he turned me down.”

  Sam had just taken a second helping of boiled red beets when the well-dressed man with a badge walked over to his table. Sam noticed a twitch in his right eye.

  “Are you Sam Fortune from the Indian Nation?” the man demanded in a voice too loud to be completely in control.

  Sam skidded a slice of beet into the gravy with his fork and plopped the bite into his mouth. “I reckon I am.”

  The man spoke so rapidly that all the words ran together. “I want you out of town within an hour.”

  Sam thought about reaching for his Colt but locked his fingers around a fork instead. “I can’t do that, deputy.”

  The lawman’s hand lingered on the walnut grip of his revolver. “I ain’t askin’ you, Fortune, I’m tellin’ you. We don’t need your kind in Cheyenne City. I had a brother-in-law down in Fort Smith, A
rkansas. He sent me the newspapers all about you, the Kiowa half-breed, and them others. I want all of you out of town today.”

  Sam felt the blood rush to his head. He clenched his fist around the fork until his knuckles turned white. “Mister, I am not leavin’ town, because I have not committed a crime and I promised to meet with some of Cheyenne’s solid citizens tomorrow. As far as Kiowa and the others are concerned—they are all dead.”

  “Well, now, that was mighty thoughtful of them.” The lines on the stocky, dark-haired man began to soften. “You ought to consider doin’ likewise.”

  Mister, you want to step out on the street and try your hand at it? Sam stabbed a bite of potato and lukewarm, thick brown gravy.

  “Did you hear me, Fortune? As soon as you are through eatin’, I want you ridin’ out of town.”

  Fortune shoved away from the table, and the man jumped back a foot. “Mister, what’s your gripe?” Sam challenged. “I haven’t committed a crime in Wyoming, and there are no warrants out for me. I’ve served my time in prison. I’m a law-abidin’ man eatin’ supper. Go torment someone else.”

  “It ain’t right,” the deputy growled.

  Sam draped his hand across the arm of the oak chair, only inches from the grip of his pistol. “What isn’t right?”

  “You killin’ my brother-in-law and then walkin’ around free.” The man spoke so loud other customers got up and scurried out of the room.

  “The one in Fort Smith? What was his name?”

  “Skitter Waddle,” the deputy spat out.

  Fortune scooted his chair back up to the table, sipped coffee, and let out a long, slow breath before he spoke. “Waddle hid in an alley beside the Magnolia Saloon and tried to shoot me in the back with a shotgun. To my benefit, he was too drunk to shoot straight.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I don’t drink.”

  “You murdered him.”

  Sam could feel his face and neck flush. He replied through clenched teeth, “Didn’t you ever wonder why Judge Parker refused to even hear the case?”