The Long Trail Home

by Stephen A. Bly

Sam lowered his eyes and murmured, “So am I, boys. So am I.” He glanced up and put his hands on his little brother’s shoulders. “General Fortune, you look mighty good in that uniform.”

  “Captain Fortune,” Robert corrected.

  “They sewed the uniform on him, and he can’t take if off ’til he dies,” Todd joshed. “Jamie Sue says he takes a bath with that thing on.”

  Robert continued to stand at near attention. “Can you believe it, Sammy, I’m thirty-one years old, and he still torments me like that?”

  “If you boys have finished ruinin’ li’l sis’s wedding, we could at least get on with the vows,” Brazos insisted.

  Todd motioned for Sam to join them up front. “We’ll squeeze over and make room for you.”

  Sam glanced back at Abigail Gordon, who nodded for him to go ahead.

  “I’m fine right here, boys. You see, I brought Mrs. Gordon with me as my date, and I don’t want to abandon her.”

  “Abby?” Todd laughed, “Sammy, how long have you been in town?”

  “About two hours.”

  “And you already have a date with the most beautiful, eligible woman in town?”

  “Two hours?” Robert grinned. “Todd, I do believe Sammy’s slowing down with age!”

  The brothers laughed.

  The women cried.

  The organ resumed.

  The children squirmed.

  The preacher said some important words.

  The vows were said.

  The ring was given.

  And a very nervous twenty-one-year-old man kissed a smiling twenty-one-year-old woman on the cheek.

  A noisy reception at the ballroom of the Merchant’s Hotel followed the wedding. After dancing with young Amber Gordon, Sam Fortune spent the first hour being introduced to his sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces. Finally he walked Abigail and a very tired Amber Gordon home, then toted Dacee June’s wedding present back with him. After having the bride draped around his neck for a good thirty minutes, Sam scooted out to the front porch of the hotel where he spotted Todd sitting alone on the railing.

  “You feelin’ like the older brother in the prodigal story?” Sam asked.

  Todd laughed light and easy. “Not me, Sammy. It has been a very good day. I haven’t seen Daddy this relaxed since Brownsville. I don’t know if he’s happier to see you—or to let some other man take responsibility for li’l sis.”

  “I’m surprised he let her go.”

  “He’ll be sixty-one his next birthday, Sam. She’s a very enthusiastic young lady. I think he was getting a little worn out.”

  “I have to admit, it has been a great day,” Sam confessed. “I didn’t know what would be waitin’ for me up here. The Lord has been good to me.”

  Todd studied Sam’s eyes. “Do you mean that?”

  “Yep.”

  Todd loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his white shirt. “This day has turned out so good, it’s fretful.”

  “I know what you mean, big brother. Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

  Todd studied him head to toe. “You look good, Sam. I figured . . . you know, after you being in prison and all.”

  Sam Fortune pushed his hat back and rubbed the back of his neck. “You knew about that?”

  “I heard you were in prison, but I didn’t know which one . . . or which state.”

  “Did Daddy know?”

  “I didn’t tell him. We never talked about it. But I think he suspected as much.”

  “How did you find out?” Sam asked.

  “After that dime novel about me came out, we had—”

  “A what? You had a dime novel written about you?”

  “It’s mostly all lies, of course. I’ll give you a copy so you can laugh about it.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Now you’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “It’s called The Flying Fist of Deadwood Gulch.”

  Samuel chuckled.

  “Anyways, after it came out, we had a number of men come through claiming to be pards of yours down in the Territory.”

  “I reckon they all wanted handouts.”

  “Mostly.”

  “And what did Mr. Flying Fist do with them?”

  “Daddy bought them all a meal, no matter how ridiculous the story.”

  Robert sauntered out on the porch. “What are you two planning?”

  “Come sit a spell, General Fortune,” Sam invited. “I just heard about big brother’s dime novel.”

  Robert scooted up next to the rail, placing Sam in the middle. “He’s an inspiration to us all.”

  “All right, you two. Hawthorne Miller said he would write the story whether I gave him any facts or not—I tried to explain things.”

  “Did I tell you I met Miller down in Arizona at Stuart Brannon’s ranch?” Robert said.

  “Brannon? You’re a friend of Brannon’s?” Sam questioned.

  “Me and forty other soldiers met him one day.”

  “Is he a big man? I heard he’s big man,” Sam commented.

  “He’s about Todd’s height—but stronger, of course. Todd’s always been the weakling,” Robert teased.

  “Yeah, Bobby, but he does have the ‘flying fist’! None of the rest of us have that,” Sam joined.

  “All right, you can both quit acting like—”

  “Brothers?” Robert completed.

  “Bobby,” Sam said, “do you remember the time that Todd taught us the flyin’ dismount?”

  “Was that the time he taught us how to dig a ditch with our noses?” Robert recalled.

  “Nope.” Sam stood and threw an arm around the shoulders of each of his brothers. “I’m thinkin’ about how he would organize us into a Texas Ranger posse, with him as captain, of course. He must have been about ten, and I was nine—”

  “I must have been six,” Robert calculated.

  “We reined up next to the Garcia Barranca . . . and he tumbled right out of the saddle. He just picked himself up, brushed off his hat, and said, ‘Now, that’s the way to have a flying dismount, men.’”

  Brazos Fortune strolled up while the three were still arm in arm. “Is this a private matter, or can an old man join in?”

  “I’m glad you came along, Daddy. Your youngest sons were ganging up on me,” Todd said.

  Brazos stood next to his three sons and gazed out on the street. “Well, that’s different. It seems to me most of the fights were when you and Bobby ganged up on Sammy.”

  “As I recall, I usually deserved it,” Sam Fortune admitted.

  Brazos surveyed the crowded ballroom. A lively fiddle orchestra played. “Li’l sis looks happy, doesn’t she?”

  “Maybe she’ll stop tormenting Carty now,” Todd added. Then he grinned, “Probably not.”

  “He’s a brave man,” Robert concurred. “Maybe a little naïve . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what’s a tad naïve,” Brazos said—“having Sam here own a telephone exchange. Hard to imagine you as a businessman.”

  “Me? How about you, Daddy? A prosperous store owner and enjoyin’ it.”

  “I’ve prospered, but I’ve never enjoyed one day of it.”

  “You getting restless, Daddy?” Robert pressed.

  “Maybe. . . . Somethin’ about havin’ an empty house after all these years. Not that I want to move. This is home. But maybe it’s time for the four of us to saddle up and go huntin’ for a day or two, providin’ Mr. Telephone Exchange can spare the time.”

  “I’m ready,” Sam replied. “You want to leave tonight or in the morning?”

  “Whoa. I’ll have to check with Jamie Sue and the kids,” Robert cautione
d. “I’ve only got another week before we all have to be back in Arizona.”

  “I can’t get away. With Dacee June and Carty gone on a honeymoon, I’ll have to be at the store,” Todd explained. “Besides, Rebekah just told me she was expectin’ again, so I can count on a sick mama for a while.”

  “When that lady made up her mind to have children, she didn’t hesitate,” Robert razzed.

  Brazos shrugged. “That’s good news. Keeps an old man lookin’ forward. Maybe we can try it later in the year. Bobby, why don’t you get up in the fall before it snows too much, and we’ll do some elk huntin’. I was just thinkin’ it would be nice for the four us to do something together.”

  “I doubt if I can get back up here before Christmas,” Robert said.

  A large, unshaven man rode a mule straight up on the wooden boardwalk in front of them. “Say, do any of you men know a Sam Fortune?” he bellowed.

  “I’m Sam.”

  “There’s an ol’ boy from Dodge City down at the Piedmont Saloon. Said he was lookin’ for ya and gave me two cash dollars to deliver the message. No one down there knew there was a ‘Sam’ Fortune. Anyways, if I were you, I wouldn’t turn my back on him, if you get my drift. He looks like he’s tryin’ to rile himself up for a fight.”

  “Thanks,” Sam tipped his Stetson. “I reckon I’ll take a little hike down there and check this out. Where ’bouts is the Piedmont?”

  “I think I’ll come along,” Robert offered.

  “No reason to go. It’s somethin’ I have to deal with all the time.”

  “Not in my town, you don’t. Think I’ll go, too.” Todd added, “You never know when you might need The Flying Fist of Deadwood Gulch.”

  “Well, shoot, boys—we’re all goin’,” Brazos announced. “I told you the four of us ought to do somethin’ together.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Outside the Piedmont Saloon & Gambling Emporium, badlands district,

  Deadwood, D.T.

  The cloud-draped sun had long disappeared behind Forest Hill. For a moment Deadwood was caught between pale gray and black. Even the steady breeze had died off, as if waiting for night to officially arrive. In the distance, the stamp mills of Lead rolled their dull thunder down Whitewood Gulch.

  The four men walked shoulder to shoulder down the center of an almost deserted Main Street. “Sammy, do you know who we’re lookin’ for?”

  “No, but I surmise I’ll recognize him the moment I walk through the door.” Sam pulled his Colt pistol out of his holster, checked the chambers, and reset the hammer on the empty one. The grip felt slick. The trigger cold. It’s been a month since I’ve drawn this pistol. That must be a record. “Now, look, boys, the last thing I want is for you to go home to your mamas tonight carryin’ a bullet because of your no account brother. I appreciate your offer to help, but don’t get in front of me. If I can’t face down one ol’ boy from Dodge—well, I need to know that right now.”

  Robert adjusted his dark blue, close-fitting double-breasted surtout coat that sported an insignia with two braids and a single knot. “We aren’t about to let you come down here and ruin li’l sis’s wedding day by getting yourself killed.”

  “You think the inside of the Piedmont is a good place to confront him?” Todd parked his hand on the .45 Colt tucked into his brown belt.

  “This is where that famous Todd Fortune captured the nefarious Cigar Dubois single-handedly,” Robert prodded.

  “And I haven’t been back since,” Todd added.

  “Whoever he is, I’d rather confront him inside a saloon than in some dark alley or wait until he shows up at li’l sis’s party.” Lord, I certainly hope I know what I’m doin’. I’ve never had to worry so much about my partners before.

  Brazos pulled the massive hammer back on the Sharps carbine until it clicked once, then cradled it in his hand. The top button of his white shirt was still fastened, but the black wedding tie flagged on the railing back at the Merchant’s Hotel. “Son, you aren’t wanted for a crime and have bounty hunters sniffin’ you out, do you?”

  The four men stopped in the street in front of the Piedmont to watch an open stage from Sturgis pull up in front of the saloon. Sam shrugged, “That’s always a possibility. Servin’ time in prison doesn’t always make everyone happy. I was supposed to stay in there ten years and got out in less than three. Some folks surmised I was in cahoots with the authorities by revealing information about them.”

  “If they thought you’d betray a friend, they don’t know Fortunes very well,” Brazos declared.

  “I didn’t do it, of course,” Sam cleared. “Though I would hardly call some of them my friends.”

  “How did you get out so soon?” Robert asked as he threw his arm around his brother’s shoulder. They were both a couple of inches taller than Brazos, but several inches shorter than Todd.

  Sam glanced at his brothers. “Officially or unofficially?”

  “Both,” Robert pressed.

  “Officially, I was listed as rehabilitated, the model prisoner. It’s nice to find out I could do somethin’ right.”

  “And unofficially?” Todd prompted.

  “I got out because of the warden’s wife.”

  Todd raised his eyebrows. “She pulled strings?”

  “Nope. The warden pulled strings. Seems he didn’t want me within fifty miles of his wife.”

  “But you were in prison,” Robert protested.

  “For some gals, that just doesn’t make a difference.”

  “Some things never change,” Todd gibed.

  Sam rubbed street dust out of the creases of his eyes. “Well, I’ve changed now, boys. I’m not very proud of the way I’ve been livin’.”

  Brazos pointed past the Sturgis stage at the open front doors of the Piedmont. “Son, that saloon is a den of snakes. You can’t never tell which direction they’ll strike from. You aimin’ to go through the back door, just to look things over first?”

  Sam put his hand on his father’s shoulder, grinned, then looked at his brothers. “Is Daddy tryin’ to test me? A man in there wanted to see me, so I’m goin’ through the front door. Never show any sign of weakness—you taught us all that.”

  Brazos brushed back his long drooping mustache with his fingertips. “I was younger then and didn’t reckon there were exceptions to the rule.”

  Sam waved his arm in the still, Dakota twilight. “How about you and the general takin’ the back door. Me and big brother will go through the front. With the legendary Todd Fortune and his flying fist of destruction at my side, I imagine they’ll all cower down.”

  “The book was all fiction,” Todd muttered.

  “Where do you think fiction writers get their ideas? They steal ’em from the truth, that’s where. Then they twist it around and disguise it as a story. Writers are all liars and thieves. It’s the nature of their business.” Sam nudged his father’s shoulder. “Daddy, we’ll wait about three minutes for you two to get around back.”

  Although the Piedmont Saloon had been rebuilt in brick after the 1883 fire, the masons had spent more time at the bar than at the wall. The mortar was mixed too sandy in many places. After only two years, bricks began to tumble on hapless patrons. This lead to the abandonment of the upstairs dance hall. Most figured the entire building would collapse someday. A fact that did not seem to worry citizens of the bad lands.

  That was usually the least of their worries.

  “Let me walk in first,” Todd offered. “He’s not looking for me. He doesn’t even know me. At least I can see if he has an ambush set up.”

  “Nope. This is my life. I’ve got to face the consequences of my actions. Stay inside the doorway. I don’t want someone sneakin’ up and bushwhackin’ me from behind.” Sam pushed his suit coat behind his holstered revolver and positioned his rig
ht hand on the walnut grip.

  Pipe and cigar smoke was so thick inside the saloon, Sam couldn’t see the back door. But he sensed his father and Robert’s presence. He strolled straight to the bar. Todd dropped back and stood, hands on his hips, by the front door.

  With each step toward the bar, the banter and conversations died a little more. By the time he reached the brass footrail, the crowded room was quiet.

  “Are you Sam Fortune?” the bartender asked as he broke off a hunk of obviously stale bread.

  Sam turned his back to everyone in the room. Lord, if it wasn’t for Daddy, Todd, and Robert, I would never turn my back on this crowd. “Yep. I hear someone is lookin’ for me.”

  The bartender took the yank of bread and wiped a whiskey glass clean with it. “You related to them other Fortunes?”

  Sam stared right at the man. “Yeah. I’m the mean, ornery one.”

  The bartender dropped the whiskey-soaked bread in a milk bucket half full of similar hunks. “I didn’t think you was of the same family. Fortunes around here ain’t known for bein’ outlaws. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have let him send for you.”

  Sam tried to study the man’s eyes, but the bartender examined the short glass, as if searching for imperfections.

  “Fortune!” a man hollered from across the smoky room. “I want to talk to you!”

  Even in the dimly lit room, Sam could spot the gold earrings that framed an unshaven, grimy face. “Mr. Burns, you’re a long way from the alleys of Dodge City.” Sam put his back against the bar. Several men, including the bartender, scurried away from him.

  Burns sat alone at a round wooden table that was draped by a double-barreled shotgun. A wooden splint and dirty linen bandage girded his right wrist. His hair curled out from under his wide-brimmed, brown hat. His clothes were dirty. His eyes were amber-colored, like the whiskey bottle on the table before him. “Come over here, Fortune, I want to talk to you!”

  “I’m here . . . talk.”

  “Ain’t no need to shout. Come sit down. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Are you too drunk to shoot straight this far, Burns? I’ll stay right here. What do you want?”